[IDW] Break the Chain 05/10
Nov. 5th, 2018 06:08 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 Five
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe collect him as though he’s a wayward sparkling of whom they’d lost sight. Sunstreaker looks Prowl up and down, checking for injuries or damage or tampering, and Sideswipe thanks Soundwave for escorting Prowl through clenched denta with forced politeness.
Soundwave says nothing, and melts back into the shadows where he seems to live.
“We were about to come looking for you,” Sideswipe says as they take up either side of Prowl, crowding him between their broader frames.
“I was in no danger,” Prowl informs them. Oddly enough, he even believes it. Megatron had not meant him harm.
He had also been nothing like Prowl expected. Larger than life, but smaller than rumor. He was an average mech, the right size for a miner, but too small for a gladiator. He had a presence, a charisma, but there’d always been something reserved. As though it is partially a front, and there’s a part of him more comfortable in a quiet room, away from the press of company.
The promotional posters do not do him justice.
Sunstreaker snorts. “No danger he says. Like he wasn’t a pitmouse in the middle of a nest of toxivipers. You could have been killed, Prowl.”
“But I wasn’t,” he replies, careful to keep his tone mild. “Need I remind you both that I am a capable enforcer?”
“Who’s never actually seen a real altercation,” Sideswipe points out. “How many firefights you been in?”
Prowl doesn’t deign that question with a response.
“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” Sunstreaker says. “So lucky for Megatron, you showed up before we had to start kicking down doors.”
“And kicking aft, too,” Sideswipe adds.
“I appreciate the sentiment. Really,” Prowl says. “But it’s unnecessary.”
They snort in unison. Sunstreaker eyes him speculatively. “If you’re going to be diving into a turbofox’s den, you need better training.”
Fortunately, the rail station comes into sight, and Prowl is saved from protecting his dubious abilities. Here is where they’ll separate because he can safely find his way back home. He doesn’t need an escort, and he tells them as much.
They laugh, in that odd unison they sometimes have. Until the amusement turns to sobriety, and they pin him down a look that ages them immensely. Prowl’s not sure when they were sparked, but he knows he’s older than them. When they do this, the certainty starts to flicker.
“If you sign up, so do we,” Sideswipe says, his optics darkening to such a solemn hue, Prowl is taken aback.
“We know something’s rotten,” Sunstreaker adds, and his expression is set in stone, lips a thin line, optics bright and sharp, like he’s remembering something in particular. “We know things need to change. And if you decide the Decepticons are our best bet, then we’re with you.”
“We trust you.” Sideswipe breaks into a more familiar, easygoing grin. He throws his arm over Prowl’s shoulder, mildly shaking him with a half-embrace. “So you know, no pressure or anything.” He pats Prowl on the bumper, two loud clangs of metal on metal.
Sunstreaker snorts.
Sideswipe pulls away. Each twin grasps a shoulder, a matching set of camaraderie squeezes, and then they’re gone, their words echoing in Prowl’s processor.
They are his allies. They will go where he goes. But they lean toward the Decepticons, this much Prowl surmises. That, in itself, is another tick mark in Megatron’s column.
Prowl returns to his habsuite, washes off the unfamiliar colors, and he thinks about Megatron, the Decepticons, the way he hadn’t even considered calling in a raid on the arena. A large enough force could have stormed the place, taken Megatron into custody if they were lucky. Mechs would have died.
Judging by the fervor Prowl had seen in the crowd, he doubts it would’ve been easy to quash the Decepticon rebellion. Megatron might be imprisoned. He might die. But his words will outlive him. He’s opened the truth to far too many mechs. And if Soundwave is anything to go by, Megatron has capable lieutenants to keep the fires burning.
The Senate is going to have to face the facts: it’s too late to put this back in the bottle. The revolution’s begun.
Prowl flicks on the vidscreen for background noise as he powers on his console, determined to write down all the details from the evening he can recall. He keeps the notes on a private server, one only he can access, that’s separate from the intranet. He’s not so foolish to think he’s not being monitored in some manner.
Breaking News captures his attention.
Prowl swivels toward the screen as the ticker runs a steady update across the bottom, and the newscaster reads from his script.
Minister Deltus is dead. Murdered apparently.
Prowl taps his processor. Minister Deltus is responsible for foreign affairs. He heads the diplomatic department of Iacon and maintains friendly relations with the surrounding citystates as well as the Primal Estate.
He’s supposed to be building an action plan for reasoning with the Decepticons.
It’s probably what got him killed.
Prowl’s comm chimes. He’s not the least bit surprised. He’s on his feet, switching off the vidscreen, and pulling out his Enforcer kit before he fully processes Silverspire’s words.
Minister Deltus’ case is his. It bears uncomfortable similarity to Chancellor Bracket’s murder. There may be Decepticon involvement.
He’s been approved for overtime.
“Get to it,” Silverspire says, without asking if Prowl wants the case, without demanding he acquire a partner for something clearly in desperate need of at least two sharp minds.
Prowl, despite his fatigue and noticing the bits of dark blue paint stubbornly clinging in random spots to his armor, obeys. He trudges out of his habsuite, back to the rail station, and heads across the city to the bright-lighted Orbis district where Minister Deltus resides.
Or resided, to be more accurate.
The crime scene is abuzz with activity. Helis circle the tall condominium. Spotlights point at the near-penthouse floor, highlighting all of the outer windows. From the street, Prowl can see the broken transteel, either from an intruder or from a struggle.
He’s spotted by one of the officers and ushered through the crowd of onlookers and newsmechs, all of whom are desperate for a quote or eager to learn some small tidbit that makes them slightly more informed than the rest of the plebs. Another officer tumbles a datachip into his hand, no doubt containing all of the information they’ve obtained so far, and he’s sent up the lift to the minister’s residence.
Crime scene holos flash in front of the main entrance like a bizarre club. Forensic technicians scuttle over every inch of the condo, collecting evidence and mapping its location. Prowl moves through them carefully, absently noting the details.
