Jazz had never heard a song as beautiful as the one the crystals sang for Prowl. The Praxian stepped amongst the crystals, doorwings and arms raising and falling as he elegantly twisted and dipped. Some steps were so slow, so soft Jazz could hardly hear them through the vibrant song of the crystals. Other times his steps were quick and sharp and the song of the crystals rose with them. Prowl trilled and as he did, the crystals shown brighter all around him. He dipped, plucked a crystal from the field and stepped backwards, doorwings dancing on his back as his arms dipped and turned. There was no hesitation in Prowl’s movements, just grace. Jazz would never have imagined a blind mechanism could dance among crystals without crushing even one; he was in complete and utter awe. Drawn by Prowl’s hypnotic movements, Jazz stepped towards him. As Prowl dipped, twisting and extending his arm, Jazz took his servo.
“Oh!” Prowl stumbled. Despite his empty optic sockets, Jazz could see the start in his face. Around them, the crystals’ glow dimmed. “Lord Inquisitor.”
“Just Jazz,” he said. “I think I interrupted somethin’.”
“I tried to stop you,” Smokescreen declared.
“My harvest,” Prowl replied, there was just the hint of breathlessness in his voice and it stirred Jazz in a manor he was not prepared for.
“Yer harvest,” Jazz echoed.
“My harvest,” Prowl repeated.
He pulled a crystal from his bag, a stunning specimen of Alexandrite and turned his doorwings and helm as he clicked his glossa. Stepping with the confidence of the sure sighted, Prowl walked a few steps and from among the emerald ground cover, plucked a crystal. Prowl returned to Jazz, doorwings tilting and swaying as he walked and held the crystals out to them. At first, Jazz thought the second crystal was just an emerald but when he held it up, he realized it was Alexandrite, a far duller specimen the first, but Alexandrite all the same. Jazz looked out at the sea of emeralds and tried to imagine how he could even spot the rare Alexandrite hidden among them and could not imagine how it could be done. He stared at Prowl and wondered how a blind mech could tell the crystals apart just by touch and how he had made them glow and then capture that power when he had picked that first crystal.
“I don’t understand,” Jazz said. “How ya can do this. Ya made the field glow when ya danced ‘n ya picked Alexandrite from emerald. I can’t... see a difference lookin’ down ‘n I got... well typical Polyhexian vision.”
“I coud not have seen a difference either,” Prowl replied, unbothered by the implication of his blindness. “They sound different. Their vibrations feel different. This is how Praxians have harvest crystals for millions of vorns. Dance and sing to them in the right harmonic and they glow from within.”
“Ain’t e’er seen anythin’ so beautiful,” Jazz declared. Prowl flushed. The horrific burns might have blinded other mecha to the truth but in Jazz’s clear vision, Prowl was a truly stunning mech.
“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “I have a long list from your friend... You may watch but, I need quiet to hear the crystals.”
Smokescreen elbowed Jazz just under his chestplate and smirked. He was an absolute scamp. Jazz looked around and spotted Bluestreak sitting in the branches of the tree next to them. The mechling wave a hello with his digits. Could anything be done for Bluestreak? There was no injury Jazz could see which would explain the mechling’s mutism. That did not mean there was not damage hidden under his plating, or a wound to his psyche. Having walked among Praxian refugees since he had first taken the post of Lord High Inquisitor, Jazz had seen not only physical scars of all kinds but also the haunted optics of traumatized sparks. He knew Ratchet did his best for them but some wounds went too deep for even a miracle worker like him to heal and when there were so many despairing, so many damaged beyond the skills of any other medic in the land, Ratchet could only do so much.
