[IDW] Break the Chain 03/09
Oct. 22nd, 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 Three
Double Vision Body Shop is exactly what it says on the tin – to the average consumer at any rate. There are few who know that it’s actually a front for the black market dealings of one-half of the duo of owners.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Split-spark twins. Arrested multiple times for petty crimes. Origins unknown. In their youth, they bounced from halfway house to hostel, and Prowl can’t find any record of their sparking on any database. He suspects they were part of some Senate-sanctioned experiment on spark reproduction, but he hasn’t been able to find any proof.
He’s lost count of the number of times he’s arrested them. The charges never stick mostly because Prowl never bothers to show up to prosecute, and Sideswipe is as slippery as hydraulic fluid.
Instead, he’s made informants out of them.
By now, they’ve helped him solve more cases than the crimes he’s caught them committing. They’re his dirty little secret in many ways because if he was as morally righteous as he claimed to be, he’d have tossed them in a cell and threw away the key.
Sunstreaker is the processor, the hard work, and the beauty behind Double Vision. He’s the legitimacy while Sideswipe runs the underground network. But that isn’t the reason Prowl goes to them.
They’re both pretty successful in their respective businesses. Their true earnings, what keeps them out of poverty and the hands of local law enforcement particularly greasy, is their interest in gladiator arenas. They’ve fought in a few of the lower cards and won. They are not as well known as Megatron.
There’s no doubt in Prowl’s mind, however, that they’ll bite and claw and slash their way to the top. As far as they can make it.
Double Vision Bodyshop’s hours are by appointment only. Sunstreaker’s work is valued enough he can get away with it. The doors open by a push, and a cheerful bell announces Prowl’s arrival. The lobby is empty of both customer and proprietor, but Sideswipe emerges from a backroom with a smile. He’s got his business grin on, but it widens into something more friendly when he spots Prowl.
“Well, well, well, look what the turbofox drug in,” Sideswipe says. He’s wiping his fingers clean, perhaps he’d been assisting Sunstreaker. “Is this business or pleasure, Prowl?”
“Neither.” Prowl casts a quick glance around, but Sideswipe’s too good to let any evidence of illegal activity loiter in plain sight. “It’s something of a personal nature.”
Amber optics glimmer with interest. “That so.” Sideswipe rolls a bright red shoulder and beckons for Prowl to follow him. “Come into the back then. Wouldn’t want any of our customers to get the wrong idea. You know, with an Enforcer loitering around.”
“Of course.”
Prowl slides behind the counter and follows Sideswipe into the back room, opposite of where he can faintly hear the noise of an air brush in operation. Sunstreaker must be tending to a customer at the moment.
The back office is at odds with itself, both organized and in visible disarray. There are two desk on opposite sides of the room, and Prowl can tell at a glance which desk belongs to who. So he’s not surprised when Sideswipe kicks back behind the messier of the two, crossing his legs at the ankles on top of a stack of datapads and folding his arms behind his head.
“Have a seat,” he says with a bright grin. “My office is your office. Yada yada yada.” His feet wriggle. “What can I do ya for?”
Prowl picks up a crate of unidentifiable objects and sets it aside before he perches on the only available chair. “I need information.”
“Per the usual.” Sideswipe tilts his head and twirls one hand around on the wrist. “Be more specific.”
“What do you know of the Decepticons?”
Sideswipe’s lips curl into a careful smirk. “Nothing more than the news feeds us,” he says, but there’s something reserved in his words. “And that they apparently killed some high muckety-muck that us here at the bottom couldn’t give a slag about.”
“They aren’t responsible for Chancellor Bracket’s murder,” Prowl says, almost on automatic, though he doesn’t even know why he’s defending the Decepticons so strongly. “And Megatron?”
“What about him?” Sideswipe asks, innocent.
“Ever met him?”
“Nope. Can’t say I have.”
“Watched him fight?”
Sideswipe’s glossa flicks over his lips. “Well, watching a bout is quite different from meeting in person, you know.” His hands fold over his abdomen. His ankles uncross and recross. “There a point to this, Prowl? Or are you just digging?”
Prowl sighs. “There’s a point.” He rubs at his chevron, a tightness coiling inside of his chassis, behind his spark. “To make a long, complicated story short, I need to attend a fight later this week. In the Devos sector.”
Sideswipe stares at him. “Uh, you’re aware that would be suicide. For someone like you I mean.” His gaze flicks pointedly to Prowl’s paint, to the marks on his sensory panels, to everything that he is. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“I intend to avoid that outcome actually,” Prowl says with a snort. He folds his arms under his bumper, aware that it makes him seem defensive, but it’s always been an unusual case that he can let his guard down around the twins. “I came to you specifically for that reason.”
Sideswipe groans and his head tilts back. “Primus on a pogostick, you’re going to ask for a favor,” he states rather than asks. “What’s so important you’re willing to risk yourself and us, if I may point out, just to get to a fight?”
Prowl works his jaw, decides for honesty. What it says about him, that he trusts these two criminals more than his fellow Enforcers, Prowl cannot guess. “Megatron has contacted me,” he says. “I’m just curious enough to find out why.”
Sideswipe stares at him. His mouth opens, closes. His feet hit the floor as he straightens and his palms flatten on the desktop.