Minister Deltus, deceased. Lying in a pool of his fluids, face down, in the foyer. Three gunshot wounds to the back, one to the head, bits of processor spraying over a once-immaculate floor. He looks like he’d been running, fleeing perhaps, toward what he imagined to be safety beyond his door.
Prowl glances at the main entrance. No sign of forced entry. He tracks Deltus’ flight, follows it all the way to the busted window. Outward, not in, according to the shards of transteel.
Prowl crouches, reassembling the fragments on an inner theater. Too small for something other than a minibot.
He looks over his shoulder. There’s a direct line of sight from Deltus to the window. If high-powered enough, the blaster shots could be responsible for this. It doesn’t explain how the perpetrator entered, but it’s a start.
Of greater interest is the wall in the main room.
Prowl moves around investigators sweeping scanners over the floor and the walls as though secrets linger in the expensive paneling.
‘You are Being Deceived’ the wall shouts at them in bright purple paint, dribbling down into a pool on the floor. The Decepticon badge is messy, as if scrawled by a hand unfamiliar with the design of it, but clear enough even the most uninformed know what it is. The stench of the paint is cloying.
It’s sloppy. It’s infantile.
It’s not the work of Megatron and his Decepticons, unless Megatron knows nothing of it and doesn’t approve. Unless it’s the work of a rogue. Megatron’s working too hard to earn the will of the people to taint his message by assassinating high profile mechs and leaving a calling card behind.
It doesn’t make sense.
Prowl spends several hours at Minister Deltus’ condo, collecting and collating the data in real time as the forensics analysts feed it to him. Preliminary investigations indicate Deltus was killed by a blaster, Enforcer standard issue. Just like Chancellor Bracket.
Prowl frowns. Enforcer-issue blaster and Decepticon symbols. They are two disparate clues without a link between them. As far as he’s aware, no Enforcer has joined the Decepticon rebellion.
Synthetic sunrise creeps over the horizon, and Prowl takes it as his cue to go home. There’s nothing more he can do here. The final reports will be sent his way, and he can shake the information to see what clues fall out. He’s exhausted. He needs another scrub.
And he can’t stop thinking about Megatron.
Clearly, it’s time for recharge.
~
“Is that smile for me or some other unlucky sot?”
Megatron looks up from his datapad as Starscream slinks into view, wings flicking, fingers trailing along the edge of the table as though tasting it. Amusement dances over his lips, but his optics are as sharp as ever. Has he found a new toy?
“Neither.” Megatron flicks save and sets the datapad down. “Because I’m not smiling.” He tilts his head. “You’re back early.”
Starscream cocks a hip against the table. He folds his arms over his cockpit. “He’s going to need a little time to think it over.”
Megatron resists the urge to smirk. “So you failed?” To be fair, attempting to recruit such a highly recognized individual had been a longshot, but much like Prowl, Megatron suspects sowing a seed of doubt is only the beginning.
Starscream snorts. “Hardly.” His gaze wanders, shoulders hitching up before sinking back down again. “He’s not desperate enough.”
“But he will be.”
Crimson optics narrow into slits. Starscream makes a noncommittal noise, his gaze slicing back toward Megatron. “Speaking of failures, I don’t see your pet project in the ranks yet.”
“You don’t sound disappointed.”
“We don’t need his kind.” Starscream’s wings flick.
Megatron leans back, gives Starscream an even stare. “Yes, we do.” Anger and irritation flood Starscream’s face in a wave before Megatron continues, “You’re smart, Starscream. You and Soundwave both. The Decepticons need minds like yours. But they also need a mind like Prowl’s. I need someone who can think in numbers. We need someone who knows the system.”
Starscream sneers. His gaze shifts elsewhere. “And how pretty he is has nothing to do with it.”
“Is that jealousy I detect?”
“Of what? Some Enforcer pet with a stick up his aft and the most boring paint job this side of Cybertron? Hardly.” Starscream snorts. Again. It’s not convincing. “I’m putting everything I have in this, Megatron. We all are. And Prowl is a risk we shouldn’t be taking.”
Megatron presses his knuckles to his lips. The only sound in the room is their ventilating. He knows Starscream has a point.
Just as he knows he’s right about this, too. Starscream’s never been much for faith in others. He trusts no one. He barely trusts himself. They can’t win this without faith.
Megatron tilts his head. “Do you hear that?” he asks, his tone soft.
Starscream straightens, wings going stiff. He listens intently, and then his optics narrow. “I hear nothing.”
“Exactly.” Megatron conceals a smirk behind his fingers. “That’s the lack of an army of Enforcers chasing us down. That is the reassuring sound of a raid that didn’t happen. It is a quiet that convinces me Prowl is already one of us, he simply doesn’t know it yet.”
“Just because he hasn’t sicced his turbowolves on us yet, doesn’t mean he isn’t going to,” Starscream retorts. He lowers his arms, plants a hand on his hip. “I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ when it happens.”
Megatron grins. “Fair enough. Then I intend to say it when it doesn’t.”
Starscream huffs a ventilation and turns away, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Go back to your plotting. We’ve got work to do.”
Damn straight they do.
He leaves before Megatron can offer up a reply, not that he has one in his arsenal. Talking with Starscream is often like tiptoeing through a minefield. Sometimes, he manages to make it halfway through before hearing the telltale click. Other times, he’s one step in before the ground blows up beneath him.
Megatron shakes his head and gets back to work.
~
The summons wakes Prowl from a recharge so short, it barely qualifies as a stasis nap. He comes to sentience groggily, the summons bouncing around the back of his processor like an itch he can’t scratch.
He doesn’t have time for a rinse. He grabs his morning cube to go and joins the rush of mechs toward their first shift, still blinking recharge from his optics. Silverspire is not someone he can ignore.
The office is a raucous bustle of activity, per the usual, but Prowl feels the attention on him as soon as he steps inside. Far too many gazes are drawn his way and that is out of the norm. One such face is all too familiar, and it doesn’t belong here.
