[IDW] Break the Chain 06/10
Nov. 12th, 2018 06:15 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 Six
It’s a dark, dusty corner, both literally and figuratively. The Leaky Spigot cannot possibly pass the health code inspection, but it’s still open for business, so either the inspector has very greased fingers, or hasn’t bothered to actually investigate in cycles. The floor is tacky, the windows are grimy, and there are literal ironspider webs in the corner above Prowl’s head.
The engex is cheap, the high grade cheaper, and ceiling fans clatter lazily, stirring the dusty, otherwise tepid air. The tables are full, the bar stools fuller, but it’s not loud in here. Rather it’s quiet, with an undercurrent of tension. It’s the kind of place that breeds Decepticons, if you ask Prowl.
There’s a subtle, unspoken rule. No one bothers anyone else. Prowl doesn’t arrest anyone. No one gives him the stink optic for being an Enforcer. He can drink and brood in peace. Though he’s not, precisely, brooding.
He orders engex he’s not drinking so he can keep the table, and nurses the same cube all night, liquid carefully poured from the house cube into one he’s brought from his own suite. He doesn’t trust the cleanliness of the cube it came in.
There are a few vidscreens powered on, displaying the evening news. One of them shows reruns of a classic sitcom. Prowl has his back to all four. He has no interest in viewing what sent him here in the first place.
His thoughts rattle around inside his head like ball bearings bouncing down a staircase. He’s angry, and he’s tired, and he’s stuck in a spinning wheel, making no progress, because he doesn’t know what to do, and he doesn’t know who to ask.
Someone hovers in his peripheral vision. Prowl acknowledges them distantly, but makes no move to greet the stranger. So far, his chilly reception and thousand yard stare has kept even the most curious or intrigued from making a move.
“Is this seat taken?”
Prowl knows that voice. He goes still, turning slowly to look up and up to find Megatron standing there, a smile curling his lips, a cube of engex in his hand. But surely he must be mistaken. Why in the world would the leader of the Decepticons be here?
“Megatron?”
“The one and only,” he says and slides into the booth across from Prowl, pushing the table a bit closer to Prowl to make room for his bulk. He looks too small to be crouched in the booth, or maybe it’s just his personality.
“Is that wise?” Prowl asks, orbital ridges lifted. He leans out of the booth, peering into the smoky atmosphere of the bar, but no one seems to take much notice of the mech sitting across from him.
Megatron rolls his massive shoulders. “You’re technically the only one who can see me. Everyone else sees the average construction mech who may or may not be familiar.” He lifts his cube with a frown. “I don’t think they’ve washed these in a decade.”
“What?” Prowl asks, confused.
“It’s quite filthy,” Megatron says, tilting the cube toward him and pointing at a greasy streak.
Prowl hisses through his denta. “Not the cube. Why can’t anyone see you?”
“Ah, yes. That.” Megatron sets the cube on the table and pushes it toward the edge with a single finger. He then laces his fingers and rests his hands on the table. “It was Starscream’s idea. He said, and I quote ‘if you’re intent on doing something so monumentally stupid, I am obligated to both inform you that it’s a bad idea and do my best to try and lessen your risk.’”
Prowl crinkles his nose. “He sounds charming.”
Megatron rolls his shoulders, something casual and unassuming about it. “You get used to him.”
“No, thanks.” Prowl leans back, concealing a grimace as his panels chime against the rough material behind him. “In case it isn’t already obvious, I want to be alone.”
Megatron arches a single orbital ridge. “If you wanted solitude, you wouldn’t have come to a bar.”
Prowl makes a pointed look at his solitary corner, the darkness and webs gathered around it, the fact that not even a server has paused by their table to inquire about their comfort. He narrows his optics.
“You would have stayed in your habsuite and drank yourself to oblivion there,” Megatron continues, with a tone of experience to his words. “Instead, you came here. You chose a dark corner, granted. You don’t want company, but you don’t want to be alone.”
