[IDW] Break the Chain
Oct. 8th, 2018 06:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Break the Chain
Universe: Mostly IDW with bits of others
Characters: Prowl, Original Character(s), Megatron, Starscream, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Barricade, Soundwave, Sunstreaker/Sideswipe
Rating: M
Warnings: Political Shenanigans, Brief Moment of Sexual Content, Murder Mystery, Machinations, Twincest, Extremely Minor Character Death
Description: Desperate to bring some much needed tactical assistance to the Decepticon uprising, Megatron attempts to recruit Prowl, an outcast Enforcer with a frame exemption. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, political machinations are at work to stem the Decepticon tide and turn Cybertron back to the preferred status quo.
Commission for an anonymous person.
Chapter One
Silverspire shuffles the datapads on his desk. And then shuffles them again. Other than the low clatter of that moment, the sound of their ventilations, the room is silent. Unlike others, Silverspire doesn’t believe in ambient music for either focus or calm. It’s more than a little unsettling.
Prowl cycles his ventilations. He concentrates on the meditative exercises Yoketron had taught him. They keep his spark calm and his sensory panels still.
“Prowl,” Silverspire finally says, without looking up at him. His argent paint gleams impeccably, and Prowl supposes that if one has a small army of servants, that makes it easier to always come across near-perfect. “Your application is, as always, exemplary. But you must understand, all of the applicants for this position are exemplary. The competition is quite fierce.”
“I understand, sir.” Prowl’s jaw tightens. His spark spools into a tight knot in his chamber. “And I’ve seen the public record of the other applicants. None of them match my skillset, test scores, or active duty record.”
Silverspire sighs and threads his fingers together, folding his hands on the desk. “Their humility, however, far outpaces yours.” He frowns, and his ice-blue optics finally focus on Prowl. “They can be molded, while you are stubborn. You have a penchant for causing trouble. And difficulty keeping a partner. These are your weaknesses.”
The stack of datapads to Silverspire’s right is damning evidence. Prowl can read the name on the top – Tumbler. He knows the others below it are his previous partners, many of whom are deceased. Some transferred. Fewer still outright resigned.
He’s cursed, they say. It’s why Prowl works alone now. No one will consent to partner him.
Prowl works his intake, sweeps his glossa over dry lips. “If insubordination were a disqualification, half of the applicants would have already been disregarded.”
Silverspire shifts, the quietest of sighs gusting from his vents. “I’m going to be honest with you, Prowl,” he says, and Prowl braces for the lie. “You can continue to apply for this position. Everyone is welcome to make the attempt. But I can not conceivably see a point in the future where you will ever be granted it.”
Only half-lie then. Silverspire knows good and well that at this point, the position will never be Prowl’s. They do not want him in it, and only saving face is what allows him to keep trying.
“And why is that, sir?” Prowl asks, through gritted denta, the taste of ground metal on his glossa, and anger burning fierce and hot at the back of his intake.
Silverspire looks at him, and there’s dismissal in the way he reviews Prowl’s sturdier frame, the jut of his sensory panels, the heavier armor he’s been sparked with. Without the exemption, Prowl wouldn’t be here. He’d be a nameless grunt in the army, one among many just like him, trained to follow orders and kill for the greater good of Cybertron, without once wondering if those orders are worth following.
There is nothing in those details Prowl has chosen for himself.
They can pull him from the ranks of those sparked alongside him. They can test his abilities, measure his potential, decide him wasted among the infantry. They can pull him into another division, train him, give him a fancy title…
It doesn’t change what he is. It doesn’t change the thickness of his armor, the warrior’s build. They can change so many things, but not the frame he was sparked with.
“It is not a place for you,” Silverspire says, at length and ah, there is the lie, so smoothly given. “You are good at what you do, Prowl. Your work for us is exemplary. You keep the mechs of Crystal City safe. Be content with that.” He smiles, and there’s so much condescension in it, Prowl wants to strike him. “It’s a good life. We’re not all meant for something more.”
Prowl’s hands ache. His fingers beg for mercy, but if he unclenches his fists, he might do violence. “Is that all, sir?” he asks, tone tight and measured, while his spark swirls and whirls into points of fury.
He wants to leave before he can’t control himself any longer.
“No.” Silverspire lifts one of the datapads off the stack and offers it to Prowl. “I have your next assignment here.”
Prowl takes it with nerveless fingers, his face schooled into indifferent politeness. He listens to Silverspire’s summary of the case but the details go in one audial and out the other.
