Trinket's 5/?

[gilded_orchid]

Title: Trinkets 5/?
By: gilded_orchid
Rating: PG
Universe: G1/Alignment-verse AU
Characters: Jazz, Prowl
Content: Pre-war AU, The prompts involved with this are Crystal Gardens and Aria di Mezzo Carattere                 
Words: 2,858
A/N: I…I went sideways with part of the prompt again. =_=  Anyway, the last two prompts are forthcoming! I’m typing, I swear I am!

Praxus

10 meta-cycles post-Revels

“Cultural Research?”

Prowl’s voice was flat, completely unimpressed—and thanks to Smokescreen’s inventive interpretation of the term—even wary of Jazz’s revelation. He’d been thrilled to receive a message from Jazz stating that he would be visiting Praxus for a few meta-cycles. The Revels had come and gone, with commissions far and wide keeping Jazz busy in the time since his grand triumph. It seemed everyone wanted Jazz’s skills, and while Prowl was glad for his success, it was…irritating to suddenly find himself pushed aside. He did not doubt most of the agitation was due to the fact that he was still technically petitioning Jazz for the right to claim suit; a dozen gifts he’d presented the mech, and while all of them had been gracefully received not a single one had been displayed, announcing his acceptance.

While he’d grown to value the friendship that had formed between them, he’d almost begun to despair of ever getting a concrete answer from the mech; Jazz was not one to be pressured into anything, nor was he one to be tied down. When—if—anything happened, it was sure to be on Jazz’s on terms. He’d rather hoped the nature of his visit had been a more…personal one, but instead he’d been dragged to a small but highly popular energon bar overlooking the Crystal Gardens, and had this laid on him.

He hoped Jazz meant legitimate cultural research and not spying—though he suspected Jazz would be a natural at it—or…whatever it was Smokescreen thought he was doing. It had become nothing more than a catch-all excuse for the mech’s misbehavior and irresponsibility. Disappear for three megacycles and come back covered in other bots’ paint and reeking of energon? Cultural research. Up and wander off to Uraya with no warning, come back with a trail of minor infractions and a new modification? Cultural research. Get marched into his office by the enforcers, scuffed and dented up after visiting one of the highly illegal underground gladiatorial rings? Cultural. Fragging. Research. To be fair, it was purely Smokescreen’s antics that had worn his patience with cultural research entirely out, but he didn’t doubt for one second that any bot with half a processor would take the first opportunity to abuse the privilege. Jazz had one of the better processors on Cybertron, and charm enough to get away with anything, up to and probably including murder. He could only hope that the inclination to seize that opportunity hadn’t hit yet. 

Jazz shrugged eloquently before reaching back for the platter of appetizers. “Cultural research. Look, there’s my marque to consider. The post-Revel commissions helped a lot, but a bit of work here and there as a cultural researcher will take care of the remainder of it in short order. And believe me, the quicker you pay off your marque, the better. The interest just kills.”

Prowl glared.

Jazz pointed his rust stick at him. “Added bonus? I’ve been meaning to do some traveling anyway, check out the local colors and get fresh inspiration for a new composition. I’ve got some great synergy going between these two functions.”

Jazz’s visor dimmed in a fit of pique when Prowl remained silent, instead simply bringing his cube of energon (filtered high-grade, just a dash of mercury) up to his mouth for a calm sip, blatant disbelief radiating throughout the prolonged gesture.

Jazz huffed in mock-offense, throwing himself back against his chair in a deep slump, a move that would normally reek of laziness and poor manners—practically a crime in and of itself within Praxus, but this was Jazz. What should have been a lazy sprawl instead seemed more like a Prime lounging in his throne. Prowl didn’t doubt for an astrosecond that Jazz had spent countless cycles perfecting the move for just that effect.

“It was either get out of Protihex, or murder half my guild in their recharge.” Jazz finally conceded after a sullen silence.

“And the truth rears its head.” Prowl murmured.

“Laugh it up, mech. It’s a nightmare back home.”

It was, too. The time before and immediately after a Revel was hectic, but this aftermath had been particularly rough. Commissions had rained down on Choragus in the wake of his performance, with all of the most experienced musicians being tapped for projects, and a unusually high number of aspiring initiates had petitioned for consideration of the guild; as the Alpha Maestro, that meant he had to weed through the candidates, then get them settled in and work with Glyph to determine the marque prices. In the midst of all that, he had to make time to address the thousand-and-one concerns from his guild members that absolutely demanded his attention, handle auditions to fill Downbeat and Soundwave's positions, and somehow find time to work on his own projects.

He hadn't even been able to count on his friends to lighten his mood. With the Revels over, Mirage had no more excuse to ignore the duties of his caste, and while that sometimes meant hunting turbo-foxes and evening parties, it more often meant representing the citizens of his district in affairs of state, as well as serving on one of the legislature committees. Mirage was going to be very, very busy with the Appropriations council for the foreseeable future.

