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Chapter Text

Begin Arc I: Polyhex

When the comm call comes in, Jazz is working his current identity’s lightcycle construction job, hanging off a skyscraper in the financial district repairing dust storm damage. 

Jazz should decline the call. Ruse deals in knockoff brand-name goods–cheap stuff, the kind bigger gangs overlook because the profit margin’s razor thin–plus he’s slagging unreliable about paying for anything, and the crew he runs are a nasty bunch (even by Jazz’s low, low standards). 

Odds are, Ruse won’t have any work worth Meister’s time and trouble–except that Jazz’s little side-gig has been slow lately, and Jazz is bored. Construction work may be his cover, but without the extra spice of being shot at on foreign planets, it doesn’t pay his bills or keep him entertained. So Jazz, on a whim, lets the comm connect.

“State your offer,” Jazz says, using Meister’s settings–the dark, smooth tone with a hint of vibrato that only a top-quality vocalizer can produce. It’d been one of the first upgrades Jazz bought himself, all the way back when he was still employed by the Primacy (and there was still a living Prime to employ him). Construction workers, even top-quality military special orders like Jazz, come equipped with scrap-metal vocalizers–scratchy, raspy, and prone to random bursts of static. Singing? Only if Jazz wanted to pain his own audials. His original vocalizer’s range was so limited he couldn’t hit half the notes anyway. 

It took building three asteroid monitoring stations, one planetside base in the Onari System, and a lot of overtime repairing satellites before Jazz could put aside enough pay to afford his current vocalizer, and he’d waited to have the work done until he could see a specialist back on Cybertron. When Jazz heard himself sing that first beautifully clear, pure note, his spark spun with joy till he thought it might burst straight out of his chassis and unite with the Allspark. Jazz kept his old janky vocalizer settings for his cover identity, but his real voice belongs to Meister. 

“Have I got a job for you, Meister!” gushes Ruse. “Got my hands on something real incredible, absolutely unbelievable!” Ruse’s problem is that he never stops sounding like he’s selling something. “Won’t be hard for you to find a buyer!”

Jazz waits patiently, playing with the powerful electromagnets in his frame that are keeping him from falling to his deactivation. It’s never a good sign when the client won't tell you the details before they try to convince you to take their job. 

“I think we’ll both make quite a good profit on this, a handsome profit indeed! So how about a 3% commission?”

“No,” Jazz replies. Always reject the first offer, even if it’s reasonable. “What’s the item?”

Ruse laughs, high and nervous (Jazz has a keen audial for subharmonics). “A brand-new tactical computer mod.”

Jazz almost falls off the skyscraper in shock. An inbuilt tactical computer? Those are Class A restricted mods: illegal to develop, produce, or sell by any private company or mechanism, and illegal to possess without government registration. There are maybe a dozen in existence, all inside the helms of military strategists and planetary security tacticians whose designations stay on a High Council watchlist (with full-cycle frame guards and travel restrictions!) until they deactivate or have the mod removed. A tactical computer is absolutely, completely impossible to buy for any amount of credits, even in the underground mod market. How did Ruse, of all mecha, get his servos on one?

“I’ll need to confirm it’s genuine,” Jazz says in Meister’s nondescript Iaconian dialect (carefully rehearsed to eliminate every trace of his own native Outer Belt accent). “We can negotiate my commission once I’ve seen the item and I’m satisfied it’s real.”

After arranging a meeting place and time, Jazz hangs up. Squishes his face against the skyscraper glass with his limbs starfished out. The traffic below makes a nice soothing whirr. “Frag me sideways an’ slag me upside down, I’m gonna get myself snuffed.” Not that the danger’ll stop Jazz from doing it. This is the most interesting thing to happen to him in at least ten vorn.

Jazz finishes out his shift, comms his on-and-off darkcycle gig (live music performance at a bar) so they know he won’t be available, and makes his way to Meister’s bolthole–a storage unit rented under a throwaway identity, full of questionably legal equipment–moving through a confusing, meandering route designed to throw off surveillance. Without hesitation, Jazz clears out the entire unit, shoving all his equipment into his subspace. Jazz follows his instincts, and his instincts are screaming that Jazz needs to be ready to run. 

Jazz’s lightcycle identity, like most working class bots in Polyhex, can’t afford a permanent hab. Bots who want something longer-term pool their credits and cram a dozen mecha in a space like an energon cube, but Jazz prefers renting a berth by the joor–easier that way to leave no traces (berth capsules don’t ask for ID, just credits, and this isn’t the first time Jazz’s needed a speedy exit). That saves Jazz an extra stop, but he does drop by a couple of shops where he can stock up on the essentials (energon, spools of wire, cables and other helpful bits, plus some chemicals that can be bought legally and combined in less-than-legal ways).

Jazz burns his remaining free time just wandering through the city, dodging cameras and laying a trail so convoluted it would be nearly impossible to follow him and link his two identities (not that either of them are real–Jazz hasn’t been Jazz since he landed back on Cybertron–but he’d rather not burn his clean lightcycle identity unless he has to). Just before Jazz heads to his meeting with Ruse, he steps into a long alley without cameras on either end, ducks into a nook blocked from sight, and transforms.

The chromatophores covering Jazz’s plating darken to the color of shadow. His parastructure, the non-essential outer armor and bits related to his alt-mode, flows through a series of microtransformations that alter his recognizable outline from stocky construction frame into something sharper and sleeker. Jazz reaches into his subspace, retrieves his visor, and clicks the optical band into its mounts. It flickers to life after running diagnostics, casting a golden glow across the alley.

Jazz grins, and starts manually stashing equipment and weapons into the hidden compartments built into his struts and plating. Security mecha always remember to search a bot’s subspace, but don’t always bother with a physical search (Jazz’s got so many pockets built in that only a truly security-obsessed mechanism would find them all anyway).

None of these mods are original to Jazz’s frame specs–well technically Jazz was built with a visor for welding and low-level magnification, but his current visor is an upgraded model with every extra filter he could throw in (Jazz can see so many kinds of radiation now! He can see the craters on Cybertron’s moons when he’s standing on the planet’s surface!). Most of Jazz’s profits from his side-gig as a hacker/data scraper/forger/information broker have gone into funding those mods, but they’re worth every credit, saving his plating on more than one misadventure.

Jazz steps out into the alley as Meister, gait confident and frame language tweaked just enough to distinguish himself from his lightcycle identity, then scuttles straight up the nearest building wall. 

The citystate of Polyhex is sunk into a three-pronged valley surrounded by spires and plateaus. Once its residents ran out of flat ground, their only choice was to build up, and the Polyhexians have been turning their city into a vertical labyrinth ever since, layer upon layer of overpasses, skyways, balconies and elevated plazas. In Polyhex, the best, most direct routes don’t need wheels. The Sideways Roads are open to anybot as long as they’re willing to take a brisk climb–assuming, of course, they have no fear of heights and a good grappler as backup if they crash through shoddy construction work (Jazz has both; frame-original even!).

Before Jazz makes the last descent, he switches his EM field dampener on, completing his disguise. Then he free falls thirty mechanometers, swings off a balcony, and lands on his pedes, swaggering right around the corner to Ruse’s dodgy, smoke-blackened warehouse.

Ruse runs with a crew of around twenty heavies, who’re good for hefting cargo, roughing up other bots, and not much else. One of them, a yellow and green heavy loader, leads Jazz to Ruse’s office on the upper warehouse floor. It’s as dingy as the rest of Ruse’s outfit, lined with packing crates that shrink the small space even further, and no windows or easy escape routes other than the door. Jazz listens to make sure the heavy loader leaves, and puts a mark in his ‘not a trap’ column after he hears the bot go back downstairs.

Ruse is seated behind his desk. He’s a gyroframe like Jazz, a three-wheeler instead of a four-wheeler, and Jazz has maybe a mechanoton (ton and a half? whatever) of weight over him. He’s gotten his plating color reprogrammed since Jazz last saw him–still neon (why always neon?).

Polyhexians, accustomed to public spaces that pack them together like cubes in a crate, keep their fields flattened close to their plating. When Ruse reaches out with his field in the Polyhexian greeting, Jazz temporarily turns down his field dampener and extends his own field so they brush politely together. Ugh, Ruse’s field feels slimy, like touching the slugs on Raya IV–but not the nastiest field Jazz’s ever tasted, so Meister keeps his expressionless attitude.

“The item?” Jazz demands, not even bothering to sit down.

Ruse flashes his salesmecha’s smile. “That’s what I like about you, Meister! Always right down to business–you’re a bot who respects your clients’ time!”

Jazz stares him down. “I respect everyone’s time,” he drawls. “Tradesmecha Ruse, I hope you’re not wasting mine.”

The implied threat finally gets Ruse up on his pedes. He waves his servos as he comes around his desk. “No, no, of course not–I’d never lie to you, Meister! I’ll show you the real genuine article right now!” 

Ruse gestures toward a packing case Jazz had noted when he’d come in, but dismissed as too large to hold the tactical computer. Evidently, Jazz was wrong. The case comes up to Jazz’s hip joint, and spans close to an entire wall of the cramped office–Jazz could crawl inside and defrag there, real easy, he’s lived in tighter quarters during space voyages–and if Jazz isn’t mistaken, the case is made out of reinforced, ballistic-resistant polymer, the kind live ammunition gets shipped in. Actually, that’s exactly what the warning label slapped on the case’s lid says is inside.

“Open it, please,” Jazz says. The warning label’s got him on edge, wary the case might be booby-trapped.

Ruse only grins, his field equal parts greedy and smug, and raises the lid. 

Inside the case is not a mod, or a tank shell, or anything else Jazz expected to see.

Gently nestled into plush foam padding is the frame of a living Cybertronian, his field a faint, smoky shadow in Jazz’s senses. The mechanism must be in medical stasis–he doesn’t react to light or movement, he smells of sodder, and his plating is painted helm to pede in white medical sealant. That’s only used when a frame’s self-repair is working too hard to prioritize rust prevention; the sealant temporarily takes over the job instead.

“What is this, Ruse?” Only Jazz’s field dampener and long practice keeps the shock out of his voice. He’s got a nasty suspicion and he really hopes he’s wrong.

“A tactical computer, installed in a compatible host,” replies Ruse, with a conspiratorial tap to his helm.

Primus’ blood. Buy yourself some time, Jazz. “Your proposition has gotten more complicated. How are you certain this mechanism contains a tactical computer?”

Ruse pings Jazz a datafile. “Because I have the medical records to prove it! It’s redacted, but the post-op care instructions are clear. I’ve got a brand-new battle computer, ready for shipping to the highest bidder.”

Spark sinking in his chamber, Jazz asks, “And how will you deal with the host?”

Ruse gestures grandly at the mechanism in a packing crate. “That’s the beauty of it–my battle computer has no access to his memory files! A perfect, empty puppet! You could tell him anything and he’d believe you! Cybertron’s crime lords will pay a fortune to own him–with his processing power at their servos, they’ll rule the underworld!”

To hide the lurching in his tank, Jazz looks back down at the mech in the case, quietly offline with no idea what’s about to happen to him. 

The mech’s got a lovely faceplate, all angles and sharp optical ridges, crowned by the pointiest, least polite chevron Jazz’s ever seen (swear on Prima’s spark, you could take out an optic with that thing). Unique frame idiosyncrasies like this only appear in hotspot-forged mecha–there’s a calculated symmetry and standardization to the Sanctified Designs that no amount of artistry can ever quite hide. 

That’s not necessarily a bad thing (Jazz, for one, appreciates being unremarkable in a crowd), but if you’re looking for the exaggerated and the exotic, forged mecha are the freaks you need. Most models and actors are forged, even though forged mecha are uncommon these days with so many hotspots going dark (rumors of council mismanagement run thick on the datanet, and even some accusations of intentional sabotage).

This mech is certainly pretty enough to draw optics. His frame has wide shoulders and a deep chest, narrowing down to a nip of a waist, which flares out again into strong hips and legs. His simple, minimal parastructure supports a four-wheeled gyroframe alt–one with a powerful engine, if that prominent bumper is any guide. Taken together, all those features blend seamlessly into a stark, striking appearance–one more inclined to sternness than joy, even softened and slack from stasis.

Partly, Jazz’s impression can be blamed on that unflattering white medical sealant, which masks the mech’s original color. Underneath that, interestingly, is military armor plating, the light grade meant to give crash resistance and protect against small-diameter projectile weapons, but the mech has no inbuilt weapons systems that Jazz can detect, and his blunt-tipped, slim servos suit a data worker more than a soldier. Whoever this mech is, he's a civilian. 

The mech isn’t as big as the shipping case’s size suggests, either. A beautiful pair of sensor wings lay splayed out behind him, taking up much of the space and tempting admirers to touch.

