Flashback - Symphony [Jazz]

[Deleted]

//ooc// Takes place in Iacon during the Caste System era.

The notes were faint but brilliant, shining like the light from the open-air hall. As beams of white and gold rose over the lip of the building, he stood, transfixed, orange optics staring into the sky above. From that gleaming place, he heard sounds he'd never heard in the Dead End, dancing together and woven into lilleth-song that had no source.

Music. He knew what music was, vaguely — sound put together for entertainment. Sometimes it was for fun, sometimes it was to celebrate, and sometimes it was to mark a sad time. It had a pattern to it, like the clank-clank-clank-hss of a transforming waste truck — but this was something else. It was more complicated, more...pretty to listen to, and it made something in his back-strut shiver. The wasteworker bobbed his head to the beat, tapping his foot as the latest song reached a crescendo.

He did not know much of the world. He knew his name was Waste Unit B-D21M-Pol, and he knew that he was in Iacon. He knew he belonged to the Polyhexian Waste Authority. He knew that he was meant to be cleaning up the shuttle-parking, as this part of Iacon was full of important officials — it had to be kept shiny. Neat. It was full of beautiful, polished buildings from the Golden Age, and if there was so much as an Energon cube out of place, he would be in trouble. There was a large section of parking still to clean, and here he was, tapping his ped along.

But he couldn't help himself. The sound was stirring something in him, something that had begun to grow since arriving in Iacon. Everything was so perfect and aligned in the city, it was like cleaning was more to keep things looking nice, instead of a necessity. Mechs and femmes weren't dying in the streets; there wasn't the fear of a giant rust outbreak, all because one street went undone. It was different. It was startling.

It was...nice.

[Jazz]

     Jazz continued to push air through the Praxtal* in his servos, trailing his digits over the various keys that changed the tone that came out from it. The tiny spaces and wide spreads required a certain level of dexterity to master, which Jazz had more or less done so at this point and he played with an ease as though it were nothing more than an extension of his own framework. There were no skips in the beats or slurs on the pitches, only perfected, precise strokes that only one who had the utmost experience handling the oddity could create. The sound resonated within his helm and vibrated through to his core, easing the tension that he had been feeling earlier that cycle.

     There was a small bit of comfort in the element he was used to being dropped into as a side-show attraction for his Towerling 'friend's' company, who chatted and drank while he entertained their audio receptors. He didn't really care if they were accepting of what he was performing or not since he wasn't even really there to begin with. It was his usual thing as of late, after all. While his visor remained dull to seem like he was paying the utmost attention to what was happening around him, he had, in fact, become lost in these tunes. Jazz stood up from his seat and tilted the instrument bell up as he drifted up to the crescendo of the piece and the sound only became louder though not painfully so. Some optics that had not been on him did turn to look and listen while he played, nearing the end of his piece. What had once been soft and slow had now increased into a accelerato, and that had certainly stilled the room. Within moments of that, Jazz drew out the final note in a dramatic high-pitch that then mellowed out and finally dropped off as he cut the air passing through the instrument. His digits covered the keys to muffle any remaining air that remained in it to prevent further sound. He looked around the room as the Towerlings applauded his performance and he bowed respectfully until they returned to their conversations.

     He placed the instrument back in its case then tucked it away off to the side and left the makeshift stage. It was time for him to have his moments to relax as he typically did after a performance and grabbed himself an glass of medium grade energon as he took his leave from the room to call the lift at the end of the hallway and made his way down to the entrance of the building. This was his time to get away, to escape in a sense, needing the fresh air away from some of those golden optics that held so many things, and yet so little.

     Once finally outside and past security, Jazz took a seat at the bottom of the grand staircase and took a sip of his energon. This was the escape he needed, just wanting to see the streets for a brief moment. This was the only way he could really separate himself from what he was now, so while he couldn't completely get away from it, he could at least spare himself a few moments where he didn't have to at least throw himself at the pedes of those his Towerling friend attempted to keep impressed.