He’s too aware of the datapad by Silverspire’s left elbow. The one with his application and the Rejection stamped over every digital page.
He wonders if the committee even looked at his service record and test scores before rejecting him. Had they only read of his sparking place? The particulars of his birth?
He would drive himself mad thinking about it.
Prowl already knows the truth.
His promotion is never going to happen. He’s simply going to have to learn to be satisfied with what he has now.
He tunes back into Silverspire’s summary. This, right here, is all he has.
~
Chancellor Bracket, the first proposer of the Decepticon Registration Act, had been murdered in his habsuite last night. Now, he’s Prowl’s problem. Prowl alone because apparently they aren’t assigning him another partner.
Prowl tells himself it’s fine. He works better without one anyway. There’s no one to slow him down, no one to get in the way, no one to question his plans of action. He can investigate without having to wait for someone else’s approval.
It’s… it’s better this way. For himself. For any potential partner. If history has shown him anything, it’s that he’s better off alone.
He feels the weight of the rejection nonetheless. The invisible brand on his forehead that marks him as cursed. A troublemaker. Unemployable.
Prowl continues to do his job regardless. He visits the Chancellor’s habsuite, marked off for investigation, and takes a look for himself. The file had contained all relevant information and evidence gathered by the crime scene technicians, but Prowl prefers what he can see with his own optics.
At first glance, the conclusion is obvious: Chancellor Bracket was murdered by a supporter or participant of the Decepticon movement. Pit, it could have been one of the branded mechs even. They’ve got all the proof they need in the massive Decepticon brand on the wall, paint running in lurid, wet streaks to pool on the floor. Like a calling card.
A really obvious, really stupid calling card.
According to the file, Chancellor Bracket had been shot. Three taps. Spark. Cog. Processor. The weapon is likely to be a handblaster of some kind, judging by the lack of gore and other mess staining the interior.
Prowl crouches over the marked off zone where Bracket’s corpse had been found. Nothing’s been cleaned. Fluids still stained the meshcarpet. Bits of metal and internal components glimmer tackily in the energon spill.
Precision shots, he guesses. Though he has to see the corpse to be sure. Professional work. Or at least, someone who’s been trained to handle a weapon. Not your average Decepticon. If it was indeed a Decepticon.
He stands. There’s no sign of a struggle. No sign of forced entry. It’s as if Bracket had stood there, waiting to be shot. He’d known and/or trusted his killer. Possibly both.
This doesn’t meant it wasn’t a Decepticon. Though to leave a mark behind is a sign of sloppiness. Or arrogance. It could have been a Decepticon, Prowl supposes. One who is flying under the radar, who hasn’t outwardly joined the rebellion, but supports it from the inside. That seems more sophisticated than the ragtag nature of the group, however.
Hmm.
Prowl’s optics lift to the message scrawled on the wall again. ‘You are being deceived.’ The Decepticon rallying cry. Everyone knows it. Anyone can duplicate it.
It’s too convenient. Too easy. Prowl doesn’t trust easy.
His frown deepens.
There’s more to this. He’s sure of it.
~
The daily news reels in the background. Megatron only half-listens to it as he skims his datapad, free hand rapping the arm of his chair. He’s reading without comprehending, thoughts elsewhere. Starscream would call it brooding. Perhaps he’s not far off the mark.
The Decepticon numbers grow in leaps and bounds. More and more join with every passing cycle. The people are angry. Downtrodden. Tired of being used. They are eager to finally have an opportunity to do something. They take their new armament, their new training with a vivacity unmatched by anything Megatron has ever seen.
He’s quickly building a formidably large army.
Unfortunately, numbers aren’t everything. It’s still not a very effective army. He lacks skilled, trustworthy leadership. Smarter, cleverer minds to help lead the way. Recruiting soldiers is easy.
Recruiting leaders is another matter entirely.
“Megatron.”
He lowers the datapad and tilts his head. “What is it, Soundwave?” He hadn’t heard Soundwave’s approach, but then, that is Soundwave’s way. He thrives in the silence and the shadows.
Soundwave slinks to his side, quiet for all of his bulk. He slides a datapad into view, and Megatron accepts it.
“Designation: Prowl,” Soundwave explains as Megatron powers on the datapad and the image of an Enforcer comes into view. Stern features, probably attractive if he’d smile. The basic black and white paint of his station.
His record scrolls alongside his image. It’s impressive. Top marks. Top skills. But ah, here’s the point of interest. He hadn’t been sparked an Enforcer. Curiouser and curiouser.