Prowl sang without glyphs, standing still in the field of crystals, varying his pitch as his doorwings dipped and waved. He felt something, heard something that Jazz could not or just did not understand and he canted his helm right and slowly turned in that direction, dancing on flat peds. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. Twist, bend. Dip. Tilt. It was a dance like nothing Jazz had scene. Flick, flick, flick, Prowl waved his left doorwing like a fan as he held the right still and he danced in small steps, knees ever so slightly bent. Jazz realized, as time passed, that Prowl changed his pitch as he sought different crystals and moved from the field into the woodline. Jazz straightened, ready to help him navigated the thick woods but Smokescreen caught his wrist and shook his helm. Prowl reappeared, stepping from around the tree Bluestreak was perched in. There was a sparkling blue stone in his servo.
“Benitoite,” Prowl replied. “Considerably rarer and like Alexandrite, often overlook among similar coloured stones.”
“Y’re a real master,” Jazz said. “I can’t counter the number o’ mechanism that walk through these woods ‘n fields ‘n got no idea what they might step on.”
“It is not so terrible a thing sometimes to be overlooked,” Prowl replied. “Alexandrite and Benitoite do poorly in greenhouses and gardens. They thrive out in the wild where their camouflage protects them from over harvesting.”
“Ya ne’er take more than ya need,” Jazz guessed.
“I will take none if I believe it I feel the crop may collapse if I do,” Prowl replied. “I harvest from many fields and forests so no one is depleted of its resources.”
“It’s brilliantly done,” Jazz said. “‘N hungry work, I figure.”
“I packed snacks,” Prowl said.
“How ‘bout I treat ya to lunch?” Jazz offered.
“The market is close of Primus’ Cycle,” Prowl reminded him.
“Ain’t a stall or pub,” Jazz replied. “My ori’s got a place tucked away on the west side.”
“You originator?” Prowl asked, taking a sharp intake. “But... is he not at services?”
“No,” Jazz shook his helm. “He ain’t much for temples. We usually have lunch when the market’s closed ‘n quiet. When ‘m in town anyways.”
“Why would you bring us?” Prowl asked.
“No reason not to,” Jazz replied.
“We are almost beggars,” Prowl argued, exasperated.
“‘N I was one once,” Jazz countered, jovially. “Not sure how ya missed it, Prowler but ya ‘n yer mechlings got ten times that class I do. Not that ‘m gonna hold that against ya, ‘n Ori won’t either.”
“You are... persistent,” Prowl sighed.
“‘M a pain in the aft,” Jazz corrected him, grinning as the Praxian shook his helm. Jazz could imagine him rolling his optics.
“I think he has you beat, Creator,” Smokescreen piped up.
“Bluestreak is shy,” Prowl argued, servos outstretched.
“Ori likes sparklings,” Jazz countered. “‘N cheeky younglings.”
“A pain in the aft indeed,” Prowl groused. He stretched out his arms to the tree where Bluestreak was perched and the mechling climbed easily into his arms. The blind mech hugged his creation. “We will leave if Bluestreak or Smokescreen even slightly uncomfortable.”
It might have been more gentlemechly to allow Prowl to decline without argument but Jazz was not a gentlemech. So far as he was concerned, it was kinder to introduced the trio to his originator than note. Prowl and his creations would benefit from a watchmecha. Having Swindle on notice was no small thing. The mech’s business practices were questionable at best but as much as Swindle cared for coin, he care significantly more for his own helm. He would make certain that none of his underlings, allies or enemies meddled with Prowl for fear Jazz might blame him. Between Swindle and Ori though, Jazz would always choose his originator. Knowing Punch as Jazz did, he knew his originator would not need to be asked to do this favour for his creation. One look and the mechlings and Punch would be besotted and he would not take much longer to adopted Prowl as his kin.
“Just o’er here,” Jazz said as he led the trio of Praxians through the empty market streets.
All the shop fronts were shuttered up, their keepers on their knees in front of monks or priest in any number of the temples in the city. Even after the services over, many of them would go home to rest, not even sweeping the floors of their homes or businesses as this mega-cycle was decreed by many of the faiths as the mega-cycle of rest. Mechanisms like Punch and Prowl were looked down upon for failing to attend worship or rest. Rest was a luxury mechanisms like Prowl did not have and Punch had spent all Jazz’s life and longer still working his digits to the struts to keep his family alive and that habit was not about to die just because Jazz had gotten a fancy title.