Prowl doesn’t duck his head, but he pretends not to notice. He keeps his optics forward, holds his head high, and swallows down a sigh when he’s immediately intercepted.
“Prowl.” The lithe, mostly black frame steps between him and the hall to Silverspire’s office. A lazy grin accompanies a lingering glance over Prowl from top to bottom. “You’re looking well.”
Prowl draws to a halt. “As are you.” He manages politeness only because he’s very aware that every optic in the station watches his every move.
Barricade, one of his former partners, chuckles, a dark and rolling sound that seems to rattle out of his chassis. “Look at you, feigning politeness. I’m almost proud.” His optics flicker. “Where’s your partner?” He pauses, taps a taloned finger to the tip of his chin. “Oh, excuse me. I should probably clarify which one, shouldn’t I? There’ve been so many.”
“What are you doing here, Barricade?” Prowl asks. He ignores the jab because he knows Barricade. Getting under someone’s plating is Barricade’s specialty. “This isn’t your precinct anymore.”
Barricade’s head tilts to the left and right, as though he’s stretching his cables. “Just stopping by to say hello to old friends. Offering my services, should the captain need them. There are rumors his investigative force is, shall we say, lacking.” He shifts his weight, looks Prowl up and down again. “I’m sure you don’t know anything about that, now do you?”
Anger walks up Prowl’s backstrut and settles between his shoulders. His sensory panels are so stiff, they tremble. “I’m not in a position to know,” he says through clenched denta. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late.”
He moves to pass Barricade, but his former partner remains in the middle of the hall. Prowl can either argue with him, shove him, or brush passed him. He opts for the latter, their shoulders colliding in a harsh rasp of metal on metal.
Quick as a turboferret, Barricade’s spindly fingers wrap on Prowl’s shoulders, drawing him to a halt. They’re close now, close enough Prowl can feel the heat of Barricade’s ex-vents, and the grating buzz of his energy field.
“You watch yourself, Prowl,” Barricade says, his tone low and almost careful, less inciting than it was before. “You venture into things you don’t understand.”
Prowl narrows his optics. “Do you know something I don’t?”
Barricade grins, slow and sultry. His hand slides free of Prowl’s shoulder. “Oh, I think we’ve already established that, lover. Long, long ago.” He steps away with a wink. “You have my comm. Use it the next time you get lonely.”
“I’d rather be lonely,” Prowl says.
A long chuckle is Barricade’s reaction. He slips away from Prowl, down the hall and back toward the main office, leaving Prowl free to continue toward Silverspire’s office. He watches Barricade go, a frown twisting his lips.
Is it a coincidence?
Prowl doesn’t believe in coincidences.
Barricade had transferred to the Myades District. It’s on the very edge of Iacon, close enough to zones which edge other areas ripe with Decepticon activity. Barricade is most definitely the sort a captain might choose for an undercover op.
Prowl should know. That used to be their specialty.
The summons beeps at him again, and Prowl shakes his head. He’ll worry about Barricade later. He hurries to Silverspire’s office instead, and he’s ushered straight through without a moment’s wait.
It’s more than a little disconcerting.
Silverspire’s expression is cast in stress, his mouth a thin, grim slash and his optics dimmed. His desk is loaded with datapads, and the shutters are drawn on the window, casting a pale light in the room.
“Sit,” he says, and there’s no courtesy, only command in his tone.
Prowl sits. “Sir--”
“I’ll talk, you’ll listen,” Silverspire interjects curtly. His stylus scribbles across a datapad; he doesn’t look up. “Chancellor Bracket. Minister Deltus. Those are your cases. Those are your cases you are not solving. I recognize Deltus was murdered last night, but you should be further in your inquiry regarding Bracket.”
Prowl presses his lips together. His hands form fists against his thighs. He grits his denta, and his jaw aches.
So. This is what Barricade had meant.
“The public relies on us to keep them safe, to give them answers in a timely fashion,” Silverspire continues, each word emerging a sharp chastisement. “They look to us to end the Decepticon scourge as soon as possible. This includes punctually solving cases, especially ones which should already be finalized.”
Prowl’s vents stutter.
Silverspire looks up at him, lifts his orbital ridges. “Do you disagree?”
“Of course not,” Prowl says, while the anger coils and lashes inside of him, growing into a tight knot between his shoulders. “We have a responsibility to the mechs of the city. I assure you, sir, I am doing everything I can to--”
“Chancellor Bracket’s murder is a clear case of politically motivated assassination.” Silverspire’s tone thickens with warning, and his optics narrow.
Prowl tastes sparks as he grinds his denta. “It appears to be so, yes,” he says, diplomatically. “But I am not convinced. Rarely are the easy answers the correct ones.”
“We should take our victories when they come, rather than question them.” Silverspire’s stylus hits the datapad with a loud click. “If you were to tell me you are currently investigating the identity of the particular Decepticon involved, that would be one matter. But I suspect it is not the case.”
Prowl shakes his head. “It doesn’t match a pattern--”
“They’re lawless criminals who will do whatever it takes to foment their rebellion,” Silverspire cuts in sharply. He stands, slow and careful, leaning forward, palms flat on the desk. “It concerns me, Prowl, that you are so willing to defend them. It is a point of concern for all of us.”
Cold seeps through his spark, through his lines, like a hydraulic flush.
They are always watching.
Silverspire’s optics grow darker and harder, until they speak warning. “It is not a point in your favor. There are certain things you want from your future, and this sort of thinking jeopardizes that future. Do you understand me?”
There’s a lump in Prowl’s intake. He’s gripping his knees, hears them creak beneath his fingertips. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Silverspire smiles, and it is neither friendly nor reassuring. “Then we understand each other.” He lowers back into his chair. “You will finalize your investigation on both Bracket and Deltus by the end of the week. You won’t waste anyone’s time, you will provide closure to the public and our superiors, and just maybe, if you are lucky, your application might be considered for re-submittal.”
Maybe. Might. Lucky.