     Jazz already knew that they were the most difficult of classes to do so. No one was gonna turn HIM into a fool, that was for sure. It was only a matter of time...

     Though, for now?

     Far, far away he was and he could relax and just listen to the much more natural sounds of the normal movement along the streets of Iacon. Even though they were mainly the ones of the workers who were ensuring the roads remained clear and beautiful, they were much more comforting to him and he found a strange harmony in these sounds. Dimming his visor, he smiled as he just sat there and took it all in...

---

Praxtal* - a large flute-like wind instrument named after the city that had invented the musical instrument not long ago. While looking like a normal flute, instead of having keys along a long cylinder, it has a hollow circular chamber where varying sized holes are located. By covering various ones, different tones resonate within the chamber and echo out from the bell at the end.

[Deleted]

Around a corner lined with expensive shuttles, Jazz might have heard a familiar tune being hummed. Heavy feet walked in a beat reminiscent of one of the previous pieces, a baritone voice murmuring notes overheard from the musician's set. There was the familiar open-and-shut clanking of a trash hatch, revealed to be the subspace of a root-mode wasteworker. Clad in dull greys and blacks reminiscent of beaten metal, the only notable feature optics of orange, yellow-orange and red, Jazz would go unnoticed as the mech toddled along. Every stray piece of trash was tossed into the mech's subspace, meant to be carried back and dumped into a smaller skid. Said skid was headed for a recycling plant, the mech under orders to use the newer facility for faster processing.

The garbage mech's field swung wide, free and flowing in the absence of others. The EMF bobbed and lapped along with the beat, gently rippling with the sounds he made. It was lively and occupied, tinged with interest whenever the mech looked back at the concert hall. Whenever he got close enough, the EM waves would pass over Jazz harmlessly, not even acknowledging that he was there. Despite its size, there was a weakness to it, as if it was under-utilized or even still developing.

Then, the mech stopped. He knelt down slowly, grabbing a piece of Energon cube that was missing its bottom. Those fiery optics squinted, and the horned helm of the worker's tilted to the side. Very slowly, the worker crushed the cube into a cylinder, careful not to break or splinter the flexible plastic too much. The mech intook deeply, raising the cylinder to his mouth.

A gentle, hissing breeze erupted from his vents, and out from his mouth as well. It went through the now-deformed cube, making a hollow and dry sound. The mech stared and blinked, then made another intake and tried again.

[Jazz]

      Jazz caught the beat the mech who passed him by was making as he went and the musician couldn't help but to catch each little note made. The thudding of the steps he took to the hissing of his joints as he grabbed up discarded items was all part of the natural rhythm of this mech's life no matter where he was in this power-hungry society. He got off the stairs and followed at a safe distance as not to intrude in the waste disposer's duties, yet close enough to almost record each one of the beats he picked up on. Before long Jazz was humming and thumping along with it, replaying them through varying sounds he passed through his vocals. This mech had some awesome natural talent ( as most did even without realizing ) even if it weren't created to be pleasantly heard by someone else. Good thing Jazz just had that finer bit of tuning or else he probably wouldn't have the position he did. That in hand with the appreciation for the simpler things in life, those things usually left discarded by the world around them.

      Seeing the mech stop led Jazz to do the same as he merely observed the worker fumbling with what seemed to be a spent energon cube. Jazz watched with a peaked curiously, still not approaching as not to startle the mech and end up with this innocent situation turning into something rather messy. Once his suspicions were verified Jazz scoffed a bit to himself. Was this mech trying to make sure things like that weren't just tossed to the side and carelessly wasted, or was he actually needing a dose of energon? The separation gap between each of the classes in the caste system already irritated the musician, but if it were also effecting the amount of energon they were supplied then that made him even more irritated at the irrational situation. Places needed the workers to get things done, as most of the upper classes wouldn't dare to get THEIR servos messy... oh no. Possibly keeping workers like this mech with just enough to keep them operational while others were allowed to drink freely when they wished was despicable.

