Chapter Text
Mr. Prowl Petrex was the bane of his grandmother’s existence. She was the daughter of an earl and had been married once before to a knight with no particular fortune but a good deal of good breeding. She married the similarly widowed Mr. Petrex when Prowl’s father was nearly five and twenty, and as soon as she was established as Lady Requiem Petrex, she looked to his son, Mr. Turbo Petrex and decided she would see him well-married to one of the young daughters of her many excellent connections.
However, all of her schemings were for naught, as the young Turbo fell head over heels in love with the daughter of an attorney of no particular note, and, when the approval of his family had not been given, the two of them had eloped to Kaon, returning only after things were settled.
Lady Requiem had been furious, and grew only more-so when Prowl’s mother had produced him in an acceptable timeframe soon after. If it had been in her power to disown her step-son, she would have done so, but Mr. Petrex had no other children, and would not hear of such a thing.
Prowl’s mother had died when he was six, leaving Prowl no legacy of rank or fortune. But his sire had been the beloved heir of a large estate, and so it had never occurred to anyone to worry, especially since Prowl himself was well positioned to be a promising young mech. With Prowl’s mother gone, Mr. Petrex and Lady Requieum hurriedly achieved a proper marriage alliance for Turbo, and within two years of his mother’s death, Prowl was an older brother.
Prowl loved his step-mother. She was kind and clever and spent a great deal of time with him in the nursery, and when his little sister Smokescreen was born, she treated them no differently. She and Prowl’s father were not a love match, but instead one of rank and fortune (she was the daughter of a baron, providing the respectability that Prowl’s mother had lacked), but they became friends, and were united in their love for Prowl and Smokescreen.
Two years later, Prowl and Smokescreen were blessed with another sister, Bluestreak. However, this felicity was short-lived, as their parents died of cosmic rust when Bluestreak was only three, leaving Prowl an orphan at thirteen.
The problem became apparent when their father’s will was read. He had been an eldest son of the estate, but as both of his parents lived, he had little personal assets of his own to leave his children. Instead, he could only commend his beloved children into the care of their grandparents.
To his grandparents’ credit, their disregard for Prowl had never been apparent when his grandfather was alive. They had educated him, clothed him, and housed him alongside his sisters. If they found his company less pleasing than that of his sisters; if they had little interest in his accomplishments; then it was only natural, after all. Prowl was plainer than his sisters (a sure sign of his ill breeding, according to Lady Requiem), and he lacked their charm and ease of manner.
Prowl was sent to Argonix College when he was thirteen, like his father before him, and when he graduated, he was sponsored by his grandparents for the traditional two years at university.
When he was fifteen, Prowl learned that his grandfather had hopes of him joining the militia, given glowing recommendations from his tutors at Argonix. So Prowl was escorted to Iacon by his grandfather, to be fitted with a tactical network which would allow him to rise quickly through the ranks of the militia once he had his commission (it would hardly behoove a member of the Petrex family to linger at a low rank, Mr. Petrex told him) and augment Prowl’s already excellent processor.
The installation went poorly, however, and although Prowl’s processor was now capable of amazing feats of calculation, it came at a cost to Prowl’s health. He was now given to crashes when presented with unexpected variables while calculating, he suffered from migraines under certain conditions, and his constitution was badly affected, making him prone to viruses. A career in the militia was now out of the question. He might still be of use in the army, if a high enough commission could be acquired that Prowl would not be sent to the front lines, but generally the whole incident was seen as the end of Mr. Petrex’s military hopes for his grandson.
Prowl generally felt that despite his migraines and the death of ambition, his youth had not been a poor one. He had done well at university, even though he had not elected to continue his courses of study once his two years were done. Instead, he had returned to Petrex, and split his time between his grandfather’s estate (where he did his best to learn how to manage such a place, hoping to be able to take some of the burden off Mr. Petrex’s aging shoulders), and spending a great deal of time in the nearby town of Praxus like most mechs of good society in the region who could not afford to go to Iacon.
He had no idea that, upon the realization that there would be no career in the militia and only a very expensive one in the army, his grandparents had dismissed him as useless without ever informing him of the fact. He had noticed that his grandmother’s nephew, the Honorable Turbo Barricade, was coming by more often and spending a great deal of time with his grandfather, but Prowl had not realized there was anything of it except that Lady Requiem missed her family.
But he could not ignore it when his grandfather’s will was read.
Mr. Petrex had left his fortune in the hands of his wife to manage until her passing, giving it to her to handle the legacies and annuities he had guaranteed. Smokescreen and Bluestreak were to receive generous dowries. Prowl, however, was left with only what his sire had managed to leave him in terms of fortune.
The estate itself, however, which should have been Prowl’s upon the death of his grandfather, was instead willed to Mr. Barricade.
Perhaps, to be generous, Mr. Petrex had expected Barricade to marry Prowl, who would have no reason to remain a mech when denied fortune or career. Such a thing would be very traditional; it would give Barricade the right to take the family name for himself.
But Barricade had no interest in marrying a poor relative merely for a name, and instead set his sights on a series of wealthy heiresses.
