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dracoqueen22a/n: Continuing with my attempts to update as much as possible while I have the time, here's another Event Horizons 'verse fic, Origins style, featuring Jazz! His backstory is a mishmash of G1, Aligned, and Bayverse, plus some slag I made up. *grins* This one's also the darkest of the three I've written so far.
Title: Seven Lives, Many Faces
Series: Event Horizon, Origins
Universe: Transformers: Prime
Characters: Jazz (Razorwire, Barter, Slipstrike, Velocity), OCs, Prowl
Rating: M
Warnings: character death, “blood and gore”, questionable morals
Description: Jazz is a chameleon, a composition of personas, so convoluted that not even he can remember who he used to be.
Cut text and inspiration drawn from “Hurricane,” by 30 Seconds to Mars.
Calumny never has the chance to scream or call for help before Razorwire's claws sink into his chassis, punching straight through thin-metal plating and into his very core, extinguishing the dank green spark in an instant. That's what happens when a killing machine turns on its master. When a puppet cuts its own strings.
Calumny looks a bit like a puppet right now actually. His limp limbs dangle from his grimy frame, suspended on the end of Razorwire's servo. His optics are dim, but lingering sparks of electricity fizzle from torn wires.
He is, or used to be, bigger than Razorwire by a full helm. Not that it matters now.
With a shake of his servo, Calumny drops from Razorwire's claws to a discarded pile of scrap on the floor. Energon plops out of the open wound, oozing like the low-grade slag that Calumny ingested on an ornly basis.
Still, there's something altogether enticing about fresh energon staining his claws. The dull blue contrasts the black of his paint and is almost iridescent in the flickering lights. It oozes over his hands, dipping between small armor plates, getting into the tiny gears and struts that form his claws. He'll have to scrub himself good to get clean again.
Experimentally, Razorwire flicks his digits, sending spatters in all directions, splattering the walls and Calumny's greying frame. Crumpled on the floor, Calumny isn't even worth the effort of another kick.
Razorwire crouches and tilts his helm, casually dipping a single digit into the gaping hole in Calumny's chassis. Not so much as a twitch. Definitely dead. He has maybe a klik before it's too late.
It's easy enough to rifle through a mech's subspace when they're dead, though harder to do when the mech's been offline long enough for all traces of lingering energy to be gone. So Razorwire is quick about it, pulling out a datapad of access codes, a handful of creds, a sealed cube of energon, and the key to his cuffs.
Yeah. He'd killed Calumny with his servos cuffed in front of him. Calumny thought he was safe like that, as though he could keep Razorwire chained so easily.
Hah.
Calumny should have known better. He'd had Razorwire trained to be stronger than that. It's how Razorwire had been sparked. To be a killer. To sink his claws into another bot and aim for a kill. It's what he's good at.
Lips curling with disgust, Razorwire dumps the cuffs on Calumny's empty frame and takes stock of the situation. He barely has thirty creds. Enough for a ticket to Iacon maybe, but he'll need an ID chip, preferably a new ID. He can't be Razorwire the gladiator and expect to find other work. That's not the way things are run on Cybertron.
He'll need a new ID. New paint. New kibble. New everything.
He won't be Razorwire. Not anymore. Or at least, not for now. Razorwire can't imagine abandoning everything he's learned. He won't always needs his claws or his sharpened denta or the edged protrusions from his shoulders, elbows, and knee joints. But even bright, shiny Iacon has it's dark alleys and black markets.
Turning on a heel strut, Razorwire leaves Calumny's grey frame behind and slips out of the apartment he's called home for his entire, if brief, existence. He won’t fight in a gladiatorial pit ever again unless he chooses to do so.
Never again.
o0o0o
“Could ya hurry it up, mah mech?” Barter complains, straining to see over the helms of the bots lined in front of him. “I'm runnin' on a time table here, ya!”
There's an assortment of agreeing grumbles behind him, other mechs and femmes trying to board the shuttle and get the pit out of this city. Things were going to the smelter faster than one could count creds, and those that could afford it were fleeing for safer territories. Barter just wanted out.
Hard to do business in Slaughter City. Mechs don’t have the creds, and no one wants to trade. He needs to move to better hunting grounds before he goes broke. He isn't inclined to starving either.