Tracks was off in a fine sulk, either missing Mirage or still angry about their fight towards the end of the Revels. Needless to say, he wanted no part of that. Tracks would right himself and be fit for public in a few more mega-cycles. Blaster had buried himself back in his work, and the last thing a musician did was disturb another musician's creative process. Blaster would surface again when he was ready. Or at least when he needed to refuel. Prowl had to return to Praxus, his diplomatic duties fulfilled. One of the Lords Marshall couldn't very well lounge about in another city-state on a mere whim.

He decided getting away before he did something...drastic...would be the best move.

"So you submitted a request to observe Praxus?"

Jazz nodded. "It *had* been on my to-do list, anyway. I've had a floating request for a while from one of your Councilors, and this seemed as good a time as any to do some research into the Gardens. Especially since I'll be getting a fantastic tour guide to show me around."

Prowl tilted his head in curiosity. "Oh?"

"Indeed. I imagine we'll tour the Gardens today and tomorrow, and....I'll let the next two deca-cycles take care of themselves."

Prowl, who had been reaching for a rust stick of his own, stopped short, surprise plain on his features. "I'm to be your guide?""

"Well, it seems only fair that you show me around Praxus, especially considering I played the doting host for you during the Revels."

"And what lucky happenstance, that you arrive at the beginning of my quartex of leave."

Jazz stole the last rust stick with a mischievous grin.

****       ****       ****       ****       ****       ****       ****       ****       

Jazz stuck to Prowl's side as they wandered the Crystal Garden, and if anyone was startled to see one of the Lords Marshall--and Sentinel Prime's tactical officer at that--acting as a tour-guide to Protihex's Alpha Maestro, well at least Jazz didn't have to worry about bots suddenly insinuating themselves into his company, seeking to either learn gossip from him or pry into his business. It was something both mechs would readily admit they appreciated. Prowl paused in his description of proper cultivation when Jazz suddenly stopped, slowly turning to take in the full view of the Garden.

The crystals that normally grew outside of Praxus were pale comparisons to the Crystal Gardens here. They were carefully tended, but there was something organic in their growth that indicated that each distinct growth was left to flourish on its own. Gardeners kept the crystals healthy and well pruned, but there were no signs of sculpting. Instead crystal formation of every size shape and color were scattered throughout the Garden, accented here and there with fountains or the occasional bench.

"This is stunning, Prowl!"

"We try to keep it up." Prowl agreed, pleased to find an appreciative audience for one of his city's greatest works of art.

"Is this where you got the crystal to use for my gifts?" Jazz asked, his processor turning to thoughts of the different crystals orbs that were scattered across his office.

“Technically yes; the crystals were originally shavings from various samplings throughout the garden that I kept and cultured.”

Jazz looked surprised. “They let you do that?”

Prowl’s mouth curved up into a wry smile . “Well, you’re supposed to wait for one of the pruning cycles or make a request to one of the gardeners, but they generally don’t mind if you break off a tiny sampling. Just so long as you don’t run off with an entire bush.”

Jazz looked appalled. “But, but that’s practically desecrating the display! If you pulled that stunt in Protihex…” Jazz shook his head. “It would be a horror show, plain and simple.”

“That’s one of the differences between Praxus and Protihex. Praxus is much more philosophical in our art. Our art, such that it is, occurs more as mental exercise than with an eye toward display. As such, it is intended to facilitate contemplation. It is no great loss if bits of crystal are taken for ones on private pursuit. The crystal will grow back, so why quibble?” Prowl moved to stand behind Jazz, gesturing to a cropping of pale orange crystal. “Protihexan artists would tame this, craft it into something elaborate and aesthetically pleasing. Protihexan artists as a whole enter the artistic process with an optic toward inflicting their will on the medium. Praxians instead enhance what is already there. Removing a bit won’t alter the overall form; do the same with a Protihexan sculpture and you have ruined a piece. ”

Jazz frowned thoughtfully. “That’s…a very abstract approach to art.”

“Most of our art is abstract and impression, because it makes one think. Your brand of art is aimed towards evoking beauty and emotion with displays of skill and technical mastery. Both very valid but very different methodologies.” Prowl stepped backwards and gestured further down the path. “Shall we keep going? I think you’ll like where we’re headed.”

“Sure, sure.” Jazz’s voice was distracted as he stared contemplatively at the crystal, then back at Prowl’s retreating figure.  

They wandered further down the paths, debating what exactly the purpose of art was, and just how much of it was influenced by what the viewer perceived as opposed to what the artist intended. Though they had been careful to keep their voices low so as not to disturb any of the other visitors, the argument had escalated to the point that Jazz finally halted in the middle of the path, hands planted on his hip plating as he glared up at Prowl. “That’s utter slag, and you know it! Art has to reflect something in reality, real beings, real everyday lives, tangible subject matter! There are rules and standards! By your logic, someone could dash a few splotches of paint here and there on a canvas and pass it off as an abstract representation of…of…the pathos of the artistic spirit or some nonsense! Art for art’s sake is a farce.”