“Prowl,” he says, completely serious now. All trace of his previously playful tone has gone. “Please tell me you’re not single-handedly trying to bring down the Decepticon movement.”
His lips twitch. He tries not to smile. “I haven’t decided yet,” he replies, just to watch the horror dance across Sideswipe’s face before he amends with, “For now, Megatron has extended me an invitation, and I’m inclined to see what offer he has.”
Sideswipe brings his hands together, presses them palm to palm, and then the tips of his fingers rest against his lips. He stares at Prowl for a long, long moment until finally he says, “What do you need us to do?”
“Get me inside, preferably without getting killed,” Prowl says. An ex-vent eases out of him and tension evaporates from his cables. “I know you’re sneaky, both of you. I know you can do it.”
Sideswipe nods slowly. His fingers still hide his mouth. “And what do we get in return?”
“You mean other than the general blind optic I give you?” Prowl sits back, flattening his sensory panels against the broad planes of the chair behind him. “Name your price.”
Amber optics glimmer with mischief. He lowers his hands, but sweeps his palms over his head. “We have a friend,” he says carefully, like he’s picking and choosing each glyph for precision. “Might have found himself into a bit of mischief, as it were. He doesn’t deserve the sentence they gave him.”
Prowl raises an orbital ridge.
“Hundred years manual labor,” Sideswipe clarifies. “For peddling stolen goods.”
Yes, that is more than a little extreme.
“He’s a first-time offender, Prowl,” Sideswipe continues, and he whuffs a ventilation, suddenly looking tired and much older than his usual geniality shows. “He’s just a newspark who got in over his head, and they’re making an example of him because they can. Now, I know you can’t get the charges dropped, but if you could, I dunno, ease his sentence or something, that’d be fair.”
Prowl scrubs hard at his chevron. “Yes,” he finally says. He has a few strings he can pull, a few mecha who owe him enough favor he can certainly reduce the sentence of a first offender. He knows better than to make an outright promise, however. “I will do what I can. Will that suffice?”
“You’re lucky I trust you,” Sideswipe says, and he rockets to his feet. He swivels around the desk and loiters in the doorway of his office, leaning out into the main area to shout, “Yo, Sunny! Office! We got a customer!”
Faintly, Prowl hears the reply, “In a minute!”
Sideswipe ducks back inside, grin stretching his mouth wide. “He’ll kill me if I don’t let him decide how we’re going to do this.”
“Do what?” Prowl asks.
Sideswipe winks. “Give you a whole new look.”
“A whole new-- Sideswipe, that’s ridiculous,” Prowl protests.
Sideswipe kicks back behind his desk again, looking as smug as a turbocat which caught the metallocanary. “Look, Prowl. Thing is, you walk, talk and sound like an Enforcer. At the very least, we gotta make you look less like one, since there’s little we can do for the rest. And if that means you get the most garish paint job this side of Praxus, so be it.”
“No one leaves this place looking garish if I can help it.”
Prowl swivels the chair back toward the door as Sunstreaker steps through it, a towel slung over one shoulder and fingers flicking a visor up away from his optics. A few spatters of some metallic paint fleck the apron covering the majority of his chassis.
Sunstreaker grins. “Hey, Prowl,” he says. “You the customer?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Prowl tilts his head in greeting. “I’d be honored to receive a design by you.”
Sunstreaker’s gaze flicks over him, top to bottom, as if assessing and measuring in a single glance. He finds his brother across Prowl’s head.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I can do something about that. Sides?”
Sideswipe claps his hands together. “This is going to be fun.”
~
The paint is supposed to be temporary. All Prowl has to do is use the solvent in his subspace, and he’ll be back to his usual colors within a washrack cycle.
For now, however, he’s a mix of navy blue, gold, and silver that Sunstreaker swears looks good on him. His Enforcer markings are buried beneath the darker paint, and even his chevron has seen a makeover. He’d looked in the mirror and hadn’t recognized himself.
“You look great, if I do say so myself,” Sunstreaker says from Prowl’s left side, his arm threaded through Prowl’s as though escorting him.
“Extremely fraggable,” Sideswipe agrees from Prowl’s other side. He, too, has an arm, and Prowl is sandwiched between them.
He feels like a protected, escorted date. It would be ludicrous even if it weren’t for the fact they are within a stone’s throw of the arena, and given the attention they’ve drawn so far, Prowl is quite sure he wouldn’t have made it this far without them. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are well known, well respected, and in many instances, quite feared.
No one dares look twice at Prowl. He sees the appreciative glances. The wondering looks. Those perhaps curious as to whom had caught the attention of the infamous twins this time around.
The looks don’t linger. Or if they do, it’s subtly, in secret. Prowl’s back armor crawls. Tension coils inside of him, and his defensive protocols linger at a light simmer. Danger lurks around every corner, and it’s only the presence of two criminals at his side that keep the villainous at bay.
“Sideswipe is right.” Sunstreaker leans back and takes a long, appreciative look at Prowl’s aft. “I wouldn’t kick you out of our berth if I found you in it.”
“Thanks,” Prowl says without any sincerity.
Sideswipe chuckles and leans heavily against Prowl’s side, his head resting on Prowl’s shoulder. “You know you’d have a good time with us. Time of your life even. A night you’d never forget.” His voice dips into a low purr, one Prowl admits does resonate and form a tight ball of fire in his belly.