“You took me seriously when I asked you for recommendations, didn’t you?” Megatron asks as he peruses the record.
“Affirmative.”
“And you think this Prowl is a good candidate?”
Soundwave sweeps his finger across the screen, and highlights a section of Prowl’s file. Three times denied for a position he’s qualified for three times over? Looks like some frame bias here, a great deal of functionalism as well. The leadership is more than content to use Prowl as they see fit, given his aptitude, but only on their terms. They have no interest in Prowl as an individual.
Megatron’s lips curve into a slow smile. “Good job, Soundwave. You are, as always, on the right track.” He leans back in his chair, idly thumbing through the rest of Prowl’s file. “Perhaps we should send Starscream to make the initial contact. They have a lot in common.”
“Negative.”
Megatron looks up at Soundwave, head tilted. It isn’t often Soundwave dissents, so when he does, Megatron is inclined to listen. “You disagree?”
Soundwave hesitates, as he always does, when presenting a conflicting opinion. “Starscream too… mercurial for Enforcer Prowl. Recommend you approach.” He lowers his head, gaze eerily focused on Megatron, as if trying to impart some knowledge by will alone.
“Me?” Megatron presses his lips in a thin line, assessing Prowl all over again.
Multiple partners in the past. All of whom either requested transfers or are now deceased. A few marks on his record for insubordination, but a near-perfect record for solving cases. He has an incredibly analytical mind, according to his test scores, which are of course perfect. He’s a soldier sparked, but tested into a better field.
“Hm. I see your point.”
Megatron raps his fingers over the arm of the chair again. He stares at the vidscreen, seeing without seeing, the news reeling across the bottom. Something about a chancellor being murdered. Only the rich and powerful would care about such a thing.
Mechs like Megatron and Soundwave, like the citizens gathering under their banner, have no cares for dead chancellors. They’ll be replaced soon enough, with someone equally worthy of being loathed. There’s no point in paying attention.
“We’ll be careful with this one,” Megatron says as he reads through Prowl’s file once more, his attention drawn back to the image, those ice-blue optics staring back at him. “Convincing him won’t be easy. But I believe it can be done. Good work, Soundwave.”
Soundwave’s field goes flush with delight at the praise. He dips his head and leaves, vanishing in much the way he arrived – silently.
Megatron cycles through Prowl’s file again. Just to be sure.
Yes. He’ll do quite nicely.
~
It’s far past the end of his shift by the time Prowl returns to his habsuite, laden with evidence and clues, all of it pointing to a clear-cut suspect. It would be so easy if he could be be content with the obvious answer.
He’s absolutely not.
The entry wounds on Chancellor Bracket’s corpse had been precise. The residue suggested a basic handblaster with silencing chip. Surveillance in Bracket’s high-priced high-rise had already been wiped. Someone knew to cover their tracks. This feels like a professional hit, not the act of a mech driven by anger and desperation and revenge.
The Decepticons do not hire professional assassins. They might employ a few among their ranks, that would not surprise Prowl in the least. He still doesn’t think the Decepticons responsible. Any professional working for the Decepticons would know better than to paint the scene with an obvious clue.
Bracket had angered someone. Prowl is sure of this much. He doesn’t know if the anger is personal or professional or if there is some deeper connection he hasn’t made. He is, however, certain that the easy answer is not the correct one.
He refuses to sign off on the report until he has incontrovertible proof.
Prowl tosses the datapad onto his desk and slides onto the stool. He flicks on his personal console, and while he waits for it to boot, rubs exhaustion from his optics. It’s going to be another late night. And for what? To prove himself to superiors who are never going to grant him a promotion? To work endlessly for zero recognition?
Would it have been better if he’d never tested out of the infantry?
A new message notification blinks at him from the corner of his screen.
Prowl frowns and clicks on the icon. He doesn’t recognize the sender, but other than that, it doesn’t have the indicators of a fake mail. The subject line reads ‘From One Exemption to Another’.
He opens the message and skims the contents, surprise seeping into his spark with each absorbed glyph. He reaches the end, sees the name its tagged with, and immediately starts back at the top, reading slowly and carefully, looking for hidden nuances, traps, anything to explain the purpose behind the message. Anything but the obvious: that it’s genuine.
Megatron. Leader of the Decepticons. Why on Cybertron would he contact Prowl?
More than that, why does he want to meet? What makes him think Prowl would be interested?