     "Yo, mech!"

     This time Jazz made a sound that did not merely blend in with the mech's own ones as he wanted to be heard quite clearly. Without the constant running of his mechanisms it probably would have made it easier anyway, but didn't help to put a little volume behind his words. Jazz took a step towards the worker, mindful to keep out of possible swinging range in the even that this stranger before him didn't like intruding company.

     "Ya got some cool funky beats I couldn't help but have catch my audials. Gotta say, I like your style. I'd like to listen to 'em a bit more, so how about a little barterin'? Trade ya this," he held out the glass that was still almost entirely full of the medium grade energon towards the mech "if ya play them again. The walk, the twists, the funk, everythin'! No twistin' circuits, I swear. Just need to listen to them a bit more to really capture them right so I can put them to a new number I'm workin' on."

     Truth was that he'd already had enough of it tapped out that he could use it without having to hear it again, but he wanted to give the mech something in trade for the favor even if he hadn't been aware that he'd assisted Jazz in the endeavor. And if the mech he were needing the energon then Jazz had no issue providing it.

[Deleted]

"Yo, mech!"

The clunky mech dropped the cube, turning around and swinging his massive arms as he did. It wasn't out of malice, though — he had been startled, and sometimes wasn't aware of his own space. He loomed a little over Jazz, bigger than most and the colour of shadowed cement. The heliish-coloured optics probably didn't help, though they were round with curiosity as the strange mech spoke.

"Ya got some cool funky beats I couldn't help but have catch my audials. Gotta say, I like your style. I'd like to listen to 'em a bit more, so how about a little barterin'? Trade ya this," he held out the glass that was still almost entirely full of the medium grade energon towards the mech "if ya play them again. The walk, the twists, the funk, everythin'! No twistin' circuits, I swear. Just need to listen to them a bit more to really capture them right so I can put them to a new number I'm workin' on."

The mech looked at the cube, then back at Jazz. He opened his mouth to speak, though no words came out. When they did, they were slow and mechanical, like queries being fetched from an aging datapad. Theirs was the creak of disuse and no practise.

"I...don't understand...sir."

He pointed at the cube.

"I'm...not due...to refuel...until next cycle. Tank is...at...48% capacity."

The slow blink the mech made hissed from his shutters. They wiped a few flecks from his optics, laboriously retreating as his eyes glowed anew.

"And I...don't know...what a...'beat'...is. Are you...asking me...to hit something? That's what...you mean?"

The worker tilted his head like a giant puppy. He then remembered he had dropped a crushed cube, and leaned down to grab it. His hatch popped open and the trash was tossed in, shutting a couple of seconds later. Back to staring the mech returned, waiting for Jazz to say something he might process.

Unlike the workers Jazz had come from, garbage mechs weren't meant to have personality. They, like some other utility mechs, were given a basic intelligence and orders to fulfill. That didn't mean they couldn't become fully-functioning, but this mech wasn't one of them. As his supervisor had told the Iaconian Waste Authority, "He doesn't have a lot to offer mentally. Give him simple commands, and he'll get it done."

[Jazz]

     The moment that the mech turned around and swung those arms Jazz was at the ready. He didn't have to move much, though more like leaned back some to avoid the possibility of bein' struck in accident. He barely felt the brush of air from the motion but it didn't hurt to be a little more cautious when you were able to be dented so easily.

     Jazz listened to the worker as he spoke and took note of the way he simplified the words in an almost... infantile... way. Jazz recalled that most workers were created just to understand their jobs and weren't given the knowledge that those outside of that class were allowed. Know your duty, perform that duty, don't bother with anything else. It was misguided to trust that the lower classes wouldn't have the capacity to think outside of that given the proper tools and one day that probably would be the High Council's downfall. Those were thoughts that would get one reprogrammed so he tucked it away for later and paid attention to what was going on infront of him.