It’s there and gone just as quick, however. As attractive as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe might be, Prowl has never viewed them as a romantic or sexual partner. There are times he even hesitates to call them friend.
“I’ll simply have to do without the memory,” Prowl replies, careful to keep his tone warm. “Though the offer is appreciated.”
Sunstreaker snorts. “That’s the nicest ‘frag off’ I’ve ever heard.”
“I have practice,” Prowl says.
Sideswipe laughs.
The arena gates loom in front of them. They haven’t yet been caught by the tide of spectators streaming toward the entrance, but it’s a sure thing. The cacophony of creaks and hisses and clatters of ill-maintained frames is matched only by the stench of them – the unwashed, the rusty, those who reek of high grade and Nox and other illegal substances.
These are the nameless masses who form the faceless crowds. Who pack the balconies and the stands and the bleachers. The rich are already seated, Prowl knows, in their fancy boxes with personal attendants. Enclosed spaces to keep the stench of the poor and barely surviving out of their rich olfactory sensors.
Prowl wonders if this resentment boiling within him is a new thing, or if it’s always been there, festering like an untreated rust infection.
There’s a long line for those still needing to purchase tickets. The arena itself practically throbs from the noise behind its walls. The vibrations of some kind of loud, pulsing music comes through the pads of his feet. Every once in a while, he catches a whiff of spilled energon and spilled engex.
His tank churns.
“So you’re paying for our tickets, right?” Sideswipe asks as he leans in to Prowl’s side, head tucked in against his like they are lovers. His lips brush Prowl’s audials, words a warm puff against it. “I mean, since we’re doing you a favor and all.”
“That will not be necessary.”
Prowl’s not sure who has the most outrageous reaction. Sunstreaker, who growls and whips around with a knife appearing from seemingly nowhere. Sideswipe, who pulls Prowl against him like he’s a civilian in need of defense. Or Prowl, who goes stiff all over, sensory panels rigidly whapping both twins in the shoulder and nearly sending them to the ground.
It would be comical if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation.
Standing behind them is a mech Prowl should recognize in theory. Visored, masked, tall and broad – he’s a dark blue with a transteel forward-facing dock – a carrier mech. An avian cassette – red and black – perches on one shoulder, opposite of a large shoulder-mounted cannon of unknown make.
“Soundwave,” Sideswipe greets, his tone as cold as liquid nitrogen, and his hand tightening where it lingers on Prowl’s shoulder. “Always a pleasure.”
Soundwave’s visor flashes crimson. “Sideswipe. Sunstreaker,” he intones. “Prowl’s safety mine to ensure.”
“Right. Because you’re the trustworthy type,” Sunstreaker says and his shoulder bumps Prowl’s, his field giving a quick flashfire of tension.
Prowl eases out from between them. “I assume Megatron sent you?” He sets aside the two tense and angry twins for a moment.
“Affirmative,” Soundwave replies as Sideswipe says, “He’s only Megatron’s favorite lackey. Of course he did.” It’s accompanied by a sneer.
Prowl senses history. It’s something to ask the twins about later. Preferably not in front of Soundwave. Prowl doesn’t know much about Megatron’s right-hand, but he’s heard several rumors that Soundwave has talents extending into the supernatural. Unsubstantiated rumors, mind, but sometimes those are the ones to hold the most truth.
Soundwave holds out hand, offering two cred-tickets in his palm. “Free attendance with gratitude,” he says, and his gaze shifts to Prowl. “Time is short.”
Sideswipe snatches the tickets with a scowl. “If you break my favorite Enforcer, I’ll find a way to end you.”
Sunstreaker stands next to Sideswipe, broader and angrier, like a great, gold weapon. “Megatron’s not the only heavyweight around here.”
“Understood.” Soundwave turns to walk away, the cassette on his shoulder giving a loud squawk of condescension. “Come.”
A part of Prowl bristles at the obvious command. It is the curious side of him which swallows it down.
For now.
There will be time to address manners later.
“I’ll contact you after the match,” he tells the twins.
“Watch yourself,” Sunstreaker says. He grips Prowl’s shoulder like a silent promise to wreak vengeance should he need it.
“Stay close to Soundwave,” Sideswipe adds. He looks past Prowl, giving the Decepticon a hard look, but if it fazes Soundwave, he doesn’t show it.
It’s a curious addition. Prowl understands it nonetheless. The watchful optics fall back on him as he drifts out of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s sphere of influence. It isn’t until he falls in step with Soundwave that the weight of attention abruptly lifts. No one meets his optics. No one’s stare lingers.
No, that is untrue.
The avian cassette has yet to look away from Prowl. Those small, crimson optics focus on him with laser precision. The head cocks to the side, wings tucked against the long length of a back.
There is something unnerving in the stare.
Prowl pays better attention to their surroundings instead. Soundwave leads him not to the main gate and the crush of the crowd, but off to the side, to a smaller entrance. It, too, is guarded, but the two mechs merely nod at Soundwave and step aside, gesturing them through.
He expects a dark, grimy hallway with miscreants lurking in the shadows, rust and spilled energon streaked across the floor, and the distant sound of screaming. Instead, what he finds is a bare, dimly lit corridor that best resembles an industrial warehouse with leaking, rattling pipes and the occasional gouge of heavy machinery. There’s no spilled fluids, and all the rust is gathered around the leaks.