The subject line doesn’t make any sense, either. Megatron’s not frame-exempt. He’s pulled himself out of the mines. It’s where he should have spent the rest of his functioning. The very fact he’s not mining right now, that he’s started a revolution and fights in the gladiator pits and writes political manifestos, goes against every grain of the Cybertron’s leadership. His rage against the machine is unapproved. That doesn’t count as an exemption!
And yet.
Prowl finds himself drawn to the communication. He re-reads carefully enough to commit the letter to memory.
It is simply signed, ‘Megatron’. No glorious titles attached.
Prowl frowns and reads the message again. Then twice more. He looks for hidden meanings, not that he knows Megatron well enough to read between the lines. He doesn’t know what Megatron wants from him. It reads like a recruitment pamphlet.
Prowl scoffs. As if he’d be interested in anything the Decepticons have to offer.
His finger hovers over the delete button. His gaze slides over to the datapad on his desk, the one detailing Chancellor Bracket’s murder. It’s a painful reminder.
Thrice denied for a promotion he’s rightly earned.
Unpartnered despite policy and procedure stating such a thing is not allowed.
No matter how hard he works, how much he proves himself, it will never be enough. He’ll always be the soldier-turned-detective, frame exempt only because it suits their use, and not his desires.
The Decepticons aren’t wrong, Prowl knows.
He just doesn’t know if they are right.
He leaves the message be. He raps his fingers over the desktop, contemplating. He doesn’t trust Megatron. He wouldn’t trust any Decepticon who reached out to him. He needs more information, more data, in order to make an informed decision.
Prowl logs into the Enforcer database and starts a search. He knows, vaguely, about the start of the Decepticon uprising and what led to Megatron gaining a following. But he hasn’t poked too much into that nest of scraplets because it’s not his task. It doesn’t fall under his purview.
He pokes it now.
There’s an officer linked to Megatron’s record – Orion Pax. Prowl recognizes the name, has to fight back a sneer. Orion Pax is very well known across law enforcement. Supposedly fearless, with an impeccable record, and a penchant for disobeying orders if he has a better idea. Despite that, he’s highly decorated. He’ll probably get promoted with ease. Mechs like him. That he’s Forged and born into service doesn’t hurt either.
Prowl only skims Orion’s record. He’s more interested in the connection to Megatron. They’ve had multiple points of contact over the years. How interesting. Perhaps Orion Pax can shed some light on why Megatron would contact Prowl in the first place. Aside from the obvious, of course.
Prowl sighs and composes a message to Orion through the Enforcer system, implying it’s in connection to a case. It’s not a difficult link – Bracket had been supposedly killed by a Decepticon after all, and a lot of Decepticon activity occurs on the edge of Orion’s jurisdiction.
Prowl clicks send before he can think twice about it and logs out of both system and console.
He rubs his temples and sighs. Exhaustion tugs at every line and every cable. He’ll have another early shift tomorrow. Silverspire, and his superiors above him, will be on Prowl’s aft to solve the case as soon as impossible.
Chancellor Bracket is important. He’s considered a VIP case. Never mind the other investigations Prowl is still processing, the other victims who deserves justice as much as Bracket. They aren’t a priority. It’s implicit. Prowl doesn’t need the order to know Bracket takes precedence over anything on his dock.
This is the Cybertron he lives in.
***
Universe: Mostly IDW with bits of others
Characters: Prowl, Original Character(s), Megatron, Starscream, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Barricade, Soundwave, Sunstreaker/Sideswipe
Rating: M
Warnings: Political Shenanigans, Brief Moment of Sexual Content, Murder Mystery, Machinations, Twincest, Extremely Minor Character Death
Description: Desperate to bring some much needed tactical assistance to the Decepticon uprising, Megatron attempts to recruit Prowl, an outcast Enforcer with a frame exemption. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, political machinations are at work to stem the Decepticon tide and turn Cybertron back to the preferred status quo.
Commission for an anonymous person.
Silverspire shuffles the datapads on his desk. And then shuffles them again. Other than the low clatter of that moment, the sound of their ventilations, the room is silent. Unlike others, Silverspire doesn’t believe in ambient music for either focus or calm. It’s more than a little unsettling.
Prowl cycles his ventilations. He concentrates on the meditative exercises Yoketron had taught him. They keep his spark calm and his sensory panels still.
“Prowl,” Silverspire finally says, without looking up at him. His argent paint gleams impeccably, and Prowl supposes that if one has a small army of servants, that makes it easier to always come across near-perfect. “Your application is, as always, exemplary. But you must understand, all of the applicants for this position are exemplary. The competition is quite fierce.”