The humiliation was keenly felt. Had Prowl’s grandfather been upfront with his intentions, Prowl could have prepared. He could have, had they made it clear early enough, changed his course of studies at school to go into law or the church. If he’d been young enough, he could have gone to sea, where he might have made his fortune in the navy. He might have at least saved what he could have from his allowance and invested it. The resulting sum would not have been great, but it would at least have been sufficient to purchase him a cheap commission in the regulars, which, though risky due to his glitch and proximity to the front lines, would have been suitably respectable to allow him to remain in gentle society and thus in contact with his sisters.
But now, with Smokescreen twenty and Bluestreak eighteen, at twenty-eight years of age Prowl was too old to go to sea. His income, which came no longer from an allowance from his grandfather but from the interest on his meager inheritance, provided no chance of him saving enough to purchase a commission in the regulars.
If he was to count his blessings, he would be grateful that his grandmother had at least allowed him and his sisters the use of the family townhouse in Iacon for the season. His grandmother had, however, informed him that while his sisters would of course be welcome until they found husbands, Prowl would be in need of other lodgings when winter ended and the house was shut up.
At the tender age of twenty-eight (a reasonable age for a gentlemech to begin to make his way in the world, a spinster for a gentlefemme) Prowl would be forced to either live on the charity of others (most likely his sisters, presuming they married well enough to house and feed him), or to join the marines.
The marines were the lowest of the branches of the military; there was little advancement, less gentility, and no fortune to be found, and it was a violent, brutish sort of life where one was destined to board enemy ships and fight hand-to-hand. Unlike the militia, the marines did not examine medical records, and unlike the regulars, they did not require one to have money to enter, which meant they were the best option for Prowl. Joining them would likely lead to Prowl’s early death, given the same issues of disposition and health which had presumably led his grandparents to disown him in the first place, but it could hardly be helped.
His death would doubtlessly cause pain to his sisters, while being reduced to a creature of charity would cause pain to Prowl. Since there were two of them and only one of him, he was forced to weigh in favor of the humiliation of becoming a poor, burdensome relative.
Of course, if neither Smokescreen nor Bluestreak found matches wealthy enough to take on such an onerous burden, the distinction would be immaterial and Prowl would be forced to enter the marines anyway, having no other friends or family of sufficient means to support him.
Prowl had not told his sisters about the dire straits of his finances. That he had not inherited the estate had been such momentous news that it could not be concealed. However, his sisters were unaware that their sire, robust in his belief in Prowl’s eventual good fortune, had set only five hundred shanix aside for Prowl’s inheritance, and Prowl had not wished to sour his sisters’ love of their grandmother or regard for their grandfather by informing them their grandfather had left him without commission, living, schooling, or fortune alike, and how their grandmother had no interest in remedying her departed husband’s omission.
In addition to not wishing to ruin his sisters’ affection for their grandparents, there was also the simple fact that he did not wish his sisters to seek matches with mercenary minds or to hurry into a match without properly knowing a mech in order to secure Prowl’s future. Such a thing was unconscionable to Prowl, who had seen the consequences of such marriages before and wished his sisters to have, if not love and affection, at least comraderie and respect in their future endeavors.
He was aware that such a concealment could not last, but there was nothing to be done about it. To avoid requiring a chaperone, Prowl was presenting himself as a gentlemech for the season. He had planted rumors with Sir Ironhide that he was to be granted the living in — County, once the old vicar died, and would not take his orders until after the season ended, so that he could focus on seeing his sisters married. The rumor would be difficult to verify, and Sir Ironhide’s twin wards were friends of Bluestreak and voracious gossips, and so it would spread quickly and also to Prowl’s own brothers, without him needing to lie to them directly.
It would be a minor scandal should Prowl have to change his gentlemech’s coat for a frock in order to live upon the charity of his brothers, but until Prowl formally moved his meager inheritance (meant, their sire had thought, to provide the beginnings of a fund for Prowl’s own offspring one day) from its current residence at the Bank of Vector to the Bank of Solus, it was not a lie that would ruin his sisters’ prospects.
Had he been raised to be a poor femme, he would have been educated properly in how to sew, paint, play, sing, and elegantly converse. He could have, even without any inheritance, been able to make a living as a governess. As it was, Prowl had been raised to hunt, to ride, and to manage an estate. His subjects of study at school had been law, religion, and military tactics, but his perusal had stopped short of qualifying him as a tutor or teacher or to allow him entry into the Inns of Court, where he might study to become a barrister.
He was trapped; too much a mech to make a proper gentlefemme, but lacking the funds, the means, or the connections to allow him to survive in society as a gentlemech.
Lord Jazz Porsche, Baron of Staniz, despite being in possession of a good fortune, had never considered himself to be in want of a wife.
There had never been a need; he had an heir in the form of his twin brother and his mother kept his house for him. He had companionship whenever he desired it from ladies of unfairly ill repute or any of his similarly inclined friends with whom he had discreet arrangements.