There’s no screaming, save for the roar of the crowd beyond, and the hall reeks of mildew and must.
“I must be quite important,” Prowl says, to fill the silence, “for Megatron to send someone like you fetch me.”
Soundwave doesn’t pause, but his cassette swivels around and stares at Prowl from Soundwave’s shoulder. “Perspective defines importance,” Soundwave says.
“You do realize I am not important in the grand scheme of anything,” Prowl says, drawing his orbital ridge down. “You’ll receive no ransom for me. I know nothing of city or state secrets. I am of little use to your cause.”
“Use to be determined,” Soundwave says as they round a corner to a rampwell and start to climb up and up, passing level by level.
Beyond closed doors on each level, Prowl’s audials vibrate with the clamor of thousands of mechs crammed in a space too small. There’s a voice over a loudspeaker, but he can’t make out the words.
“And what happens if I’m not useful enough?” Prowl asks as they hit the highest level. There’s no more ramp, just Soundwave standing at the door marked ‘No Unauthorized Entry’, his palm resting on the energy reader.
The door clicks open, and the noise of the arena slams into Prowl as though it has physical weight. His sensory panels shiver, crowd hard against his backstrut, and he has to perform an emergency dial-down before the overstimulation knocks him out. As it is, he’s immediately swamped by a headache.
Prowl cringes and fights the urge to run away from it. He won’t get any answers by being a coward.
He steps onto a small balcony, meant to seat less than a half-dozen mechs of average size. There’s no one else present, and Prowl is instantly glad for the solitude. Excluding Soundwave, who follows Prowl inside and shuts the door behind them. The beep of it locking is nearly inaudible over the noise.
Prowl edges to the balcony rail and peers over it. From here, he can see the entire arena. He has a perfect view of the three large vidscreens all of which provide closeups of the battle currently underway in the middle of the paved floor. Here is where all the grunge resides.
The floor is spattered with fluids and bits of mech and the evidence of brutal engagements. The two mechs fight as though their sparks are on the line, and perhaps they are. Prowl’s heard rumors about the undercards. They tend to be fights to the death depending on where one fell in the ranks. If one survived long enough to gain notoriety, then one earned the right of mercy.
It’s an odd way to run one’s business, but who is Prowl to judge.
He takes a seat closest to the balcony and does what he does best: he observes. He takes in the crowds, the faces, all of them unfamiliar, a sea of color, of poverty, of desperation. He expects a wave of Decepticon brands, but either the Decepticons present aren’t brave enough to reveal themselves, or there are few in attendance.
These patrons are regular mechs. Have always been regular mechs. Megatron recruits regular mechs. He’s building an army out of the dregs, the abandoned, the angry, the overlooked. He’s taking in those every else abandons.
Considering that the majority of Cybertron can classify itself as one of the above, Prowl wonders if the elite, the Senate and the Prime and the leadership, even realize annihilation is closer than they think.
Megatron can overpower them with sheer numbers alone. All he has to do is make these mechs believe in the impossible.
He’s already well on his way.
Prowl settles into his chair. He’s here to learn something. Megatron expects him to walk away from this experience with a lesson. Prowl doubts it’ll be the one Megatron wants.
It’ll be interesting all the same.
~
He’s here.
That’s the single, clipped sentence Soundwave transmits before Megatron strides into the arena, ready to face his chosen opponent of the evening. A thrill of excitement chases a flurry of unease up Megatron’s spinal strut, until the anxiety evaporates and only the exhilaration remains.
Megatron resists the urge to track his gaze up to the reserved balcony where Soundwave and Prowl are located. There’s no reason to be this giddy. Prowl is one of many recruits Megatron hopes to entice. There’s nothing special about him.
He focuses instead on his opponent. A triple-changer. A disgraced soldier. Dishonorably discharged and with an axe to grind against the establishment, against other mechs, against the universe in general. Crucible is large and angry, but it’s a cold anger. The kind of anger that burns like a fire and keeps one focused, rather than irrational.
Crucible has a dual-bladed axe in one hand, a shield in the other. Rotors fan out from his back like mini-swords, and Megatron knows Crucible has a habit of yanking them off and throwing them like daggers.
Fortunately, he’s prepared. Megatron knows all of Crucible’s tactics. He doesn’t fear the ex-soldier. Crucible has height on him. Reach. Training. To ask the bookies, Megatron is the undercard. No one expects him to win.
He’s going to anyway.
They’re announced. The crowd breaks out into such a noise, it rattles through Megatron’s feet. He’s used to it by now. It’s no longer a distraction.
Crucible smirks at him. Licks his lips like he’s imagining the taste of Megatron’s energon spraying in the air. He doesn’t like Megatron or the Decepticons, and he’s made no secret of it. He’s the Senate’s disgraced pet, looking to kill his way back into their good graces.
He won’t succeed.
The chronometer overhead ticks down the kliks. For a moment, Megatron is weak. He glances up into the stands, up and up to the safest balcony, where Soundwave guards his newest potential recruit. He swears, even across the distance, he catches the ice-brightness of Prowl’s optics.
The bell shrills.
Crucible grins with a mouthful of purposefully sharpened denta, a mimicry of a wild beast.
Megatron hefts his blade and feels the echoes of manic battle sing in his spark.