Prowl, optics bright with amusement, pointed over at an isolated hollow within the Gardens. “Perhaps that will appease you, my Lord Critic.”

Jazz scoffed at Prowl’s jest, but obliged his request easily enough. There was no denying that he was truly enjoying every astrosecond.

“Primus.” Jazz whispered reverently, as Prowl strode up behind him.

A gleaming silver crystal dominated the hollow, sloping curves and sharp crests creating the façade of a closed bud. A thin crystal shard branched out from the mass, resembling nothing so much as a saber hilt. Delicate veins of silver and glowing blue crystal had spread out from the seams around the shard, and worked their way down and across the ground before climbing upwards again to twine around some of the other formations near the hollow.

“This is the Crystal Matrix. Every crystal formation within this garden originated here. It was gifted to Praxus by a Protihexan artist before the Golden Age began, during the last skirmishes of the Quintesson war.”

Jazz nodded, unconsciously leaning back into Prowl as he continued speaking. “As the legend goes, Draco, a great hero of Praxus, journeyed to the Western fronts during the Quintesson War despite his intended mate, a Protihexan weapon smith, predicting they would never see each other again if he left. Before his departure, he went to his beloved once more, and she gifted him her masterpiece, a sabre of quality unmatched by any. In turn, he presented her with his sword, that he would reclaim when he returned. ”

Jazz frowned. “Uh, Prowl? All the Tri-Torus states fell during the Quintesson War.”

“I’m quite aware.”

“Are you about to go all morbid on me, Lord Marshall? If so, I’ll not be impressed. I get enough tragedy and angst in our operas.”

“Hush.” Prowl admonished, though it was ruined by the obvious amusement in his tone. “As I was saying, he was gifted with his beloved’s masterpiece, a sabre of quality unmatched by any save Solus Prime. Now, as you know, the Western forces were scattered and the entire region fell. Protihex was taken over by force and everyone enslaved once more by the Quintessons. Despite knowing they would likely never see each other again, the weapon smith never stopped yearning for Draco. She would routinely slip away from her captors, returning to the scene of their last farewell and any that were nearby spoke amongst themselves of a hauntingly beautiful aria being sung. It was during one such occurrence that Draco’s spark-ghost supposedly appeared to his beloved, dancing with her one last time before fading away to join the Matrix.”

“I don’t like where this is headed.”

“Quiet, you. Anyway, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to be without her beloved hero, the weapon smith pierced her spark with Draco’s sword so that she could follow him into the Matrix. When her frame was finally discovered an orn later, all that was left of it was her spark casing and the sword, which had begun to crystalize. When the Quintessons were finally driven off Cybertron, the crystal, which had grown steadily in size was passed to Praxus to be laid to rest with Draco. The crystal kept growing however, until it’s what you see today.”

Jazz glared up at Prowl. “Didn’t we just agree to avoid morbid and horrifying?”

“Oh please, it was hardly that bad. Every sparkling gets told about the legend of Draco and the Crystal Matrix sooner or later. It’s not like it’s actually true.”

Jazz smirked. “Come now, all legends have their beginning in truth.”

“Well, it’s all a bit too esoteric for me.” Prowl traced a winding vein from the Crystal Matrix with the edge of his foot plating. “Does the tour please your lofty sensibilities, Alpha Maestro?”

“Oh, I suppose.” Jazz drawled before turning back to face Prowl. “I will say that I hadn’t expected a warrior such as yourself to be so knowledgeable of the arts.”

“Scholar.” Prowl corrected.

“Prowl…you serve as Sentinel Prime’s tactical officer and you head the Central division of Cybertron’s Enforcers. Not exactly scholarly qualifications, mech.”

“I might serve in a more martially aligned function than normally expected, but I assure you I was raised a scholar.”

“…this is another one of those cultural differences. Care to enlighten me?”

“Always. Praxus holds a more intricate concept of scholarship. All of our scholars are trained in philosophy and martial arts because the two are closely intertwined. We are also expected to master a wide variety of knowledges; the histories, the basic sciences, visual arts, and at least two or three elective fields. I chose to pursue more militaristic studies, and excelled in all of them. I’m a military scholar, but not necessarily a warrior proper. If you threw me on the front lines, I would do a passable job, but it would be a waste of most of my talents. Instead, I serve as a military advisor and tactician.”

They had picked their way back across the Gardens during Prowl’s explanation, pausing at one of the blue croppings of crystals.

“Here.” Prowl reached over and snapped off a small piece of crystal, ignoring Jazz’s flinch. “I’m curious to see what you’ll do with it.”

“…can I put it back?”

“No.”

“You desecrated that sculpture!”

“It’s not a sculpture.”

“It is too!”

“Jazz…we’ve been over this…”