Undercover in the City of Glass

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
Bayverse AU
Prowl, Jazz, Dylan Gould's grandfather
hardlight holograms, semi steampunk AU set during WWI.
for tf_speedwriting AND for vejiraziel's birthday 

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” Jazz said, looking up from the datapad. 

“You’ve never been the type to like ‘easy’,” Prowl replied, coolly. “Besides, I ‘d rather imagined you’d appreciate the challenge.”

Jazz cocked his head. “I didn’t think you imagined anything.”   Everything was logic and order to Prowl.

“I imagine a great many things,” Prowl said. “I simply keep perspective.” He sat up. “Now.” He tapped the top edge of the datapad meaningfully.

Jazz looked down at the schematics displayed on the pad. “Yeah, I can do it.” He looked up, optics flashing behind his visor. “In style.”

[***]

He waited until the sun was setting, stretching in long lines down the city blocks, gilding windows, and throwing softening lines over the columns and arches of New York’s Art Deco skyline.  A few zeppelins drifted lazily through the twilight sky, and the streets were crowded with shiftworkers on the bustling business of heading home after a long day. 

He rolled into an alley, following the smell of horses.  For the new modification to work, he needed to be some place safe and undisturbed, and with the time of day, the hackney companies were all out on hires: the stables would be the safest spot for something his size.

Jazz rolled to a stop behind the back of the stables, his thin tires coming to rest on the dingy cobblestones.  The dingier the better, he thought: it meant this place wasn’t getting swept out any time soon. Inside, he could hear the mumbling chatter of stableboys, working on tack: he could smell the fat and polish they used to keep the harnesses supple and bright, and the idle turnover of an engine from one of their Model S's for hire.

All right. Time to  try this out. He had to admit he’d been kind of eager to try it: new tech was always sort of a thrill. And Prowl had probably figured that if anyone was going to run the hardlight hologram mod through its toughest paces, it would be Jazz. 

He activated the .exe file. So many options—skin color, frame size, eye color, clothing….  Well, this was going to be fun.

[***]

“Miss…?”

“Josephine Zeta,”  Jazz said, tilting her head.  Her mouth formed the most perfect cupid’s bow, her hair a stylish bob. The skirt was a little narrow, hampering her stride, but, as Jazz had heard the French say, fashion had a price.  Jazz always did like style. 

“Miss Zeta. Russian?” the man asked. He wore a charcoal grey suit, impeccably tailored, the kind of fabric that was so simple, but somehow lush in its simplicity.  His hair was brushed back, in dark pomaded waves, one errant curl brushing his forehead.

Jazz hadn’t thought that far. “This is America. I didn’t think these things mattered.”

“They don’t.”  He grinned.  “I was only asking to see if I could divine your taste in libation.”

Straight ethylene, Jazz almost answered.  But that wouldn’t work on a number of levels. She tossed her head, sending her dark curls bouncing.  “I think I should let you surprise me.” 

“Definitey Russian,” the man nodded to himself, amused, as though he'd won a bet.  He stepped off into the crowded party. A band was playing a lively dance tune, dancers swirling and bouncing, gaslight glittering off their sequins and crystals, bright on the white starched shirts of the men, gleaming off the stickpins holding their ascots in place. 

Mr Gould was in here, somewhere, a packet of plans probably tucked into his suit jacket.  Plans for a weapon that would revolutionize human warfare.  The American government had deemed it too destructive, and had ordered the plans destroyed.  The inventor himself had sobbed as he testified in front of Congress that he would blame himself for the end of humanity—that ‘sparse generations would curse my name until humanity reached its utter end’. 

Mr Gould had gotten the plans. And here, a German agent was going to take them from him, and make that nightmare weapon a reality.

It was all too familiar for the Autobots. And if anyone respected that some things must be lost, some weapons never made, even if it meant the deaths of hundreds on the battlefields of conventional warfare, it was Prowl.  And Jazz was not far behind.

“Excellent choice,” a voice murmured, somehow familiar over Jazz’s left shoulder. “Mr Gould goes for the petite.”

Prowl.  Of course he’d be here, supervising and if necessary, making alternate outcomes. He was always at one small remove from the action.  Jazz turned, offering a smile. “I thought maybe you’d appreciate it, too.” 

“I am not one swayed by aesthetics,” Prowl said. 

“I don’t believe you for a kl--second,” Jazz said, her pert mouth pulling into a sly grin.  Because Prowl’s usual attention to details was evident here: the sleek grey cutaway coat, the high polish on the black leather shoes, the gloves white an impeccable.  Even to the orchid nestled on his lapel. 

“Camouflage and nothing more,” Prowl said, stiffly.  “I see you’ve already made contact with Mr Gould.” He nodded toward the bar, where the sleek grey suit was leaning over the bar, before turning, holding two glasses in his hands. 

Luck, as always, on Jazz’s side.  “All I have to do is make sure he likes me.” And she was pretty sure she could do that. 

“I’ve matched most of the guests here,” Prowl said.  “None of them are within three removes of anyone from Germany.”  The aristocratic chin jutted at the crowd.

“They could have planned it like that.  A courier for hire, chosen for just those reasons.” 

Prowl frowned.  It looked good on him. As did the suit, the striped trousers, all of it.  “Which means anyone here.”

Jazz nodded. “With two of us, though, we can cover more people. Everyone he comes in contact with.” The thought struck her.  She turned back to the bar, replaying the scene in her mind: Gould, bending over the bar, and turning, picking up the two drinks.

Prowl had the same thought. “I feel a bit thirsty,” he said.  “You keep Mr Gould…occupied.”

“On it,” Jazz said.  “And after this, I think we should field test these holograms in more interesting ways.”  She lifted a hand, letting the bracelets tinkle together on her wrist, her olive skin dusky and smooth against the white and black dress.

A bright flicker behind the blue eyes. He nodded at Mr Gould, a companionable acknowledgement, one gentleman to another as the other walked up, holding one of the glasses out to Jazz.  “Miss Zeta,” he said, formally, “It was lovely to make your acquaintance. I look forward to furthering it.”

Comments

[wicked3659.livejournal.com]

Eeeeeee I love it! And I really wanna see them field test those hardlight holos :D preferably on each other ;3 also loving the steampunky feel to this too! <3

[bluebirdsoaring.livejournal.com]

Jazz...Zeta...yep, you are having so much fun right now with that field test...keep going =) And you know Prowl is so undressing you with his eyes right now!!! LOL I love the steampunk setting too!

[mmouse15.livejournal.com]

This is interesting. I like how you've written Prowl and Jazz's characters, and I am intrigued by the setting and looking forward to seeing more of this story.

[vejiraziel.livejournal.com]

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Omg! My Jazz!<3<3 And I can totally visualize Prowl in his prim and propper clothes! Ohhh I loved the feel of it and this verse. I, too, vote for that field testing!

Thank you so much for writing something for me! :D

[cmdrtekk.livejournal.com]

Creative crafting as always. Thank you for sharing.