~
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.
Double Vision Body Shop is exactly what it says on the tin – to the average consumer at any rate. There are few who know that it’s actually a front for the black market dealings of one-half of the duo of owners.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Split-spark twins. Arrested multiple times for petty crimes. Origins unknown. In their youth, they bounced from halfway house to hostel, and Prowl can’t find any record of their sparking on any database. He suspects they were part of some Senate-sanctioned experiment on spark reproduction, but he hasn’t been able to find any proof.
He’s lost count of the number of times he’s arrested them. The charges never stick mostly because Prowl never bothers to show up to prosecute, and Sideswipe is as slippery as hydraulic fluid.
Instead, he’s made informants out of them.
By now, they’ve helped him solve more cases than the crimes he’s caught them committing. They’re his dirty little secret in many ways because if he was as morally righteous as he claimed to be, he’d have tossed them in a cell and threw away the key.
Sunstreaker is the processor, the hard work, and the beauty behind Double Vision. He’s the legitimacy while Sideswipe runs the underground network. But that isn’t the reason Prowl goes to them.
They’re both pretty successful in their respective businesses. Their true earnings, what keeps them out of poverty and the hands of local law enforcement particularly greasy, is their interest in gladiator arenas. They’ve fought in a few of the lower cards and won. They are not as well known as Megatron.
There’s no doubt in Prowl’s mind, however, that they’ll bite and claw and slash their way to the top. As far as they can make it.
Double Vision Bodyshop’s hours are by appointment only. Sunstreaker’s work is valued enough he can get away with it. The doors open by a push, and a cheerful bell announces Prowl’s arrival. The lobby is empty of both customer and proprietor, but Sideswipe emerges from a backroom with a smile. He’s got his business grin on, but it widens into something more friendly when he spots Prowl.
“Well, well, well, look what the turbofox drug in,” Sideswipe says. He’s wiping his fingers clean, perhaps he’d been assisting Sunstreaker. “Is this business or pleasure, Prowl?”
“Neither.” Prowl casts a quick glance around, but Sideswipe’s too good to let any evidence of illegal activity loiter in plain sight. “It’s something of a personal nature.”
Amber optics glimmer with interest. “That so.” Sideswipe rolls a bright red shoulder and beckons for Prowl to follow him. “Come into the back then. Wouldn’t want any of our customers to get the wrong idea. You know, with an Enforcer loitering around.”
“Of course.”
Prowl slides behind the counter and follows Sideswipe into the back room, opposite of where he can faintly hear the noise of an air brush in operation. Sunstreaker must be tending to a customer at the moment.
The back office is at odds with itself, both organized and in visible disarray. There are two desk on opposite sides of the room, and Prowl can tell at a glance which desk belongs to who. So he’s not surprised when Sideswipe kicks back behind the messier of the two, crossing his legs at the ankles on top of a stack of datapads and folding his arms behind his head.
“Have a seat,” he says with a bright grin. “My office is your office. Yada yada yada.” His feet wriggle. “What can I do ya for?”
Prowl picks up a crate of unidentifiable objects and sets it aside before he perches on the only available chair. “I need information.”
“Per the usual.” Sideswipe tilts his head and twirls one hand around on the wrist. “Be more specific.”
“What do you know of the Decepticons?”
Sideswipe’s lips curl into a careful smirk. “Nothing more than the news feeds us,” he says, but there’s something reserved in his words. “And that they apparently killed some high muckety-muck that us here at the bottom couldn’t give a slag about.”
“They aren’t responsible for Chancellor Bracket’s murder,” Prowl says, almost on automatic, though he doesn’t even know why he’s defending the Decepticons so strongly. “And Megatron?”
“What about him?” Sideswipe asks, innocent.
“Ever met him?”
“Nope. Can’t say I have.”
“Watched him fight?”
Sideswipe’s glossa flicks over his lips. “Well, watching a bout is quite different from meeting in person, you know.” His hands fold over his abdomen. His ankles uncross and recross. “There a point to this, Prowl? Or are you just digging?”
Prowl sighs. “There’s a point.” He rubs at his chevron, a tightness coiling inside of his chassis, behind his spark. “To make a long, complicated story short, I need to attend a fight later this week. In the Devos sector.”
Sideswipe stares at him. “Uh, you’re aware that would be suicide. For someone like you I mean.” His gaze flicks pointedly to Prowl’s paint, to the marks on his sensory panels, to everything that he is. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“I intend to avoid that outcome actually,” Prowl says with a snort. He folds his arms under his bumper, aware that it makes him seem defensive, but it’s always been an unusual case that he can let his guard down around the twins. “I came to you specifically for that reason.”
Sideswipe groans and his head tilts back. “Primus on a pogostick, you’re going to ask for a favor,” he states rather than asks. “What’s so important you’re willing to risk yourself and us, if I may point out, just to get to a fight?”
Prowl works his jaw, decides for honesty. What it says about him, that he trusts these two criminals more than his fellow Enforcers, Prowl cannot guess. “Megatron has contacted me,” he says. “I’m just curious enough to find out why.”
Sideswipe stares at him. His mouth opens, closes. His feet hit the floor as he straightens and his palms flatten on the desktop.