Besides which, Jazz’s fortune was not as substantial as it might seem, despite being a baron of reasonable property. He and Ricochet were of the same age down to the second, since their sparks had been so intertwined they had left their mother’s chassis together and they’d had to be pried apart by the midwife before they’d been placed in the prepared protoforms. So when their father had died, Jazz and Ricochet had flipped a coin to see which of them would have the title, and Jazz had lost. So he’d split what income was his with his brother, and much more of it still went to his mother as part of her jointure. Lady Punch Staniz was a merry, pleasant woman who happily purchased whatever her sons might need, but the money was hers, and would be so until her death.
Jazz rather enjoyed his life as a fashionable young lord. A youthful friendship with the younger son of Zeta Prime, Orion Pax, had resulted in a rather interesting career as a spy and now a spymaster, which was a rather important position considering that Cybertron was constantly at war with the Maril, the Quintessons, and occasionally itself. He spent much of his time traveling around Cybertron, taking reports from his spies in grand houses, and when he wasn’t there, he left Ricochet in his place and went off to the colonies to speak to his agents there with no one being the wiser that the Baron wasn’t cavorting through the countryside.
Winter, however, always brought him back to Iacon, because it was the time when all of his best friends would gather in one place, and Jazz could not resist the pull of spending time all together, as if the coronation had never happened and they could all pretend that they were sons (or daughters, in the case of Blaster and Elita) who had not inherited, and who had no responsibilities or concerns besides the liquor running out.
Jazz had about ten more vorns before he really needed to go hunting for a wife.
But the problem wasn’t him.
The problem…was Optimus.
“The Council is getting impatient,” Optimus said, looking around the small gathering of friends. They’d done a good job keeping this sort of thing private. The servants were Jazz’s people, the guards were Ironhide’s people, and there was nary a sycophant in sight. It was almost like it had been before Zeta had kicked the bucket unexpectedly and named Optimus his heir, instead of Sentinel like everyone had expected.
Bumblebee and Rodimus had gone off to bed, and now it was just the adults; Ratchet, Ironhide, Red Alert, Elita, Blaster, and Magnus.
Ironhide huffed. “Why are they in such a hurry, anyways? You’ve got two perfectly good heirs.”
“The Council feels that leaving Sentinel’s creations as my heirs sends an…incorrect message about the succession.” Optimus’s voice grew heavy, as it always did whenever Sentinel came up. Even in exile, Sentinel managed to cause problems.
This problem, they all knew, was that Optimus was very reluctant to get married. He would need a partner and a co-ruler in one, and he’d found no one who fit the bill of both. All of them had turned him down, for their own reasons, but it left their Prime with very few ideas of where to begin hunting for a spouse. He knew very few people personally, and if the Prime announced a search for his own spouse, he would be inundated with offers and demands and political concerns and be almost unable to make a decision for himself. He’d find a way, but it would be painful, and there was no guarantee they’d have a Lord Protector or Lady Consort at the end of it all.
“Well,” Elita said, after a moment. “Maybe one of us could go spouse hunting. Scout out the scene for you.”
“Not it,” Ratchet said, pouring himself a large glass of the good brandy.
“Oh, well, I’m not volunteering,” Elita laughed, smirking. “I’m off to the front next decacyle. The Maril won’t defeat themselves, after all.”
Ironhide grumbled, but it was relatively good natured. He’d just gotten back from the front, after all, and wouldn’t deploy again until after the season. He and Lady Chromia had finally posted the banns three decacycles ago, so he was also out of the question.
“No way.” Red Alert shook his head frantically.
Blaster had the excuse of being a commsbot, which meant that her eventual marriage would be arranged by matchmakers, rather than decided by the foibles of love and the sport of husband hunting.
“Why don’t I take a swing?” Jazz said, before poor Ultra Magnus, who had taken in his ward, Arcee, in part so that he could avoid all questions about heirs and spouses for as long as possible, felt obligated to fall on the sword. “My tailor has been wanting to pretty me up for a while anyways.”
“You’re always pretty,” Optimus said earnestly.
“OP, you say the sweetest things.” Jazz preened while Elita and Ironhide rolled their optics. “But you haven’t seen the cravats Tracks has laying in wait for me. You haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen what I’m going to look like when it’s time for me to find you a conjunx.”
Smokescreen was, by all accounts, an exceedingly pleasing femme. She was handsome, her manners were pleasing, and she had a lively sense of wit which made her a pleasure to converse with. She had exceedingly good taste in clothes and jewels, was very accomplished on the cyberforte and with her embroidery, and if she was overfond of cards and gossip, then those deficits of character were more than made up for by her respectable fortune of ten thousand shanix.
Bluestreak was merrier than either of her siblings, with a fondness for hunting, riding, walking and dancing that far outpaced theirs. She spoke four languages and was skilled at drawing, but she had never learned to curb her tongue, often leading to embarrassment for herself and her family when she asked impertinent questions or revealed more than she ought. She had inherited good taste, which made her pleasing to many gentlemechs, and a fortune the same as Smokescreen’s, which made her pleasing to many more.