     "Hey, it's good stuff! Comes right outta the pockets of them Towerlings I play music for. Think of it less as 'refuelin'' and more of a thank you from me for doin' such a great job at your... assigned task." That last bit was said with a bit of a scuff, but not towards the mech. More of just having to say it that way that seemed less natural than it probably should have been. Then he chuckled and waved his free servo. "I don't mean HIT somethin', per say. More like... let that frame of yours do what it does best. The clanks and hisses are the music my audials crave. I can use it to create a pretty cool piece. Though hittin' things ain't that bad either, if ya do it right. Like this."

     The musician reached over to the side where one of the metal posts lining the road stood and tapped on it with his free servo. He started with the base of his palm, hitting it loudly twice, then once softly with the tips of his digits. He did this a couple of times to make sure the mech got it then started a little faster in a series of one-two-one strikes of the same palm to digit pattern. Then he stopped and grinned to the mech.

     "Here, drink this down, then you try."

[Deleted]

Oh...ohhhhh. It was a tip! His supervisor had mentioned that, if he did a good enough job, he might get a tip from wherever he was assigned to. The giant mech nodded slowly and reached forward, gently taking the Energon from Jazz with a nod.

"Thank you...sir."

Without another word, the wasteworker tipped his head back, opening his mouth wide. Down the hatchet the entire contents went, and — wow. Wow. Okay, that felt pretty good, with the buzz in his head and the tingle in his throat. The mech gave an awkward little grin, handing the cube back to Jazz as he went over to the post.

"Like...this?"

Slowly curling one hand into a fist, the garbage mech knocked the same pattern onto the metal. Unlike Jazz's quicker, more deft movements, the worker's were ponderous and heavy, every clank and clink at a much slower tempo. When he was finished, he looked back at Jazz, waiting for him to confirm the mech had done right.

But first, a broken datapad was sitting on the side of the road, waiting to be collected. The mec went over to it, leaned down slowly, and retrieved it from a pile of broken glass. His attention went back to the task at hand, and the wasteworker walked right by the musician. Saying nothing, his massive hand swept up a series of broken fragments, likely from a cube rolled over by an alt-mode Cybertronian.

[Jazz]

     Jazz took the cube from the mech after he had finished it off and smiled some as he noticed the grin on his face. Well, at least he'd managed to get some sort of emotion out of the big guy. This was a step in the right direction. He watched him as he moved over to the same pole of metal that he himself had tapped on just previously and listened to the beat that he thumped out. Of course it was done in a slower, cautious way - which was understandable considering that Jazz was no where near as bulky and capable of damage as this worker was!- but it was pretty good still. Just to show that he was pleased with it, Jazz smiled and tapped along as though it were recorded in his processor and he kept up with the slower pace.

     "That's perfect! Good job!" Jazz grinned widely now. "See? I knew ya had it in ya, big guy! Once ya get the hangait you're gonna be able able to do it even faster. Pure-" He paused to watch the worker begin cleaning up the section of the road just off to his side where some broken shards were and chuckled. "Natural."

     There was a shift of air as Jazz cleared his vocals to regain the lunk's attention. There was no need to be rude about it all and not introduce himself. Heck, Jazz HAD been in that auto-pilot mode himself once before and was never given a second glance by those higher up than him. No way was he gonna treat someone else in that same manner. So he held his servo out towards the mech in an offering of a handshake and stood like that until the attention would come his way again.

     "Designation's Jazz, so ya don't gotta call me sir. If anythin', it sounds a big weird and scripted when I hear it. I ain't no robe-swinger*."

---

Robe-swinger* - Jazz's description of those who occupy the Senate, as they are donned with 'robes' that signify their superiority. This is a word he heard often when these members were being talked about by those within his group of fellow workers.

[Deleted]

The mech's attention on Jazz wouldn't refocus for several minutes. In the span of time it had taken for Jazz to distract him, several wrappers had blown into the parking space, and someone had thrown a cube over a fence. That, combined with the trash currently among the neat rows of transports, would simply not do to be left alone.