“Prowl,” he says, completely serious now. All trace of his previously playful tone has gone. “Please tell me you’re not single-handedly trying to bring down the Decepticon movement.”
His lips twitch. He tries not to smile. “I haven’t decided yet,” he replies, just to watch the horror dance across Sideswipe’s face before he amends with, “For now, Megatron has extended me an invitation, and I’m inclined to see what offer he has.”
Sideswipe brings his hands together, presses them palm to palm, and then the tips of his fingers rest against his lips. He stares at Prowl for a long, long moment until finally he says, “What do you need us to do?”
“Get me inside, preferably without getting killed,” Prowl says. An ex-vent eases out of him and tension evaporates from his cables. “I know you’re sneaky, both of you. I know you can do it.”
Sideswipe nods slowly. His fingers still hide his mouth. “And what do we get in return?”
“You mean other than the general blind optic I give you?” Prowl sits back, flattening his sensory panels against the broad planes of the chair behind him. “Name your price.”
Amber optics glimmer with mischief. He lowers his hands, but sweeps his palms over his head. “We have a friend,” he says carefully, like he’s picking and choosing each glyph for precision. “Might have found himself into a bit of mischief, as it were. He doesn’t deserve the sentence they gave him.”
Prowl raises an orbital ridge.
“Hundred years manual labor,” Sideswipe clarifies. “For peddling stolen goods.”
Yes, that is more than a little extreme.
“He’s a first-time offender, Prowl,” Sideswipe continues, and he whuffs a ventilation, suddenly looking tired and much older than his usual geniality shows. “He’s just a newspark who got in over his head, and they’re making an example of him because they can. Now, I know you can’t get the charges dropped, but if you could, I dunno, ease his sentence or something, that’d be fair.”
Prowl scrubs hard at his chevron. “Yes,” he finally says. He has a few strings he can pull, a few mecha who owe him enough favor he can certainly reduce the sentence of a first offender. He knows better than to make an outright promise, however. “I will do what I can. Will that suffice?”
“You’re lucky I trust you,” Sideswipe says, and he rockets to his feet. He swivels around the desk and loiters in the doorway of his office, leaning out into the main area to shout, “Yo, Sunny! Office! We got a customer!”
Faintly, Prowl hears the reply, “In a minute!”
Sideswipe ducks back inside, grin stretching his mouth wide. “He’ll kill me if I don’t let him decide how we’re going to do this.”
“Do what?” Prowl asks.
Sideswipe winks. “Give you a whole new look.”
“A whole new-- Sideswipe, that’s ridiculous,” Prowl protests.
Sideswipe kicks back behind his desk again, looking as smug as a turbocat which caught the metallocanary. “Look, Prowl. Thing is, you walk, talk and sound like an Enforcer. At the very least, we gotta make you look less like one, since there’s little we can do for the rest. And if that means you get the most garish paint job this side of Praxus, so be it.”
“No one leaves this place looking garish if I can help it.”
Prowl swivels the chair back toward the door as Sunstreaker steps through it, a towel slung over one shoulder and fingers flicking a visor up away from his optics. A few spatters of some metallic paint fleck the apron covering the majority of his chassis.
Sunstreaker grins. “Hey, Prowl,” he says. “You the customer?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Prowl tilts his head in greeting. “I’d be honored to receive a design by you.”
Sunstreaker’s gaze flicks over him, top to bottom, as if assessing and measuring in a single glance. He finds his brother across Prowl’s head.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I can do something about that. Sides?”
Sideswipe claps his hands together. “This is going to be fun.”
The paint is supposed to be temporary. All Prowl has to do is use the solvent in his subspace, and he’ll be back to his usual colors within a washrack cycle.
For now, however, he’s a mix of navy blue, gold, and silver that Sunstreaker swears looks good on him. His Enforcer markings are buried beneath the darker paint, and even his chevron has seen a makeover. He’d looked in the mirror and hadn’t recognized himself.
“You look great, if I do say so myself,” Sunstreaker says from Prowl’s left side, his arm threaded through Prowl’s as though escorting him.
“Extremely fraggable,” Sideswipe agrees from Prowl’s other side. He, too, has an arm, and Prowl is sandwiched between them.
He feels like a protected, escorted date. It would be ludicrous even if it weren’t for the fact they are within a stone’s throw of the arena, and given the attention they’ve drawn so far, Prowl is quite sure he wouldn’t have made it this far without them. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker are well known, well respected, and in many instances, quite feared.
No one dares look twice at Prowl. He sees the appreciative glances. The wondering looks. Those perhaps curious as to whom had caught the attention of the infamous twins this time around.
The looks don’t linger. Or if they do, it’s subtly, in secret. Prowl’s back armor crawls. Tension coils inside of him, and his defensive protocols linger at a light simmer. Danger lurks around every corner, and it’s only the presence of two criminals at his side that keep the villainous at bay.
“Sideswipe is right.” Sunstreaker leans back and takes a long, appreciative look at Prowl’s aft. “I wouldn’t kick you out of our berth if I found you in it.”
“Thanks,” Prowl says without any sincerity.
Sideswipe chuckles and leans heavily against Prowl’s side, his head resting on Prowl’s shoulder. “You know you’d have a good time with us. Time of your life even. A night you’d never forget.” His voice dips into a low purr, one Prowl admits does resonate and form a tight ball of fire in his belly.