“I understand, sir.” Prowl’s jaw tightens. His spark spools into a tight knot in his chamber. “And I’ve seen the public record of the other applicants. None of them match my skillset, test scores, or active duty record.”
Silverspire sighs and threads his fingers together, folding his hands on the desk. “Their humility, however, far outpaces yours.” He frowns, and his ice-blue optics finally focus on Prowl. “They can be molded, while you are stubborn. You have a penchant for causing trouble. And difficulty keeping a partner. These are your weaknesses.”
The stack of datapads to Silverspire’s right is damning evidence. Prowl can read the name on the top – Tumbler. He knows the others below it are his previous partners, many of whom are deceased. Some transferred. Fewer still outright resigned.
He’s cursed, they say. It’s why Prowl works alone now. No one will consent to partner him.
Prowl works his intake, sweeps his glossa over dry lips. “If insubordination were a disqualification, half of the applicants would have already been disregarded.”
Silverspire shifts, the quietest of sighs gusting from his vents. “I’m going to be honest with you, Prowl,” he says, and Prowl braces for the lie. “You can continue to apply for this position. Everyone is welcome to make the attempt. But I can not conceivably see a point in the future where you will ever be granted it.”
Only half-lie then. Silverspire knows good and well that at this point, the position will never be Prowl’s. They do not want him in it, and only saving face is what allows him to keep trying.
“And why is that, sir?” Prowl asks, through gritted denta, the taste of ground metal on his glossa, and anger burning fierce and hot at the back of his intake.
Silverspire looks at him, and there’s dismissal in the way he reviews Prowl’s sturdier frame, the jut of his sensory panels, the heavier armor he’s been sparked with. Without the exemption, Prowl wouldn’t be here. He’d be a nameless grunt in the army, one among many just like him, trained to follow orders and kill for the greater good of Cybertron, without once wondering if those orders are worth following.
There is nothing in those details Prowl has chosen for himself.
They can pull him from the ranks of those sparked alongside him. They can test his abilities, measure his potential, decide him wasted among the infantry. They can pull him into another division, train him, give him a fancy title…
It doesn’t change what he is. It doesn’t change the thickness of his armor, the warrior’s build. They can change so many things, but not the frame he was sparked with.
“It is not a place for you,” Silverspire says, at length and ah, there is the lie, so smoothly given. “You are good at what you do, Prowl. Your work for us is exemplary. You keep the mechs of Crystal City safe. Be content with that.” He smiles, and there’s so much condescension in it, Prowl wants to strike him. “It’s a good life. We’re not all meant for something more.”
Prowl’s hands ache. His fingers beg for mercy, but if he unclenches his fists, he might do violence. “Is that all, sir?” he asks, tone tight and measured, while his spark swirls and whirls into points of fury.
He wants to leave before he can’t control himself any longer.
“No.” Silverspire lifts one of the datapads off the stack and offers it to Prowl. “I have your next assignment here.”
Prowl takes it with nerveless fingers, his face schooled into indifferent politeness. He listens to Silverspire’s summary of the case but the details go in one audial and out the other.
He’s too aware of the datapad by Silverspire’s left elbow. The one with his application and the Rejection stamped over every digital page.
He wonders if the committee even looked at his service record and test scores before rejecting him. Had they only read of his sparking place? The particulars of his birth?
He would drive himself mad thinking about it.
Prowl already knows the truth.
His promotion is never going to happen. He’s simply going to have to learn to be satisfied with what he has now.
He tunes back into Silverspire’s summary. This, right here, is all he has.
Chancellor Bracket, the first proposer of the Decepticon Registration Act, had been murdered in his habsuite last night. Now, he’s Prowl’s problem. Prowl alone because apparently they aren’t assigning him another partner.
Prowl tells himself it’s fine. He works better without one anyway. There’s no one to slow him down, no one to get in the way, no one to question his plans of action. He can investigate without having to wait for someone else’s approval.
It’s… it’s better this way. For himself. For any potential partner. If history has shown him anything, it’s that he’s better off alone.
He feels the weight of the rejection nonetheless. The invisible brand on his forehead that marks him as cursed. A troublemaker. Unemployable.
Prowl continues to do his job regardless. He visits the Chancellor’s habsuite, marked off for investigation, and takes a look for himself. The file had contained all relevant information and evidence gathered by the crime scene technicians, but Prowl prefers what he can see with his own optics.
At first glance, the conclusion is obvious: Chancellor Bracket was murdered by a supporter or participant of the Decepticon movement. Pit, it could have been one of the branded mechs even. They’ve got all the proof they need in the massive Decepticon brand on the wall, paint running in lurid, wet streaks to pool on the floor. Like a calling card.