“You'll wait your turn,” the attendant at the front of the line growls without looking up from his datapad. “Have your IDs ready. Thing's will move a lot smoother if you do.”
More grumbles from the crowd, but there is little anyone could do but wait. Barter digs around in subspace, producing his new ID as he waits. At his pedes, a single trunk serves as his only piece of luggage. There are parts in here, pieces of his last frame, a bucket of paint or two. Things he'll need to become Razorwire again if he wants or other accessories for other identities. He's got two in reserve still. He doesn't quite know what he'll need to make it in Iacon, but what's in the trunk is a good place to start.
Merchants have the easiest time traveling from city to city and sector to sector. Barter is the best choice for the journey. No one ever really questions a merchant, especially one who likes to grease the cogs of society with a few slippery creds. Loosens tight-afted bots right up, they do.
“What the frag is takin' so long?” one of the femmes behind Barter whispers, a rev of her engine giving proof to her agitation.
“Shifter said they were looking for someone. A gladiator who might be trying to flee Slaughter City,” one of the mechs answers.
Barter goes very, very still and dials up his audials. Unashamedly listening in, even as his optics watch the front of the line carefully, where the mechs standing to either side of the entrance ramp are scrutinizing each ID with the sort of intensity usually reserved for entry into the Towers.
“A gladiator?” another bot asks. “Who the frag cares about those slag piles waiting to rust?”
“This one apparently slagged his promoter and the bot was connected.”
The femme snorts, an entirely inelegant sound of gears grinding together. “So? Since when has anyone cared about promoters either?”
“Calumny had friends in high places.” The mech's voice drops low, low enough that Barter has to partition of some of his attention to actually pick up his words. “Word underground is that he was one of Windshear's pets.”
Something cold flitters in Barter's spark.
Windshear? As in the very same mech who whispers into the audials of Contrail, a mech of standing in the High Council?
“Fool!” the first mech barks. “What would Windshear have to do with a grounder?”
The femme in front of Barter gains admittance onto the shuttle, leaving Barter to scramble to hand over his ident chip to the impatiently waiting guards to either side of the ramp. One of them glares at him, and Barter feels the icy-prickle of a scan as it pours him over from the top of his flat brown helm to the boxy tip of his brown pedes. The other shoves Barter's chip into the portable database.
“Designation: Barter. Residence: Altihex.” The guard pauses, wide violet optics flicking to Barter. “Long way from home, merchant. What's in the case?”
Barter curls his lipplates into something like a smile, the one he always uses when he's trying to pitch a sale. “Jes a lil trade I worked out wit a buddy 'o mine. Plenty of spare parts ta go 'round here in Slaughter City, ya?”
Mech on the left grunts. “Something like that.” His optics rake over Barter dismissively once again. “Not been in business long, have you?”
Barter presses a palm to his chestplate. “Did mah honesty give meh away?”
The mech on the right chortles but reached out with a blunt digit, poking Barter's bare shoulder. “No dealer's mark, ya?” he retorts smartly. “Might want to fix that.” His free servo shoves Barter's ident chip back at him. “Get on the shuttle.”
Relief cascades through Barter's systems, unwinding cables drawn tight with tension. He executes an elaborate bow, clamping digits around the handle of his trunk as he does so.
“I'll keep that in mind fer the future. Thanks, mah mechs. And remember! Timetable!”
He hurries onto the shuttle before they can swat him, and the mech on the left looks like he wants to do. Barter’s trunk slaps against the back of his legs with loud, obnoxious clanks as he heads in. He won't be making any friends on this transport, but Barter doesn't need friends. He needs people to forget they ever saw his faceplate or tasted his energy field.
He needs to disappear. Disappear just like Razorwire did. Razorwire who apparently is wanted for questioning and possibly murder
He really fragged that one up. Still, he'd do it again in a sparkbeat. Calumny deserved to die, and no death had ever felt as sweet as Calumny's last spark whirl on his razor-sharp claws.
o0o0o
“Sure ya can do it?”
Slipstrike's lipplates curl into a wide smirk. “Like taking energon crackles from a sparkling. The security's a joke.”
His contact's smile is equally smarmy as he takes back the data chip, and it disappears into subspace.
“For somethin' so easy, ya charge a ridiculous rate.”