It’s there and gone just as quick, however. As attractive as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe might be, Prowl has never viewed them as a romantic or sexual partner. There are times he even hesitates to call them friend.
“I’ll simply have to do without the memory,” Prowl replies, careful to keep his tone warm. “Though the offer is appreciated.”
Sunstreaker snorts. “That’s the nicest ‘frag off’ I’ve ever heard.”
“I have practice,” Prowl says.
Sideswipe laughs.
The arena gates loom in front of them. They haven’t yet been caught by the tide of spectators streaming toward the entrance, but it’s a sure thing. The cacophony of creaks and hisses and clatters of ill-maintained frames is matched only by the stench of them – the unwashed, the rusty, those who reek of high grade and Nox and other illegal substances.
These are the nameless masses who form the faceless crowds. Who pack the balconies and the stands and the bleachers. The rich are already seated, Prowl knows, in their fancy boxes with personal attendants. Enclosed spaces to keep the stench of the poor and barely surviving out of their rich olfactory sensors.
Prowl wonders if this resentment boiling within him is a new thing, or if it’s always been there, festering like an untreated rust infection.
There’s a long line for those still needing to purchase tickets. The arena itself practically throbs from the noise behind its walls. The vibrations of some kind of loud, pulsing music comes through the pads of his feet. Every once in a while, he catches a whiff of spilled energon and spilled engex.
His tank churns.
“So you’re paying for our tickets, right?” Sideswipe asks as he leans in to Prowl’s side, head tucked in against his like they are lovers. His lips brush Prowl’s audials, words a warm puff against it. “I mean, since we’re doing you a favor and all.”
“That will not be necessary.”
Prowl’s not sure who has the most outrageous reaction. Sunstreaker, who growls and whips around with a knife appearing from seemingly nowhere. Sideswipe, who pulls Prowl against him like he’s a civilian in need of defense. Or Prowl, who goes stiff all over, sensory panels rigidly whapping both twins in the shoulder and nearly sending them to the ground.
It would be comical if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation.
Standing behind them is a mech Prowl should recognize in theory. Visored, masked, tall and broad – he’s a dark blue with a transteel forward-facing dock – a carrier mech. An avian cassette – red and black – perches on one shoulder, opposite of a large shoulder-mounted cannon of unknown make.
“Soundwave,” Sideswipe greets, his tone as cold as liquid nitrogen, and his hand tightening where it lingers on Prowl’s shoulder. “Always a pleasure.”
Soundwave’s visor flashes crimson. “Sideswipe. Sunstreaker,” he intones. “Prowl’s safety mine to ensure.”
“Right. Because you’re the trustworthy type,” Sunstreaker says and his shoulder bumps Prowl’s, his field giving a quick flashfire of tension.
Prowl eases out from between them. “I assume Megatron sent you?” He sets aside the two tense and angry twins for a moment.
“Affirmative,” Soundwave replies as Sideswipe says, “He’s only Megatron’s favorite lackey. Of course he did.” It’s accompanied by a sneer.
Prowl senses history. It’s something to ask the twins about later. Preferably not in front of Soundwave. Prowl doesn’t know much about Megatron’s right-hand, but he’s heard several rumors that Soundwave has talents extending into the supernatural. Unsubstantiated rumors, mind, but sometimes those are the ones to hold the most truth.
Soundwave holds out hand, offering two cred-tickets in his palm. “Free attendance with gratitude,” he says, and his gaze shifts to Prowl. “Time is short.”
Sideswipe snatches the tickets with a scowl. “If you break my favorite Enforcer, I’ll find a way to end you.”
Sunstreaker stands next to Sideswipe, broader and angrier, like a great, gold weapon. “Megatron’s not the only heavyweight around here.”
“Understood.” Soundwave turns to walk away, the cassette on his shoulder giving a loud squawk of condescension. “Come.”
A part of Prowl bristles at the obvious command. It is the curious side of him which swallows it down.
For now.
There will be time to address manners later.
“I’ll contact you after the match,” he tells the twins.
“Watch yourself,” Sunstreaker says. He grips Prowl’s shoulder like a silent promise to wreak vengeance should he need it.
“Stay close to Soundwave,” Sideswipe adds. He looks past Prowl, giving the Decepticon a hard look, but if it fazes Soundwave, he doesn’t show it.
It’s a curious addition. Prowl understands it nonetheless. The watchful optics fall back on him as he drifts out of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe’s sphere of influence. It isn’t until he falls in step with Soundwave that the weight of attention abruptly lifts. No one meets his optics. No one’s stare lingers.
No, that is untrue.
The avian cassette has yet to look away from Prowl. Those small, crimson optics focus on him with laser precision. The head cocks to the side, wings tucked against the long length of a back.
There is something unnerving in the stare.
Prowl pays better attention to their surroundings instead. Soundwave leads him not to the main gate and the crush of the crowd, but off to the side, to a smaller entrance. It, too, is guarded, but the two mechs merely nod at Soundwave and step aside, gesturing them through.
He expects a dark, grimy hallway with miscreants lurking in the shadows, rust and spilled energon streaked across the floor, and the distant sound of screaming. Instead, what he finds is a bare, dimly lit corridor that best resembles an industrial warehouse with leaking, rattling pipes and the occasional gouge of heavy machinery. There’s no spilled fluids, and all the rust is gathered around the leaks.