“Ori?” Jazz called to his originator as he pushed the folding door away from the shop’s entrance.
“Bitlet,” Punch called to him from behind his loom. “I was thinkin’ ya wasn’t comin’.”
“I got preoccupied,” Jazz explained. “I brought friends to join us for lunch.”
“Oh?” Punch asked as he peered from the side of of the loom. Next to Jazz, Prowl stood rigid and coiled, a spring prepared to burst. Jazz ever so slightly cupped his elbow, reassuring him with light taps of his digits, chirolinguistics. “Lemme lest my spools down. I got myself in a bit o’ a tangle.”
“If we have come at a poor time,” Prowl offered Punch a polite escape and Jazz smiled as he saw his orginator cant his helm at the Praxian and then smile down at Bluestreak who was standing very closely to one of the weavings Punch had display near the door. Though he was clearly captivated by it, the mechling had the good manners not to touch; Jazz could not have said the same for himself at that age.
“Not at all,” Punch replied. “Ya can touch it, Sweetspark. It’s sheepacron wool. A lil touch ain’t gonna hurt it none.”
“Thank you,” Prowl murmured. He did not so much look at the direction of his youngest creation but tilted his helm and doorwing to him. Jazz watched the silent mechling pet the soft, colourful panel. Bluestreak clamoured over to Prowl and moved his digits quickly against his procreator’s palm. “He says it is very pretty.”
“Thank ya, Darlin’,” Punch said. “Jazz, show’em to the nook. When I free myself from theses strings, I’ll serve some soup.”
“Lemme help ya,” Jazz said, taking Prowl’s arm in his. “I know ya get ‘round well but Ori’s place is... full.”
“It is that,” Punch agreed.
“You made all of this, Sir?” Smokescreen asked.
“Not all at once, or nothin’,” Punch replied. “Somethings don’t take so long as others.”
“It’s amazing,” Smokescreen said.
“Why thank ya,” Punch said.
“Are you sure there enough fuel?” Prowl asked. “There are three of us...”
“There’s fuel enough,” Jazz assured him, guiding Prowl to the long bench on the closest side of the table. “Ori’s always got a pot of soup on.”
“Ne’er know when some poor hungry spark might come by,” Punch declared. Free of his spoon, he joined them in the nook that served as the kitchen where a cauldron simmered on the fire. “Temple’ll only fuel ya if ya let’em preach at ya. That don’t suit a lot o’ mechanisms.”
“Ori’s always fuellin’ mechanisms passin’ through,” Jazz explained. “My Ori, Punch is a weaver, Prowl. Among other things. He knits some too. Ori, Punch sells crystals in his slot on the east side. Ya mighta heard talk o’m.”
“I have,” Punch declared. “That was clever o’ ya teachin’ yerself the feel o’ different coin. Very clever.”
“Prowl’s pretty brilliant,” Jazz declared. “The way he finds his crystals is a work o’ magic.”
“It is not,” Prowl argued. “It is only a little skill.”
“It’s pretty magical,” Smokescreen interjected.
“My creations are Smokescreen and Bluestreak,” Prowl said. “Bluestreak is mute, If he wishes to speak, he will use me or his brother as translator, unless you speak some chirolinguistics, as Jazz does.”
“Happens I taught the miscreant,” Punch declared. He set a bowl down in front of Bluestreak first, his wriggled his digits in the air and wrote a compliment to Bluestreak. The mechling snuggled into Prowl’s side and shyly answered with the careful wiggle of his own digits.
“I wish it was more commonly known,” Prowl sighed.
“I agree,” Punch said, setting bowls in front of Prowl and then Smokescreen before fill bowls for himself and his creation. “So many mechanisms get hung up on Neocybex or Primal Vernacular ‘n sneer at every other tongue.”
“Thanks, Ori,” Jazz said. He smiled as he ate a spoonful of soup, as the mechs and mechlings with him spoke. It was exactly as he had planned.