These words do not reassure him. There are false hopes, empty promises.
Prowl’s sensory panels are so still, the hinges ache. He creaks his head into a submissive nod. Barricade’s words haunt him. They strangely echo Megatron’s.
“Yes, sir,” he says.
“I am relieved you understand,” Silverspire says. He picks up his stylus and bends back over his datapad. “Bring me results, Prowl. Or I’ll find someone who can.”
His fingers throb. He stands, forces his fingers out of a tight fist, struggles with the wave of heat in his frame from clamped armor.
“Dismissed.”
Prowl leaves. He catches no one’s optic. He tenses, expecting to be waylaid by his former partner, triumphant with glee. Barricade is nowhere in sight.
Prowl heads straight for the forensics floor and demands every scrap of data they’ve collected so far. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but he looks at it again. And again.
Standard paint, available at any supplier. No signs of entry. No signs of struggle. No dropped paint flecks or tracks or surveillance footage. Wound caused by a hand blaster, Enforcer grade. Easy to acquire for an Enforcer, slightly more difficult for a criminal, but there are access points to black markets on every corner.
Prowl leaves, aware of the optics on him, and forms a list of friends and allies and witnesses to interview. Minister Deltus’ secretary and undersecretary, the members of his cabinet, his banker, his friends, his political companions. What meetings he does manage to get tell him nothing.
Minister Deltus and Chancellor Bracket were friends, he discovers, and isn’t surprised. They were working together on some project to help end the Decepticon menace. No one knows the details.
Prowl toys with the idea of calling Senator Shockwave. If there’s anyone who can get into the restricted files, it’s the senator. He might be the only one willing to be of assistance as well.
It’s an idea he puts on a back burner. If he can’t solve this on his own, then Shockwave will have risked his reputation for nothing.
It’s late by the time Prowl trudges home. Long after most mechs have finished their first shift, and near the end of second. He slinks into his habsuite, flicks on the vidscreen both for background noise and because sometimes there’s information he needs, and grabs a cube of mid-grade, sipping it slowly while he stands at the counter. His processor clicks and rattles like an overused machine, and he can’t find the grease to keep it running smoothly.
The headline blips into view.
Prowl’s spark runs cold. He lowers his cube and stares at the screen, sensory panels sinking downward, armor clamped so tight he fears overheating again.
‘Two Cybertronian citizens of prominence are now dead. Enforcers say they have no leads. The detective assigned to the case – Prowl – has made no progress.’
Prowl’s ventilations stutter. He sees without seeing, static lurching into his vision. His designation, they know his designation, and now they are splashing it over the vidwaves, the airwaves.
‘Current theories blame the Decepticons. Their badge has been found at both murder scenes. Results continue to be inconclusive. Are the Decepticons hunting political officers? What are the Enforcers doing to protect us? If you ask the average mech, it appears to be nothing.’
Nothing.
Click.
Prowl turns the vidscreen off and braces his hands on the edge of the counter. He hangs his head, offlines his optics, tries to ventilate. His spark spins into a tighter ball in his chassis, like it’s trying to spin itself out of existing. The knot between his shoulders makes it hard to focus. The midgrade sits in his tanks like a heavy sludge.
His comm chimes.
Prowl startles and checks the ident code. He’s not sure what to expect. Silverspire, perhaps, calling to chastise him on his offshift. It wouldn’t be the first time. Megatron, with another tempting offer. Barricade, even, just to taunt.
It’s none of them.
It’s Tumbler.
The cold returns, an icy clutch around Prowl’s spark. The trembling increases in earnest. His comm chirps, and he debates for almost too long about whether or not he’ll answer it.
He’s weak.
“Evening, Prowl.” Tumbler’s voice comes through, soft and sure, as if weeks of silence haven’t passed between them, and he hadn’t walked out that door with anger writ in his face and across the lines of his armor.
“Tumbler,” Prowl says. He pauses, glossa sweeping over his lips. “What do you want?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but his words betray him.
Tumbler laughs, but it’s not an amused sound. “Yeah, that’s about as friendly as I thought you’d sound.” He hesitates, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “I saw the news.”
“And?”
“Damn it, Prowl.” Tumbler bites out a frustrated noise. “Can you unbend for two fracking kliks so I can help you?”
He squeezes his optics shut. “You’re not my partner anymore,” Prowl says. Not by any definition of the term, as it turns out.
“No, yes, I know that,” Tumbler says. He sighs into the comm, and it rattles through Prowl’s audials like static. “But it looks like you’re in over your head, and I know you, and I know Silverspire. You need a partner on this.”
“I had a partner.”
Tumbler’s silence speaks volumes. He’d always been the one who talked before. He’d been the one who argued and insisted and pleaded and now that he’s the one with the silence, it’s telling.
“You need help,” Tumbler finally says.
“You’ve said as much before,” Prowl bites out, and it hurts. By Primus, it hurts, and it’s all he can do to swallow over the lump in his intake and the shards of ice creeping in around his spark, pointing their sharp daggers at the core of him. “You’re not coming back, and you’re not actually interested in helping, so why don’t you tell me what you want since it’s obvious nothing in this habsuite is on the list.”
The line goes dead.
Well.
Prowl lowers his hand from his comm. He grips the edge of the counter again. It’s probably better this way. No false promises, no empty hopes. No pretend overtures. Just a dropped call, a final line of welding.
He cycles a ventilation, in and out. The silence of his hab encloses him, like the slot of a mausoleum. He doesn’t know what’s louder – the ticking of his own frame, or the faint noise of the traffic several floors below.
He should get back to work. He could review his cases. He could go back over his interviews, see what he’s missed. He could do his job.
Or he could leave his apartment, go to The Leaky Spigot, and chase away the chill in his spark with the blazing heat of cheap, potent engex. It’s possibly the worst decision he could make. Silverspire’s disapproval hangs over his head like a guillotine. Barricade’s implications make the first cut. Tumbler’s exasperation frays the cord.
Prowl pushes away from the counter.
Frag it. Frag them all.