Prowl was proud of them, as he presented them at court. They cut fine figures as they made their curtsies before the Prime, and when the dancing began, both had full dance cards. Prowl did his best not to intervene; he wished, more than anything, for his sisters to be happy in their marriages. He only drove off two of Bluestreak’s suitors and one of Smokescreen’s, but one was a known lecher, another with known debts, and one who Prowl had overheard speculating about if it would be possible to get Bluestreak alone in the gardens.
If Prowl had been a mech of charm or fortune, he would have gone up to femmes with large fortunes and offered to dance with them. An heiress would have solved most of his problems.
But Prowl was well aware of his own faults, which were many. The installation of his TacNet when he was a youth had left him with a processor glitch and a poor constitution. He was not as handsome as his sisters, and his manners were stiff and artless, overly formal and awkward. He was too bookish without being a scholar, too poor to be as indolent as he was.
He had nothing to offer a wife, and he burned with shame at such a thing, to join the ranks of the fortune hunters, sniffing at the heels of well-dowered femmes and salivating over their accounts instead of being able to offer them a respectful courtship.
He could identify easily enough which were such femmes of fortune, for they all had a circle of eager mechs around them, vying for their favor.
Prowl knew that on such an early occasion, he would not be able to make an approach favorably, and so he instead did his duty by finding femmes who had been relegated to the outskirts by mechs’ perusal of greater fortunes and beauties, and asking them to dance. Thus he passed the first ball of the season without his brothers being able to reproach him for glowering at their suitors, and attempting to make conversation with strangers, which only convinced him further that he would be the laughingstock of every femme in Iacon by morning.
The marriage mart was not so much a physical place as a state of mind, and there was no better way to enter the state of mind than by calling on Lady Kup.
“So, you’re finally looking for a wife?” Lady Kup asked Jazz.
The Dowager Lady Kup was one of the veritable grande dames of the Iaconian Court. She’d been one of the great beauties of her age; Optimus’s grandsire, Nova Prime, had apparently pursued her for years, asking her to be his mistress. It had been fictionalized as one of the most popular romance novels of the last decavorn, upheld as a story of love versus honor. It was most famous for the heroine’s famous stirring and impassioned speech at the climax where she refused the fictional Prime’s advances, before she left Iacon forever to marry a man she didn’t love who was destined to inherit her sire’s estate.
Having met Lady Kup now, after having enjoyed the novel, Jazz rather suspected that in real life, she had told the Prime to stick it up his tail pipe.
These days, Lady Kup was a widow of excellent title and moderate fortune. She’d seen her children and grandchildren married well, and she’d caused something of a stir a few vorns ago when she’d taken a ward named Springer. Despite the rumors that Springer was Kup’s natural grand or great-grandchild, Jazz was fairly sure that Kup had just been bored and found herself an orphan to look after, because when Kup wasn’t raising Springer, her daily activities included smoking cygars, trouncing anyone foolish enough to sit down at her card table or to play her at chess, and attempting to arrange marriages for the entirety of the ton.
“Just testing the waters,” Jazz said. “Don’t want to hurry into anything, but I’m definitely going to be on the market, as it were.”
Lady Kup gave a most un-ladylike snort. “Well, good luck to you, lad. You’re about to be the most eligible bachelor of the season.”
“Ah, I’m sure that’s not true. Plenty of matchmaking creators probably have heard my reputation and are about to steer their daughters in the opposite direction.”
“You forget two things, lad.”
“Which are…?”
“You’re the Prime’s best friend, and no one has an in with this Prime. So even if the ladies are clutching their pearls and gasping in horror at your reputation, their creators in the senate are going to be doing the opposite and throwing their sparklings in your path to try and get the Prime’s ear. But the ladies won’t be, because of the old adage. ‘A reformed rake is the best husband.’ You won’t be able to cross a ballroom without running down a dozen of them.” He laughed at Jazz’s expression. “Need me to give you a lay of the land?”
“Please,” Jazz said, sitting down in the chair across from Kup and letting himself be dealt into the game.
Prowl’s friends had not come to Iacon for the winter. It was not surprising, since it was cheaper to winter in Praxus, and there were entertainments aplenty. Were it not for Prowl’s desire to avoid his grandmother, he might have encouraged his sisters to stay in Praxus and find husbands there, among their circles.
But their grandmother had left Datsun in Mr. Barricade’s hands and had instead set up the house in Praxus as her primary residence. So Prowl had decided to lean on his sisters’ desire for new faces and pleasures and took them instead to the house in Iacon, which had been rented out ever since the death of their mother.
Lady Requiem had even approved of the plan. “There are far more mechs of fortune and title to be found in Iacon. I have found no mechs here who are suitable for your temperaments who meet the necessary requirements. Smokescreen, you must not take a mech of less than six thousand a vorn, unless he has a title. A title is worth at least two thousand a year, easily (four if he is at least a Viscount) for it will bring me such pleasure to call you a Lady. For why should you not have a title? Your mother’s father was a baronet, and the Petrexes are of an ancient and honorable lineage, even if they are not noble. Bluestreak, you are less beautiful than your sister, but you should not settle for less than four thousand a year; but you are young yet, so you may not marry this season.”