Though he no longer hummed and stomped his feet to the rhythm of Jazz's music, he still hummed a little. Sometimes it was a line of song, sometimes it was just a few notes — the beat he'd been taught among them. When he turned around to check the fenceline for more debris, he stopped, seeing Jazz holding his hand out expectantly. The garbage mech walked over, confused.

"Do I...give you...some-thing?" he asked, leaning down. He looked all around, then back at the mech's hand before leaning back up. "Did you...drop...some-thing? Do you...need...some-thing?"

It then occurred to the worker that he might have 'spaced Jazz's Energon cube by accident. He popped open his hatch, fished around for something that roughly felt like the cube, and hauled it out from its garbage-ridden depths. The mech brushed it off carefully, then slowly handed it back to the singer.

"Did I...take your...cube...Jazz?"

[Jazz]

      Jazz was one who had more patience than probably he should so as the mech returned to his duty of picking up the trash he wasn't even phased and continued to stand there waiting for the mech to take notice of him again. Jazz was more impressed watching the worker humming the little beat that he had picked up and inwardly beamed with pride as though he were watching him brighten up right before his optics like a newly created sparkling taking its first steps. Still, Jazz waited for the acknowledgement. When he finally did again it was only to be interrupted by assumptions and while the large mech started questioned him about what he had dropped or needed, he couldn't help but to laugh a bit.

      "Wait, wait. I didn't-"

      It was too late, however. He was already going through his subspace apparently looking for the cube. When he came out with one Jazz shook his head and stepped towards the mech to take the cube, but reached out with the servo that had been waiting to be shook towards the mech's now outstretched one.

      "No no, that ain't it, buddy. Like this." Now if the mech didn't freak out at Jazz trying to take his, there would be a light grasp and an even gentler shake. "It's a way of greetin' someone. Don't ya'll get taught anythin'? Sad shame, this is. But anyway, I'm Jazz. What's your designation, bud?"

[Deleted]

The mech looked down at Jazz's hand with a stare. He did not "freak out", as Jazz would have thought, but watched in ever-present curiosity. The emotion flickered through his field, making little ripples in an otherwise monotone EMF that was as big as the mech it belonged to. One could almost hear the processes in his head whirring, trying to clutch onto the little bit of etiquette and understand what it meant.

"Greet...ing?"

So it was like...saying hello with hands. The mech's mouth made a little "o", and Jazz's hand was slowly shaken back. Only, instead of the garbage mech letting go, he shook it with every syllable as he said, "Waste Unit B-D21M-Pol. Pro-per-ty of the Po-ly-hex-ian Waste Auth-or-ity. On loan to I-a-con for temp-or-ary serv-ices."

He kept shaking Jazz's hand. He had not been instructed to let go, and thus, saw no reason to. He did not know of what other civilians did behind closed doors, or of the more intricate rituals of their society. Work, listen, work more, refuel — beyond that, he had no patterns or habits of his own. "Culture" was not something he was meant to understand.

And yet, here he was, trying to mimic the handshake back. He liked the nearby theatre's music enough to hum it as he heard it, and had done the same with Jazz's beat. He could not explain why he did these things, only that he had a faint notion that others did them. No one had told him he was wrong, and until they did....

[Jazz]

      "Well then."

      Jazz stared at his hand as it kept being shook and chuckled again. He forgot how much more simple the processor worked when one was of the lower caste system but that was easily overlooked since it had been a while that Jazz had been in the same situation. That wasn't for anyone to know, however. For now he was focusing on the conversation he was having instead of scowling at the word 'property'. He hated that word being said- even if he still heard it now and again from his Towerling sponsor- and really wished there was a way to make the use of it against the law somehow. Just one more reason to grind his dentas at the system of separation currently in place.

      "Kind of a mouth full tryin' to say all of that at once, so I'm just gonna call ya Dump. Do ya mind? If not, then Dump it shall be! Much simpler that way and ya don't gotta remember a whole line like it's some kinda repetitive playback. Not to mention it gives ya personality!"