A really obvious, really stupid calling card.
According to the file, Chancellor Bracket had been shot. Three taps. Spark. Cog. Processor. The weapon is likely to be a handblaster of some kind, judging by the lack of gore and other mess staining the interior.
Prowl crouches over the marked off zone where Bracket’s corpse had been found. Nothing’s been cleaned. Fluids still stained the meshcarpet. Bits of metal and internal components glimmer tackily in the energon spill.
Precision shots, he guesses. Though he has to see the corpse to be sure. Professional work. Or at least, someone who’s been trained to handle a weapon. Not your average Decepticon. If it was indeed a Decepticon.
He stands. There’s no sign of a struggle. No sign of forced entry. It’s as if Bracket had stood there, waiting to be shot. He’d known and/or trusted his killer. Possibly both.
This doesn’t meant it wasn’t a Decepticon. Though to leave a mark behind is a sign of sloppiness. Or arrogance. It could have been a Decepticon, Prowl supposes. One who is flying under the radar, who hasn’t outwardly joined the rebellion, but supports it from the inside. That seems more sophisticated than the ragtag nature of the group, however.
Hmm.
Prowl’s optics lift to the message scrawled on the wall again. ‘You are being deceived.’ The Decepticon rallying cry. Everyone knows it. Anyone can duplicate it.
It’s too convenient. Too easy. Prowl doesn’t trust easy.
His frown deepens.
There’s more to this. He’s sure of it.
The daily news reels in the background. Megatron only half-listens to it as he skims his datapad, free hand rapping the arm of his chair. He’s reading without comprehending, thoughts elsewhere. Starscream would call it brooding. Perhaps he’s not far off the mark.
The Decepticon numbers grow in leaps and bounds. More and more join with every passing cycle. The people are angry. Downtrodden. Tired of being used. They are eager to finally have an opportunity to do something. They take their new armament, their new training with a vivacity unmatched by anything Megatron has ever seen.
He’s quickly building a formidably large army.
Unfortunately, numbers aren’t everything. It’s still not a very effective army. He lacks skilled, trustworthy leadership. Smarter, cleverer minds to help lead the way. Recruiting soldiers is easy.
Recruiting leaders is another matter entirely.
“Megatron.”
He lowers the datapad and tilts his head. “What is it, Soundwave?” He hadn’t heard Soundwave’s approach, but then, that is Soundwave’s way. He thrives in the silence and the shadows.
Soundwave slinks to his side, quiet for all of his bulk. He slides a datapad into view, and Megatron accepts it.
“Designation: Prowl,” Soundwave explains as Megatron powers on the datapad and the image of an Enforcer comes into view. Stern features, probably attractive if he’d smile. The basic black and white paint of his station.
His record scrolls alongside his image. It’s impressive. Top marks. Top skills. But ah, here’s the point of interest. He hadn’t been sparked an Enforcer. Curiouser and curiouser.
“You took me seriously when I asked you for recommendations, didn’t you?” Megatron asks as he peruses the record.
“Affirmative.”
“And you think this Prowl is a good candidate?”
Soundwave sweeps his finger across the screen, and highlights a section of Prowl’s file. Three times denied for a position he’s qualified for three times over? Looks like some frame bias here, a great deal of functionalism as well. The leadership is more than content to use Prowl as they see fit, given his aptitude, but only on their terms. They have no interest in Prowl as an individual.
Megatron’s lips curve into a slow smile. “Good job, Soundwave. You are, as always, on the right track.” He leans back in his chair, idly thumbing through the rest of Prowl’s file. “Perhaps we should send Starscream to make the initial contact. They have a lot in common.”
“Negative.”
Megatron looks up at Soundwave, head tilted. It isn’t often Soundwave dissents, so when he does, Megatron is inclined to listen. “You disagree?”
Soundwave hesitates, as he always does, when presenting a conflicting opinion. “Starscream too… mercurial for Enforcer Prowl. Recommend you approach.” He lowers his head, gaze eerily focused on Megatron, as if trying to impart some knowledge by will alone.
“Me?” Megatron presses his lips in a thin line, assessing Prowl all over again.
Multiple partners in the past. All of whom either requested transfers or are now deceased. A few marks on his record for insubordination, but a near-perfect record for solving cases. He has an incredibly analytical mind, according to his test scores, which are of course perfect. He’s a soldier sparked, but tested into a better field.
“Hm. I see your point.”