There’s no screaming, save for the roar of the crowd beyond, and the hall reeks of mildew and must.
“I must be quite important,” Prowl says, to fill the silence, “for Megatron to send someone like you fetch me.”
Soundwave doesn’t pause, but his cassette swivels around and stares at Prowl from Soundwave’s shoulder. “Perspective defines importance,” Soundwave says.
“You do realize I am not important in the grand scheme of anything,” Prowl says, drawing his orbital ridge down. “You’ll receive no ransom for me. I know nothing of city or state secrets. I am of little use to your cause.”
“Use to be determined,” Soundwave says as they round a corner to a rampwell and start to climb up and up, passing level by level.
Beyond closed doors on each level, Prowl’s audials vibrate with the clamor of thousands of mechs crammed in a space too small. There’s a voice over a loudspeaker, but he can’t make out the words.
“And what happens if I’m not useful enough?” Prowl asks as they hit the highest level. There’s no more ramp, just Soundwave standing at the door marked ‘No Unauthorized Entry’, his palm resting on the energy reader.
The door clicks open, and the noise of the arena slams into Prowl as though it has physical weight. His sensory panels shiver, crowd hard against his backstrut, and he has to perform an emergency dial-down before the overstimulation knocks him out. As it is, he’s immediately swamped by a headache.
Prowl cringes and fights the urge to run away from it. He won’t get any answers by being a coward.
He steps onto a small balcony, meant to seat less than a half-dozen mechs of average size. There’s no one else present, and Prowl is instantly glad for the solitude. Excluding Soundwave, who follows Prowl inside and shuts the door behind them. The beep of it locking is nearly inaudible over the noise.
Prowl edges to the balcony rail and peers over it. From here, he can see the entire arena. He has a perfect view of the three large vidscreens all of which provide closeups of the battle currently underway in the middle of the paved floor. Here is where all the grunge resides.
The floor is spattered with fluids and bits of mech and the evidence of brutal engagements. The two mechs fight as though their sparks are on the line, and perhaps they are. Prowl’s heard rumors about the undercards. They tend to be fights to the death depending on where one fell in the ranks. If one survived long enough to gain notoriety, then one earned the right of mercy.
It’s an odd way to run one’s business, but who is Prowl to judge.
He takes a seat closest to the balcony and does what he does best: he observes. He takes in the crowds, the faces, all of them unfamiliar, a sea of color, of poverty, of desperation. He expects a wave of Decepticon brands, but either the Decepticons present aren’t brave enough to reveal themselves, or there are few in attendance.
These patrons are regular mechs. Have always been regular mechs. Megatron recruits regular mechs. He’s building an army out of the dregs, the abandoned, the angry, the overlooked. He’s taking in those every else abandons.
Considering that the majority of Cybertron can classify itself as one of the above, Prowl wonders if the elite, the Senate and the Prime and the leadership, even realize annihilation is closer than they think.
Megatron can overpower them with sheer numbers alone. All he has to do is make these mechs believe in the impossible.
He’s already well on his way.
Prowl settles into his chair. He’s here to learn something. Megatron expects him to walk away from this experience with a lesson. Prowl doubts it’ll be the one Megatron wants.
It’ll be interesting all the same.
He’s here.
That’s the single, clipped sentence Soundwave transmits before Megatron strides into the arena, ready to face his chosen opponent of the evening. A thrill of excitement chases a flurry of unease up Megatron’s spinal strut, until the anxiety evaporates and only the exhilaration remains.
Megatron resists the urge to track his gaze up to the reserved balcony where Soundwave and Prowl are located. There’s no reason to be this giddy. Prowl is one of many recruits Megatron hopes to entice. There’s nothing special about him.
He focuses instead on his opponent. A triple-changer. A disgraced soldier. Dishonorably discharged and with an axe to grind against the establishment, against other mechs, against the universe in general. Crucible is large and angry, but it’s a cold anger. The kind of anger that burns like a fire and keeps one focused, rather than irrational.
Crucible has a dual-bladed axe in one hand, a shield in the other. Rotors fan out from his back like mini-swords, and Megatron knows Crucible has a habit of yanking them off and throwing them like daggers.
Fortunately, he’s prepared. Megatron knows all of Crucible’s tactics. He doesn’t fear the ex-soldier. Crucible has height on him. Reach. Training. To ask the bookies, Megatron is the undercard. No one expects him to win.
He’s going to anyway.
They’re announced. The crowd breaks out into such a noise, it rattles through Megatron’s feet. He’s used to it by now. It’s no longer a distraction.
Crucible smirks at him. Licks his lips like he’s imagining the taste of Megatron’s energon spraying in the air. He doesn’t like Megatron or the Decepticons, and he’s made no secret of it. He’s the Senate’s disgraced pet, looking to kill his way back into their good graces.
He won’t succeed.
The chronometer overhead ticks down the kliks. For a moment, Megatron is weak. He glances up into the stands, up and up to the safest balcony, where Soundwave guards his newest potential recruit. He swears, even across the distance, he catches the ice-brightness of Prowl’s optics.
The bell shrills.
Crucible grins with a mouthful of purposefully sharpened denta, a mimicry of a wild beast.
Megatron hefts his blade and feels the echoes of manic battle sing in his spark.