He heads for The Leaky Spigot.
***
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.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe collect him as though he’s a wayward sparkling of whom they’d lost sight. Sunstreaker looks Prowl up and down, checking for injuries or damage or tampering, and Sideswipe thanks Soundwave for escorting Prowl through clenched denta with forced politeness.
Soundwave says nothing, and melts back into the shadows where he seems to live.
“We were about to come looking for you,” Sideswipe says as they take up either side of Prowl, crowding him between their broader frames.
“I was in no danger,” Prowl informs them. Oddly enough, he even believes it. Megatron had not meant him harm.
He had also been nothing like Prowl expected. Larger than life, but smaller than rumor. He was an average mech, the right size for a miner, but too small for a gladiator. He had a presence, a charisma, but there’d always been something reserved. As though it is partially a front, and there’s a part of him more comfortable in a quiet room, away from the press of company.
The promotional posters do not do him justice.
Sunstreaker snorts. “No danger he says. Like he wasn’t a pitmouse in the middle of a nest of toxivipers. You could have been killed, Prowl.”
“But I wasn’t,” he replies, careful to keep his tone mild. “Need I remind you both that I am a capable enforcer?”
“Who’s never actually seen a real altercation,” Sideswipe points out. “How many firefights you been in?”
Prowl doesn’t deign that question with a response.
“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” Sunstreaker says. “So lucky for Megatron, you showed up before we had to start kicking down doors.”
“And kicking aft, too,” Sideswipe adds.
“I appreciate the sentiment. Really,” Prowl says. “But it’s unnecessary.”
They snort in unison. Sunstreaker eyes him speculatively. “If you’re going to be diving into a turbofox’s den, you need better training.”
Fortunately, the rail station comes into sight, and Prowl is saved from protecting his dubious abilities. Here is where they’ll separate because he can safely find his way back home. He doesn’t need an escort, and he tells them as much.
They laugh, in that odd unison they sometimes have. Until the amusement turns to sobriety, and they pin him down a look that ages them immensely. Prowl’s not sure when they were sparked, but he knows he’s older than them. When they do this, the certainty starts to flicker.
“If you sign up, so do we,” Sideswipe says, his optics darkening to such a solemn hue, Prowl is taken aback.
“We know something’s rotten,” Sunstreaker adds, and his expression is set in stone, lips a thin line, optics bright and sharp, like he’s remembering something in particular. “We know things need to change. And if you decide the Decepticons are our best bet, then we’re with you.”
“We trust you.” Sideswipe breaks into a more familiar, easygoing grin. He throws his arm over Prowl’s shoulder, mildly shaking him with a half-embrace. “So you know, no pressure or anything.” He pats Prowl on the bumper, two loud clangs of metal on metal.
Sunstreaker snorts.
Sideswipe pulls away. Each twin grasps a shoulder, a matching set of camaraderie squeezes, and then they’re gone, their words echoing in Prowl’s processor.
They are his allies. They will go where he goes. But they lean toward the Decepticons, this much Prowl surmises. That, in itself, is another tick mark in Megatron’s column.
Prowl returns to his habsuite, washes off the unfamiliar colors, and he thinks about Megatron, the Decepticons, the way he hadn’t even considered calling in a raid on the arena. A large enough force could have stormed the place, taken Megatron into custody if they were lucky. Mechs would have died.
Judging by the fervor Prowl had seen in the crowd, he doubts it would’ve been easy to quash the Decepticon rebellion. Megatron might be imprisoned. He might die. But his words will outlive him. He’s opened the truth to far too many mechs. And if Soundwave is anything to go by, Megatron has capable lieutenants to keep the fires burning.
The Senate is going to have to face the facts: it’s too late to put this back in the bottle. The revolution’s begun.
Prowl flicks on the vidscreen for background noise as he powers on his console, determined to write down all the details from the evening he can recall. He keeps the notes on a private server, one only he can access, that’s separate from the intranet. He’s not so foolish to think he’s not being monitored in some manner.
Breaking News captures his attention.
Prowl swivels toward the screen as the ticker runs a steady update across the bottom, and the newscaster reads from his script.
Minister Deltus is dead. Murdered apparently.
Prowl taps his processor. Minister Deltus is responsible for foreign affairs. He heads the diplomatic department of Iacon and maintains friendly relations with the surrounding citystates as well as the Primal Estate.
He’s supposed to be building an action plan for reasoning with the Decepticons.
It’s probably what got him killed.
Prowl’s comm chimes. He’s not the least bit surprised. He’s on his feet, switching off the vidscreen, and pulling out his Enforcer kit before he fully processes Silverspire’s words.
Minister Deltus’ case is his. It bears uncomfortable similarity to Chancellor Bracket’s murder. There may be Decepticon involvement.
He’s been approved for overtime.
“Get to it,” Silverspire says, without asking if Prowl wants the case, without demanding he acquire a partner for something clearly in desperate need of at least two sharp minds.
Prowl, despite his fatigue and noticing the bits of dark blue paint stubbornly clinging in random spots to his armor, obeys. He trudges out of his habsuite, back to the rail station, and heads across the city to the bright-lighted Orbis district where Minister Deltus resides.
Or resided, to be more accurate.
The crime scene is abuzz with activity. Helis circle the tall condominium. Spotlights point at the near-penthouse floor, highlighting all of the outer windows. From the street, Prowl can see the broken transteel, either from an intruder or from a struggle.
He’s spotted by one of the officers and ushered through the crowd of onlookers and newsmechs, all of whom are desperate for a quote or eager to learn some small tidbit that makes them slightly more informed than the rest of the plebs. Another officer tumbles a datachip into his hand, no doubt containing all of the information they’ve obtained so far, and he’s sent up the lift to the minister’s residence.
Crime scene holos flash in front of the main entrance like a bizarre club. Forensic technicians scuttle over every inch of the condo, collecting evidence and mapping its location. Prowl moves through them carefully, absently noting the details.