Megatron raps his fingers over the arm of the chair again. He stares at the vidscreen, seeing without seeing, the news reeling across the bottom. Something about a chancellor being murdered. Only the rich and powerful would care about such a thing.
Mechs like Megatron and Soundwave, like the citizens gathering under their banner, have no cares for dead chancellors. They’ll be replaced soon enough, with someone equally worthy of being loathed. There’s no point in paying attention.
“We’ll be careful with this one,” Megatron says as he reads through Prowl’s file once more, his attention drawn back to the image, those ice-blue optics staring back at him. “Convincing him won’t be easy. But I believe it can be done. Good work, Soundwave.”
Soundwave’s field goes flush with delight at the praise. He dips his head and leaves, vanishing in much the way he arrived – silently.
Megatron cycles through Prowl’s file again. Just to be sure.
Yes. He’ll do quite nicely.
It’s far past the end of his shift by the time Prowl returns to his habsuite, laden with evidence and clues, all of it pointing to a clear-cut suspect. It would be so easy if he could be be content with the obvious answer.
He’s absolutely not.
The entry wounds on Chancellor Bracket’s corpse had been precise. The residue suggested a basic handblaster with silencing chip. Surveillance in Bracket’s high-priced high-rise had already been wiped. Someone knew to cover their tracks. This feels like a professional hit, not the act of a mech driven by anger and desperation and revenge.
The Decepticons do not hire professional assassins. They might employ a few among their ranks, that would not surprise Prowl in the least. He still doesn’t think the Decepticons responsible. Any professional working for the Decepticons would know better than to paint the scene with an obvious clue.
Bracket had angered someone. Prowl is sure of this much. He doesn’t know if the anger is personal or professional or if there is some deeper connection he hasn’t made. He is, however, certain that the easy answer is not the correct one.
He refuses to sign off on the report until he has incontrovertible proof.
Prowl tosses the datapad onto his desk and slides onto the stool. He flicks on his personal console, and while he waits for it to boot, rubs exhaustion from his optics. It’s going to be another late night. And for what? To prove himself to superiors who are never going to grant him a promotion? To work endlessly for zero recognition?
Would it have been better if he’d never tested out of the infantry?
A new message notification blinks at him from the corner of his screen.
Prowl frowns and clicks on the icon. He doesn’t recognize the sender, but other than that, it doesn’t have the indicators of a fake mail. The subject line reads ‘From One Exemption to Another’.
He opens the message and skims the contents, surprise seeping into his spark with each absorbed glyph. He reaches the end, sees the name its tagged with, and immediately starts back at the top, reading slowly and carefully, looking for hidden nuances, traps, anything to explain the purpose behind the message. Anything but the obvious: that it’s genuine.
Megatron. Leader of the Decepticons. Why on Cybertron would he contact Prowl?
More than that, why does he want to meet? What makes him think Prowl would be interested?
The subject line doesn’t make any sense, either. Megatron’s not frame-exempt. He’s pulled himself out of the mines. It’s where he should have spent the rest of his functioning. The very fact he’s not mining right now, that he’s started a revolution and fights in the gladiator pits and writes political manifestos, goes against every grain of the Cybertron’s leadership. His rage against the machine is unapproved. That doesn’t count as an exemption!
And yet.
Prowl finds himself drawn to the communication. He re-reads carefully enough to commit the letter to memory.
Enforcer Prowl,
I am not going to insult your intelligence by lying to you, the message begins. Neither will I try to persuade you with pretty words or twists of the truth. Though our message has always been ‘you are being deceived’ and we’ve taken upon the name ‘Decepticons’, it has never been our intention to be considered liars. And so, I will not lie to you now.
Yes, the authorities have branded us criminals. This is only because that which we stand accused of, should never have been outlawed in the first place. The institution should serve the people, not the other way around. We have chosen not to accept a life of dictation, one where we are forbidden to speak or live the lives we choose.
Criminals is not what we are, simply what they’ve made us. We are those who wish to rise up against the chains keeping us bound in our roles. Surely you can understand this. You who despised your frame-given task and sought to become something more.
Cybertron sees us as criminals not because of our actions, but because of the title the authorities have given us. Our narrative has been twisted to hide the truth of our intentions because the Senate and the Council both know that there is anger, there is upset, there is dissatisfaction. They know our words will reach the masses. They know they are outnumbered. And so they seek to muddle our message by branding us something we are not.
I don’t expect you to take my words for granted. I invite you to come to your own conclusions. I invite you to look into the institution and see the cracks in the foundation for yourself. And when you find reason to question, I invite you to find me. Simply respond to this message, and I will make the arrangements.