And they aren’t necessarily the same thing.
“How astute of you.”
“I won’t qualify as company,” Megatron says as he leans back. He pulls something from subspace – a small bottle of high grade by the looks of it. “We don’t even have to talk.”
“Good. Because I don’t intend to,” says Prowl, and he takes a long, spiteful sip of his engex, even though it burns like fire, and turns to sludge in his tanks. He hadn’t intended to drink it at all, but he needs the distraction now.
Megatron’s lip curls like he’s amused, but staving it off. “I already know why you’re here. I don’t need you to.”
The cube hits the table with a dull thunk, liquid splashing out over Prowl’s fingers. “Are you stalking me?” he demands, sensory panels flicking up, smacking the back of the seat.
And there it is, the smile that’s a smirk, a gleam of satisfaction in Megatron’s optics that has no business fluttering through Prowl’s internals. “I prefer to think of it as intelligence gathering.”
Prowl glares.
Megatron shakes his head and tips it toward one of the bar’s vidscreens, closed captioning providing a running tape of the newscasters reports. “I watch the news, Prowl. I’m well aware of what the top story is on every local chapter.” He raps one hand on the table, knuckles making a rat-tat-tat. “It wasn’t us, by the way.”
Prowl rolls his optics. “I know.” He drags down the latter half of his engex and worries he’s losing sensation in his glossa. “Or at least, it wasn’t on your orders if a Decepticon was responsible.”
“In the optics of your superiors, there’s little difference,” Megatron says.
“It matters to me,” Prowl says before his logic circuit intercedes and reminds him he’s being too honest. He blames the cheap engex. It’s disrupting his neural connections.
Megatron stares at him.
A server walks by, scooping up Megatron’s dirty cube, snatching Prowl’s empty one, and leaving two full cubes in their wake. If Prowl had to wager, these are even filthier than before, but suddenly, they sparkle like new, and he needs the engex in them more than he needs the worry about their cleanliness.
He empties a third of his cube.
“How did you know I was here?” Prowl asks, desperate to change the subject.
Megatron smirks, easygoing. “I’m stalking you,” he says, and tugs his cube closer, examining it like one might a legal datapad.
“Aft,” Prowl mutters.
Megatron laughs, and there’s something carefree in it, something genuine. Whatever it means, Megatron decides now’s the perfect time to indulge in his engex, and he drains half the cube with a grimace, though he wipes at his mouth afterward.
“You have terrible taste in drinking establishments,” Megatron says.
“Noted.” Another third of the cube goes down easy. Perhaps too easy. There’s an odd spinning motion at the back of his head, but Silverspire and Tumbler and Barricade are all faded to a dull ache in his memories. They aren’t bothering him right now.
Prowl rolls the burn of the engex around in his mouth, glossa running over his denta, shoulders hunched. He cups the cube, head spinning and spinning. He peers up at Megatron.
“You’re not trying to recruit me,” he comments.
“Not at this present moment, no. I do have some propriety.” Megatron’s elbows meet the edge of the table. He leans forward, gaze not leaving Prowl. “It occurs to me that right now what you need is not someone who wants something from you, but a friend.”
Prowl snorts. It’s a wet, unattractive sound. “Don’t know how you can be one when you’re trying to be the other.”
Megatron tilts his head. “Practice.”
Prowl laughs, and the noise drowns in the quick finish of his cheap engex, something gritty sliding across his glossa in the dregs. His tank clenches as he shoves the empty toward the edge. His fingers shake.
He eyes the half-empty cube in front of Megatron. “You going to finish that?”
Megatron drags a finger around the rim of the cube. “No, but I don’t think you should either.”
“You don’t know what I need,” Prowl growls, and he’s too blitzed to be horrified by the slur to his words, the crackling of static on the edges.
He doesn’t indulge enough. He rarely touches intoxicants, and it shows. Two cubes of greasy, chunky cheap engex and his gyros spin.