Minister Deltus, deceased. Lying in a pool of his fluids, face down, in the foyer. Three gunshot wounds to the back, one to the head, bits of processor spraying over a once-immaculate floor. He looks like he’d been running, fleeing perhaps, toward what he imagined to be safety beyond his door.
Prowl glances at the main entrance. No sign of forced entry. He tracks Deltus’ flight, follows it all the way to the busted window. Outward, not in, according to the shards of transteel.
Prowl crouches, reassembling the fragments on an inner theater. Too small for something other than a minibot.
He looks over his shoulder. There’s a direct line of sight from Deltus to the window. If high-powered enough, the blaster shots could be responsible for this. It doesn’t explain how the perpetrator entered, but it’s a start.
Of greater interest is the wall in the main room.
Prowl moves around investigators sweeping scanners over the floor and the walls as though secrets linger in the expensive paneling.
‘You are Being Deceived’ the wall shouts at them in bright purple paint, dribbling down into a pool on the floor. The Decepticon badge is messy, as if scrawled by a hand unfamiliar with the design of it, but clear enough even the most uninformed know what it is. The stench of the paint is cloying.
It’s sloppy. It’s infantile.
It’s not the work of Megatron and his Decepticons, unless Megatron knows nothing of it and doesn’t approve. Unless it’s the work of a rogue. Megatron’s working too hard to earn the will of the people to taint his message by assassinating high profile mechs and leaving a calling card behind.
It doesn’t make sense.
Prowl spends several hours at Minister Deltus’ condo, collecting and collating the data in real time as the forensics analysts feed it to him. Preliminary investigations indicate Deltus was killed by a blaster, Enforcer standard issue. Just like Chancellor Bracket.
Prowl frowns. Enforcer-issue blaster and Decepticon symbols. They are two disparate clues without a link between them. As far as he’s aware, no Enforcer has joined the Decepticon rebellion.
Synthetic sunrise creeps over the horizon, and Prowl takes it as his cue to go home. There’s nothing more he can do here. The final reports will be sent his way, and he can shake the information to see what clues fall out. He’s exhausted. He needs another scrub.
And he can’t stop thinking about Megatron.
Clearly, it’s time for recharge.
“Is that smile for me or some other unlucky sot?”
Megatron looks up from his datapad as Starscream slinks into view, wings flicking, fingers trailing along the edge of the table as though tasting it. Amusement dances over his lips, but his optics are as sharp as ever. Has he found a new toy?
“Neither.” Megatron flicks save and sets the datapad down. “Because I’m not smiling.” He tilts his head. “You’re back early.”
Starscream cocks a hip against the table. He folds his arms over his cockpit. “He’s going to need a little time to think it over.”
Megatron resists the urge to smirk. “So you failed?” To be fair, attempting to recruit such a highly recognized individual had been a longshot, but much like Prowl, Megatron suspects sowing a seed of doubt is only the beginning.
Starscream snorts. “Hardly.” His gaze wanders, shoulders hitching up before sinking back down again. “He’s not desperate enough.”
“But he will be.”
Crimson optics narrow into slits. Starscream makes a noncommittal noise, his gaze slicing back toward Megatron. “Speaking of failures, I don’t see your pet project in the ranks yet.”
“You don’t sound disappointed.”
“We don’t need his kind.” Starscream’s wings flick.
Megatron leans back, gives Starscream an even stare. “Yes, we do.” Anger and irritation flood Starscream’s face in a wave before Megatron continues, “You’re smart, Starscream. You and Soundwave both. The Decepticons need minds like yours. But they also need a mind like Prowl’s. I need someone who can think in numbers. We need someone who knows the system.”
Starscream sneers. His gaze shifts elsewhere. “And how pretty he is has nothing to do with it.”
“Is that jealousy I detect?”
“Of what? Some Enforcer pet with a stick up his aft and the most boring paint job this side of Cybertron? Hardly.” Starscream snorts. Again. It’s not convincing. “I’m putting everything I have in this, Megatron. We all are. And Prowl is a risk we shouldn’t be taking.”
Megatron presses his knuckles to his lips. The only sound in the room is their ventilating. He knows Starscream has a point.
Just as he knows he’s right about this, too. Starscream’s never been much for faith in others. He trusts no one. He barely trusts himself. They can’t win this without faith.
Megatron tilts his head. “Do you hear that?” he asks, his tone soft.
Starscream straightens, wings going stiff. He listens intently, and then his optics narrow. “I hear nothing.”
“Exactly.” Megatron conceals a smirk behind his fingers. “That’s the lack of an army of Enforcers chasing us down. That is the reassuring sound of a raid that didn’t happen. It is a quiet that convinces me Prowl is already one of us, he simply doesn’t know it yet.”
“Just because he hasn’t sicced his turbowolves on us yet, doesn’t mean he isn’t going to,” Starscream retorts. He lowers his arms, plants a hand on his hip. “I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ when it happens.”
Megatron grins. “Fair enough. Then I intend to say it when it doesn’t.”
Starscream huffs a ventilation and turns away, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Go back to your plotting. We’ve got work to do.”
Damn straight they do.
He leaves before Megatron can offer up a reply, not that he has one in his arsenal. Talking with Starscream is often like tiptoeing through a minefield. Sometimes, he manages to make it halfway through before hearing the telltale click. Other times, he’s one step in before the ground blows up beneath him.
Megatron shakes his head and gets back to work.
The summons wakes Prowl from a recharge so short, it barely qualifies as a stasis nap. He comes to sentience groggily, the summons bouncing around the back of his processor like an itch he can’t scratch.
He doesn’t have time for a rinse. He grabs his morning cube to go and joins the rush of mechs toward their first shift, still blinking recharge from his optics. Silverspire is not someone he can ignore.
The office is a raucous bustle of activity, per the usual, but Prowl feels the attention on him as soon as he steps inside. Far too many gazes are drawn his way and that is out of the norm. One such face is all too familiar, and it doesn’t belong here.
