Chapter Text
“Whoa,” Jazz said, staring out the window. In all his years of piloting, he never expected to see a sight quite like this before him.
It was a space station right out of a sci-fi movie. Except sooo much bigger. It was huge. Humongous. It had to be bigger than Earth’s moon. If the pointed bits were habitable, then its area and mass could actually be somewhat equivalent to Earth itself.
The abstract structure could only be described as alien. Jazz had seen three different types of architecture: human, Quint, and Cybertronian. Compared to more developed alien species, he was nowhere near an expert on space station craftsmanship. Far from it, actually. However, Jazz felt he was familiar enough to know that the station was not created by one species, but by several different ones. He could see some of Prowl’s race’s construction in its design, along with the Quint’s (which was a little concerning), as well as dozens of others that were unfamiliar.
It was a symbiosis of designs. Although chaotic, it was-
“Amazing,” Jazz breathed, pressing his visor to the glass of their teeny, tiny spaceship. It was merely a speck compared to the station. And it was able to house half a dozen Cybertronians comfortably. Jazz couldn’t imagine what human fighter jets would look like in their hangars.
Foot- pedsteps (c’mon, Jazz, you’re better than that) thudded behind Jazz. In the reflection of the thick polyglass of the ship’s viewing window stood Prowl. His sensor wings fanned out to get a better reading as they both looked at the space station coming into view.
“Ah, they expanded again,” Prowl said, tilting his helm. He didn’t seem thrilled. “Soon they’ll have to reclassify Arbaquon,” he exvented as if pained, “the datawork will be convoluted.”
“Right,” Jazz said, drawing out the syllables. He turned away from the dazzling sight, tilting his antennas at Prowl. “What do you mean by reclassify?”
Prowl turned to Jazz. The expression he used was one Jazz has become familiar with. There had been multiple translation errors between the two during their journey. Quint Code (which Jazz thought was their actual language, but really it had been their military shorthand, apparently) was too simplistic to get real ideals and emotions across.
It was a relief that Prowl had managed to scramble some basics of English together by just listening to Jazz ramble. The Cy was intelligent. As fast as a supercomputer. Really, he was a supercomputer, to an extent. Jazz was still trying to wrap his mind around sentient machines, but not machines. Throughout that first month of misinformation, Prowl finally was able to coax Jazz into syncing their systems together to download Jazz’s language files, filling in the blanks in his own drives.
That had been… traumatizing. Jazz was pretty sure his brain blacked out most of those memories. But talking to Prowl was easier now.
However, it wasn’t perfect. Jazz had tried learning Neo Cybex in return, but Cybertronians (and their languages) were old. Way beyond ancient. Their vocalizers could create noises Jazz could never manage to mimic or even hear without his mecha. It made a lot of nuance go over Jazz’s head. And it was difficult for Prowl to translate concepts into human language.
“There is…” Prowl started but seemed to chew on the words. He took another moment of consideration before affirming. “Do you remember the Unified Alliance of Interplanetary Species Council?”
“Yeah, UAIS.” Jazz said, nodding. Prowl cringed, making Jazz smirk. No matter the language, the Cybertronian wasn’t fond of acronyms. However, he especially hated the one Jazz came up with for the Council.
“Correct,” Prowl begrudgingly accepted, “Their control is far-reaching. Although it is annoying at times, it can also be… efficient. Under their law, Neutral Outposts- even outposts privately owned can get ticketed if enough universal travel flows through- are put under registration for tax, mapping, and other miscellaneous reasons. In the registry, outposts must be classified by UAIS guidelines.”
“Oh,” Jazz exclaimed, surprised. But he shouldn’t be. Not even aliens could escape bureaucracy, it seemed. “What are the classifications?”
“Mm,” Prowl said, thinking, “there is… a lot of different aspects that go into the registry. How much mass an outpost has, how many occupants can be present, how many occupants actually use the facilities, how many docks, how many different alien species, the list goes on.
