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It was an average lightcycle, and Jazz was chilling in City Hall’s vents, investigating a suspected cheating conjunx (solid source of shanix, always plenty of lovers checking that their boo wasn’t steppin’ out on ‘em). Suspicious lovers and insurance fraudsters kept Jazz’s little private investigator business afloat, plus a few extra credits here and there Jazz could enjoy.
Jazz itched his nasal ridge with his claws, and peered out the grill slats down into his target’s office. The door opened, admitting a secretary with saucy, custom running lights that went all the way down, if you caught Jazz’s drift – yep, they were making out now, definitely a cheater. He’d hang out till these two were done, grab a few more money shots, and seal the deal. Jazz had no respect for skidplates like this. He’d hand off these screenshots to his client and congratulate himself on a job well done.
Jazz laid down to wait, turning on a playlist to drown out the noises below. He wasn’t worried about being detected. Between his EM field dampener and his natural ‘advantages,’ Jazz was the sneakiest PI in the citystate. If Jazz was less picky over which jobs he took, he’d be a much richer bot, but even Jazz had his principles. A B&E here and there was no biggie, but Jazz didn’t deal in ruining lives that didn’t deserve it.
Once Jazz had his incriminating photos, he hightailed it back out, scampering through the air ducts to the vent he’d unscrewed and pried up. Nice, easy cases like this were so relaxing, Jazz could do them in his defrag. Spotting light ahead, Jazz sped up. Maybe he’d pick up a few things on the way back to his office, crack open a bottle of engex-a servo half the length of Jazz’s body reached in, grabbed Jazz around the middle, and yanked him out of the vent.
Jazz flailed, scratching and squeaking, but his captor efficiently restrained Jazz by the scruffplate, leaving his flexible, hosepipe-shaped body, short tail, and four paws dangling pitifully in the air. His captor lifted him up to optic height (disappointingly, keeping out of clawing range).
The black-and-white mech was probably average size – Jazz was just too slagging tiny in alt – with a broad, curvy bumper and gorgeous sensor wing panels…awww, pitscrap, was that how he caught Jazz? Jazz sagged, regretting that his short legs didn’t let him dramatically whack himself in the faceplate. Jazz compromised by turning off his visor to play dead.
The mech frowned, his sensor wing panels fanning out. “You are not authorized to be here.”
Well that was an opening. Instantly relighting his visor, Jazz grinned his sharp little fangs. “I can explain!” he piped up, and started talking his way out of this mess.
The sensor-wing mech listened with no change in expression, his field pulsing exhausted neutrality. “I have six urgent projects and a staff meeting in ten kliks. I do not have time for the paperwork your arrest will cause.”
Jazz gave the mech a once-over. The scuffed paint, dim running lights and stress twitches said enough. Yikes.
“I will let you go with a warning,” the mech announced. “Please remember that unlawful entry into a municipal building is prohibited. If you return, I will report you. If you require assistance obtaining lawful employment, I have contacts in the unemployment office. I am aware that finding a function is difficult for theraframes.”
Jazz snarled, all good humor evaporating. “I have a job, I don’t need your fragging pity.”
Theraframes were a relic of ancient Cybertron’s rugged, unbroken wilderness and scarce surface energon. They navigated rough terrain more smoothly than a mech’s bipedal root mode and used a fraction of the energon, but modern, specialized frames far outclassed them in speed, agility and utility. A theraframe couldn’t swim faster than a boat, outfly a jet, or haul more cargo than a convoy: Cybertronian society considered them archaic and obsolete.
With no innate function to fall back on, theraframes couldn’t compete for many entry-level jobs. Plenty ended up staying poor, or getting into crime to make ends meet. Jazz’d clawed his way up to owning his own business, and he didn’t need this snooty deskworker telling him what to do.
The mech dangling Jazz by the scruff regarded the theraframe with deeply unimpressed optics. “You mistake experience for pity. I have a meeting in six klicks. If I put you down, will you go away and not come back?”
Jazz flailed all four paws. “Back up, hold on, whadya mean experience?” Did this bot mean what Jazz thought he meant???
“I am also a theraframe,” the mech replied matter-of-factly, with no change in his dull field. “I am going now. Do not be here when I return.” And with that, Jazz found himself lowered gently to the floor. The mech immediately began to walk away.
Naturally, Jazz chased after the guy cause they were not done, buddy. Nobody gets away from The Jazz! He sprang forward, landing on the bot’s pede, and scuttled up to perch on a white shoulder guard. Huh, pretty comfy actually. Jazz dug his little claws in and booped his helm against the bot’s cheek. “Hey, what’s your des? Whatcha got for an alt?”