Sensor wings–a Praxian? Don’t see many of those outside Praxus, the only hotspot on Cybertron that forges sensor-winged mecha, but those wings can’t be a mod. Standard-size sensor wings require a full-frame rebuild, and this mech is clearly in his original frame. 

Plus, there are no Sanctified Designs built with sensor wings. Not because it’s beyond Cybertronian technology, but because there’s no market for them. Sensory abilities are a niche specialty, and bring as many drawbacks as advantages. Sanctified Designs always make safe choices; they’re planned for mass appeal and utility, and for good reason. If Vector Sigma rejects a new design, the wasted research and testing costs–plus the permanent public stigma–are almost guaranteed to bankrupt whichever company produced it. Nope, this mech’s pretty wing panels have to be all-natural. 

“I see you’re admiring those sensor wings!” Ruse interrupts. Jazz turns away from the case, immediately feeling dirty, but Ruse continues on. “A genuine Praxian, I assure you. That’ll add another two or three million to the price, easily. Praxians are always desirable, and so hard to acquire. They sell even better than aeroframes.”

Jazz has done a lot of shady stuff over his functioning and his modus is more crooked than straight. He’s mucked around in other mecha’s processors, and sold their secrets to the highest bidder. He’s spilled celebrities’ nasty secrets and dug up dirt on corrupt politicians without missing a beat. He’s fanned the flames as criminals turned on each other and offered up knives while corporations ripped each other apart for profit. But right there, in that dingy little warehouse office, Jazz finds The Line–the thing that he emphatically, absolutely, won’t do. Jazz is not going to sell this Praxian like a case of engex. It’s a little reassuring, to be honest, the depth of disgust Jazz feels when he thinks about treating a living spark as a thing. 

Okay, so Jazz isn’t gonna let this Praxian get sold off as a crime lord’s plaything. What is he gonna do?

“Will the High Council come looking for this mech?” Jazz asks Ruse, with a hollow hope that the answer is yes (Jazz is far from the council’s biggest fan, but he’d settle for any help right now).

“No chance of that,” Ruse replies confidently. “My buyer can have total confidence in the quality and consideration behind my products…”

Jazz tunes out the advertising spiel. Aight, so this is Meister’s solo show. He can work with that. 

Jazz takes a half-step closer to Ruse, who’s still expounding the charms of his customer service. Ruse flashes that oily salesman’s smile Jazz despises. 

Jazz smiles back, because he’s within perfect striking distance. 

Ruse doesn’t even have time to scream before Jazz’s unsheathed claws are buried in his vocalizer and comms array. If the three-wheeler has a secondary comms array, it’s no good; Jazz’s got a jamming field up blocking the signal. By the time pain and momentary shock wear off, it’s too late for Ruse to struggle–Jazz has the fragger down on his bumper, servos restrained behind his back, and Jazz is ripping open his cervical port cover. 

There’s a faint clicking from Ruse’s broken vocalizer–an attempt to scream–as Jazz hardlines in. Ruse knows Jazz’s reputation for mnemo work and he’s terrified. Jazz can taste it in the data leaching through Ruse’s subpar firewalls.

It’s wise of him to be frightened. Jazz isn’t feeling very merciful right now, not when Ruse knows the sale price of a Praxian so very well. Ruse’s processor is no more challenging to crack than kicking over a spinning top, and the data behind it floods out like sewer sludge. Jazz rides out Ruse’s last-ditch thrashing and bucking as he worms his way inside the mech’s systems and cuts his motor relays. The emotional cortex, Jazz doesn’t touch at all–let Ruse feel all his own terror as Jazz rummages through his memory files, scooping up anything related to the Praxian in that box, and any other mecha-trafficking Ruse has participated in.

Turns out that Ruse’s crew picked off a convoy heading north on the Iacon route, relieving the towbot of his trailer, which included the case carrying the Praxian. No shipping label, the case wasn’t on the cargo manifest, and except for the case’s occupant the only item inside was a datapad with the medical file. The convoy hauling the trailer might have known more, but Ruse’s crew couldn’t exactly ask questions after chasing him off, could they? Big payoff for highway banditry, yeah, but Jazz comes out with no additional clues on how a Praxian came to host a tactical computer, and then ended up in this box. 

Pressed for time, Jazz wipes all Ruse’s memories involving Meister or the Praxian (sloppy, but there’s too many gaps to run effective information control; best Jazz can do is to confuse the situation and slow down Ruse), then forces Ruse into medical shutdown, and disconnects. 

Killing Ruse might save Jazz some short-term trouble, but killing without cause ain’t Jazz’s modus. Plus, killing brings down the Enforcers, and no slagging way does Jazz want that level of trouble. Frankly, Jazz hopes he never meets one. Enforcers never quit, they’re highly trained, and there’s no way to outrun them because their authority to investigate crimes against Primus covers all of Cybertron. Jazz has heard of Enforcers who’ll spend a hundred vorns chasing down a single target. All-around, it’s just easier to steer clear of the handful of offenses that attract their attention–which, now that Jazz thinks about it, is kinda an effective deterrent. 

Jazz drags Ruse’s frame behind the desk, hiding him so anyone casually sticking their helm through the doorway won’t see anything suspicious (those couple extra nanokliks can make all the difference), While he’s arranging Ruse’s frame, Jazz ‘accidentally’ lets the mecha’s helm smack into the desk leg. Whoops.

Back to the more important problem: how is Jazz going to get himself and an unconscious Praxian out of here alive? 

Bringing the Praxian out of medical stasis is an absolute nope; Jazz doesn’t have time for explanations. Jazz will have to carry the bot out of here as cargo. Resulting problem: the Praxian can’t hold onto Jazz, and they’re both of roughly even size; Jazz needs to climb and run if they’re both going to escape. 

Jazz roots through the office, and comes up triumphantly with a handful of tie-down cables. With a silent apology to the Praxian, Jazz scoops him out of his crate–holy Primus this mech is light! Jazz hefts him a couple times. As a construction model, Jazz is way stronger than almost any other mecha his size, but this is ridiculous. Are Praxians hollow? Jazz is baffled, but grateful for this lucky break. 

The Praxian is slightly taller than Jazz, and with some maneuvering, Jazz drapes the Praxian’s frame over his back, with his servos and pedes lashed together around Jazz’s waist so the mech doesn’t fall off. The Praxian’s helm is hanging over Jazz’s shoulder (Important self-reminder: do not turn his helm too fast, or he’ll jab himself on that pointy chevron.

Jazz ain’t in the habit of getting this close to other mecha, and the sensation is a little strange. The mist-soft tickle of the Praxian’s field makes it impossible to pretend the bot is just a package. Jazz’s passenger is comfortably warm, and the quiet purr of his systems vibrate in Jazz’s own circuits. Jazz stretches, checking his mobility and new weight distribution. Pretty good, actually. 

Time to scoot. Jazz eases open the office door, checks that nomech’s watching, and darts out along the second-floor catwalk. 

Jazz scraped the warehouse floor plan from Ruse’s processor (along with details on Ruse’s crew, associates and contacts, and plenty of blackmail material), so he knows that all the warehouse windows are boarded up, and there are only two exits: one double-door cargo loading dock, which Jazz came in through, and a smaller, emergency exit in the back. Jazz heads toward the emergency exit–more lightly guarded, and not expecting any visitors. 

Rather than take the stairs, he follows the catwalk as far back as it goes, then uses his claws and magnets to scale down the wall, carrying the Praxian’s frame (Jazz has got to come up with something better to call him than ‘the Praxian’). Ruse’s crew aren’t a neat bunch, and questionably-legal goods are scattered around the warehouse floor in piles that Jazz uses as cover to creep toward his goal. Jazz’s luck runs out when he reaches the door itself. Not only are two big heavies guarding the door, Jazz’s run out of cover and the last stretch is totally unprotected.

Time for some big lies. 

Jazz steps out into the open, staggering and bent double like he can hardly stay upright underneath the Praxian’s weight. “Hey, are you Upswing?” Jazz calls out, waving at the guards, knowing slagging well that neither of them are Upswing. 

The biggest guard shouts back, “Upswing’s defragging, you crankcase! He ain’t here! Do I look like Upswing to you?”

Bait taken; Jazz suppresses a delighted wiggle. He loves this part. “I don’t care who you are, help me with this slagging thing!”

The other guard, apparently more polite than his bigger buddy, actually does come over and steadies Jazz by his shoulder. “Thanks, you’re a pal,” Jazz tells him, pretending to straighten and walk more easily, making his way closer to the exit step by step. “If Upswing’s defragging I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He was supposed to meet me here.”

The bigger guard stomps the ground. “Hey, that’s the boss’s Praxian!”  

Jazz tips his helm back to see him. “Of course it is, I just bought him. He’s my Praxian now, and Upswing is supposed to deliver him to my hab.” Here, Jazz is grateful for Ruse’s greed; Ruse kept knowledge of the tactical computer to himself, hoping to swallow all the profits.

The other guard frowns. “Must be a mistake. Let me comm the boss.”

“Sure,” Jazz agrees, and jabs a shock baton into the biggest guard’s hip joint. The bot goes down like a collapsing tower, the excess electricity shorting out his relays. Jazz vaults atop his groaning frame and uses it as a springboard to throw himself toward the emergency exit, tossing a flash grenade behind him. The smaller guard makes a grab for him, but Jazz–even carrying a whole mech–is too slippery. Jazz turns his audials off and darkens his visor just as his flash grenade goes off; he checks his tail–both guards are down–then punches in the door code and launches himself into the street going full tilt. 

Jazz is halfway up a building when the first gunshot chips concrete dangerously close to his servo. Jazz keeps his helm down, scrabbles up faster, and prays the Circular Mantra that none of those shots will hit the mech strapped to his back (it’ll be fine. The Praxian’s got thicker armor than Jazz, for Primussake. A stray bullet won’t deactivate him). 

Another bullet throws sparks near Jazz’s helm. Jazz prays harder.

He climbs and jumps and runs until he can’t hear gunfire or shouting anymore, and only stops running when he’s two districts over, snugged up underneath a flashing holo advert display, crouched on a barcode-sized square of roof.

Jazz circulates coolant till the hair-trigger twitch in his combat subroutines stops catching. Okay, that was both awesome and terrifying. Jazz wants to do it again sometime without carrying another frame his own size–wait, he should really untie his passenger and wake them up, oops.

Loosening the cables binding them together, Jazz rolls the Praxian off his back, trying to find a clean spot to lay the mech down, but the roof’s too slagging teeny. Jazz compromises, bracing the Praxian in a sitting position against the concrete railing, careful to leave the mech’s sensor wings unsquashed. The holo display’s lights flicker and fall across the Praxian’s angular faceplate, casting bright color across his white plating–red, blue, energon-pink, looping as the ad repeats. 

After the third loop, Jazz reminds himself not to be a weirdo, scooping up the Praxian’s right servo and jacking into the wrist port to initiate a full reboot.

And then he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more–this mech has got to own the longest boot sequence on Cybertron! It’s been breems! 

Jazz, who can boot (messily) in less than two nanoclicks when the need strikes him, squats down and props his cheeks on his fists to stare. That is, naturally, the exact moment the Praxian’s systems initialize in a near-silent whirr and his biolights flick on.

The mech’s optic lenses are a bright, crystalline blue, like the thin outer crust of a high-oxygen atmosphere, or the reflection of starlight off water-ice planetary rings. Those blue, blue optical apertures narrow and focus in on Jazz, observing Jazz in return: calm, keen-edged and flawlessly composed.

The Praxian runs eerie-quiet; Jazz can barely hear the sounds of the mech’s pumps and fans underneath the background city noise (and Jazz’s paid good credits to boost his audial sensitivity–there’s no greater pleasure than experiencing his favorite music in rich hi-def quality). 

Unlike his frame systems, the Praxian’s field unfolds bold and inquisitive, expanding across the rooftop in even, clear ripples as the mech feels out his environment. Jazz remembers he’s got Meister’s field dampener cranked up, and probably feels like a void in the Praxian’s senses right now. Hurriedly, Jazz shuts the mod off, projecting friendly and no harm intended where their fields touch. When the Praxian shows no signs of withdrawing (seems Praxians don’t hold to Polyhexian field etiquette), Jazz allows his own field to escape his tight hold and intermingle with the Praxian’s. 

Then the Praxian’s thin lips part, and a clean tenor voice comes out. “Criminal activity or natural disaster?”

“Mmmehh?” Jazz replies, one servo dropping away from his cheek.