Leaning back against the metal wall, feeling the heat of the forge beyond it, Slipstrike crosses his arms over his chestplate. He tilts his helm in a way he knows is both intriguing and intimidating.
“Your boss asked for the best. He got the best. He pays for the best. Or--” He pauses and gives a grin for effect. “Or, I could walk away now, you don't get the files he needs, and your boss spends the rest of his lifespan in whatever serves as prison for bright, shiny Iacon. Personally, I'd rather go to the smelter.”
Something in his contact's energy field betrays his tension.
“I didn't say I was rescindin' the deal.”
“Good.” Slipstrike pushes himself off the wall, rolling his shoulders to ease out kinks in his lines. “Then your boss can pick up his merchandise in two orn. Same cycle. Same location. I'll take half my payment now, if you don't mind.” He holds out a servo, digits wiggling expectantly.
His contact eyes him warily. “What's to stop you from runnin' away with the creds and the files?”
Slipstrike's curls his faceplate into a sly grin. Really, they make it too easy.
“What's to stop me from shooting you through the spark and taking it all right now?”
The mech takes a noticeable step backward, only to draw himself up straighter. He flicks his wrist, pulling a cred chip out of his subspace.
“Fine,” he says grudgingly. “Take your payment.”
Slipstrike easily catches the chip flicked in his direction. “Pleasure doing business,” he replies, tucking it away. He lifts two digits, gesturing away from his forehead and just above his white optics. “See you in two orn.”
He turns, sliding out of the alley with nary an audible place, slipping into the shadows with such ease it's like he almost vanishes. He hears his contact curse behind him, muttering about arrogant thieves. Ha. If only the mech knew.
o0o0o
It's not just about the paint and the kibble and changing his designation. Becoming something else, someone else, is more than just altering his appearance. He has to change everything. His vocalizations. His accents. The sound his engine makes. The way he carries himself, the gestures he makes, the way he smiles.
Color and design paint a picture, but acting the part makes it real. Makes whoever he is that much more legitimate. He has to be so good that he can meet the same mech as two different designations, and they wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He has to be able to fool system scanners, ident logs, and general society's perception of the various mecha involved in orn to orn life.
He has to be flexible, spontaneous, and most of all, indistinguishable from every regular bot.
He has to be every mech and no mech. Invisible and obvious. The smarmy merchant. The arrogant racer. The confident thief. The bloodthirsty gladiator. The uneasy mechanic. The bot-of-all-trades. But most of all, he has to be Jazz, the compilation of them all.
o0o0o
The moment the Enforcer steps into the building, Jazz senses a tension begin to build, tension where they had been nothing but ease and good cheer. He's hyperaware of the Enforcer's presence, though he knows that Jazz is the least morally ambiguous of his creations. Jazz is the good bot. The one who obeys all the rules, resigns himself to a boring life of archival research, and it's all good.
Okay, so maybe he's snuck off to a couple of gladiatorial fights in the dark cycles of an orn. But who hasn't?
Too aware of the Enforcer's presence, Jazz makes haste in uploading his observations from his shift so that he can retire to his current residence . He's tired, could use a cube of energon, and his alter-ego Velocity's got a race tonight with a thousand creds just waiting for the taking.
The upload completes with a cheery ping, and Jazz casually unplugs from the console and spools his cord back into its compartment with a flick of his wrist. Time go then. He turns and comes nasal ridge to white chestplate, the prominent five-pointed symbol of the Enforcers micrometers from his lipplate.
“Slipstrike, I presume?” the Enforcer says, his tone clipped and professional.
Jazz takes a step backward, tilting his helm to look up into the mech's ocher visor. “Ya must be mistaken, mech,” he says with an easygoing smile, planting a servo on his hip. “My designation's Jazz.” He deftly tucks away the flutter of nervousness swirling around his spark.
The Enforcer looks him over from helm to pede. “I see,” he says with that same bored, business-ness like tone. “Then you wouldn't have any knowledge of the mech responsible for illegally obtaining an item from the Prime Residence?”
“Oh? Is that what had Sentinel in such a foul mood lately?” Jazz's smile broadens, and he tilts his head to the side. “I'd heard rumors. What they take? His secret stash or maybe his special case of Ultra High Grade. It must have been something of importance.”