“To make it easier, UAIS inspects the outposts and gives them a class. Or rank, if you will.” Prowl paused. “It does not translate well into English, but I suppose I could attempt.” The Cy seemed to mutter the last part to himself.
Jazz waited patiently. Prowl didn’t need to take much time to think things through, usually. Again, supercomputer mind. If anything, Prowl had to be tolerant of Jazz’s slow, squishy brain to process everything he said. The roles were only reversed when Prowl was trying to accurately translate something for Jazz. Or when they got philosophical. Complicated mathematical problems, Prowl might succeed at, but emotions and ideology were not his cup of tea.
“Are you familiar enough with the Greek alphabet?” Prowl queried, looking Jazz over. “Although antiqued, it seems your species- your culture- still uses it for classification purposes.”
“Uh, I think,” Jazz proclaimed, “isn’t it like Alpha, Omega, Beta stuff?”
Once more, Prowl made a face. This one was another Jazz was familiar with, though he wasn’t as fond. It was the face Prowl made when someone made a speech error of sorts. Be it grammatical or statistically false.
“Although you butchered the order the letters go it: yes,” Prowl answered. He turned away from Jazz, looking over Arbaquon. “The UAIS has a staggering number of different classes. However, the simplified universal one has five major ranks. Alpha would be the largest scale. There aren’t many of those. Even on Cybertronian scaling, they are massive. A combiner team could transform and walk around freely in those.”
Jazz nodded, even if he didn’t know what a combiner was. Still, Prowl’s musings were always interesting. Jazz really wanted to know more about Cybertronians. The more Prowl opened up, the more fascinating it got.
However, it was a touchy subject. Their planet- Cybertron (who could have seen that coming?) was dead. A husk of its former self. And there wasn’t a feasible way to revive it. Prowl, being emotionally constipated as he was, didn’t like to talk about it. So Jazz tried to keep his curiosity in check.
“Arbaquon would be considered a Delta.” Prowl continued. “It’s on the smaller side. At least, its original design was. Since then, there have been multiple additions. In the coming vorn, I’m sure it’ll be considered for reclassification. I see it ranking up to Gamma or maybe even a Beta, depending on certain ramifications.”
“Wow,” Jazz said, looking the outpost over with new eyes, “so you’re saying this reclassing is long overdue?”
Prowl snorted. His sensor wings dipped down as he nodded. “Very. I do not know why it has been put off for so long. Laziness, likely. It’ll be a mess when it comes to light.”
“So, get in, get out as quickly as possible?” Jazz asked, turning back to Prowl. He made sure the Cy was looking at him before tweeking his antennas in his direction.
“Indeed,” Prowl said, turning away from the window. He started back toward the cockpit. “I hope you know what you need.” Prowl continued, looking over his shoulder pauldron. “I understand that your planet was isolated. Although mechanical life is not as delicate as organics, we still have our basic needs. While I’m thankful you could substitute your original fuel source for energon, I’m unsure what other essential you will-”
“Uh, yeah,” Jazz exclaimed, interrupting Prowl. Suddenly, he was aware of his real body. He fidgeted in his cockpit, stretching out his curled fingers. His legs were numb. He’d been plugged in too long. “I think I got it. Thanks though! Be sure to come to you if there’s any trouble, Prowler.”
With a confirming nod, Prowl continued his journey. Jazz made sure he was around the corner before he turned his focus away from his mecha and toward his real body.
It was disconcerting, semi-disconnecting from his neural link. Jazz brought his human hand up, slightly shaking, to his cranial port. He rubbed the muscles around the bionic. It was sore, and the cabling was hot from exertion. Jazz’d seen some serious R&R after the strain he’d put on his mind.
That was the bad thing about befriending Prowl. The Cy automatically assumed Jazz was some alien mechanical species. Which was... fair. If Jazz were in his place, he wouldn’t have thought of squishy piloting Frankenstein’s monster equivalent robot as his first guess.