Fine motor relays cycle and refocus the Praxian’s optics; his faceplate stays blank, and his frame language remains utterly poised. “My system logs indicate I have recently undergone the installation of a tactical computer. That procedure requires major processor surgery and full-frame adjustments to sensory, cooling, and motor systems that can only legally be performed by an experienced specialty-trained medic in a secured government medical facility. I am not in a qualified medical facility receiving postoperative care. Instead, I am–” 

The Praxian surveys their hidey-hole. “On a roof in Polyhex, accompanied by a mechanism not marked with medic symbols or identification tags. Only three potential explanations of statistical substance account for this. Either the medical facility where I underwent the procedure encountered a natural disaster and I was evacuated, I was forcibly removed from the facility with illegal intent, or the procedure was not performed legally and I am hosting a stolen Class A restricted mod.”

Well that sure is a lot of implications! Jazz rocks back on his pedes. “Pretty certain there’s something illegal going on here–I found your frame in a box about to be sold on the black market. You really have no memory access at all?”

The Praxian shakes his helm, optics unfocusing while he checks. “Correct. Neither short-term cached memory nor archived files.”

That’s the first piece of good news Jazz’s heard; he’s a dab servo at mnemo work. “I can give fixing it a go. Are the files partitioned off? Fragmented?”

“Neither,” the Praxian replies. “The tactical computer changed how I process data through my emotional cortex. The new file format is incompatible with my stored memory data. I will need to build or acquire a conversion program before I may access older memories.”

Yikes. If Jazz screws that up, it could corrupt the bot’s memory files and leave them irretrievable. Jazz tags it ‘not my problem’ and pushes it aside. “Okay, we’re not dealing with that right now–wait, how’d you know we’re in Polyhex?”

The Praxian regards Jazz like he’s said something particularly stupid. “My GPS functions perfectly, as do my processing algorithms and other frame systems. I also retain access to my databases, although the tags and metadata were wiped. They may hold other clues, but I will require time to analyze them.”

Yeah, no. Jazz’s role in this drama is about played out; time to exit stage left. “I’ll take you to the nearest city patrol station and they’ll getcha back wherever you came from.”

The Praxian makes his first real facial expression–a deep frown. “That would not be the wisest course of action.”

Jazz experiences a sense of impending doom. “Why’s that?”

“How I acquired the tactical computer is unknown. If it was through illegal means, I will be arrested if I turn myself in. You may also be arrested as a perpetrator or accomplice.”

Frag. Jazz wanted some excitement and this is his punishment for making such a stupid wish. “I didn’t steal you!” Jazz insists on reflex–rethinks, adds, “I mean, I did steal you but only after you’d already been stolen. Twice.”

“Please elaborate,” requests the Praxian, paying rapt attention while Jazz explains how his night-cycle has gone so far. He thanks Jazz politely when he passes over some of the files he’d scraped from Ruse. 

The Praxian’s gaze turns inward, unfocused and distant while he processes the materials, which allows Jazz to study (bother) the mech at his leisure. When the Praxian’s like this, he’s got zero outside awareness at all, Jazz confirms when waving a servo in front of the Praxian’s faceplate earns no response. 

Doesn’t this bot have any survival skills at all? It’s starting to make sense why he ended up stuck in a box about to be sold as a walking talking computer. He’s going to get himself deactivated, or worse if he’s not careful. Is Jazz really going to turn this bot loose and let him wander back into the servos of someone dangerous?

Yes, actually, he is. Jazz has already done his good deed for the cycle, he’s getting out while the gettin’s good. Now he just has to convince himself of that.

“I must go to Praxus,” the Praxian (haha) announces, jerking upright into the most rigid, uncomfortable posture Jazz’s seen since that one time his ex-boss sat on an electrified wire coil (no fault of Jazz’s, of course). 

Jazz, who’d startled, launched himself straight into the air, and drawn a knife in the same nanoklik, laughs nervously, stowing his knife, and squats back down on the rooftop. “Praxus? Hard place to get into. You sure you need to go there?”

The Praxian nods, optics glowing brightly. “The convoy transporting me followed Inter-Citystate 13 North. Before reaching Polyhex, the ICS 13-N passes through several city-states, most notably Praxus. Less than 2% of all Praxians reside outside their citystate of origin. It is probable I was abducted there and investigating within Praxus could yield information regarding the tactical computer in my helm.”

Jazz opens his intake, intending to say something like, “Prime’s luck to you!” or maybe, “I hope you figure out what happened to you.” Cause this? 100% ain’t Jazz’s business. 

Jazz looks at the Praxian, whose wing panels are perked up high, all excited about having a plan despite his missing memory files and slag situational awareness, and what comes out of Jazz’s intake is, “We need to get you a paint job. You can’t drive around in medical white.”

This isn’t Jazz getting involved, he tells himself. He’s just helping the Praxian along a little. Setting him up for success. He’s got enough credits; think of it like a donation. He’ll help the bot out of Polyhex and go back to his usual haunts.

The Praxian (who needs a designation) looks troubled. “I cannot stand. My frame’s weight distribution has been altered and my movement algorithms need recalibration.”

“I got this,” Jazz says, and slings the Praxian over his shoulder, easy-peasy, before giving the bot’s frame a pat, vaulting over the railing and running along the sill with his magnets engaged. “Why are you so easy to carry, anyway?”

“Many of my interior components are fabricated from lightweight alloys or carbon fiber,” the Praxian answers calmly, despite dangling above a sheer drop. “Also, a significant percentage of my new frame is devoted to my cooling systems. My tactical computer generates a high volume of heat.”

“Neat,” Jazz replies, leaping from one roof to the next. “You know your designation, or nah?”

“I do not,” the Praxian tells him. “I will require a temporary replacement.”

Jazz vibrates with excitement as he slides down a drainpipe. “Got any preferences?”

“The datanet does not offer many precedents for my situation. I have located an appropriate parallel. The mythological figure ‘Danae’ was also discovered after being shut in a box.”

Tsking, Jazz shifts the Praxian so they’re front-to front. “No way, an old-timey designation like that means everybot you meet will remember it.”

The Praxian curls into Jazz’s chassis. “I see your point. Perhaps you could suggest something?”

“Chase?” Jazz offers, stepping down onto another rooftop and taking the stairs this time. “Lightwing?” He snaps his digits. “I got it. How do ya feel about Tracer?”

“As in trace evidence?” the Praxian asked, brow furrowing with intrigue.

“Like tracer ammunition,” corrects Jazz. “When you fire ‘em, they burn and light up the bullet’s path.”

The Praxian’s wings flick as he considers this. “I understand the metaphorical resonance. It is a good suggestion.”

“Tracer it is!” Jazz crows, bouncing on his pedes (which makes the Praxian squawk until Jazz settles back down).

The newly-designated Tracer, tilts his helm to look up at Jazz. “You have not stated your own designation.”

“Nope,” Jazz agrees brightly, and doesn’t elaborate. Tracer examines Jazz’s faceplate, and whatever he sees there makes him settle back against Jazz’s chest.

Identity is a complicated thing when you’ve got as many different options as Jazz does. Instead of having to pick one, it’s better not to tell Tracer anything at all. Keeps Jazz safer that way–and weirdly, part of Jazz doesn’t want to lie to Tracer (which is bad because Jazz is an exceptional liar, one of his best talents really).

When Jazz joins the pedestrian traffic flowing along a suspended walking path, the two of them attract attention. It’s not unusual for smaller mecha to hitch a ride on larger ones–especially if their alt modes aren’t convenient for inner city travel–or for a bot to carry a companion who’s transformed to a more compact alt form, but two bots in root mode where one bot’s toting the other? Makes mecha look twice, and that’s not a good thing when Jazz is literally carrying stolen goods. Ruse won’t let his big-time payoff walk away without trying to snatch it back. Jazz keeps up a subroutine scanning the area for anything suspicious, and decides some preventative action is needed.

Tracer gives off the soft EM field of someone lost deep in their own meta. Jazz ducks into a side street and gives the mech in his arms a little bounce to draw his attention. “You finished calibrating? Needja to walk now.”

Tracer lifts his chin off Jazz’s shoulder. “I will be unsteady until I have tested my adjusted algorithms.”

“I won’t letcha fall,” Jazz promises, and holds Tracer upright while the Praxian tests his balance on wobbly legs, wings rising and falling like counterweights; no wonder standing is so complicated when you’ve got extra limbs to keep track of. 

When Tracer gives Jazz the go-ahead, Jazz keeps one arm slung across Tracer’s back, and they’re off, Jazz steering them through the crowd and keeping watch while Tracer concentrates on his steps. The frown lines on Tracer’s face ease as his gait becomes more confident. Jazz burbles a laugh, confirms they’re not being tailed, and starts making tracks to their real destination.

Most Cybertronian armor plating derives its color from trace mineral deposits on the plating surface. Bots who want to change their plating color reprogram their self-repair nanites and then wait while their systems gradually replace the colored minerals. For most bots, the transition stage is ugly as frag. That’s why they get themselves painted to hide their blotchy mixed coloring.

Bots also get their plating painted if they want to temporarily change their color, for parties or festivals or a random over-energized whim (Jazz does not have firsthand experience of this, swear on his spark). It’s a common service, and aside from a few high-end aestheticians who can afford their own shops, the best place to find a frame artist is at a thermae. 

Every neighborhood has at least one–they’re as common as fuelmongers and additive dispensaries. Richbot apartment complexes boast if they offer a communal wash stall where residents can rinse off the road dust–only the ultra-wealthy have private bathing–but every other mechanism goes to the thermae if they want to clean up. For construction bots like Jazz, it’s a daily stop as soon as they get off shift, and definitely one of Jazz’s favorite places. 

Thermai are small communities in themselves, a slice of a city’s culture concentrated in a single building complex. Every sort of mechanism passes through their doors, and all kinds of services can be bought there. At the local thermae, you can meet interesting new bots, make useful business connections, treat yourself to shaved frozen energon or other prepared fuel, get a nice wax coating or a custom paint job, browse advertisements, listen to speakers, watch live performers, and of course, take a bath. Some thermai even have art galleries, small sports arenas, or other attractions meant to distinguish them from their competitors. 

The particular thermae where Jazz is taking Tracer is nothing that fancy. It lies off the main roads, which means it’s quieter, but still enjoys enough customers that their passing won’t be marked. Or at least that’s what Jazz keeps telling himself until he helps Tracer step into the vestibule, and the doorkeeper (deadaft the biggest rotor alt that Jazz’s ever seen) takes one look at Prowl–a foreign frame known for rarely venturing outside their home citystate, in medical white and being helped along like he’s injured–and sends Jazz the most suspicious look he’s received in a vorn. 

“Excuse me, guest,” the doorkeeper addresses Tracer, placing himself protectively at the Praxian’s side. “Do you need me to call the city patrol?”

Which, fair! Everything about Tracer’s condition is shady, but Jazz really really does not need an extra complication right now! Jazz opens his intake to lie his helm off, but Tracer, cool as you please, turns to the doorkeeper and extends his field, awash in soothing calm. “Your care for your fellow mechanisms shows your deep awareness of the living Allspark. I am in good company and have no fear for my safety.”

The doorkeeper nods, sketching the three twists of the Triple Road in the air. “Divine Network embrace you both.”

“Till all are one,” Tracer answers, touching the plating over his spark.

Jazz pays their entry fees, and sticks close to Tracer until they’ve both rinsed off in the outer shower room and are half-submerged in the cavitation pools, skipping the other optional rooms. If they want access to the inner portions of the thermae, where the frame artist works, they’re required to bathe first. Jazz can’t be mad about it when the hot solvent and vibrations feel like liquid relaxation against his stressed systems. “What was that with the doorkeeper?” Jazz asks, lying back on the bench inset at the lip of the pool. 

Tracer’s helm rests on his folded arms, a blissful expression on his face echoed in his gently rippling field. “My processor runs an active script that provides conversational guidelines. I fed the data into my new mod and followed its guidance. I do not think I am very good at interacting with other mecha.”

Jazz boggles at him. “You have programs just for talking to bots?”

Tracer mmmms and wallows deeper in the pool, sensor panels outstretched to bask in the vibrations passing through the solvent.

Flicking solvent in his direction, Jazz says, “Gimme your comm code,” receiving a response ping near-instantly. Tracer must have crazy processing speed. ::You’re awful quick to trust me, mech:: he sends.

::Although you are an experienced criminal, you have given me no strong reasons to distrust you:: Tracer replies, pushing off from the pool edge and letting himself sink to the bottom. He looks up at Jazz through the curtain of solvent. ::I also know your real designation::

“WHAT.” 

The other mecha in the other pools jump or glare, but Jazz doesn’t give them a nanoklik’s bandwidth. He dives down in the pool, until he’s treading solvent face-to-face above Tracer, both their frames illuminated by the floodlights at the bottom.