His sisters took Lady Requiem’s speech without offense, and were calling out phrases from it across the house whenever there were no guests. They did not notice that Lady Requiem had made no mention of Prowl, or what he should look for in a wife.
So Prowl was grateful to be half a continent away from their grandmother. She had given them the use of the chaise-and-four, and Prowl and Bluestreak, who both enjoyed riding, were free to use the horses when they were not otherwise occupied. The house itself was in a fashionable neighborhood, and quite well kept. The housekeeper, Mrs. Crux, had been with the family since their father had been a child, and she was quite fond of all of them, and was delighted to see the house used by the family rather than by renters that season.
Smokescreen was delighted, for without their grandmother, she was the lady of the house. She would get to plan their meals, manage the servants, issue their invitations, and receive guests. Prowl’s duties were far simpler: to carve the roast at dinner, to guard his sisters’ honor, and to serve as their escort wherever they needed to go.
If things had been different, he would have been speaking to solicitors or his account managers, taking advantage of the time in Iacon, or writing letters of business, but he had no such obligations.
His sisters were gentle with him, believing that they knew the extent of his disappointment. To have been denied his inheritance was a cruelty they understood, even if surely, their grandmother had made amends with Prowl with her own funds, for they had only ever known Lady Requiem to be generous, if interfering.
Prowl told himself that when they were married, he would confess the truth of it.
Fortunately, they had enough acquaintances in town already so as to have an entry into society, even though Prowl prepared for their first proper ball after their presentation at court with trepidation.
Lady Mirage Lola, the Duchess of Challenger, was one of Jazz’s oldest and dearest friends. Her husband the Duke was an ancient, decrepit mech who had failed to live up to the promise that Mirage’s sire had made when she had married him at the tender age of nineteen that he would soon go to the Well, leaving her with a fine title and sizeable fortune and the ability to remarry whoever she liked. Instead, all these vorns later, the Duke continued to be very much alive, much to Mirage’s bitter agonies.
Lady Mirage handled this like many young, beautiful wives of older mechs: by spending as little time as possible in the same county as her husband. She also, unlike many wives, was confident enough in her own wealth and station (being the daughter of an earl with a reasonable fortune of her own) to carry on a clandestine affair with a sailor who she had wanted to marry before being hurried to the altar by her family, who had since made a sizeable fortune in the wars against the Maril.
Captain Hound was also a good friend of Jazz’s; not the least for his willingness to smuggle Jazz’s agents on and off Cybertron.
“So, lay the scene for me, Lady Mirage,” Jazz said, gesturing to the scene laid out before them. Lady Mirage was famous for her balls, and she was hosting this one. “Anyone in particular on the guest list I should be looking at?”
Lady Mirage tapped her fan against her lip plates thoughtfully. “Depends, my lord. Are you interested in mechs or femmes?”
“Only mechs who are willing to switch, I think,” Jazz said. It would be too complicated for Optimus to make a mech’s match, where he’d be expected to take on subservient titles to someone. But plenty of mechs without particular fortune, title, or passion for their careers would happily put on a frock if it meant making a good enough match. Jazz, a mere baron, might not be capable of enticing a mech to set aside their place in society, but to be consort… there were plenty of mechs who would seize the chance.
(Of course, no one had quite realized such a thing was in play just yet. Many mechs still looked to Elita One, waiting for her to put aside her strange notions of being a femme who went to war and marry the Prime as she had been sent over from Carcer to do in the first place. That her mother, the Empress of Carcer, had thought that the Prime would be Sentinel was besides the point.
Of course, Elita had no intention of changing either her gender or her habits, and had happily resumed her career as a warrior the moment Optimus informed her that she would not need to join Sentinel in his exile, nor marry him instead. She had not returned to Carcer, instead remaining in Optimus’s court as one of his companions, and continuing her affair with a gladiator from Caminus. No one had really managed to complain as with being from Carcer and having the title of “One,” she outranked everyone in Cybertronian society except for Optimus himself, and no one was brave enough to attempt to tell her that her behavior was shockingly improper for a femme.)
“Let’s see, there’s the Petrex siblings. There’s three of them; a brother and two sisters. Any of them would be a good match.”
“Even the brother?” Jazz asked, frowning. “Shouldn’t he be up for inheriting?” He knew of the Petrex family a little, and their estate Datsun a little more. It was one of the wealthiest estates outside of Praxus, which was rapidly becoming one of the most fashionable cities on Cybertron outside of Iacon. He’d toured the house when he’d been in Praxus, and had found it one of the most beautiful estates he’d ever seen.
“He should,” Mirage said. “But he was passed over in favor of his step-grandmother’s nephew, a Mr. Barricade. No one’s quite sure why, but there’s plenty of rumors. Scandal aside, Prowl’s apparently for the church; rumor has it that he’s going to take orders as soon as he sees his sisters married. But it’s very obviously a last minute change, since everyone I’ve spoken to said that he didn’t study divinity at school. His sisters are much finer, however. Good dowries, well connected in Praxus, with excellent educations and very fine manners. Bluestreak might be a little young, but Smokescreen is well on her way to being one of the most desirable femmes of the season.”