Stupid, stupid fool. His vocalizer runs faster than his logic. In what universe is it smart to taunt an Enforcer?
“You did not answer my question.”
No humor in this one. Fraggit.
Jazz tilts his chin, putting on his most serious expression and an exaggeratedly informal speech pattern. “Why no, Officer. I do not know this Slipstrike of whom ya speak. Nor do I know anything about th' illegal activity.”
He's become so good at this, his spark doesn't even flutter at the lie.
To be fair, Jazz knows nothing about the robbery. He's a fine, upstanding citizen of Iacon. All that thieving business is Slipstrike.
The Enforcer stares at him, a frown deepset on his mouthplates. There's something unnerving about his stare, as though he can see right into Jazz's spark, pulling apart all the swirling layers to the core of him beneath.
Part of Jazz wants to squirm in discomfort. Another part of him plants a sure grin on his face, adding an innocent twinkle to his optics. No, sir. No thieves here. None at all. Nor so much as a merchant, assassin or street racer.
Finally, something in the Enforcer's rigid field unbent by a fraction. “I estimate that there is an 87% chance that you are being less than truthful.”
“Only 87?”
The Enforcer's doorwings perform a barely visible twitch. “You can expect my return in two decacycles, Cultural Investigator Jazz.”
The last is spoken with an edge of disdain, as though the Enforcer is perfectly aware that Jazz is not his only designation.
Still, he turns away with clipped, economical motions.
“Do I get a designation with that promise?” Jazz calls after the mech, unable to resist goading him a bit further.
The Enforcer pauses and half-turns, regarding Jazz with his inscrutable visor. There’s something to the way he looks at Jazz. Weighing. Measuring. But his frown doesn’t deepen further.
“I am called Prowl,” he finally says.
Jazz grins. “Be seein' ya soon, Prowler,” he drawls and turns back toward his console, ignoring the stares his fellows are casting at him.
The Enforcer leaves. And despite his lingering anxiety, Jazz smirks.
The game begins.
* * *
a/n: Jazz is such fun to write.
Next up on the Origins agenda is Mirage (and yes, Mirage will be making an appearance in Event Horizons verse, in the sequel provided a sequel is desired). After that, who knows? Is there anymech you guys really want to see? My muses are open to suggestions. *grins*
Title: Seven Lives, Many Faces
Series: Event Horizon, Origins
Universe: Transformers: Prime
Characters: Jazz (Razorwire, Barter, Slipstrike, Velocity), OCs, Prowl
Rating: M
Warnings: character death, “blood and gore”, questionable morals
Description: Jazz is a chameleon, a composition of personas, so convoluted that not even he can remember who he used to be.
Cut text and inspiration drawn from “Hurricane,” by 30 Seconds to Mars.
Calumny never has the chance to scream or call for help before Razorwire's claws sink into his chassis, punching straight through thin-metal plating and into his very core, extinguishing the dank green spark in an instant. That's what happens when a killing machine turns on its master. When a puppet cuts its own strings.
Calumny looks a bit like a puppet right now actually. His limp limbs dangle from his grimy frame, suspended on the end of Razorwire's servo. His optics are dim, but lingering sparks of electricity fizzle from torn wires.
He is, or used to be, bigger than Razorwire by a full helm. Not that it matters now.
With a shake of his servo, Calumny drops from Razorwire's claws to a discarded pile of scrap on the floor. Energon plops out of the open wound, oozing like the low-grade slag that Calumny ingested on an ornly basis.
Still, there's something altogether enticing about fresh energon staining his claws. The dull blue contrasts the black of his paint and is almost iridescent in the flickering lights. It oozes over his hands, dipping between small armor plates, getting into the tiny gears and struts that form his claws. He'll have to scrub himself good to get clean again.
Experimentally, Razorwire flicks his digits, sending spatters in all directions, splattering the walls and Calumny's greying frame. Crumpled on the floor, Calumny isn't even worth the effort of another kick.
Razorwire crouches and tilts his helm, casually dipping a single digit into the gaping hole in Calumny's chassis. Not so much as a twitch. Definitely dead. He has maybe a klik before it's too late.