The last time this happened, he’d been turned down for a promotion again. He’d called Tumbler to come get him. Tumbler had towed him home, giving him disappointed, chiding looks the whole time.
‘You should know better,’ he’d said.
‘I do,’ Prowl had croaked in reply.
Knowing better doesn’t often mean you act upon the smarter course. Sometimes, you just want to be an idiot.
Like now.
Prowl’s listing in his seat, a ship in the midst of a storm without an anchor to keep him stable. The crash will happen soon enough. He should be in his berth when it does.
He should be home.
Prowl stands up and clutches the table to keep his balance. The floor dips and sways beneath him. It moves out from under his feet.
There’s an arm on his elbow, keeping him upright. “I may not know what you need,” says a warm, deep voice. “But right now, I can guess you should be home.”
“Good guess,” Prowl mumbles. He clumsily digs through his arm panel, looking for a cred chip.
One appears on the table, and he blinks at it dumbly. He’s still fishing around his compartment; he doesn’t remember finding one.
The table moves away. No, Prowl’s leaving it, thanks to the firm hand on his elbow, the tall and strong presence at his side. Gentle as it leads Prowl away from the table, threads him through the furniture at the bar, and out into a chilly evening, chilly enough Prowl’s armor creaks and draws in tight to his protoform.
His world is a smear of color. His tanks clench and threaten to rebel. Prowl cycles his optics again and again, but nothing clarifies. The harder he tries to focus, the more it slips away.
“I can call you a transport, or I can take you home.”
Prowl blinks up at his savior, sees a smear of gray and red. “You know where I live?”
“I’m stalking you. Remember?”
Prowl laughs, noisy and messy, and flops against warm metal, a powerful engine thrumming beneath his clumsy palm.
“Take me home,” Prowl says.
To his quiet, sterile home that hasn’t seen any face but his for months. Where his research and his investigation spreads throughout his home office like a monument to his failures.
He’s not quite sure how he gets there, but he remembers distantly that it’s Megatron who’s less of a villain and more of a sitter. It’s Megatron who hauls him out of the transport and into the lift and shoves Prowl’s limp palm against his door so his suite unlocks. It’s Megatron who dumps Prowl onto his berth, though kindly, and it’s Megatron who says,
“I don’t envy the ache you’ll have in the morning.”
“You don’t want this,” Prowl says into his pillow, face muffled into the foam padding, his sensory flats sending conflicting readings where they blanket his back. “Find another Enforcer.”
Megatron lingers in his doorway, casting a long shadow, all darkness and stripes of biolight. “You’re the best,” he rumbles.
Or Prowl thinks he rumbles anyway. Sound is a blur of static and noise, a wash of words filtering through the gray in his audials.
The next time he looks, the shadow in his doorway is gone, and the lights in his suite are dim, and the tick-tick-tick of the chronometer in the main hallway is the only thing to break the quiest. Prowl groans and clutches a pillow under his head and hates himself for this weakness.
It’s why he’ll never be anything more than he is, he thinks, and then the gray eclipses all else and the tide of excess tugs him under.
~
Prowl pays for his overindulgence.
The morning cycle dawns, too bright, too loud, and with a queasy clench to his tanks he holds back with willpower alone. He staggers through a washcycle in the racks, he chugs low grade and coolant, and glares daggers at the bright light streaming through his windows.
There’s a note on his console monitor. A looping script speaks of archivists, not miners, but it’s signed by Megatron nonetheless.
‘I have the utmost faith in you.’
That’s all it says. Prowl can’t decide if Megatron is referring to Prowl’s choice regarding the Decepticons, or the two investigations currently stalling. Perhaps both.
He debates discarding the note, but keeps it instead, saving the file to his secure drive. He flops down into his chair, sips at his low grade, and forces himself to focus through the pounding in his head. Everything hurts, but he can’t get distracted. He has work to do.