Prowl doesn’t duck his head, but he pretends not to notice. He keeps his optics forward, holds his head high, and swallows down a sigh when he’s immediately intercepted.
“Prowl.” The lithe, mostly black frame steps between him and the hall to Silverspire’s office. A lazy grin accompanies a lingering glance over Prowl from top to bottom. “You’re looking well.”
Prowl draws to a halt. “As are you.” He manages politeness only because he’s very aware that every optic in the station watches his every move.
Barricade, one of his former partners, chuckles, a dark and rolling sound that seems to rattle out of his chassis. “Look at you, feigning politeness. I’m almost proud.” His optics flicker. “Where’s your partner?” He pauses, taps a taloned finger to the tip of his chin. “Oh, excuse me. I should probably clarify which one, shouldn’t I? There’ve been so many.”
“What are you doing here, Barricade?” Prowl asks. He ignores the jab because he knows Barricade. Getting under someone’s plating is Barricade’s specialty. “This isn’t your precinct anymore.”
Barricade’s head tilts to the left and right, as though he’s stretching his cables. “Just stopping by to say hello to old friends. Offering my services, should the captain need them. There are rumors his investigative force is, shall we say, lacking.” He shifts his weight, looks Prowl up and down again. “I’m sure you don’t know anything about that, now do you?”
Anger walks up Prowl’s backstrut and settles between his shoulders. His sensory panels are so stiff, they tremble. “I’m not in a position to know,” he says through clenched denta. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late.”
He moves to pass Barricade, but his former partner remains in the middle of the hall. Prowl can either argue with him, shove him, or brush passed him. He opts for the latter, their shoulders colliding in a harsh rasp of metal on metal.
Quick as a turboferret, Barricade’s spindly fingers wrap on Prowl’s shoulders, drawing him to a halt. They’re close now, close enough Prowl can feel the heat of Barricade’s ex-vents, and the grating buzz of his energy field.
“You watch yourself, Prowl,” Barricade says, his tone low and almost careful, less inciting than it was before. “You venture into things you don’t understand.”
Prowl narrows his optics. “Do you know something I don’t?”
Barricade grins, slow and sultry. His hand slides free of Prowl’s shoulder. “Oh, I think we’ve already established that, lover. Long, long ago.” He steps away with a wink. “You have my comm. Use it the next time you get lonely.”
“I’d rather be lonely,” Prowl says.
A long chuckle is Barricade’s reaction. He slips away from Prowl, down the hall and back toward the main office, leaving Prowl free to continue toward Silverspire’s office. He watches Barricade go, a frown twisting his lips.
Is it a coincidence?
Prowl doesn’t believe in coincidences.
Barricade had transferred to the Myades District. It’s on the very edge of Iacon, close enough to zones which edge other areas ripe with Decepticon activity. Barricade is most definitely the sort a captain might choose for an undercover op.
Prowl should know. That used to be their specialty.
The summons beeps at him again, and Prowl shakes his head. He’ll worry about Barricade later. He hurries to Silverspire’s office instead, and he’s ushered straight through without a moment’s wait.
It’s more than a little disconcerting.
Silverspire’s expression is cast in stress, his mouth a thin, grim slash and his optics dimmed. His desk is loaded with datapads, and the shutters are drawn on the window, casting a pale light in the room.
“Sit,” he says, and there’s no courtesy, only command in his tone.
Prowl sits. “Sir--”
“I’ll talk, you’ll listen,” Silverspire interjects curtly. His stylus scribbles across a datapad; he doesn’t look up. “Chancellor Bracket. Minister Deltus. Those are your cases. Those are your cases you are not solving. I recognize Deltus was murdered last night, but you should be further in your inquiry regarding Bracket.”
Prowl presses his lips together. His hands form fists against his thighs. He grits his denta, and his jaw aches.
So. This is what Barricade had meant.
“The public relies on us to keep them safe, to give them answers in a timely fashion,” Silverspire continues, each word emerging a sharp chastisement. “They look to us to end the Decepticon scourge as soon as possible. This includes punctually solving cases, especially ones which should already be finalized.”
Prowl’s vents stutter.
Silverspire looks up at him, lifts his orbital ridges. “Do you disagree?”
“Of course not,” Prowl says, while the anger coils and lashes inside of him, growing into a tight knot between his shoulders. “We have a responsibility to the mechs of the city. I assure you, sir, I am doing everything I can to--”
“Chancellor Bracket’s murder is a clear case of politically motivated assassination.” Silverspire’s tone thickens with warning, and his optics narrow.
Prowl tastes sparks as he grinds his denta. “It appears to be so, yes,” he says, diplomatically. “But I am not convinced. Rarely are the easy answers the correct ones.”
“We should take our victories when they come, rather than question them.” Silverspire’s stylus hits the datapad with a loud click. “If you were to tell me you are currently investigating the identity of the particular Decepticon involved, that would be one matter. But I suspect it is not the case.”
Prowl shakes his head. “It doesn’t match a pattern--”
“They’re lawless criminals who will do whatever it takes to foment their rebellion,” Silverspire cuts in sharply. He stands, slow and careful, leaning forward, palms flat on the desk. “It concerns me, Prowl, that you are so willing to defend them. It is a point of concern for all of us.”
Cold seeps through his spark, through his lines, like a hydraulic flush.
They are always watching.
Silverspire’s optics grow darker and harder, until they speak warning. “It is not a point in your favor. There are certain things you want from your future, and this sort of thinking jeopardizes that future. Do you understand me?”
There’s a lump in Prowl’s intake. He’s gripping his knees, hears them creak beneath his fingertips. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Silverspire smiles, and it is neither friendly nor reassuring. “Then we understand each other.” He lowers back into his chair. “You will finalize your investigation on both Bracket and Deltus by the end of the week. You won’t waste anyone’s time, you will provide closure to the public and our superiors, and just maybe, if you are lucky, your application might be considered for re-submittal.”
Maybe. Might. Lucky.
These words do not reassure him. There are false hopes, empty promises.