“I’ll see if I can catch her for a dance, then,” Jazz said. He could identity her easily enough; it was fashion in Praxus to have doorwings, even if a mech didn’t have them naturally, but the two femmes and the mech standing in a tight cluster clearly had natural wings—it was in the way that they moved, reacting to the music.
Miss Petrex was taller than her siblings, wearing a fine gown of navy that complimented her own coloring. She was looking around with a bright interest, observing the dancing couples and assisting her sister with her dance card.
Miss Bluestreak wore a gauzy silver frock that looked to be the latest fashion from Velocitron. The effect was as if she was always in motion, the slightest movement sending shivers through the whole outfit. If Jazz was a femme, he’d have been taking notes for his own modiste to try and replicate the effect, because it was absolutely enchanting.
Poor Mr. Petrex did not share his sisters’ fortune in their appearances. He was nearly completely black and white, with only his red chevron and bright blue optics providing any dash of color. He wore a handsome enough suit, but to Jazz’s eye it was a simpler, cheaper piece than what Miss Petrex and Miss Bluestreak Petrex had donned for the ball. But while his sisters looked to the dancing, the music, the decorations, eager and ready to be pleased, Prowl instead looked to the crowd, and seemed to grow grimmer with each sweep of those icy blue optics.
His gaze met Jazz’s for a moment, and a shiver went up Jazz’s spine. That glower! Jazz felt pinned down like an energonfly, examined by the mech, and immediately found wanting. The gaze moved on, having dismissed him, and Jazz felt a strange desire to go over and have that gaze focused on him once again.
Jazz forced himself to refocus on the crowd. “Alright, that’s three to start with. Anyone else?”
“Miss Perceptor Nijika,” Mirage said with a nod. “She’s incredibly academically accomplished. She attends every scholarly salon in Iacon. And she’s very wealthy; her family has investments in Zamojin, and she inherited thirty thousand shanix from her share.
Miss Nijika was easy enough to spot in the crowd, with her scope and her unusually bold red gown. She was speaking with a large shuttle eagerly, her fan bobbing up and down as she spoke. Listening in were a few bots that Jazz recognized; Mr. Brainstorm Gentius, Mr. Wheeljack Lancia, and Mrs. Nautica Honda . Wheeljack was one of Jazz’s good friends, Mr. Gentius was somewhat infamous, and Mrs. Honda was married to one of Jazz’s best spies, Professor Skids Honda. None of them had even seemed to notice that the dancing was about to start, as caught up as they all were in the conversation.
“She’s speaking to Miss Skyfire Endeavour,” Mirage said, seeing where Jazz’s optics had fallen next. “She’s absolutely lovely; one of the sweetest femmes I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. She’s penniless, the poor thing, but rumor has it that she caught the eye of Lord Airlandia, so as long as he does the honorable thing, she should be alright.”
“Speaking of our dear Marquess, isn’t his sister…”
“Ah yes, Lady Slipstream,” Mirage gestured to where four Seekers had gathered. There was Lord Starscream Raptor, Marquess of Airlandia, the heir apparent to the Duchy of Vos, and his brothers the Lords Thundercracker and Skywarp. All three were all resplendent in their military regalia (Thundercracker was a colonel and Skywarp was a major, while Starscream was a general of the aerial forces), while their sister, Lady Slipstream, looked scowling and surly in her elegant lavender muslin. “I think she’s threatened to run away to join the military three times already tonight. I’m not certain she’ll consent to any match that won’t guarantee her a great deal of freedom. But she’s very accomplished, and when she wishes it so, her manners are delightful.”
Jazz would have to tread carefully with her, then. A consort did not have much freedom, but the power might be temptation enough; especially if Slipstream had any similarities in temperament and character to her eldest brother.
“Then we have Miss Superion.” Mirage directed him to another cluster of fliers. “She’s the eldest; Silverbolt’s her first name. Her sister is Miss Slingshot, and then her brothers are Captain Air Raid, Lieutenant Skydive, and Second Lieutenant Fireflight. Miss Superion would be my suggestion over her sister. It was widely expected she would join the military when they were younger; she always led her siblings on their maneuvers. But when the family could only afford commissions for three of them, she elected to transition to a femme. She would be an excellent housekeeper, and as the eldest of a large family, she’s excellent at finding resolutions to problems. She’s not particularly accomplished by traditional standards due to her upbringing, but I believe her character can make up for that deficit.”
Miss Superion was a nervous looking femme in an elegant grey evening gown, speaking quietly to her siblings before accepting an offer from Motormaster Menasor to dance, holding out her dance card for him. She did not look particularly enthused to be dancing with the eldest Menasor brother, but her manner was polite and proper, despite the sneer on his face. Jazz looked around, and spotted the three brothers and one sister all lurking at the edge of the crowd. Poor Miss Dead End looked bored, although Jazz could spot her throwing looks in the direction of Colonel Astrotrain when she thought her brothers weren’t looking.