::How the frag could you possibly know my ID?::

Tracer free floats in the solvent, calmly unshakable in a way Jazz suspects is his natural state. ::You have extensively modified your frame, but the base elements are still discernible as a Sanctified Design. Vector Sigma’s ignition records are available through public databases. I isolated your original design features, assumed you kept roughly the same size dimensions, and ran a comparison search.::

::No way.:: Jazz rejects this idea immediately. ::There are more than ten billion ignited bots online. Even if you figured out my model, I’ve got batchmates identical to me.::

::That is true:: agrees Tracer. ::After I determined your model, my next step was to refine my solution set, comparing each potential mechanism with their datanet presence and public records. You were the only mechanism who fit my requirements. You have attempted to falsify an active net presence but under close examination I noted irregularities.::

::Impossible:: says Jazz, phantom chills crawling up his struts. The sheer data volume involved… ::You’ve been online for less than a joor. Finding one result from billions of possibilities? Nobot has the onboard processing capability to handle that much data::

Tracer’s sensor wings fan slowly, stirring up the solvent. ::You are a well-constructed model. However, you possess several features incongruous to your overall build expense ratio–components that require significantly higher expense to install. I can hear the sound quality of your vocalizer, and I had the opportunity to examine your chameleon plating while I was slung over your shoulder. Your self repair has not completely integrated your plating work, but your vocalizer usage is fluent, with no hitches in tone. The differing stages of frame integration indicate the work was done gradually, in stages. That tells me you are a mechanism capable of both patience and ambition, who takes great care with things that matter to you. You also have a certain sensual appreciation and possibly an aversion to material belongings that you cannot frame-integrate.::

Jazz, who is currently carrying his entire life in his subspace, really can’t argue with that.

::Once I could identify your pattern for mod purchases and eliminate them, your remaining features had to be original to your frame. Your frame significantly exceeds the legal requirements for component quality; you were built for performance, by an entity who could not only afford the mandated training, housing and orientation costs for a newbuild, but had sufficient funds and motive to spend above those standards. Few entities meet those requirements. Almost all are tied to governmental or nonprofit ignition requests.:: 

Jazz fights not to twitch when Tracer’s gaze rakes over Jazz’s frame.

::Then I considered your original components. Your visor was a particularly indicative feature. Most mechanisms are built with one or more optical apertures, or sometimes an optical band, but you have optics under your visor, and it is not a vanity item–I checked the mounts on your helm. Your visor is a protective feature, with additional functional capability. Combined with your high strength to frame size, and your extraordinary spatial awareness and mapping abilities, you are obviously a physical labor frame. 

Jazz admits he’s impressed. In his original function, Jazz specialized in finishing off the insides of a building–electrical, ductwork, setting up datanet and comms access, that kinda thing (which is real useful when applied to a life of crime). That doesn’t mean Tracer has Jazz pinned down.

But Tracer isn’t done. He gestures toward Jazz’s servos and pedes. ::The weight-bearing electromagnets in your frame were my other key evidence. They are a rare feature in geoframes, but standard equipment for exoframes. Your grappler and the comms horns you’ve tried to hide, which extend your transmission range and strength, also suggest you were designed to function in low-gravity and zero-gravity environments. Therefore, I was looking for a Sanctified Design within your size parameters that matched a compact labor frame meant for offworld deployment.::

::You are good,:: Jazz praises, seizing the Praxian by his shoulders and yanking Tracer close enough to watch his optics dilate. ::Didja find what you were looking for?::

::Yes.:: Tracer’s watching, assessing Jazz’s reaction, processor working so hard Jazz can feel the heat radiating through the solvent cradling them both. ::The late Nova Prime commissioned such a design early in his Primacy, before embarking on the military campaigns that were a hallmark of his reign. Since his deactivation, in the absence of a Matrix-chosen successor, the High Council has not seen fit to continue Nova’s expansionist ideals, and no additional batches have been ignited.::

Tracer is completely, totally right. Seized by a thrill of terror, Jazz presses their helms together and extends his claws, running them over the Praxian’s cheek. ::And who did you find, after searching so hard?::

Tracer’s field draws taut, but his frame doesn’t flinch. ::You are serial number 3665241679074. Designation: Jazz::

Grinning like he’s fried his processor, Jazz throws his helm back and laughs silently, the sound swallowed up by solvent. Every corporation, crime lord, government agent and journalist who’s ever tried to unmask Meister failed. Now one amnesiac Praxian with a tactical computer and public datanet access has solved the mystery in just over a joor. Primus must be laughing at Jazz, because that’s hilarious and terrifying as frag. 

No wonder mecha will pay anything to get their servos on a tactical computer. Course, Jazz, a mod-connoisseur himself, knows installing a mod isn’t the same as being able to use it effectively. The most advanced mods, in the frame of the incompetent or ill-suited, won’t perform to their full ability. Tracer must’ve been brilliant as frag even before somebot shoved that tactical computer in his helm, and he’d played Jazz like a synthesizer.

::Did I pass your test, sweetspark?:: Jazz asks, spinning them like they’re dancing slow-motion through the solvent, pressing amusement-fondness into their overlapping fields.

::You did not deactivate me.:: Tracer replies cooly, refusing to let his guard down. Clever of him, pushing this confrontation in a public place where Jazz’s advantages are handicapped by their observers and Jazz’s desire to stay unnoticed. Jazz had disrespected Tracer. He’d seen a pitiful victim, a charity case, and missed this steely-calm hunter in gorgeous Praxian plating. 

Well, Jazz is looking now. Stronger than pity or kindness, an avid, bright fascination burns in his spark, and a powerful curiosity rules him. Who was Tracer before receiving a tactical computer? How much of Tracer comes from his base personality matrix, and how much is the mod? What other magic tricks can Tracer do with that thing?

Jazz wonders what being connected to Tracer’s processor feels like–Jazz has been inside a lot of helms, but surely Tracer’s must be unique. Inimitable. The idea flows through him like electrical current, sparking and sizzling along his circuits.

Jazz doesn’t bother lying to himself anymore. He’s going to follow this mechanism till he gets his answers. ::I ain’t gonna kill you,:: he promises Tracer, all his delight spilling into his field. ::C’mon, we need to go get you prettied up.:: 

Sheathing his claws, Jazz kicks off the pool bottom and offers Tracer his (outwardly) harmless, blunt servos. 

Tracer, warily, accepts the contact and allows Jazz to pull them both up to the surface. All the way out of the pool and through the dryer room, the Praxian scrutinizes Jazz intently. It gives Jazz a funny fluttery feeling in his spark; Jazz crushes that feeling immediately. 

They find the frame artist’s booth in one of the side rooms. Tracer immediately surrenders the choice of new paint job to Jazz, besides instructing Jazz not to pick “anything garish.” Jazz is happy to fill in (and he’s not going to examine his satisfaction at being trusted, even with a bitty thing like paint). It’s a slagging shame the Praxian’s got to blend in, cause any decent frame artist would really love highlighting that gorgeous build of his. 

Jazz pays for the cheapest option and watches mournfully as the aesthetician begins covering Tracer in a dull, flat coat of grey-blue–no countershading, no detailing, and no shine at all. Tracer holds painfully rigid under the spray. Something about the mech doesn’t suit the rowdy, noisy atmosphere of the thermae, and Jazz wonders again what kind of life Tracer led before losing his memory and his freedom.

Obediently holding still under the paint spray, Tracer comms in. ::Jazz::

Primus it is odd to see those glyphs. Gives Jazz a weird little shock in his circuits just seeing them. Hearing that designation’s probably going to be even weirder (When was the last time anyone called Jazz by his real designation, anyway? It’s been a long time–before Cybertron, before Jazz started living in other designations and disguises.).

When Jazz pings back, Tracer continues. ::Please be assured that I do not intend to betray your identity. You have behaved with great compassion toward me, and I thank you. I will not impose on you any further. I can make my own way from here.:: 

::And if I wanted to tag along?:: Jazz replies.

Tracer frowns; the aesthetician scolds him for moving. ::You want to accompany me because I know your designation?::

::Nah, it’s cause I’m curious::

::That is not a good reason for engaging in potentially dangerous and illegal activities.::

Jazz grins, showing his fangs, and shrugs. ::Only one I got, babe. You gonna let me come along openly or am I your new stalker?::

Tracer vents. ::Fine. I have been considering how I–how we might enter Praxus.:: 

When Jazz said earlier that entering Praxus would be difficult, he wasn’t exaggerating. Praxus, home to the only hotspot on Cybertron that forges sensor-winged mecha, is notoriously insular. Among Cybertron’s criminals, it’s well-known as the city-state with the most tightly controlled borders. Getting in or out requires a pre-approved visa; cargo is rigorously inspected and tested for unapproved materials or mechanisms. Anybot smuggling merch through Praxus needs a patron on the inside. ::You got any ideas?::

::Yes. Praxus allows passage without documentation to the pilgrims of the Equatorial Circumnavigation. Their pilgrimage is due to enter Praxus in two light-cycles. Praxus holds a public festival to celebrate, and the pilgrims rest in the city for thirteen light-cycles before continuing. If we hurry, we can mix in among them. Besides the time limit, there is one additional drawback. As we enter Praxus, we will be fitted with a tracker. We are forbidden to remove this tracker while we reside within the city-state::

::Not a problem:: Jazz boasts. ::I can crack any tracker program they’ve got.::

::Then I believe we have a workable basis for our investigation. I will further refine the details:: Tracer promises, falling silent as his optics dim.

While Tracer’s paint is setting under the curing lamps, Jazz shuffles through his datanet accounts, checking his messages and sending feelers out to his contacts. Jazz keeps multiple identities for exactly this sort of frag-up; he’s expecting Ruse to retaliate against Meister, and he wants warning before it happens.

As it turns out, Ruse cares more about his money than he does revenge. He’s placed a bounty on every Praxian trying to leave Polyhex or found within the city limits, and he’s calling in every favor he’s ever earned with the local gangs to see his bounty enforced–that rust-plated cog-sucking tentacle lover.

Tracer can’t be the only Praxian in the city. This is going to drag in uninvolved mecha–mecha who’ve done nothing wrong except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ruse won’t let whoever he catches go, either, even if they’re not Tracer. He’ll treat those Praxians as extra credits and they’ll disappear straight into the black market.

Jazz is only one mech. He can’t help the Praxians caught in Ruse’s net, but what he can do is get Tracer out of Polyhex as soon as possible. Roads, rail stations, and shuttle ports will be watched. That leaves one remaining option.

Polyhex is built atop a cave system that reaches from one end of the city-state to the other; some of the tunnels go even further. Polyhex’s founders were attracted by the subterranean energon wells, still considered holy places today, but smugglers and other shady operators adopted the tunnels as a convenient means to dodge the law. That’s why Polyhex, despite not being an especially large city-state, is home to one of the busiest black markets on Cybertron and has more organized crime networks per square mechanometer than anywhere else but the slums of Kaon. 

The smuggling tunnels underneath Polyhex have never been completely mapped. Besides their sheer number, operators keep them secret to avoid getting busted by city patrol or having their competitors steal their routes. Ruse and the gangs can’t guard every single one. Jazz, who makes it his business to know things, has paid particular attention to sniffing out how merchandise moves through Polyhex, and he’s even gone through old maps and police reports looking for getaway routes. There are several abandoned or little-used tunnels that could be their ticket to freedom–if Jazz and Tracer can make it there without getting caught. That’s a pretty important if. Jazz pings Tracer. 

When Tracer’s optics brighten and he pings back, Jazz switches to comms. ::We’ve got trouble. Can you use your alt right now?:: 

They’re gonna need to be fast and sneaky. Whatever Tracer’s alt form is, it’s gotta be less recognizable than his Praxian root mode. 

Tracer shakes his helm. ::My transformation protocols are medic locked. My self-repair needs time to integrate my new internal configuration.::

Jazz curses silently. He can break a medic lock, but not quickly. ::Well slag, we’ll do this the hard way.::

::What has happened?:: Tracer asks. 

Jazz transmits the datafile and watches Tracer’s biolights flicker rapidly as he processes Jazz’s research, brightening to the near-white of high emotion. ::We cannot let Ruse harm other mecha in his quest to obtain me. Send Polyhex city patrol whatever evidence you have against him. They are best placed to prevent more botnappings and retrieve the victims. Their interference will also confuse the situation and increase our chances of escape.::

Habit makes Jazz leery of attracting the law’s attention, but after tossing around the idea, Jazz can see the advantages. Adding another player dumps an extra helping of chaos atop existing chaos, and Jazz is right at home there. 