It's easy enough to rifle through a mech's subspace when they're dead, though harder to do when the mech's been offline long enough for all traces of lingering energy to be gone. So Razorwire is quick about it, pulling out a datapad of access codes, a handful of creds, a sealed cube of energon, and the key to his cuffs.
Yeah. He'd killed Calumny with his servos cuffed in front of him. Calumny thought he was safe like that, as though he could keep Razorwire chained so easily.
Hah.
Calumny should have known better. He'd had Razorwire trained to be stronger than that. It's how Razorwire had been sparked. To be a killer. To sink his claws into another bot and aim for a kill. It's what he's good at.
Lips curling with disgust, Razorwire dumps the cuffs on Calumny's empty frame and takes stock of the situation. He barely has thirty creds. Enough for a ticket to Iacon maybe, but he'll need an ID chip, preferably a new ID. He can't be Razorwire the gladiator and expect to find other work. That's not the way things are run on Cybertron.
He'll need a new ID. New paint. New kibble. New everything.
He won't be Razorwire. Not anymore. Or at least, not for now. Razorwire can't imagine abandoning everything he's learned. He won't always needs his claws or his sharpened denta or the edged protrusions from his shoulders, elbows, and knee joints. But even bright, shiny Iacon has it's dark alleys and black markets.
Turning on a heel strut, Razorwire leaves Calumny's grey frame behind and slips out of the apartment he's called home for his entire, if brief, existence. He won’t fight in a gladiatorial pit ever again unless he chooses to do so.
Never again.
“Could ya hurry it up, mah mech?” Barter complains, straining to see over the helms of the bots lined in front of him. “I'm runnin' on a time table here, ya!”
There's an assortment of agreeing grumbles behind him, other mechs and femmes trying to board the shuttle and get the pit out of this city. Things were going to the smelter faster than one could count creds, and those that could afford it were fleeing for safer territories. Barter just wanted out.
Hard to do business in Slaughter City. Mechs don’t have the creds, and no one wants to trade. He needs to move to better hunting grounds before he goes broke. He isn't inclined to starving either.
“You'll wait your turn,” the attendant at the front of the line growls without looking up from his datapad. “Have your IDs ready. Thing's will move a lot smoother if you do.”
More grumbles from the crowd, but there is little anyone could do but wait. Barter digs around in subspace, producing his new ID as he waits. At his pedes, a single trunk serves as his only piece of luggage. There are parts in here, pieces of his last frame, a bucket of paint or two. Things he'll need to become Razorwire again if he wants or other accessories for other identities. He's got two in reserve still. He doesn't quite know what he'll need to make it in Iacon, but what's in the trunk is a good place to start.
Merchants have the easiest time traveling from city to city and sector to sector. Barter is the best choice for the journey. No one ever really questions a merchant, especially one who likes to grease the cogs of society with a few slippery creds. Loosens tight-afted bots right up, they do.
“What the frag is takin' so long?” one of the femmes behind Barter whispers, a rev of her engine giving proof to her agitation.
“Shifter said they were looking for someone. A gladiator who might be trying to flee Slaughter City,” one of the mechs answers.
Barter goes very, very still and dials up his audials. Unashamedly listening in, even as his optics watch the front of the line carefully, where the mechs standing to either side of the entrance ramp are scrutinizing each ID with the sort of intensity usually reserved for entry into the Towers.
“A gladiator?” another bot asks. “Who the frag cares about those slag piles waiting to rust?”
“This one apparently slagged his promoter and the bot was connected.”
The femme snorts, an entirely inelegant sound of gears grinding together. “So? Since when has anyone cared about promoters either?”
“Calumny had friends in high places.” The mech's voice drops low, low enough that Barter has to partition of some of his attention to actually pick up his words. “Word underground is that he was one of Windshear's pets.”
Something cold flitters in Barter's spark.
Windshear? As in the very same mech who whispers into the audials of Contrail, a mech of standing in the High Council?
“Fool!” the first mech barks. “What would Windshear have to do with a grounder?”
The femme in front of Barter gains admittance onto the shuttle, leaving Barter to scramble to hand over his ident chip to the impatiently waiting guards to either side of the ramp. One of them glares at him, and Barter feels the icy-prickle of a scan as it pours him over from the top of his flat brown helm to the boxy tip of his brown pedes. The other shoves Barter's chip into the portable database.