But it certainly complicated things. Although Jazz had learned to trust Prowl with his life in the field, he wasn’t sure he could trust him around his action body. Prowl’s pinky could easily end Jazz. It made hiding Jazz’s organic tendencies exhausting. He was pretty sure Prowl thought he was chronically ill. From what Jazz gathered, Cybertronians didn’t need to recharge nearly as often as humans. Or fuel (eating or drinking). Or unplug. Or hell, stretch and exercise like Jazz’s body required. He pushed himself to the limits to be seen as somewhat normal for mechanical standards. And it would take its toll on him eventually.
Jazz’s mecha came with survival gear. He had a full oxygen recycle system. Backups for the backups. So he was fine there. He also had enough water and nutrients to last him a year or two. Jazz was thankful for humanity's paranoia right now. However, it was never supposed to be a permanent thing. His protein bars and vitamin smoothies were almost out. Maybe a week at best. Jazz still technically had those IV nutrient bag thingies the medics whipped up; he was loath to touch. Jazz would like to eat his food the old-fashioned way, thank you.
If he couldn’t find anything at Arbaquon, then Jazz would grit through them. However, since the outpost was apparently almost at Delta rank, surely there was something he could find for his squishy self there.
One real problem Jazz was just considering was how he would peruse the shops. Judging by the size difference between Prowl and human Jazz, aliens could come in all different shapes and sizes. Jazz’s mecha probably couldn’t saunter around a place that had what human Jazz needed.
Eh, it would be fine. Jazz was known for his improvisation. Prowl could vouch for that.
- - - - - - - - - -
Jazz had a really stupid idea.
Arbaquon was… overwhelming on the inside. There were so many different aliens walking around. Just as Jazz figured, there were different areas beings could go to depending on size. There were a bunch of signs that warned the little guys that it was a big people place only. Also, signs that warned the big people that specific sections were communal and to watch out for the little guys. It didn’t help that no matter where Jazz went, it felt overcrowded and chaotic.
No wonder Prowl wanted out of here as fast as possible. Jazz mused. He could see the space alien inspectors looking at this place and demanding that it get even bigger.
For the past hour, Jazz had found a secluded(ish) spot to stand and just… watch. It helped his mecha map out the surrounding areas. Although Jazz was thankful for the map Prowl gave him, something told him it wouldn’t be too accurate. Just his luck, Jazz faced a hall leading toward the little guys’ area.
There was some foot traffic going through since Jazz was in a communal hallway. The small aliens were kinda cute, even if some were actually bigger than human Jazz. They were very alert, looking around for any danger before confidently stepping out. Jazz supposed they had to be confident to walk around titans.
What really piqued Jazz’s interest was this lumbering quadruped technorganic show up and lay down near the entrance of the little guys’ area. Then- from seemingly nowhere- something unlatched from their back and flew through the entrance. Jazz had to replay the footage his mech took to even see what the little critter looked like.
It was then that Jazz pulled up the massive packet on Neutral outpost etiquette that Prowl gave him. Since he was looking for something specific, it was easier to browse through the data packet.
Jazz got to learn all about the… well, basically, space version of BDSM. Except get rid of the sexual aspect of it.
That was when he got his idea. It would absolutely be Prowl approved (lowkey, if Prowl knew, this would 100% be so much easier).
Before Jazz could think too hard, he went looking for… admissions? Service help desk? Something. He was relieved to find no lines, waiting around in one would definitely psych him out.
Quickly, Jazz pulled up his mecha’s voice changer. Although Universal had relatively easy articulation, some pitches and syllables were beyond human vocalization. It was best if his mecha’s voice was the one heard instead of just pitching in when needed. Prowl said that the back and forth could be… disconcerting.
“Hello there!” Jazz conveyed joyfully. Well, as joyfully as his mecha’s synthetic voice could be.
“...greetings.” The alien receptionist said. Some gray organic with scaly skin. Kinda reminded Jazz of Squidward. If Squidward had battle armor skin and an obvious environmental mask on. “May I assist you?”
The translation took a second, but Jazz was sure space-faring aliens were used to it. “That you can, darling. See, I was wondering if I could get registration for…” Jazz brought up Prowl’s packet, “a [compact subsidiary]?”