Prowl’s sensory panels are so still, the hinges ache. He creaks his head into a submissive nod. Barricade’s words haunt him. They strangely echo Megatron’s.
“Yes, sir,” he says.
“I am relieved you understand,” Silverspire says. He picks up his stylus and bends back over his datapad. “Bring me results, Prowl. Or I’ll find someone who can.”
His fingers throb. He stands, forces his fingers out of a tight fist, struggles with the wave of heat in his frame from clamped armor.
“Dismissed.”
Prowl leaves. He catches no one’s optic. He tenses, expecting to be waylaid by his former partner, triumphant with glee. Barricade is nowhere in sight.
Prowl heads straight for the forensics floor and demands every scrap of data they’ve collected so far. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but he looks at it again. And again.
Standard paint, available at any supplier. No signs of entry. No signs of struggle. No dropped paint flecks or tracks or surveillance footage. Wound caused by a hand blaster, Enforcer grade. Easy to acquire for an Enforcer, slightly more difficult for a criminal, but there are access points to black markets on every corner.
Prowl leaves, aware of the optics on him, and forms a list of friends and allies and witnesses to interview. Minister Deltus’ secretary and undersecretary, the members of his cabinet, his banker, his friends, his political companions. What meetings he does manage to get tell him nothing.
Minister Deltus and Chancellor Bracket were friends, he discovers, and isn’t surprised. They were working together on some project to help end the Decepticon menace. No one knows the details.
Prowl toys with the idea of calling Senator Shockwave. If there’s anyone who can get into the restricted files, it’s the senator. He might be the only one willing to be of assistance as well.
It’s an idea he puts on a back burner. If he can’t solve this on his own, then Shockwave will have risked his reputation for nothing.
It’s late by the time Prowl trudges home. Long after most mechs have finished their first shift, and near the end of second. He slinks into his habsuite, flicks on the vidscreen both for background noise and because sometimes there’s information he needs, and grabs a cube of mid-grade, sipping it slowly while he stands at the counter. His processor clicks and rattles like an overused machine, and he can’t find the grease to keep it running smoothly.
The headline blips into view.
Prowl’s spark runs cold. He lowers his cube and stares at the screen, sensory panels sinking downward, armor clamped so tight he fears overheating again.
‘Two Cybertronian citizens of prominence are now dead. Enforcers say they have no leads. The detective assigned to the case – Prowl – has made no progress.’
Prowl’s ventilations stutter. He sees without seeing, static lurching into his vision. His designation, they know his designation, and now they are splashing it over the vidwaves, the airwaves.
‘Current theories blame the Decepticons. Their badge has been found at both murder scenes. Results continue to be inconclusive. Are the Decepticons hunting political officers? What are the Enforcers doing to protect us? If you ask the average mech, it appears to be nothing.’
Nothing.
Click.
Prowl turns the vidscreen off and braces his hands on the edge of the counter. He hangs his head, offlines his optics, tries to ventilate. His spark spins into a tighter ball in his chassis, like it’s trying to spin itself out of existing. The knot between his shoulders makes it hard to focus. The midgrade sits in his tanks like a heavy sludge.
His comm chimes.
Prowl startles and checks the ident code. He’s not sure what to expect. Silverspire, perhaps, calling to chastise him on his offshift. It wouldn’t be the first time. Megatron, with another tempting offer. Barricade, even, just to taunt.
It’s none of them.
It’s Tumbler.
The cold returns, an icy clutch around Prowl’s spark. The trembling increases in earnest. His comm chirps, and he debates for almost too long about whether or not he’ll answer it.
He’s weak.
“Evening, Prowl.” Tumbler’s voice comes through, soft and sure, as if weeks of silence haven’t passed between them, and he hadn’t walked out that door with anger writ in his face and across the lines of his armor.
“Tumbler,” Prowl says. He pauses, glossa sweeping over his lips. “What do you want?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but his words betray him.
Tumbler laughs, but it’s not an amused sound. “Yeah, that’s about as friendly as I thought you’d sound.” He hesitates, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “I saw the news.”
“And?”
“Damn it, Prowl.” Tumbler bites out a frustrated noise. “Can you unbend for two fracking kliks so I can help you?”
He squeezes his optics shut. “You’re not my partner anymore,” Prowl says. Not by any definition of the term, as it turns out.
“No, yes, I know that,” Tumbler says. He sighs into the comm, and it rattles through Prowl’s audials like static. “But it looks like you’re in over your head, and I know you, and I know Silverspire. You need a partner on this.”
“I had a partner.”
Tumbler’s silence speaks volumes. He’d always been the one who talked before. He’d been the one who argued and insisted and pleaded and now that he’s the one with the silence, it’s telling.
“You need help,” Tumbler finally says.
“You’ve said as much before,” Prowl bites out, and it hurts. By Primus, it hurts, and it’s all he can do to swallow over the lump in his intake and the shards of ice creeping in around his spark, pointing their sharp daggers at the core of him. “You’re not coming back, and you’re not actually interested in helping, so why don’t you tell me what you want since it’s obvious nothing in this habsuite is on the list.”
The line goes dead.
Well.
Prowl lowers his hand from his comm. He grips the edge of the counter again. It’s probably better this way. No false promises, no empty hopes. No pretend overtures. Just a dropped call, a final line of welding.
He cycles a ventilation, in and out. The silence of his hab encloses him, like the slot of a mausoleum. He doesn’t know what’s louder – the ticking of his own frame, or the faint noise of the traffic several floors below.
He should get back to work. He could review his cases. He could go back over his interviews, see what he’s missed. He could do his job.
Or he could leave his apartment, go to The Leaky Spigot, and chase away the chill in his spark with the blazing heat of cheap, potent engex. It’s possibly the worst decision he could make. Silverspire’s disapproval hangs over his head like a guillotine. Barricade’s implications make the first cut. Tumbler’s exasperation frays the cord.
Prowl pushes away from the counter.
Frag it. Frag them all.
He heads for The Leaky Spigot.