      This was a fun learning experience, but some lessons were best to move on from. Especially when it involved servos starting to lock up and whine, which Jazz's was starting to do from the constant motion. He didn't want to stop Dump from enjoying this bit of the lesson but there really wasn't much more to do as now they had formally introduced themselves - Jazz a little less formally than Dump.

      "Also..." The smaller mech tensed up his servo a bit, moving to still the other one's. "You don't gotta keep shakin' the hand. You plant your servo firmly in the grip of another's, shake a couple times, then pull back. But you're doin' well! Keep practicin' and you'll be a pro! Then ya can teach your coworkers and friends how'ta do it." Finally he pulled his servo free, wiggling it a bit as he did so, then looked around the streets a bit. "You're doin' a fine job, Dump. Ya should be proud! Why, I doubt Iacon would look this good if you weren't around fine tunin' it."

[Deleted]

"You're doin' a fine job, Dump. Ya should be proud! Why, I doubt Iacon would look this good if you weren't around fine tunin' it."

"Thank...you," the worker mumbled. Most of Jazz's chatter had flown over the mech's head — he had managed to pick up "teach" and "practice", and how to shake another's hand, but little else. From what his processor could put together, he was supposed to show his other coworkers how to do it. Jazz had also given him another name to be called: "Dump".

He saved the term to storage, marking it as an identifier of his own. The mech then went back to cleaning, picking up more discarded cubes and bits of trash, his subspace hatch popping open and snapping close. Open, close, open, close....

"Hrngh?"

The mech stopped. He tried to shove his hatch shut, but it jammed just before it folded back into his torso. The clunky worker pressed hard, eyes squinting at the unworking latch as the pressure from his servo increased. Something shifted and began to buckle in his storage — if he could just...get it...to snap...and let him shut his chest-space.....

SPANG!

Whatever was inside of his subspace snapped back in full force. In a blink of his optics, detritus exploded from within, plastic and crystals and bits of metal flying out into the open. A sticky, rancid mess punched into the air with its sickly sweetness, and "Dump" was left staring dumbly, looking out at everything fluttering and falling from his cavity to his feet.

"...Oops."

The mech bent down, reached inside his hatch, and began to fish around. He pulled out a large, flexible rod of metal, which hadn't been crunched down properly to fit. Holding the rod between two hands, the mech slowly flattened the piece, each end held against a flat palm and pushed to meet in the centre.

[Jazz]

     This mech was something else and as he fumbled around with the runaway part Jazz couldn't help but to smile again. This mech wasn't mindless and had an actual chance to break away from the system they were so tightly fixed into. He could advance with the right mix and get away from this city-state so fixated on order and intolerance for change. Had Fracture spotted the same potential in him so long ago? Fracture had given him the shove in the aft to get him moving, whether by choice or not, and Jazz could only hope he had given this mech the same level of turn in the right direction. Like he had thought before, it was like watching a little sparkling taking his first steps.

     For now, he had a call come over his line that made him flinch a little and he turned his helm up towards the building he had come out of. With a heavy vent, Jazz landed his gaze on Dump once more.

     "Dump, buddy... I gotta jet. Seems I'm bein' called up to entertain the Masters again. But maybe I'll see ya around again someday, yeah?"

     Iacon was a large city and with him starting to travel it was unlikely that he would run into the mech again. Jazz wasn't going to bring up any level of negativity, though, not when the meeting between the two had been rather positive. Jazz would not deal with rolling backwards. He needed more level-headed commoner company and he hoped that his presence had at least been received well by the mech before him. Time would be the one to tell, given that if the handshake was suddenly seen being offered between simple minded workers around Iacon...

     "Later, mech." With a small salute of his index and middle digit of his left servo, the Musician made his way back inside and begrudgingly made his way up the lift back to the company of the Masters.

     Primus, he hated being a 'Pet'.