Jazz nervously awaited the receptionist’s reaction. He didn’t have to worry; she barely reacted. “Of course,” she said, turning to her monitor. As she started typing, an unseen third appendage reached back further into her little office and pulled out a datapad. “Is the [compact subsidiary] an independent or dependent?” She quiered.
“Uh, independent.” Jazz answered with only a second hesitation. That right there was a trick question. At least, the translation from Universal to English made it seem so. Jazz would have thought dependent since a subsidiary already meant a companion reliant on another (compact being the size category of the subsidiary). However, after researching more, Jazz found out that dependent really meant pet at best, slave at worst. Basically, no autonomy.
The receptionist continued to ask Jazz questions, mostly regarding if human Jazz needed any special accommodations. Which he did, but he had his own equipment. The neutral look on the receptionist’s face turned to relief for a second. Jazz wondered how many obtuse cases she had to deal with in her time.
After the questioning, the receptionist fiddled with the datapad she picked up before sliding it under the protective screen between Jazz and her. “Please fill this out. I will need that and your UIAS ID. Once verified, your [compact subsidiary]’s documentation should be printed momentarily.”
“Thank you,” Jazz said, tentatively taking the datapad in his servos. Fortunately, aliens had figured out everything. Prowl had given Jazz a comm unit that easily interacted with the datapad. Soon, the documentation was on one of his monitors in the cockpit. Jazz took this opportunity to semi-disconnect from his mecha. He filled out the documentation manually. His fingers were stiff and a little shaky, but he got through the task regardless.
He put the datapad down before reaching for his ID magnetized to his thigh strut (seriously, aliens got everything figured out). Prowl had his space ID forged for him. He was unsure if it was legal, but when he slid it and the datapad back to the receptionist, she barely glanced at it before she continued to get human Jazz registered.
It was about a breem later that Jazz received his registration. During that time, he rented out a lodging near one of the little guys’ area. That way, he could store his mecha while he went shopping.
The room he booked was cramped, not really made to fit his mecha in it. All he could do was stand awkwardly in the center. Different furnishings must have been alien bedding options. Man, did Jazz want to crawl up into the cushy-looking nest at the corner of the ceiling. There was a cot in his mecha that he’d been slumming on. Jazz was sure that if he had to suffer it any longer, he’d get back problems.
He probably wouldn’t be here long enough for a power nap, though. When they had docked and made their way off the ship, Prowl had immediately gone to task. The Cy wasn’t spending a second longer on this station than necessary.
Speaking of Prowl…
“Prowler, my main mech!” Jazz exclaimed. His mecha was mostly dormant right now, running diagnostics and whatnot. Jazz was going to give it a hard reboot while he was out. Right now, he needed the comm link open while he got his proper armor and oxygen tank on. “How’s it hanging?”
::I am not hanging.:: Prowl immediately corrected, used to Jazz’s eccentricities. ::Do you require something?::
“Uh, maybe?” Jazz said, pausing in latching his chest plate in place. Technically, he was supposed to wear all this while piloting, but Jazz had done away with it a few weeks into being stuck in space. If he was going to be stuck in the neural link way past the safety regulations, he was at least going to be comfortable. “I was just wondering how long you were going to shop.”
::I will most likely be done in a joor unless unsuspected impediments come up.::
Joor, that’s… Jazz grimaces. He really shouldn’t be doing math. 5 hours?
“Ah, okay.” He says, now working on his boots. There’s the regular boot that he normally walks around in, then the armor that snaps over it. It was so satisfying to clip in place. “Are we leaving right after then?”
::...::
Jazz looked up from his boots, frowning at the silence that came from his consoles. Standing up, he made his way over to his command chair in two strides. Leaning over it, he fiddled with the controls. “Prowler? You there?”