“Designation: Barter. Residence: Altihex.” The guard pauses, wide violet optics flicking to Barter. “Long way from home, merchant. What's in the case?”
Barter curls his lipplates into something like a smile, the one he always uses when he's trying to pitch a sale. “Jes a lil trade I worked out wit a buddy 'o mine. Plenty of spare parts ta go 'round here in Slaughter City, ya?”
Mech on the left grunts. “Something like that.” His optics rake over Barter dismissively once again. “Not been in business long, have you?”
Barter presses a palm to his chestplate. “Did mah honesty give meh away?”
The mech on the right chortles but reached out with a blunt digit, poking Barter's bare shoulder. “No dealer's mark, ya?” he retorts smartly. “Might want to fix that.” His free servo shoves Barter's ident chip back at him. “Get on the shuttle.”
Relief cascades through Barter's systems, unwinding cables drawn tight with tension. He executes an elaborate bow, clamping digits around the handle of his trunk as he does so.
“I'll keep that in mind fer the future. Thanks, mah mechs. And remember! Timetable!”
He hurries onto the shuttle before they can swat him, and the mech on the left looks like he wants to do. Barter’s trunk slaps against the back of his legs with loud, obnoxious clanks as he heads in. He won't be making any friends on this transport, but Barter doesn't need friends. He needs people to forget they ever saw his faceplate or tasted his energy field.
He needs to disappear. Disappear just like Razorwire did. Razorwire who apparently is wanted for questioning and possibly murder
He really fragged that one up. Still, he'd do it again in a sparkbeat. Calumny deserved to die, and no death had ever felt as sweet as Calumny's last spark whirl on his razor-sharp claws.
“Sure ya can do it?”
Slipstrike's lipplates curl into a wide smirk. “Like taking energon crackles from a sparkling. The security's a joke.”
His contact's smile is equally smarmy as he takes back the data chip, and it disappears into subspace.
“For somethin' so easy, ya charge a ridiculous rate.”
Leaning back against the metal wall, feeling the heat of the forge beyond it, Slipstrike crosses his arms over his chestplate. He tilts his helm in a way he knows is both intriguing and intimidating.
“Your boss asked for the best. He got the best. He pays for the best. Or--” He pauses and gives a grin for effect. “Or, I could walk away now, you don't get the files he needs, and your boss spends the rest of his lifespan in whatever serves as prison for bright, shiny Iacon. Personally, I'd rather go to the smelter.”
Something in his contact's energy field betrays his tension.
“I didn't say I was rescindin' the deal.”
“Good.” Slipstrike pushes himself off the wall, rolling his shoulders to ease out kinks in his lines. “Then your boss can pick up his merchandise in two orn. Same cycle. Same location. I'll take half my payment now, if you don't mind.” He holds out a servo, digits wiggling expectantly.
His contact eyes him warily. “What's to stop you from runnin' away with the creds and the files?”
Slipstrike's curls his faceplate into a sly grin. Really, they make it too easy.
“What's to stop me from shooting you through the spark and taking it all right now?”
The mech takes a noticeable step backward, only to draw himself up straighter. He flicks his wrist, pulling a cred chip out of his subspace.
“Fine,” he says grudgingly. “Take your payment.”
Slipstrike easily catches the chip flicked in his direction. “Pleasure doing business,” he replies, tucking it away. He lifts two digits, gesturing away from his forehead and just above his white optics. “See you in two orn.”
He turns, sliding out of the alley with nary an audible place, slipping into the shadows with such ease it's like he almost vanishes. He hears his contact curse behind him, muttering about arrogant thieves. Ha. If only the mech knew.
It's not just about the paint and the kibble and changing his designation. Becoming something else, someone else, is more than just altering his appearance. He has to change everything. His vocalizations. His accents. The sound his engine makes. The way he carries himself, the gestures he makes, the way he smiles.
Color and design paint a picture, but acting the part makes it real. Makes whoever he is that much more legitimate. He has to be so good that he can meet the same mech as two different designations, and they wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He has to be able to fool system scanners, ident logs, and general society's perception of the various mecha involved in orn to orn life.
He has to be flexible, spontaneous, and most of all, indistinguishable from every regular bot.