He idly reviews the information he’s gathered so far. The interviews, the evidence, the forensics analyses.
A designation stands out from the crowd. Not because Prowl thinks the mech responsible. Of course not. But because he’s a link, a connection. A thin line drawn from Chancellor Bracket to Minister Deltus.
Senator Shockwave. The name is not unfamiliar to Prowl. After all, he is the one who sponsored Prowl’s first application for frame exemption and promotion to the Enforcers.
The lead is thin, but it’s the first one Prowl’s found. The threat of another lecture from Silverspire hangs over his head. He needs to make progress. He’ll take what he can get.
Morning cycle punishes him further by being painfully bright, and the throb in Prowl’s head migrates to sit right behind his optics. He doesn’t trust himself to drive, so he hails a transport to Senator Shockwave’s office, where his receptionist assures Prowl he can be found.
Shockwave’s office is bright and cheerful, with eager faces hurrying past Prowl, and not all of them are administrative frames. He thinks Shockwave must make a habit of hiring the disenfranchised or the odd and unusual. Outliers must flock to him in droves.
Prowl’s shown straight to Senator Shockwave’s private office without an ounce of suspicion or arrogant disrespect. It’s kind of refreshing actually.
“Prowl,” Shockwave greets with a smile and an extended hand. There’s no hesitation, his joy genuine, and his field open to Prowl. “When I was told you wanted to speak with me, I was delighted to accept the request. It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”
“Decades at least, sir,” Prowl says. He knows Shockwave tangentially. He’d only met the mech once, at his frame exemption hearing. There’s very little about the senator that seems to have changed since then.
To this day, he’s still not sure why Shockwave chose to sponsor him.
“Is that so?” Shockwave smiles and clasps Prowl’s hand in a firm shake. When they separate, he gestures to a chair across from the desk. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
Prowl takes the offered chair, perching at the edge of the foam cushion, more than a little taken by the massive windows forming the back wall of Shockwave’s office. There’s nothing but sky for miles, with the occasional skyscraper to break up the horizon. From here, what do normal mechs look like? Tiny creatures scurrying about?
Shockwave lowers himself into his own chair with an audible creak of springs. “So, how can I be of assistance?”
“I was hoping you could answer some questions for me regarding Chancellor Bracket and Minister Deltus,” Prowl answers. No point in loitering or making small talk.
Shockwave nods slowly. “I understand they were murdered,” he says as though each word is carefully chosen. One hand flattens on the desktop, fingers rapping. “I don’t know how I can help you, but I will try.”
“I appreciate it.” Prowl powers on his datapad, flips out a stylus, and starts a new file. “What connection did you have with the victims?”
Shockwave sucks in a vent. “Well, you surely don’t bother with pleasantries.” He doesn’t appear startled or angry, but in fact, there’s something almost… pleased in the way he looks at Prowl. As if he’s proud.
“I’m on something of a deadline.” Prowl smiles, but it’s thin. Silverspire’s warning is fresh in his mind, and the newscast seems to be running on a steady line of failure and blame.
“Understandable.” Shockwave raps his fingers on the desk again. His optics dim in thought. “They, along with myself, were part of a committee whose sole purpose was to prepare a plan to handle the Decepticons.”
That tacks with several conclusions Prowl had already drawn. It’s a thin connection, a thin motive, but it’s better than none.
He nods. “I’ve heard as much, but Deltus and Bracket’s associates were shy on the details. It was considered a confidential matter.” One of Deltus’ undersecretaries had mentioned a cooperative project, and Bracket’s personal assistant had hinted to a team, but both hadn’t offered anything further than an eavesdropped comment.
“They would say that, wouldn’t they?” Shockwave chuckles, but it’s not amused. “The proposition was to allow the Decepticons to become a political party that could give them a voice in both the Senate and the high council. It was an attempt to find a middle ground, to offer a truce to Megatron in order to cease the bloodshed until terms could be decided.”
“A seemingly fair proposal.”