::Yes. Apologies.:: Prowl proclaimed. ::I forget that you are from an isolated planet, sometimes. Jazz, most spaceships need detailed maintenance to properly function. The bigger they are, the more work they need. Ours is currently ongoing systems checks. It’ll likely be a shift, maybe two, before we can depart.::
“I see,” Jazz said hesitantly. A shift. He was sure Prowl had said that word before. He rubbed at his temples. He really shouldn’t be doing anything strenuous right now. Thankfully, he had a walking calculator to do the math for him. “And how long is a shift again?”
::8 joors.:: Prowl answered somewhat exasperatedly.
Okay, okay. I got this. Jazz hyped himself, already knowing the configuration for joors. “That’s…” He said aloud before trailing off. 40 hours. “Oh. Oh! Nevermind then, I can do it in that time.” I could probably even get a good nap in-
::Do what in that time?:: Prowl asked sharply.
Jazz winced. Oof, busted.
He looked around his cockpit for… Jazz wasn’t really sure; anything to get out of this conversation. However, he knew Prowl wouldn’t let a subject rest after he latched onto something.
::Jazz? Is something wrong?::
Case and point.
“Uh, not necessarily.” Jazz blundered. “Just… something… unexpected.”
Yeah.
::...could you clarify?::
“Well,” Jazz dragged out, trying to whip up some excuse, “it kinda hit me out of nowhere… Usually, it’s on some schedule?”
::What is it?:: Prowl queried, getting more frantic.
Ooo, bad call.
“Something intimate towards my species’… anatomy.” Jazz proclaimed. Words were coming out of his mouth that he did not approve of. “My menstrual… ccccycle started.” Jazz’s eye twitched.
Abort! Abort! You are digging yourself a hole you will not be able to climb out of, Jazz. Leave while you still can-
::Menstrual cycle?:: Prowl repeated, slowly sounding out the syllables. Jazz almost laughed at the absurdity of those words coming out of Prowl’s mouth (intake). ::I do not believe I’m familiar with the term. One moment while I consult your-::
“NO! Nononono!” Jazz said, waving his hands at the console. He slapped his hands over his mouth, face going red. Oh, he’s really in the trenches right now. Slumping into his command chair, Jazz took a moment. The urge to bang his head against the nearest surface was strong.
::Jazz? Are you alright?:: Prowl- bless his spark- sounded so concerned. ::I promise not to look it up. You said this is an… intimate cycle?::
“Mhm,” Jazz said, burying his head in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he straightened and turned back to the monitor. “It doesn’t happen all that often. Maybe a year or so.” As if. But Jazz reminded himself that Prowl operated on different time settings. “My… core goes through a sort of… solar flare? I guess. I don’t know what else would make sense to you, but.. It kinda… discharges?”
Jazz, you are in so much-
::Ah, yes-:: Prowl squeaked out. His vocalizer made a sound Jazz never thought it could pull off. ::You do not need to elaborate any further. I believe I understand.”
I don’t think you do. But Jazz didn’t correct the Cy, letting him come to his own conclusions.
::Are you in a secure place?:: Prowl asked, getting over his blundering. His tone became serious again. ::There are multiple lodgings around Arbaquon. I could help you-::
“Don’t worry, Prowler. I’m all set.” Jazz interrupted. The tension that arose from the awkward conversation melted. “I’ll probably be out for a while after. I’ll likely be… 5 to 6 joors? The process is… annoying, but not long.” Jazz cringed but managed to keep it out of his voice.
::...I see.:: Prowl proclaimed. ::I will see you then. Take care of yourself, Jazz.::
A chuckle made it past Jazz’s lips. “Will do, Prowler. Logging off now.” Before Prowl could answer, Jazz turned the comm link off. Exhaling, Jazz leaned back in his seat. He hadn’t even fully suited up, yet already so exhausted.
Taking half a minute more to process exactly what he told Prowl, Jazz couldn’t take it anymore and jumped out of his seat. “Alright, enough moping. What’s done is done.” He went back over to his cot, sitting down to continue suiting up. “C’mon, Jazzy. You got an alien space mall to explore. You can cringe at yourself later.”