You are being deceived. You and the rest of the people deserve to know this. I feel you are an important ally, Prowl. You can be a voice for the people, a voice for change.
You are needed, Prowl.
I await your reply.
I am not going to insult your intelligence by lying to you, the message begins. Neither will I try to persuade you with pretty words or twists of the truth. Though our message has always been ‘you are being deceived’ and we’ve taken upon the name ‘Decepticons’, it has never been our intention to be considered liars. And so, I will not lie to you now.
Yes, the authorities have branded us criminals. This is only because that which we stand accused of, should never have been outlawed in the first place. The institution should serve the people, not the other way around. We have chosen not to accept a life of dictation, one where we are forbidden to speak or live the lives we choose.
Criminals is not what we are, simply what they’ve made us. We are those who wish to rise up against the chains keeping us bound in our roles. Surely you can understand this. You who despised your frame-given task and sought to become something more.
Cybertron sees us as criminals not because of our actions, but because of the title the authorities have given us. Our narrative has been twisted to hide the truth of our intentions because the Senate and the Council both know that there is anger, there is upset, there is dissatisfaction. They know our words will reach the masses. They know they are outnumbered. And so they seek to muddle our message by branding us something we are not.
I don’t expect you to take my words for granted. I invite you to come to your own conclusions. I invite you to look into the institution and see the cracks in the foundation for yourself. And when you find reason to question, I invite you to find me. Simply respond to this message, and I will make the arrangements.
You are being deceived. You and the rest of the people deserve to know this. I feel you are an important ally, Prowl. You can be a voice for the people, a voice for change.
You are needed, Prowl.
I await your reply.
It is simply signed, ‘Megatron’. No glorious titles attached.
Prowl frowns and reads the message again. Then twice more. He looks for hidden meanings, not that he knows Megatron well enough to read between the lines. He doesn’t know what Megatron wants from him. It reads like a recruitment pamphlet.
Prowl scoffs. As if he’d be interested in anything the Decepticons have to offer.
His finger hovers over the delete button. His gaze slides over to the datapad on his desk, the one detailing Chancellor Bracket’s murder. It’s a painful reminder.
Thrice denied for a promotion he’s rightly earned.
Unpartnered despite policy and procedure stating such a thing is not allowed.
No matter how hard he works, how much he proves himself, it will never be enough. He’ll always be the soldier-turned-detective, frame exempt only because it suits their use, and not his desires.
The Decepticons aren’t wrong, Prowl knows.
He just doesn’t know if they are right.
He leaves the message be. He raps his fingers over the desktop, contemplating. He doesn’t trust Megatron. He wouldn’t trust any Decepticon who reached out to him. He needs more information, more data, in order to make an informed decision.
Prowl logs into the Enforcer database and starts a search. He knows, vaguely, about the start of the Decepticon uprising and what led to Megatron gaining a following. But he hasn’t poked too much into that nest of scraplets because it’s not his task. It doesn’t fall under his purview.
He pokes it now.
There’s an officer linked to Megatron’s record – Orion Pax. Prowl recognizes the name, has to fight back a sneer. Orion Pax is very well known across law enforcement. Supposedly fearless, with an impeccable record, and a penchant for disobeying orders if he has a better idea. Despite that, he’s highly decorated. He’ll probably get promoted with ease. Mechs like him. That he’s Forged and born into service doesn’t hurt either.
Prowl only skims Orion’s record. He’s more interested in the connection to Megatron. They’ve had multiple points of contact over the years. How interesting. Perhaps Orion Pax can shed some light on why Megatron would contact Prowl in the first place. Aside from the obvious, of course.
Prowl sighs and composes a message to Orion through the Enforcer system, implying it’s in connection to a case. It’s not a difficult link – Bracket had been supposedly killed by a Decepticon after all, and a lot of Decepticon activity occurs on the edge of Orion’s jurisdiction.
Prowl clicks send before he can think twice about it and logs out of both system and console.
He rubs his temples and sighs. Exhaustion tugs at every line and every cable. He’ll have another early shift tomorrow. Silverspire, and his superiors above him, will be on Prowl’s aft to solve the case as soon as impossible.
Chancellor Bracket is important. He’s considered a VIP case. Never mind the other investigations Prowl is still processing, the other victims who deserves justice as much as Bracket. They aren’t a priority. It’s implicit. Prowl doesn’t need the order to know Bracket takes precedence over anything on his dock.
This is the Cybertron he lives in.