It’s simple enough to strip identifying traces from his information and route it through enough servers that by the time city patrol traces it back to this location, Tracer and Jazz will be long gone. ::Done. Let’s dip out the back. I need to make some frame adjustments and you need to check yourself for bugs::

Tracer follows Jazz out the employee exit, down another few streets, into a residential complex, and up three flights of stairs before Jazz locates an agreeable surveillance and visual blind spot. 

Jammed side by side into the small, dark landing, Jazz shifts his colors to dull copper and ruddy brown and smoothes the sharp edges of Meister’s configuration, elongating his parastructure and altering the ratio of his limbs to his chassis to appear lankier. Leaving his visor on (he needs every advantage they can get), Jazz shifts its color to a bright blue that matches Tracer’s optics and extends his claws, flexing his digits as he feels out his new shape. 

Mmm, this’ll be…Round Trip. No need for anything in-depth, he’s a one-use deal. Jazz cobbles together a few frame subroutines, a few personality protocols. Let’s see…kid’s artless, silly, and earnest. Young enough not to remember a living Matrix Bearer. And most importantly, a courier. 

Mecha who can’t follow the Sideways Roads will hire a courier who’ll make the trip for them. Mostly, couriers are used for express deliveries and (more) smuggling. It’s dangerous but well-paid work, and it won’t draw too much attention. Jazz grins, checks his dim reflection in the stairway’s metal wall, and engages his new programming.

“You need help?” Round Trip (Jazz) asks Tracer, patting the Praxian’s plating stiff-servoed, like he’s nervous and never done something like this before.

Tracer, optics narrowing, pauses his visual inspection of his plating. “I have analyzed my frame’s power usage and there are no discrepancies. Nor am I intercepting any transmission signals. A Praxian is difficult to observe unaware.” He lifts his sensor wings meaningfully. “If you will inspect my dorsal plating, I am confident my frame hosts no unwanted monitoring devices.”

Round Trip would fall into a tizzy at the thought of running his servos over Tracer, so Jazz takes over, efficiently examining Tracer’s backplates and seams, and finding no nasty little surprises hiding there. The solvent pool would’ve shorted out most tracking devices–liquid isn’t common on Cybertron–but nobot survives long in Jazz’s profession without cultivating a robust paranoia. Better to be certain that Tracer’s clean than get a nasty surprise later (Side note: Tracer seems real familiar with anti-tracking measures, which is something Jazz can mull over when they’re not in immediate danger).

“We gotta climb some more.” Jazz tells the Praxian, pulling a tarp out of subspace and shaking it out so Tracer can see the ‘Lightspeed Deliveries’ logo emblazoned on the outside. Jazz hands the tarp to Tracer. “Pull this over your frame, get on my back, and keep your helm down. We’ll pretend you’re a delivery. From far enough away we might even fool the bots after your bounty.”

Tracer doesn’t move. “Why have you not asked me to analyze our route? A tactical computer is designed for these circumstances.”

Right! That is a thing Tracer’s processor can do. Jazz totally didn’t forget that. “We don’t have a joor for you to work.”

“I do not need a joor,” Tracer replies, jaw setting stubbornly. “You possess the data I need. Hardline with me and I will run simulations as we travel.”

Whoa babe, goin’ a little fast there! As a rule, Jazz doesn’t hardline with bots who aren’t stasis cuffed, half-slagged or offline, but if it gets Tracer moving, and gives Jazz an excuse to peek into Tracer’s processor (and feed Jazz’s yawning hunger to know what makes this bot tick)…Jazz decides he can make an exception.

Before Tracer can change his mind, Jazz has a cord unspooled from his upper arm and he’s holding it out to Tracer. 

The Praxian accepts this tribute as his due. Twisting to reach the back of his neck, Tracer slots the prongs straight into his cervical port without fumbling–he’s done this before–and boom, Jazz and Tracer are sharing meta in a perfectly formed construct space.

Primus and all the Primes. What about synchronization protocols?!! Jazz has to check his system logs to confirm that those processes really did run (thankfully, those checks stay private). 

The construct space stands outside both their firewalls, the thinnest possible bubble of contact where only intentionally shared data can reach (Tracer’s firewalls, for the record, are a fragging fortress, not something Jazz wants to tangle with unless he’s equipped with a full hacking kit and an emergency EMP). 

Even through that tenuous connection, Jazz can tell Tracer’s got one of the strangest processors he’s ever connected with (and Jazz has hacked his way into plenty of helms). It’s not quite the pattern of a newbuild–formless chaos held together by spark-instinct and uncomplicated base code–but there’s a definite echo of that in Tracer. Wherever their meta touch, Tracer’s a quiet presence feeling his way through unfamiliar code, unpracticed and curious, broken by the whiplash-fast strike of his powerful processor zeroing in on a tasty piece of data: serenity hiding hazy chaos underneath.

Jazz (who’s more than shameless enough to trick a newbuild) finds Tracer’s unbalanced state reassuring. Fancy processor mod or not, Tracer’s gonna struggle if he goes after Jazz, and Jazz doesn’t intend to waste that advantage, thanks very much.

Tracer doesn’t seem troubled by his jumbled processor, immediately pushing forward a list of data requests; Jazz whistles at the sheer number. Tracer re-sends the list, more insistently. 

Get settled first, sweetspark, then you’ll get your data. 

Jazz guides Tracer into flattening his sensor wings against his back, then wraps the Praxian in the advertisement tarp and lashes it down with the cables Jazz took from Ruse’s warehouse. Once Tracer is covered up to Jazz’s satisfaction, Jazz crouches down–careful of the hardline connecting them–and after Tracer wraps his arms around Jazz’s neck, Jazz bends forward as he stands to accept Tracer’s weight. The Praxian’s pedes swing off the ground and cross across Jazz’s waist. 

Can ya hold on tight, or want me to tie our frames together?

Negation; Tracer adds an image of Jazz struggling to fight with the Praxian lashed to his back.

“Aight, no prob.” Jazz tucks Tracer’s limbs as close to his chassis as possible, until he’s a balled-up Praxian backpack, then has Tracer lower his helm, pulling the tarp up until only the pointy ends of Tracer’s chevron stick out. 

Jazz shifts side to side, bounces once or twice to cement his balance–and Round Trip breaks into motion, running at a steady, purposeful pace to deliver his package. Up a flight of stairs–Round Trip waves at a passing resident and calls out his courier service’s slogan–and out the columned loggia, rappelling down the building, then a wide leap and a grab to latch onto a balcony balustrade.

Tracer pelts Jazz with another request for data.

You comfy? Sure you’re fine holding on?

Tracer pushes an entire fragging model of Polyhex into their shared meta–rendered down to the last detail and a perfect match for Polyhex’s official maps, even including monorails and trains running along their scheduled routes.

One problem: Polyhex’s official maps are slag. Half the construction in this city’s done without permits, all under the table, and every native knows at least one unofficial shortcut (even aside from the Sideways Roads). Jazz, collecting up all the map deviations he knows, throws the files at Tracer–adds in the smuggling tunnels–then, for good measure, watching the model ripple and rebuild as Tracer chews through that, Jazz sweeps together everything he knows about Ruse, Polyhex’s gangs, smugglers and even the city patrol, then compresses it and passes it across the hardline. 

It is a frag-ton and a half of data, but Tracer’s meta does the equivalent of a happy dance, and his presence vanishes behind his firewalls.

Jogging through a crowded plaza, Jazz lets Round Trip navigate. In his secondary processing queue, Jazz wonders again at how weird Tracer is. Most mecha wouldn't be happy leaving their frame in another bot’s servos as they were carried around, but there Tracer is, doing it without a second thought (Jazz thinks he even enjoys not keeping track of his own frame). Most mecha also wouldn’t take being botnapped, rescued, and then being hunted down again so calmly (not that Jazz is a shining baseline for normality or has any solid ground to stand on). 

Also, Jazz can’t overlook how Tracer knew how to check himself for bugs, without any instructions. That’s not a skill an ordinary, upstanding civilian should know. Jazz knows, cause he’s a professional sneak. The mecha who catch less competent bots than Jazz would know too. Net-zero conclusion: interesting, but no help at figuring out whether Tracer’s tactical computer is legit or not. 

Although, Tracer had been real quick to suggest involving city patrol–maybe like he trusted them? Except, he’d refused to turn himself in earlier to those same bots. Could go either way.

Round Trip sighs, climbing servo over servo up a metal piling, then shrieks when Tracer pings him. 

Analysis complete. 

Tracer’s Polyhex model rapidly gains a new overlay–color-coded pins and appended text notes, multiplying like colored snow. Jazz brings up the closest marker to their current position: 85%, Road Hogs checkpoint.

Now, if Tracer hadn’t just outed Jazz’s whole existence, Jazz would’ve ignored the flag and gone about his business as usual, but considering how slagging accurate Tracer’s been so far…

Jazz makes a minor course correction, climbs to gain height, and pokes his helm around a corner, using his visor magnification to spy on Tracer’s maybe-holdup.

Which turns out to be 100% real! Scrap n’ tar. Jazz surveys the street crawling with bots etched in gang signs, ducks back into hiding, and skedaddles the other way. 

Maybe Tracer got lucky? Jazz pulls up the map again and finds another marker close by. One more test, he promises himself, taking a more cautious approach this time.

Within kliks, Tracer’s map has proved its worth again: Round Trip avoids a trailer overturned on the breezeway ahead, and jumps right over a knot of city patrol officers–identifiable by their red livery and decals–rushing to the scene.

Cursing, Jazz rapidly checks the smuggler tunnels he’d tagged as possible escape exits, discarding several potentials. Highlighting the remaining tunnels, Jazz displays their options. Tracer pings acknowledgement, and withdraws back behind the aegis of his firewalls.

Round Trip keeps climbing, shifting onto a parallel route at the earliest opportunity. This time, he doesn’t startle when Tracer kicks back new route calculations: some weighted for safety, others for speed, and all of them even more meticulously annotated than before.

As Round Trip slides down a beam; Jazz considers their options. The closest smuggler tunnels, embedded high in the valley walls, also require the most dangerous routes. Polyhex’s upper levels are heavily overcrowded. Nobot stays in the dark underlevels if they can afford better. 

The deep tunnels are easier to sneak into without getting caught, but it could take twice as long to reach them, and there’s another problem: it’s not a straight climb down. Because of Polyhex’s slapdash construction, there're two or three chokepoints they’d have to pass through on their way to the lowest levels. It would be easy to get trapped there.

Jazz pokes Tracer’s meta. On a scale of ‘we die if we frag up,’ how sure are you bout these?

In reply, Tracer dumps his route analysis, allowing Jazz to prod through his inputs and parameters. Jazz can’t find any flaws–and any help’s better than none–so! Time to let Primus take the wheel. If Tracer makes a mistake, Jazz is mostly-certain he can roll them out of trouble. 

Jazz brings the safest of the upper tunnel routes into focus. There’s a batch of tunnels clustered nearby if they can sneak in close. Let’s give this a shot.

Tracer pings back acknowledgement, his tactical computer working so hard that Jazz can sense its crackle even in their construct space. 

Round Trip shifts direction, taking a winding, horizontal route along a northeastern heading.

Jazz gets bored of silence after less than a klik (he’s got mad skills, he can multitask, and he’s carting around a mysterious stranger who can entertain him!). Tracer hasn’t got a lotta material to work with, since the bot’s got no memories, but Jazz can make allowances. He’ll take whatever he can get!  

The next time Tracer’s route adjustment comes in, Jazz pounces on the Praxian’s meta tendril before it can vanish back behind the bot’s firewalls. Whatcha got there?

Tracer highlights his map changes and pushes the data packet toward Jazz. 

Nah, mech, give me the patch notes. Round Trip swings himself into a convoy-sized tunnel, adding a showbot twist to his landing. 

When Tracer offers his calculations and Jazz sends the data right back, puzzlement creeps into Tracer’s projection. Query?

I ain’t asking for your calculations, sweetspark. Can’t hardly make sense of ‘em anyway. Tell me the interesting bits!

If anything, Tracer seems more confused. Query?

Jazz makes grabby servos. Gimme the good gossip!

Negation. Tracer swats away the request. 

Too bad for Tracer, Jazz ain’t giving up so easy. C’mon, it’d be great practice for your–Jazz scrabbles for an excuse–your conversational script! Is that actually true? Jazz sure doesn’t know! You wanna get better at talking to bots, right?

Tracer pelts Jazz with irritation and disappears behind his firewalls.  

Tracer’s a stubborn one. Fortunately, Jazz is stubborner! Jazz pesters the mech another three (and a half) times before negation morphs into begrudging affirmation. 