“And of course, you know Lady Blurr Maccadam.” Mirage gestured to where a gay, laughing femme in a dazzling blue gown was surrounded by admirers. The daughter of the Lord Governor of Velocitron, Lady Blurr was easily one of the most sought after femmes of the season. “She brings with her a dowry of fifty thousand shanix. She would be quite the alliance to make.”
An alliance with Velocitron could hardly be sniffed at; the colony was prosperous and wealthy, but had started to make gestures towards independence. Marrying the beloved daughter of their popular earl could keep Velocitron in the empire. And as a daughter of a governor, Blurr would have been trained in many of the elements of leadership that Optimus would be looking for in a partner…
“I guess I should go see if I can get my name on some dance cards,” Jazz grinned. “Think you can get me an in with our Lady Blurr?”
“Of course.” Mirage snapped her fan shut. “Follow me, I’ll introduce you.”
Prowl could not help but analyze every individual who asked his sisters to dance.
Mr. Breakdown Menasor was nervous, cringing away from Prowl’s gaze even as he asked Bluestreak to dance the supper set. As the youngest son, his portion was not generous, and none of the Menasor brothers had shown any inclination for a career. Prowl supposed him to be superior to his brothers; Prowl had gone to school with the eldest Menasor, and had found him a brute who had little respect for femmes. He had engaged Smokescreen for the second set of dances.
A Mr. Swindle Bruticus had Smokescreen for the first two dances, while his brother Lieutenant Brawl Bruticus had asked Bluestreak for the two thirds. As the whole group of Bruticus siblings had approached at once, Prowl had, to be polite, asked Miss Bruticus for the Boulanger, which she had accepted with a smile that he did not like.
Mr. Bruticus had been in Prowl’s military tactics class, and had always bemoaned his status as heir preventing him from going into the military. His wife, Lady Blast Off, was a calm femme whose expressions gave away no hint of her emotions as she watched her siblings-in-law eagerly vie for the attentions of the Petrexes. Swindle was a barrister, and although he was still new in the trade and thus rather poor, there was great potential in his profession, while his brother the Lieutenant had joined a regiment in the regulars with a reputation for violence. Of their sister, Prowl had heard nothing, but her portion could not be very large, and he found himself discomfitted by her questions and manners, although nothing was improper.
Bluestreak’s friends Sunstreaker and Sideswipe arrived at the ball in a tardy fashion, but not too late to secure Bluestreak for their dances. They seemed to have already decided the arrangement of things, for Bluestreak was to start the ball with Sunstreaker and end it with Sideswipe. Prowl could say nothing against the twins, despite his belief that they were too young to be ready to settle. He was fond of them, and Sir Ironhide, their guardian, was a mech of good reputation and reasonable fortune, and there was no reason the twins would not have fine careers in the military if they so chose.
Prowl secured Miss Beachcomber for the opening set; they had met in Praxus, and he could count on her for lively conversation about her various academic interests. She was poor, knew him well, and had no expectations of him, which made her a safe choice.
Prowl had been introduced to too few femmes at the gathering to secure many partners, but Smokescreen had gone to school with Miss Superion and happily introduced him, which meant that Prowl would have partners for at least five of the dances, which was enough of an effort to satisfy his sisters.
While he was speaking to Miss Superion, he became aware that they had been approached by their hostess, Lady Mirage.
“Mr. Petrex,” she said, reaching out towards him. Prowl bowed over it appropriately. Lady Mirage’s husband, the Lord Challenger, had been a good friend of Prowl’s grandfather, and so she had come to stay at Datsun many times, and so was well acquainted with their family.
“Lady Mirage. I am glad to see that you are well. Is your husband—?”
“He’s come down with swollen hoses, the poor dear. He’s gone up to Praxus to take the waters, leaving me to fill our responsibilities as members of society. And Miss Petrex; I am sorry for the loss of your grandfather. He was a wonderful man. I hope you are finding Iacon to your liking?”
Smokescreen responded affirmatively, well in awe of Lady Mirage in her element.
“Mr. Petrex, may I do the honor of introducing you and your sister to my dear friend Jazz Porsche, the Baron of Staniz?”
Prowl bowed and Smokescreen curtsied.
“Miss Petrex, I’ve heard so much about you from Lady Mirage! Are you engaged for the supper set?”
“I’m not engaged, my lord,” Smokescreen said, holding out her dance card with a very pretty flourish that Prowl could never manage. Lord Staniz wrote his name on there and then turned to begin to converse with Prowl to complete the introduction.
Prowl examined him even as they made the normal pleasantries. On paper, Lord Staniz would be the perfect match for Smokescreen. A few years older than Prowl, he was titled and well-connected, even if Prowl was uncertain of his exact fortune, since he knew that Staniz’s mother was living and that he had a twin brother besides, with whom he had split everything that could be divided. Despite the uncertainty of his wealth, he was an intimate of the Prime, a fact which made him a far more desirable match than many higher-ranked nobles or wealthier gentlemechs on the market, as Optimus Prime was notoriously exclusive with the mechs permitted into his inner-circle.