He has to be every mech and no mech. Invisible and obvious. The smarmy merchant. The arrogant racer. The confident thief. The bloodthirsty gladiator. The uneasy mechanic. The bot-of-all-trades. But most of all, he has to be Jazz, the compilation of them all.
The moment the Enforcer steps into the building, Jazz senses a tension begin to build, tension where they had been nothing but ease and good cheer. He's hyperaware of the Enforcer's presence, though he knows that Jazz is the least morally ambiguous of his creations. Jazz is the good bot. The one who obeys all the rules, resigns himself to a boring life of archival research, and it's all good.
Okay, so maybe he's snuck off to a couple of gladiatorial fights in the dark cycles of an orn. But who hasn't?
Too aware of the Enforcer's presence, Jazz makes haste in uploading his observations from his shift so that he can retire to his current residence . He's tired, could use a cube of energon, and his alter-ego Velocity's got a race tonight with a thousand creds just waiting for the taking.
The upload completes with a cheery ping, and Jazz casually unplugs from the console and spools his cord back into its compartment with a flick of his wrist. Time go then. He turns and comes nasal ridge to white chestplate, the prominent five-pointed symbol of the Enforcers micrometers from his lipplate.
“Slipstrike, I presume?” the Enforcer says, his tone clipped and professional.
Jazz takes a step backward, tilting his helm to look up into the mech's ocher visor. “Ya must be mistaken, mech,” he says with an easygoing smile, planting a servo on his hip. “My designation's Jazz.” He deftly tucks away the flutter of nervousness swirling around his spark.
The Enforcer looks him over from helm to pede. “I see,” he says with that same bored, business-ness like tone. “Then you wouldn't have any knowledge of the mech responsible for illegally obtaining an item from the Prime Residence?”
“Oh? Is that what had Sentinel in such a foul mood lately?” Jazz's smile broadens, and he tilts his head to the side. “I'd heard rumors. What they take? His secret stash or maybe his special case of Ultra High Grade. It must have been something of importance.”
Stupid, stupid fool. His vocalizer runs faster than his logic. In what universe is it smart to taunt an Enforcer?
“You did not answer my question.”
No humor in this one. Fraggit.
Jazz tilts his chin, putting on his most serious expression and an exaggeratedly informal speech pattern. “Why no, Officer. I do not know this Slipstrike of whom ya speak. Nor do I know anything about th' illegal activity.”
He's become so good at this, his spark doesn't even flutter at the lie.
To be fair, Jazz knows nothing about the robbery. He's a fine, upstanding citizen of Iacon. All that thieving business is Slipstrike.
The Enforcer stares at him, a frown deepset on his mouthplates. There's something unnerving about his stare, as though he can see right into Jazz's spark, pulling apart all the swirling layers to the core of him beneath.
Part of Jazz wants to squirm in discomfort. Another part of him plants a sure grin on his face, adding an innocent twinkle to his optics. No, sir. No thieves here. None at all. Nor so much as a merchant, assassin or street racer.
Finally, something in the Enforcer's rigid field unbent by a fraction. “I estimate that there is an 87% chance that you are being less than truthful.”
“Only 87?”
The Enforcer's doorwings perform a barely visible twitch. “You can expect my return in two decacycles, Cultural Investigator Jazz.”
The last is spoken with an edge of disdain, as though the Enforcer is perfectly aware that Jazz is not his only designation.
Still, he turns away with clipped, economical motions.
“Do I get a designation with that promise?” Jazz calls after the mech, unable to resist goading him a bit further.
The Enforcer pauses and half-turns, regarding Jazz with his inscrutable visor. There’s something to the way he looks at Jazz. Weighing. Measuring. But his frown doesn’t deepen further.
“I am called Prowl,” he finally says.
Jazz grins. “Be seein' ya soon, Prowler,” he drawls and turns back toward his console, ignoring the stares his fellows are casting at him.
The Enforcer leaves. And despite his lingering anxiety, Jazz smirks.
The game begins.
a/n: Jazz is such fun to write.
Next up on the Origins agenda is Mirage (and yes, Mirage will be making an appearance in Event Horizons verse, in the sequel provided a sequel is desired). After that, who knows? Is there anymech you guys really want to see? My muses are open to suggestions. *grins*