Watching Tracer struggle to piece his glyphs together strips the shine from Jazz’s victory, but the bot’s stubborn in this too, and eventually he figures out the trick. Jazz... difficulty modeling. Frame schematics, no match. 

Jazz’s plating puffs gleefully. You lowballed my movement range, didn’t ya?

Yes, Tracer grumbles.

Jazz pats the Praxian’s meta. You ain’t the first, sweetspark.

Tracer stays plugged into the public datanet, live monitoring and updating his calculations as they go. Jazz, of course, keeps bothering Tracer until the bot automatically gives his commentary reel as he forwards a new route. The Praxian leaps terrifyingly quickly from stilted explanations to smoothly narrating his calculations–bot’s scary smart, and it ain’t just that mod of his. 

I do not understand why so many mechanisms fail to follow basic datanet safety, Tracer complains while Jazz hops from one pedehold to the next. Most do not even hide their metadata! 

Actually, Jazz ain’t complaining, not when it makes that data so easy to mine (criminal, remember?) but he makes a sort of vague agreeing noise and Tracer doesn’t seem to notice. 

I expected mechanisms with professional incentive to practice proper data handling protocols, at the very least, would observe them. My faith goes unrewarded.

Now that sounds like a story. 

Ohhh? Jazz prods, and the payoff’s just as good as promised. Turns out that a Slicer cartel lieutenant left his photo geotagging on and accidentally outed the cartel’s fragging main headquarters, a mistake so stupid that Jazz is a little bit professionally embarrassed for him (not that it stops Jazz from forwarding the tip to Polyhex’s city patrol; a nice loud raid would be a great distraction.). 

The next wave of updates comes through, routing Jazz at a sharp right angle away from a big, bright red pin centered on a fuel stand. Jazz does a double-take at the messy snarl of Tracer’s latest pathing. Where’d this come from?

Tracer’s meta vibrates indigently and Jazz knows it’s gonna be good. 

Officer Highball patronizes that particular fuel stand at this time every third lightcycle, per the review he left on their public network page. 87% likelihood he is double-dealing with the local gang, based on the percentage of time he spends inside their territory.

Tracer relates all this in the judgiest tone possible. Bot’s got a grudge against dirty lawmen, which is real unfortunate because Polyhex’s city patrol gets half their income from bribes made under the table (not that Jazz can personally testify to this!).

Tracer’s squiggly-aft route keeps them outta trouble, neatly bypassing the good officer and several other hazards. Jazz keeps Tracer chatting and examines each new nugget of Tracer’s personality he unearths. 

It’s shockingly easy to enjoy Tracer’s presence in Jazz’s meta–not just his obvious intelligence (Tracer might be the smartest bot Jazz’s ever met) but also the charming way Tracer flails when Jazz flirts with him, his instinctive attempts to avoid harming or involving bystanders, and his humor–yes, Tracer really is funny (it’s just not always intentional). 

Jazz’s Escape Polyhex plan goes smashingly well for about a joor. With Tracer as his secret weapon, Jazz stays undetected and surveys several tunnel approaches they discard as too risky or too closely guarded. In any other city, Jazz probably could’ve continued on his merry way, carrying out his plan without a hitch–but this is Polyhex, a city whose top ten industries are illegal and criminals are as common as legit businessmecha, and that complicates things.

In Polyhex, everybot knows somebot with a line to the undercarriage of the city. Once word of Ruse’s bounty spreads, average citizens aiming for an extra payday start joining the chase, and then all bets are off. 

Round Trip is minding his own business, trying to deliver his cargo on time, when he gets approached by an earnest-sounding shopowner asking if he’s seen any Praxians lately. Round Trip assures the bot he hasn’t and splits, then gets jumped two streets down by a gang of local laborers who wanna shake Round Trip down for info. Round Trip throws himself over a railing to escape, falls twenty mechanometers, and sticks a landing that rattles his struts, only to find himself smack dab in the middle of a mob who’ve parked themselves on the C-11 freeway, holding up every bot who drives past until they transform and prove they’re not Praxian. Round Trip has to whip out some slick acrobatics to scrape his way clear of that pileup.

Jazz understands needing some extra credits–smelter, Jazz has his own side-gigs, he ain’t a hypocrite–and the energon shortages have been especially bad this vorn but doesn’t anybot in this city mind their own business??

...yeah okay Jazz is a little bit of a hypocrite.

Opportunists keep popping up everywhere Round Trip goes. After a few close runs (handled by EMP’ing the unlucky mech and stashing their unconscious frame, then scarpering), Round Trip can only continue forward at a slow crawl, going on roundabout and avoiding mecha as much as possible. 

Tracer tries to keep up, but the bot can’t model an entire city’s population (probably not? What does Jazz know about fragging tactical computers, anyway?). The only thing saving their plating is the fact that most of the bots hunting them won’t share information because they want to claim the bounty themselves.

That’s when the real slag hits the stir stick.

Jazz is navigating the narrow crawl space between two buildings when another re-route comes through from Tracer. Jazz opens the contents and it’s gibberish. He is instantly alarmed. He pings Tracer. You doin’ okay?

Helm hurts. Tracer’s frame is running boiling hot against Jazz’s back, and Jazz can hear the mech’s cooling fans whine. Too many variables–can’t, can’t– 

“Force quit every processor thread you’re runnin’,” Jazz orders, crawling faster toward the nearest exit (please please let there not be any witnesses!). “Or give me system access to do it for you.” They can’t afford to stop and reboot Tracer. If the mech goes down, Jazz has to get them both out.

Sluggishly, Tracer pushes a system diagnostic at Jazz, who hisses. “You’re tipping into an error cascade. Quit your calcs, now.”

In answer, Tracer’s firewalls distort and bulge; Jazz can feel him thrash clumsily, tearing a hole through the outer layers and shattering their shared construct space. Before the gap closes, Jazz darts through, wedging the vulnerability open with a slapdash coding patch. 

By design, they’d kept their construct space sterile and carefully impersonal; now Tracer’s pure, unfiltered meta slaps Jazz in the chassis, alongside a hurricane of error messages that Tracer’s conscious processes struggle to skim over and dismiss. Jazz’s plating flares; the thread of Tracer’s presence is everywhere: stronger, so close Jazz could stroke it with his own meta.

Giving up on keeping in motion (no way Jazz can focus past all that), Jazz emerges into an empty alley, hunkering down behind a garbage skip. “Show me where I need to go, sweetspark,” he coaxes, Tracer’s helm a furnace against his shoulder.

Tracer’s buckling functions whirl, tossing out guide markers and granting Jazz access, while the core of the Praxian’s processor remains blocked behind his implacable inner firewalls. 

Jazz keeps following the marked path till he reaches Tracer’s primary processing queue, slicing through gummed up statistics and nonsense math just in time to avert what would’ve been a whopping processor crash.

Taking a look at the traces, Jazz finds the cause easily enough–Tracer’s tactical computer had autonomously seized so much bandwidth that when it capsized, so did the rest of Tracer’s frame. If Jazz hadn’t already been hardlined to Tracer, he couldn’t have acted in time to prevent the crash–the window for intervention was that narrow.

Primus and his Primes, what is wrong with that fragging thing’s safety protocols? 

There are no safety protocols, Tracer replies–too calmly for a mech who just came a wire’s breadth from catastrophically cratering his systems.

Mech, are you fragging serious?! 

Processor mods are the most strictly regulated augment type! They’re never supposed to be able to uptake system resources on their own and they always have a safety shutoff! 

Jazz vents aggressively. Are all tactical computers like Tracer’s? No wonder they’re so tightly controlled. Bet the High Council is keeping that little fact secret. It fits their style.

No more using that thing, Jazz warns. I can’t risk a medic if you melt your processor. 

Reluctantly offering his agreement, Tracer does the meta equivalent of politely holding the door open and motioning for Jazz to get out of his processor. Jazz doesn’t refuse the invitation (though he does leave the metaphorical door cracked open, too enamored by the touch of Tracer’s meta without filters in the way; Tracer doesn’t call Jazz on it). 

With or without Tracer’s modeling, continuing like this is an exercise in failure. Jazz is good, but he can’t run away from an entire city–not for long, at least. 

We’ll head for the deep tunnels, Jazz tells Tracer, bringing up a set of coordinates that make Tracer’s meta ripple in surprise. Down that deep there won’t be as many bots. Best chance we have.

Sneakily, Tracer calls up his pre-crash calculations and pushes the data toward Jazz. He’s got the same two chokepoints highlighted that made Jazz avoid this option in the first place: the funnel around Polyhex’s mechadrome, and below that, the dangerous consecutive vertical drops that local couriers call The Ladder.

Jazz ain’t worried about climbing down The Ladder. Only the bravest and best couriers dare use it, and Jazz is a sight better than their best. If anybot ambushes Jazz on the vertical, Jazz won’t be the one coming out slagged. No, their real problem is working their way down past the mechadrome.

Polyhex’s mechadrome is wedged just above the joint where Polyhex’s three valley prongs meet, a concrete and metal bubble precariously supported by a lattice of roads, walkways and buildings the Polyhexians constructed around and over its bulk. The mechadrone’s size and height channel all traffic moving through that area–up or down–into a well-known bottleneck. Jazz and Tracer could find themselves in a very sticky situation if they’re not smart about this.

Jazz checks the event schedule. A grin breaks out on his face. Hey Tracer, how do you feel about altball?

The concept does not compel me but I believe you have hit upon a usable idea, Tracer replies, immediately catching onto what Jazz is planning. 

The plan is simple: join the altball fans flowing down from the upper city to watch this lightcycle’s match, find a hideyhole to hang tight in until the match is done, then follow the departing crowd out, using them as cover for their descent into Polyhex’s deeper layers. With the sheer number of mecha moving in all directions, Round Trip can blend in as just one more mech in the crowd and move without attracting dangerous optics.

Jazz veers down into the lower city, picking up speed and minding his chronometer–the timing on this’ll be tight. Noting the change instantly, Tracer clings tighter and tucks himself more closely against Jazz’s back. Jazz moves as quickly as he dares, keeping just enough oomph back that he’s left himself one last gear if he really needs to move.

Tracer might be banned from running simulations, but the bot’s still got datanet access, a talent for mathematics, and plenty of opinions. The Praxian stubbornly continues offering Jazz all the help he can, calculating the best angles to use every scrap of cover available, and at one point smoothing over a tricky intersection crossing by finding the exact timing to borrow a passing convey’s trailer as cover.

Once Round Trip hits the congestion around the mechadrome, Jazz swaps Round Trip’s colors to match the Polyhexian altball team’s livery. It’s not suspicious for the courier to abandon a slower horizontal route for a freer vertical one, but Jazz keeps a sharp optic on his distance anyway. There’s a narrow balance to maintain. Jazz wants to skulk around at the edges of the crowd, close enough to pass himself off as part of the group, but still capable of pulling a quick getaway if circumstances take a turn for the worse. 

On Round Trip’s back, Tracer stays frozen, curled in on himself, his field tight against his plating. Jazz runs his EM field dampener on its lowest setting, just enough to confuse any mecha who might notice strange feedback, and keeps a reassuring contact through their hardline connection.

Reaching the approach for the west mechadrome gate, Round Trip disappears down an overpass column and pops up into a little pocket of empty space inside the support structure (Polyhex’s construction gives Jazz the professional heebie-jeebies, sure as slag that is not up to building code). The freeway above them doesn’t do much for the ambience, but it’ll do.

Letting his plating hang loose, Jazz splays out on his bumper and self-indulgently runs a coolant cycle while he hunts down pirated feed of the altball game, passing the link on to Tracer. The pregame talking helms are still yapping while the camera pans over the betting windows and their inevitable collection of fortunetellers, armed with spinning wheels, seismometers, and colored stones (you too can tap into Primus’ wisdom for the low, low price of five credits per invocation! No refunds offered.).

You wanna fuel? I could go for a cube, Jazz says, pulling said cube from subspace and tucking in.

Tracer shifts on his back. The logistics are somewhat troubling. I cannot get down in our present position.

Huh, bot’s got a point. Jazz roots around in his subspace looking for—aha! He emerges triumphantly, clutching a straw. Nothing better for fueling in zero g! You remember how to use a straw, right?

I have grasped the general principle, yes, Tracer replies drily.

Okay then. With some concentrated wiggling, Tracer pushes his chin over Jazz’s shoulder; with some more shifting, Jazz brings the straw up to Tracer’s intake and they can fuel together, watching the altball match start. It’s Polyhex vs. Comitus, and Polyhex is getting plastered across the asphalt. Comitus’ goalkeeper is a hexaframe with a powerful prehensile tail, and he’s not letting a single shot in. Jazz whistles when one of the bot’s teammates rams a Polyhexian player, who tumbles wheel over hood for six rotations, all the way into a kinetic field that launches the bot across the field into the audience safety barriers. He slides down, landing on his hood. The crowd boos.