The other theraframe(?) didn’t break stride. He didn’t even look down at Jazz (how dare, Jazz’s alt was adorable!). “I do not give personal information to suspicious mechanisms lurking in vents. Please go away.”
Jazz, local slag stirrer (and also kinda an attention whore), bit down on the mech’s neck cables. The mech yelped and instinctively yeeted Jazz off his shoulder. Jazz sank his fangs in to keep from falling. Okay, I maybe didn’t think that through, Jazz reflected, plastered across the mech’s shapely, heaving bumper and hanging by his teeth.
The mech, thankfully, realized Jazz’s predicament and lifted him back onto his shoulder. “You are very irritating,” he announced, but he was finally looking at Jazz again and that meant Jazz won.
Jazz patted a paw on the mech’s collar faring. “I know,” he agreed, puffing up his chest. “Tell me your designation and I’ll go.” Jazz watched the mech visibly debate between pacifying an irritating quadraformer and being late to his meeting.
Finally, the bot ground his dentae and Jazz knew he’d won again. “Prowl,” he said, and quicker than Jazz could react, the mech grabbed Jazz, bent down, and bowled the wiggly theraframe across the tile floor. Jazz slid and squeaked in glee. That clever fragger!
When Jazz rolled onto his paws and shook himself off, the sensor-winged mech was gone. Ohhhh, Prowl had no idea what he’d unleashed! Jazz was gonna be back, and he wasn’t leaving till they had a proper conversation (and Jazz wanted to get tossed at least twenty more times, that was hella fun!).
Jazz took care of business first. He delivered the client’s photos, sat with the bot until they’d properly processed their partner’s lies and decided how they wanted to deal with it, then handed over a premade list of resources in case their ex caused trouble and they needed help. After Jazz wrapped his case up, leaving with more credits in his account and a spring in his step, he circled back to his new fixation.
This time, Jazz entered Prowl’s workplace through the front door, bold as brass, and went straight for the receptionist. Leaning down, Jazz grinned at the minibot, his vaguely flirty smile moderated by the casual frequency of his field, and lifted up the takeout boxes in his arms. “Hey, can you let Prowl know Jazz is here? I think he’s turned his comms on Do Not Disturb. Remind him that we talked before his staff meeting – if he pretends he doesn’t know me, it’s cause he’s embarrassed he forgot our plans. Tell him I ain’t mad.” Jazz flashed another, more conspiratorial grin. The minibot didn’t question it, helpfully repeating Jazz’s message glyph for glyph.
The right props and swagger got a bot everywhere, Jazz thought for the nth time, patting himself on the back for his cunning. Prowl could either reject Jazz, who’d make a scene, or quietly go along with Jazz’s ruse and get rid of Jazz privately. Jazz knew which one Prowl’d pick. This overworked data cruncher wasn’t gonna waste both their time. He’d know from their first meeting that Jazz would happily make a nuisance of himself as long as it took. Not a nanoklik later, the receptionist had Jazz sign the visitor log and handed him a badge. Jazz thanked the bot and strolled right in.
Prowl was waiting, his wings hiked up high and his arms crossed, a stern scowl marring his attractive faceplates. Ooooh, he was mad.
Jazz (who’d always had glitched survival coding) grinned, and hop-skipped his merry way over.
“Follow,” Prowl snarled through his clenched jaw, and spun on his heel. Jazz sauntered after him.
Prowl led Jazz to an obsessively neat office, and shut the door with a snap. Jazz surveyed his options, and sat his aft in the plush, ergonomic chair behind the desk – Prowl’s chair. Jazz wiggled. Oh yeah, no way this was regular office furniture. Prowl bought his beauty himself.
Putting down his takeout, Jazz leaned back and waved at Prowl like he was the host instead of an uninvited guest. “Hey Prowl! Help yourself to fuel, I brought plenty.”
Jazz watched Prowl consider his chances of throwing Jazz out. “What kind of fuel?”
“The fancy, prepared kind,” Jazz assured him. It’s the little luxuries that make functioning worth it, y’know?
Finally, the bot sat down, pulled the fuel closer to himself, and began to dig in. “If you had brought me empty takeout boxes, I would have thrown you out regardless of the trouble,” Prowl informed Jazz matter-of-factly.
Mentally, Jazz gave himself a thumbs up. One point for the Jazzmeister!
Prowl flicked one wing, licking mercury off his lower lip. “You have until I am finished fueling to tell me why you are here.”
Jazz’s mental confetti froze. Okay so maybe Jazz didn’t plan this part out. It was fine, Jazz was a smooth talker! He fumbled for something to say. “You didn’t tell me your alt,” he said, and wanted to slap himself upside the helm.