However, Staniz was something of a notorious flirt, and had never shown any serious signs of entering the marriage mart in earnest before this. Prowl knew him to have kept numerous opera singers, violinists, ballet dancers, and courtesans in his day. And while Prowl was aware that he had something of a reputation of his own, he had never been known to keep three mistresses at once.
A life of frivolity was not…unsuited to Smokescreen’s personality, but Prowl would much prefer it if Smokescreen found a partner who would temper her bouts of gaiety and risk, rather than encourage them. Smokescreen already lost far too much of her allowance at cards and spent too much time reading gossip papers; Prowl shuddered to think what kind of money Smokescreen would lose at cards if introduced to Staniz’s circles.
Despite knowing him by reputation, Prowl had never crossed paths with Lord Staniz. Prowl had been educated at Minocross, while Staniz had been a Trannisbridge mech, and Prowl had ended up remaining in Praxus for the majority of his early years so as to remain close to his family, while Staniz had been ensconced in Iacon.
They were unlikely to spend much time together even now that they were in the same city. Although the ton was small, the lines between the gentry and the nobility were still in place, which meant that Staniz would doubtless spend most of his time with his own circles, while Prowl, whose connections in Iacon were few, would spend most of his time with his family or writing letters to his friends to see if any of them would be able to help him find a position.
He did not have much hope; most of his friends were younger sons with careers but no fortune, and none had control of any living that might be vacant anytime soon. Most did not even have their own houses, instead renting seasonally or living with their families, which meant that he would hardly be able to become one of the indolent who moved from friend's house to friend's house, living off their largess and being of no use to anyone, was not viable.
So instead Prowl carefully planned out his spending for the year, doing his best to stretch his meager funds, and hoping that the season passed without any unexpected expense. Surprises, he determined, would be most unwelcome.
Jazz was enjoying himself, he had to admit. The matchmaking mothers were in a tizzy about him being on the hunt, and were throwing themselves at him to introduce their lovely young debutants in hopes that he would ask them to dance or at least keep them in mind at future dances.
He was already making good progress crossing people off his list. Lady Blurr would hate to be tied to court, for all she could do for their entire dance was talk about how she looked forward to going to the country as soon as the spring rains came. Lady Slipstream took joy in tormenting servants, which would anger Optimus, while Miss Nijika had clearly decided the only husband she would take this vorn was Mr. Gentius, even though poor Brainstorm had no idea of her preference. Miss Superion needed too much polish for Jazz to feel good about forcing her into the spotlight, and she was not quite ready to leave her siblings besides.
Miss Endeavour would be an excellent choice, in Jazz’s opinion, if she truly wasn’t attached to Lord Airlandia; she was gentle, well-mannered, and clever, with an unexpected moral center of durasteel and a passion for organic life that Optimus would love. Her being poor wouldn’t matter at all to Optimus, but it was possible that putting her forward to be consort would be cruel. But Optimus might like her, so Jazz decided to introduce her to him at some point anyway.
Miss Petrex was another possibility; she was witty and lively and handled people excellently, all of which were things that would be excellent qualities in a consort. She happily shared all the news with Jazz during their dance, and then when he sat down with her for the fashionably cold supper that Mirage had spread out, he allowed his attention to wander from her to her brother, who sat on her other side.
Petrex was cool whenever remarks were made to him. His attention seemed split between his youngest sister and the nervous young Menasor who she had been dancing with, and Jazz and Miss Petrex.
“Mr. Petrex,” Jazz said. “I believe Lady Mirage said you were in Praxus this past spring? Did you perhaps meet my friend Mr. Soundwave?”
“I had the pleasure once. We both attended a concert in the gardens there, where we were introduced by a mutual acquaintance,” Petrex said. “He seemed very pleasant, although I must say I found his cassettes…spirited.”
Jazz laughed at the candor. “Which ones did you meet? It couldn’t have been Laserbeak; she’s too sweet to be spirited.”
“The twins Rumble and Frenzy.”
“Spirited might be too generous a phrase for those two. But I am certain that Soundwave will bring them into line by the time they’re ready to be out.”
“Let us hope so,” Petrex said, severely. He didn’t go on to complain that commsbots shouldn’t let their cassettes out in public, which was a mark in his favor. In his friendships with Blaster and Soundwave, Jazz had heard a great deal of ignorance and cruelty towards their culture, and he had little tolerance for such things.
They moved on to the topic of music, which Miss Petrex happily contributed to. She played the cyberforte, and Jazz expressed an interest in hearing her play sometime. He didn’t admit to his own musicianship, since that was terribly un-gentlemechly behavior, but he could be a lover of music without risking censure.
Despite Jazz’s best efforts, Petrex did not give him that look again. Jazz resolved to speak to Lady Mirage to see if she knew to which club Petrex belonged to, so that Jazz could accost him there.