I do not understand the appeal of this game, except perhaps as a simulation exercise, Tracer says. 

Jazz waves a servo. It’s a social thing for some bots. Gives ‘em something to talk about during fueling breaks.

Ah. That explains why I do not like it.

Just as Polyhex steals the ball back, their mech spins into a spike strip, blowing out all four tires. The Polyhexian fans boo louder.

Think we might be getting outta here early, Jazz announces brightly. 

The Polyhexian supporters start trickling out after the score hits 5-0, and abandon the stadium in droves when it reaches 9-0 with a third of the game left to play. Tracer tucks himself back down under the tarp, and Jazz ghosts his way out and down with the next disappointed wave.

They spiral further and further down, descending into the cup of the valley where neither day nor night exist, but only deep and deeper shadows. There are no skies in Polyhex, except for the wealthiest richbots in their high penthouse tower suites. Polyhex’s poorest live at this depth, where rent and habs are cheapest but medics and jobs are hardest to find. With an entire city stacked above their helms, the air pollution at this depth is thick enough to make Jazz grateful for his industrial filters, and Jazz’s night vision setting on his visor proves it was worth every credit.

Jazz was right: with fewer bots wandering the underlayers, Round Trip spends less time scouting and skulking, and more time making up for lost time. With a breem to spare, he descends into the second trouble spot on their route: the deep chasm only passable through the repeated, blind vertical drops of the Ladder–make a mistake, and you’d better hope you’ve got quick servos to recover.

Belatedly, Jazz thinks of Tracer and asks, You afraid of heights? Not that it’ll change anything; this is the only reasonable route to their escape point.

The Praxian twitches, his meta slow and sluggish. Unable to run his fans (cause it’d be a dead giveaway that Round Trip’s carting around another bot), Tracer’s overheating beneath that tarp in this thick, sticky air–not critically, but enough that the mech’s trimmed down his active processes.

Your preference for elevation has not troubled me so far. My frametype also makes that particular phobia less likely.

Why’s that? Jazz asks, keeping his audials dialed high as he lines up his next drop.

Praxians share certain coding with aeroframes. Heights do not generally alarm fliers.

Makes sense, Jazz replies, pitching his frame into the next controlled fall. Normally, he’d bug his conversation partner into spilling info on themselves. For obvious reasons, that won’t work with Tracer (Jazz never talks about himself; way safer to keep other bots gabbing).

Leaving The Ladder behind, Jazz and Prowl travel ever deeper into the foundations of Polyhex, where massive pylons and support structures hold the city aloft, until there’s no further down to go and they step onto the plating of Primus. Not even the smugglers run their cargo from ground level, but the tunnel Jazz and Tracer will be (hopefully) using isn’t meant for smuggling–it isn’t technically a tunnel at all, but a dried-up energon well whose empty channel can be used as an exit and isn’t marked on any map (because only Jazz was crazy enough to try).

There are several very good reasons Jazz hadn’t wanted to use this tunnel. One of them is the location: there’s no surrounding cover, because all the old city wells are also active shrines, which rolls into the second reason this isn’t a good idea: the shrine is full of worshippers and Wellkeepers. Going into a crowded area with Tracer? Somebot’s gonna snitch or go for the bounty. Jazz might as well tote a neon sign saying ‘attack me!’ Unfortunately, they’re fresh out of better options. Tracer and Jazz had made assessments while hardlined, and came up with this as their best shot.

Jazz finds the last scrap of cover overlooking the well plaza, and silently eases Tracer down, mindful of the cable linking his upper arm and Tracer’s cervical port. Jazz would’ve liked to back off, give Tracer some space, but the cable stops him from straying farther than a pace from his hardlining partner. Tracer doesn’t seem bothered. Untying the Lightspeed Deliveries tarp, Tracer stretches his sensor wings with luxurious pleasure, field plush with his tangible relief.

When Jazz plucks at the data cable binding them together, their optics meet. Tracer stills. Neither one of them moves for a long moment, then Tracer turns, offering his cervical port to Jazz. 

A strange reluctance weighs Jazz’s servo. Shaking the feeling off, Jazz feathers his digits against the back of the Praxian’s neck, firming his touch when Tracer shivers, and delicately eases his cord free. Like a servo slipping out of his palm, Tracer’s presence drains away like it was never there at all.

Alone again in his own helm (too empty), Jazz sheds Round Trip and shifts back to Meister’s configuration, while Tracer turns the tarp over on its blank side and cloaks his flattened wing panels, before drawing in his field like a Polyhexian native would.

Jazz catches the Praxian’s optic. “Once we’re inside the shrine, we’re committed,” Jazz reminds him. There’s only one way in, and one way out: another reason this option wasn’t high on Jazz’s list. “Soon as we’re seen, the timer starts. Quick as we can. Ready?”

“I am prepared,” Tracer agrees, inclining his helm. “If I am taken, I will delete any memory files or data relating to you. They will not learn your name, Jazz.”

Jazz’s spark does a sharp wrench in its chamber. He has to cycle his vocalizer to speak. He grins (weakly, not his best performance), and lets out a chuckle. “Don’t worry bout me none. I’m good at wriggling outta tight spots. If we get separated, run for it. You know the way.”

The Praxian doesn’t reply, but only follows Jazz down onto the street.

Entry to the Well requires crossing a small plaza, lined with beggars and the habless–the Wellkeepers never drive them away, especially now that the Well has run dry and they can no longer offer Primus’ bounty as alms. Jazz slings a friendly arm around Tracer’s back, to better hide the bulge of his wing panels under the tarp, and they slide into the crowd, working a slow path toward the cave mouth. 

On Cybertron, where you can feel Primus’ field enveloping the whole planet, there are mecha who reject Primus, but none who claim he doesn’t exist. Cybertronians who go into space, like Jazz, complain about feeling His absence–an ache in the struts, a subtle chill, a sense that something’s out of place, like a burr you can’t seem to sand smooth. The Cybertronian language even uses three words for ‘planet:’ one that means ‘dead planet,’ one that means ‘living planet’ and one that means ‘god.’

When it comes to religion, Primus' existence is about the only thing Cybertronians agree on, aside from a servoful of other shared concepts and themes. It has no specific origin, no single founder (some bots look to the Thirteen, but not all), no set texts (though Prima’s Spherics comes close), no universal prophets (Matrix Bearers may or may not be holy intermediaries) and no central authority or hierarchy. An interregnum High Council tried exactly once to standardize the whole mess by setting up an orthodox church; angry bots stormed the council chamber, overthrew them, and instituted Sapientia Prime (High Councils, as a rule, avoid having a Prime through every means possible; Primes limit their power and they prefer a free servo).

As the saying goes, “there are as many paths to Primus as there are sparks,” but in Polyhex, devotion to the Blood of Primus burns brightest, and the holiest places are always found in caves. The stone around this Well has been left unworked in its natural shape, and is painted the bright hue of energon. Above the cave mouth is a Primus Disk taller than Jazz, the 13-sided star polygon enclosed by a circle. As they pass under the Disk, Jazz lays a hand across his spark, playing into the illusion he’s there for honest reasons. Beside him, Tracer keeps his helm bowed and makes the same gesture. 

Surrounded by stone and flicking lamplight, pressed against the walls by the crowd, they’ve crossed the point of no return. Keeping a tight grip on Tracer, Jazz tries to push faster through the crowd, scanning for any mecha paying too much attention to them.

This shrine is older than Polyhex itself. Millenia of wear marks its walls, the murals’ once-bright colors faded to warm impressions left behind. The lamps lining the walls are made from patterned, colored glass, dizzying as a nightclub dancefloor. Ahead comes the sound of hymns, echoing off the high ceilings till it sounds like the whole city’s singing. 

Effectively deafened by the sound, Jazz joins in (Why not? He loves a good tune). “The divine nature exists in every spark,” he sings. “From one, many; from many, return to one.” Counting down every step forward, Jazz keeps pushing toward the central shrine with the dry well shaft, his combat protocols queued for the first sign of trouble. 

Trouble finds them halfway, when a mech painted with Slicer gang symbols grabs Tracer, yanking both of them to a stop.

Jazz tenses, ready to rush back and wreck the fragger, when Tracer (who has, so far, shown no sign of being anything except a pretty piece of baggage) pivots smoothly and–with his entire frame weight behind the move–slams his forearm into the mech’s vulnerable neck cables. Something cracks; the mech lets go, staggering back. Holy frag. Silently, Jazz applauds. No hesitation, absolutely brutal takedown, 10/10. 

They don’t wait around and sightsee. Abandoning any attempt at disguise, they run, shoving mecha aside–even climbing over them–and leaving a trail of chaos behind. The hymns break into confused shouting; more screams from the shrine’s mouth warn backup is incoming. 

Whichever one of them finds an opening yanks the other along, until leaving the babble of confusion, Jazz and Tracer break into the central cavern and come to the Well itself. Jazz catches an impression of space, color, and more tinted lamps, but he’s too busy beelining straight for the font, scrambling up the tiled steps and knocking over the Wellkeeper who tries to stop them. 

The dry well shaft sinks straight down in a drop deep enough to scrap the frame of anybot unlucky enough to fall down. Only a mech with a glitched processor would be crazy enough to try the fall on purpose.

Throwing off the servos trying to stop them, Jazz grips Tracer’s arm tight as he can; Tracer holds onto him just as fierce in return, and together, they leap–falling faster and faster–then jerk to a stop at the end of Jazz’s grappler cable. 

Dangling in the air, Jazz crows, high off the unbeatable euphoria of a close shave, and uses the leftover momentum to swing himself up against the shaft wall, where his pedes’ magnets find a good grip. Tracer, poor mech, keeps a death grip on Jazz’s arm and every cable in his frame is winched-tight. Real good thing the Praxian hasn’t got claws, or Jazz’s plating would be shredded.

Jazz considers their situation, listening to shouts echo down from high above. They’re not out of the smelter yet. “Grab my leg, I need both servos to climb down.”

Tracer exvents a shivery sort of whistle–he goes nonverbal when he’s stressed, Jazz makes a note–but unclasps one hand and takes firm hold of Jazz’s thigh, prying his other servo off Jazz’s arm and dropping his weight onto his new anchor.

With both servos free, Jazz releases the anchor on his grappler cable and reels the line back, then scales down the wall as quickly as he dares.

When Tracer’s pedes touch the ground, he sighs, sinking down onto solid footing, and offers Jazz a servo down to jump the last few mechanometers. Jazz takes the offer, kicking off the wall to land with extra flair.

Tracer, the loser, isn’t even impressed. He’s taking Jazz’s stunts rather well, all in all; point in the mech’s favor.

More shouting comes from the mouth of the well. It’s only a matter of time till the mechs after them figure out how to follow them down. The two fugitives make optic contact, then floor it down the tunnel.

The dry wellbed isn’t large enough to go side-by-side, so Jazz takes point, skittering up walls and hauling Tracer up after him when the tunnel curves upward at sharp angles. When Jazz originally tested this route, he’d done it on a nightcycle the shrine was closed for maintenance, and he’d taken his time. This escape is more like a disorganized half-fall, half-scramble, as fast as they can manage. Kinda exhilarating, actually (Jazz’s standards are fragged up, he’s not upset about it). 

The further they go, the noisier it gets. At first, a soft shushing noise; then it grows to a rumble; then a roar like a rocket engine.

“What is that?” shouts Tracer, sensor wings twitching and angling as they collect data. The sound level probably ain’t comfy for the Praxian.

Jazz cups a hand around his intake. “It’s the energon!”

“What energon?” Tracer’s wing panels flick sharply. Good question! The well is supposed to be dry.

Shaking his helm, Jazz gestures toward the next cavern. When they climb up, the path snakes around a deep chasm. Jazz points up toward the ceiling, where the stone is patched with concrete and rebar. ::The energon used to flow down from here, like the drain in a washrack. It got diverted ages ago. The supply goes to an energon collection plant now and bots gotta pay if they want to fuel off it.::

It’s against the law to make other bots pay for raw energon. Energon is the blood of Primus, given freely to feed Their creations. Selling Primus’ gift is immoral and against ancient, foundational Cybertronian laws. But it is legal to charge for labor, which is why bots can sell prepared energon like distilled engex or mineral blends, and how convoys transporting energon to communities without easy access to a well make their living. 