“I see no reason to provide that information,” Prowl replied. His nasal bridge wrinkled as he debated between two fuel gels. It was unfairly cute on such a serious bot. “What is this really about? I assure you that I did not report you, and will not do so if you refrain from further trespass.”
That was a good question. Jazz didn’t know the answer (YET! He’d figure it out! He did a lotta stuff on impulse, okay?). “Don’t see many theraframes,” he replied, trying to buy time.
“That is true,” Prowl agreed, selecting his gel. “One in every 10,000 mechanisms, according to the most recent census.”
Slag, mech, you just know that off the top of your helm? “Whatdya do for a livin’?” Jazz asked, leaning on one elbow.
Prowl lit up. “I am a civil engineer. Currently, I am working on…” And then the other theraframe started talking and just didn’t stop. Jazz was delighted to find Prowl’s yap button – and building a whole fragging suspension bridge to be quakeproof was genuinely fascinating?
As they emptied the last of the takeout containers, and Jazz kept listening to Prowl, a light went on in Jazz’s helm. Oh scrap, was that what this was all about? Jazz was judging his life choices but that wasn’t new. “Prowl,” Jazz interrupted with urgency, grabbing Prowl’s forearm.
Prowl’s brow crinkled. “Yes, Jazz?”
“I’m here cause I want us to be friends.”
Prowl stared at Jazz like the glyphs didn’t compute. “Are you certain?”
“You’re kinda making me second-guess this, but yeah.” Releasing Prowl, Jazz sat back.
Prowl fussed with the flap of a takeout box. “Is this because we are both theraframes?”
“Started out that way. Now that we fueled together I wouldn’t mind doin’ it again. Thoughts?”
Prowl ducked his helm, still messing with the container. “I am not well-practiced at friendship. If you do not mind my errors, I would be—pleased, to try this again.” He brought his helm up and glared. “But do not come uninvited to my workplace again.”
Jazz circled his spark. “Promise! Unless I have a good reason!”
“I suspect that is the best I will get.” Prowl resettled his plating and stood, beginning to clean up. “I must return to my work.”
A short-range ping hit Jazz’s comms, from an ID he didn’t recognize. A delighted grin spread over Jazz’s faceplates. Was that Prowl’s comm code? Without even asking??? “Aww, you really do like me!” he teased.
Prowl waved imperiously. “Do not read into it. Sharing comms is practical.”
“Whatever you say, Prowler!” Jazz said, and booked it for the door.
Prowl whipped around and hissed, “That is not my designation!”
“See ya later, friend!” Jazz saluted, and made his escape, whistling a jaunty tune. He waited till he got to the front desk to ping Prowl’s comm code. ::Heyo, Jazz here :D ::
::My designation is Prowl, not Prowler or any variation thereof!::
::No prob, I got plenty of options you can try out.:: It was a work in progress; they’d find something they could agree on eventually. Friendship was stored in the nickname, yeah? ::Soooo, I hear that friends usually hang out. You free anytime this decaorn?::
Jazz made small talk with the receptionist while he signed out. He’d just handed over his visitor’s badge when Prowl replied with a list of dates and times. ::We will meet in a public area and you will buy any fuel we require. Until I am convinced this is not something unsavory, I do not intend to incur any financial loss ::
Waving goodbye to the receptionist, Jazz waited till he was out of sight to place his servo dramatically over his spark. ::You think I’m unsavory? TOT::
::You are a professional stalker. I am taking appropriate precautions::
Jazz tapped his helm. ::Professional, babe, that’s the key, I got no time for stalking I ain’t gettin' paid for. By the by, you never told me your alt.:: Jazz added a sticker of a pleading, sad-opticked bot.
::I suppose it makes no difference. You will find out eventually:: Attached to Prowl’s message was a photo file. Jazz had never clicked a download link that fast.
Like Jazz, Prowl’s alt was a quadraframe, but he was much larger – almost the same mass as his root mode – and his slender, pole-like legs ended in cloven hooves instead of paws. With a frame structure like that, Jazz guessed that Prowl was meant for running, or maybe climbing. Prowl’s strong, wide neck connected to a long, triangular helm with dull dentae and two tall, mobile audial dishes, but the real showstoppers were the two enormous arc-shaped horns that curled over Prowl’s back.
“Huh,” Jazz said, zooming in on the horns. That particular curve looked familiar. Real familiar. In the air, Jazz traced a generous imaginary arc in front of his chassis – the very same curve as Prowl’s bodacious bumper, which Jazz had plastered himself against not so long ago. The two angles were a perfect match.
“This is going to haunt me forever, isn’t it?” Jazz said to no one in particular.