But some mecha–meaning, big corporations who can afford to hoard energon supplies–aren’t satisfied with that. They get around the laws against selling energon by charging ‘processing fees’ or ‘import taxes,’ which is still selling raw energon except disguised under a fancy paint job. Sabotaging or diverting natural energon sources also isn’t technically illegal; it’s just good business practice to drive up demand by restricting and controlling the supply. This particular energon dam is financed by a conglomerate owned by High Councilmech Cosmopolitan, which is very on-brand for the whole cabal.

Tracer’s wings flare angrily, lips pressing in a thin line. ::There is no logic in letting mecha starve to fuel the fortunes of their leaders.::

Jazz holds up his servos in a peace gesture. ::Hey, I don’t disagree. Can’t do anything about it though.::

Tracer stares at the energon dam a little longer. Jazz can see something big rattling around in the bot’s processor. ::We cannot do anything about it for now,:: the Praxian replies. 

Tracer’s field whirls thoughtfully through the final stretch of climbing, as the tunnels curve toward the surface. 

There’s been no sign of pursuit, but the last risky bit is getting ambushed at their exit point. Jazz stashes Tracer within comms range, then sneaks quiet as he can to take a gander, his EM dampener engaged. 

Jazz hunkers down, and he waits, and he listens. No comms traffic, nothing picked up by his audials. He pings Tracer, and like they’d agreed on, the Praxian advances up to meet Jazz.

Jazz, unthinkingly, uses military hand sign for proceed with caution, then realizes his mistake–Tracer won’t understand. 

Except Tracer signs back, acknowledged, digits moving fluidly and attitude cool as a polar wind. Jazz adds this to the ‘weird Tracer facts’ folder and gives up. Whatever gets them out of this mess can stay.

Slow and steady, they creep forward, mech-length by mech-length, stopping to check for any danger signs. Nothing blips, and still nothing, till they’re popping out of the ground and resetting their optics under Cyberion’s pale light, the moon close to its dark phase.

Jazz turns to Tracer, servo on his waist and a hip joint outthrust, playing cocky. “You figured out how we’re getting into Praxus yet?”

“I have a plan,” Tracer replies cautiously. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of Jazz; that’s okay, Jazz gets that pretty often. Tracer databursts a package of simulations. “We need to get to Diax in two cycles. We’ll meet up with the Equatorial Circumnavigation there, and join their progress toward Praxus.”

“That’s a long drive.” He winks his visor at Tracer, who’s currently stuck in root mode. “Guess what that means?”

Tracer exvents. “I must be carried. Again. Please follow applicable speed limits.”

“Ain’t no speed limits without a road!” Laughing, Jazz transforms, driving a tight circle around Tracer to show off. ::Grab on!::

Tracer lays down atop Jazz’s hood, anchoring himself using protruding bits of Jazz’s parastructure, and with a squeal of wheels, they disappear into the night-cycle.

End Arc I: Polyhex

Interlude I: Tracer

{System Defragmentation Status: 55%}

{Database Survey and Metatagging Status: 19%}

{Algorithm Inventory Status: 89%}

{Active Primary Queue Modeling Threads: 1,038

Secondary Processing Queue: 2,930

Tertiary Processing…}

::Gonna stop to fuel,:: Jazz comms. ::You cool with that?::

(Temporary designation) Tracer is no longer surprised when his tactical computer’s programming lunges forward like an enthusiastic newbuild, already spawning additional modeling threads at the mere hint of a new datum.

Tracer sees no reason to fight for control–this time, at least. Tracer had partly concealed from Jazz how dangerous his tactical computer was. Earlier, during his near-crash, it had consumed so much processing capacity that it had shut down Tracer’s fuel pumps, fans, and motor relays. If Jazz had not averted that crash, Tracer would have deactivated, trapped and fried in his own frame. Tracer may not be so fortunate next time. Until Tracer can have a physical partition installed in his processor, he must be excruciatingly careful. Keeping a cautious optic on power draw and system resources, he pauses several other modeling threads and devotes the newly freed resources to considering Jazz’s question. 

GPS coordinates confirm they are on-route and running ahead of schedule. Jazz’s alt, a sporty coupe, has proven as misleading as its user. While the flashy design looks capable of nothing more strenuous than a jaunt around town, underneath that fashionable exterior hides an all-terrain suspension and a well-tuned, industrial engine that has output surprising performance statistics, which Jazz handles with the skill of an experienced street racer.

Checking his calculations, Tracer updates his performance data on Jazz, who has exceeded his build specifications yet again. Then Tracer feeds the dataset into his ongoing calculations on Jazz’s motivations, capabilities, and likelihood of betrayal. Perhaps it is ungrateful, but Jazz is a self-confessed experienced criminal and dangerous by any definition. Jazz has given Tracer no strong reasons to distrust him, but that does not preclude the possibility of future harm. Tracer’s current state is extremely vulnerable. Caution is warranted, which is why Tracer has been monitoring and verifying their path so closely.

To avoid being tracked, Jazz and Tracer are traveling off-road. When they are within 3 joor of Diax, they will rejoin the main road network, increasing their speed 9.37%. Inputting local weather forecasts, traffic reports, and factoring in Jazz’s estimated fuel tank size and traffic congestion around Diax due to the pilgrimage…they can break here for up to two breems.

Tracer sends Jazz an affirmative ping. 

{Reminder: Conversation partners expect a response in-kind and may become hostile if they believe you are intentionally snubbing them. If your systems are too strained to reply using voice or text, try apologizing later.} 

Hastily, Tracer shifts system priority to his physical frame, shuddering as the influx of feedback hits like a loaded truck. Perched atop Jazz’s alt, his sensor wings are continuously bombarded with new data as the terrain whizzes past. Tracer’s sensornet presets were wiped during his surgery, and he juggles manually toggling his sensitivity to low while reassigning processing load. 

The process is clumsier than it should be. That is not solely because Tracer is still learning how to navigate his rebuilt frame and his tactical computer’s capabilities. The primary issue is that all the data Tracer received regarding his modification is wrong. 

Tracer has a data packet that claims to hold his post-surgery schematics and the instruction manual for running his tactical computer. That data does not match any of Tracer’s own observations. His frame has received additional, extensive modifications not mentioned anywhere in the surgery protocols, and his tactical computer bears no resemblance to the mod described in the training manual. A true tactical computer has a relatively narrow set of use cases, as it is specialized for organizing large and small scale traditional troop movements. Whatever Tracer contains in his helm is exponentially more powerful and more dangerous.

Tracer does not intend to disclose this fact to Jazz. Until they reach Diax, Tracer is entirely dependent on Jazz’s help and protection. A tactical computer might not tempt Jazz to betray Tracer, but Tracer suspects that whatever lies inside his helm is both more valuable and more forbidden. Tracer is only fortunate that Jazz’s unfamiliarity with tactical computers has protected him thus far. 

Jazz pings. ::Know you’re comfy bein’ my gorgeous hood ornament, but I’ll needja to hop down for a klik.::

They have come to a stop. Onlining his optics, Tracer slides down from Jazz’s hood, staggering until his joints adjust to bearing weight again. 

In the meantime, Jazz has smoothly shifted back to root mode. Jazz is very good at transforming–some mechanisms have a knack for it, making the process of shifting one’s frame inside out look more like art than necessity. Many things about Jazz are like art: the fascinating melding of Sanctified Design and mods he’s sculpted into his frame, the songlike rise and fall of his voice, the poetry of his gestures, and the dizzying acrobatics of both his frame and his meta.

Tracer had liked hardlining with Jazz. Tracer does not remember hardlining with any other mechanisms, but he thinks that even once he recovers his files, Jazz will still be a presence he especially enjoys connecting with his systems. Tracer has a backburnered thread devoted precisely to making sure it happens again. It is a pity that it isn’t safe for Tracer to go deeper into Jazz’s meta, or drop his own firewalls. Jazz’s processor must be fascinating.

“You okay, sweetspark? You’re a little out of it.” Jazz catches Tracer’s shoulders, studying his optics. Jazz is a very tactile mechanism. Tracer likes that about him.

Tracer resets his vocalizer. “I apologize. I was distracted earlier when you commed me. I am reordering my drives. It is an intensive process.”

Jazz grins, flashing his fangs. “S’okay. When you’re quiet, that means your processor’s workin’ hard.” He squeezes Prowl’s shoulders with his servos before letting go. “Need a cube? I’m not stopping again till we hit Diax.”

Tracer checks his fuel levels, dismayed to find himself running low. Compared to his pre-surgery frame, his fuel efficiency rates are abysmal. The tactical computer guzzles fuel, and his brush with a systems crash burned through even more. “Yes, please,” Tracer says, and takes the cube Jazz hands him. Tracer’s social performance scripts trigger, and following the prompt, Tracer bows his helm over the container, touches it to his spark, and murmurs, “I humbly receive,” before tipping it back to consume in a single pour.

When he lifts his helm, Jazz is watching with something like amusement, drinking his own fuel in small pulls. 

Tracer’s field crinkles with embarrassment. “Will you encounter significant difficulty driving to Diax without rest?”

Jazz shrugs. “I’ve run worse routes straight through. I’ll be slagged once we get there, but we’re racing the clock.”

“You will be able to rest once we join the Circumnavigation,” Tracer promises. “It travels at the pace of its slowest member.” Or at least Tracer’s database says so; whether Tracer himself has ever walked their path himself is undetermined. What manner of modus Tracer follows remains unclear. Perhaps a wisdom path? Or a knowledge path? Tracer adds a few more calculation threads to tertiary processing to consider this question in greater depth.

“We’ll see,” replies Jazz, tapping one pede. “Find anything interesting in your data?”

“Nothing conclusive,” Tracer replies, forcing his field to remain motionless. “My archives are extensive. Progress has been slow.”

Jazz hums, throwing back the last of his cube and storing the container. Tracer does the same, recognizing that Jazz is ready to move on.

As Jazz stretches and flares his plating, exercising joints and motors that will go unused while in alt, Tracer stays quiet. 

Tracer did not lie to Jazz. Until he has remapped his full processor, any conclusions drawn from data he finds there are preliminary–but they are indicative.

Tracer’s processor is filled with criminal case files. 

Those case files cover a very specific range of crimes. Murder. Abduction. Nonconsensual processor alteration. Personality reprogramming. Spark confinement. Environmental destruction. Industrial pollution. Illegal mining. Energon wells. Hotspot exploitation.

These are not lower-level crimes handled by city patrol mecha. These are crimes against Primus, who granted every living Cybertronian a piece of Their own spark, and who gave Their creations Their own frame as a home.

Only the Enforcers investigate crimes against Primus.

Enforcers are both feared and admired. Their tenacity is legendary and their authority stretches across Cybertron and all its colonies, outposts and possessions. They are even permitted to ignore or be pardoned for secular crimes committed in the name of hunting down their targets. Very few mecha are trusted enough to be accepted in their ranks. 

Tracer knows this because he has an Enforcer handbook on his data drives.

85% likelihood and climbing: Tracer is an Enforcer. 

An Enforcer would have logical reasons to be granted a Class A restricted mod. Their trustworthiness is attested in the narrative surrounding them, and their investigations would benefit from possessing a tactical computer. If Tracer’s surgery was performed legally, that eliminates certain possibilities and raises new questions. 

It is still possible that Tracer could be a corrupt Enforcer, but Tracer has little to no data supporting that scenario. While he will not discard the possibility entirely, for current modeling purposes, he will focus on higher probability simulations.

Scenario: Tracer is an Enforcer legally granted a tactical computer. He enters medical stasis before undergoing the mod’s installation at a government controlled medcenter. Following the installation, but before he is brought up from stasis, his frame is removed from the medcenter, possibly without his consent.

The timing is an important data point. Considering the narrow window of opportunity, 98% likelihood the act required a perpetrator working inside the medcenter, one with direct knowledge of the procedure’s intent and status. 

Following Tracer’s removal, highest probability dictates the perpetrator was met by an accomplice meant to transport Tracer out of Praxus (possibly the convoy who’d transported his frame, although that mech need not know). 

Complication: Praxus has strict inspections on outgoing cargo. Tracer’s frame should have been discovered. 

89% likelihood the conspirators were aided by at least one high-ranking government official who helped smuggle Tracer through Praxus’ tightly-controlled borders. Tracer’s case and status could be more complicated than they know. It is more important than ever that Tracer returns to Praxus.

At the sound of Jazz’s transformation back to alt, Tracer refocuses. Jazz playfully revs his engine, backing toward Tracer and presenting his rear bumper in a clear invitation to climb up.

With a hint of a smile, Tracer carefully settles back into position, folding his wings down and trying not to place pressure on anywhere uncomfortable. Plating to plating like this, Tracer can feel Jazz’s field, warm and lively, just like the imprint of Jazz’s meta. 

“I am ready,” Tracer says. On to Diax, and then to Praxus, where Tracer’s answers are waiting for him.