“Seemingly being the operative word here.” Shockwave’s lips thin into a smile. “There were some within the committee who would not budge on certain tenets of the proposition. Namely, the requirement that all Decepticons register for the political party in order to prove its existence.”
“A registry.” Prowl’s sensory panels flatten against his back, matching his vocal tones. “In other words, a list of every Decepticon, including those who may only be interested in the cause but not party to violence, which the Senate could then use to exact punishment.”
“You are as intelligent as I always thought you were.” Shockwave toys with an item on his desk. “So you can see why others, like myself, were not on board with the idea.”
Prowl scribbles down a notation. “Let me guess, Bracket and Deltus were of the registry argument.”
Shockwave slides a hand down his face. “Yes.” He rubs fingers around his mouth. “Small wonder the Decepticons are being blamed. Though I am curious as to how they’ve learned the particulars of the committee. It’s supposed to be confidential.”
“Would you be willing to give me a list of the members?” Prowl asks.
Shockwave slides into his chair, sitting with the heaviness of someone who carries a terrible burden. “And notate the ones who proposed the registration?”
“It would be helpful,” Prowl says.
“You think someone’s targeting them specifically,” Shockwave replies, and it’s a statement, not a question. His fingers tap across a datapad in rapid staccato.
“It would appear so. Which if that is the case, whoever else is on the list may be next.” Prowl frowns, his internals squirming. He still doesn’t believe the perpetrators to be Decepticon. There’s something else at work here. He’s sure of it. “They need to be warned.”
Shockwave slides the datapad across the desk. “Be careful,” he says. “You’re stepping into a halornet’s nest of tangled politics. Maybe it was the Decepticons, maybe it wasn’t. But something tells me you caught these cases for a reason.”
Prowl presses his lips together. He accepts the datapad but doesn’t power it on. Warnings echo upon themselves at the back of his processor. There’s a pattern here, and Prowl’s certain it’s not coincidental.
“I fear you may be right.” He pauses, debating. Should he mention his inability to acquire a promotion? Silverspire’s thinly veiled warning? His own meetings with Megatron? Does he trust Shockwave this far? “It would be nice if my abilities were the only reason, but it’s clear by now they will never be respected.”
Prowl rises, tucking the datapad into his subspace. “I appreciate your time and the information, Senator Shockwave. It’s been very helpful.”
“Of course.” Shockwave stands as well, and clasps hands with Prowl. “If you have any further questions, you can contact me any time.”
“Likewise.” Prowl smiles politely.
He excuses himself, leaving Shockwave to his business, whatever that might be, and the no doubt pressing concerns of the committee, now short two members. There will be others, more politicians to fill in the empty slots. Perhaps the assassinations – because Prowl can’t think of them as anything but – are meant to be both deterrent and warning. The message is getting muddled, however. No one’s supposed to know that a) the committee exists and b) the purpose of it.
In the lift, Prowl pulls out the datapad and skims the designations – noting which ones Shockwave has indicated are pro-registration.
A designation sticks out more than the rest – Senator Ratbat.
Prowl’s denta clench. Ratbat, who is also Soundwave’s sponsor. Soundwave, who is Megatron’s closest confidante, or at least one of them. And yet, he is meant to believe the Decepticons are not involved? When all signs point to the victims being targeted because of their support of the registry?
Prowl’s vents hitch. He notes the other designations and makes it a point to inform Silverspire to set them all an extra guard just in case.
The lift chimes and deposits him on the lowest floor. Prowl tucks the datapad away and exits the office building in a haze. Pointing fingers at the Decepticons remains the easiest answer, because Primus-below it makes sense. Prowl’s still not ready to accept it.
He’s not sure anymore if it’s because he’s biased, or if he’s see something that’s truly there.
Prowl hasn’t managed two steps from the front entrance of the office building before his comm chirps. It’s not the official line, which means it isn’t Silverspire. He doesn’t know who else it could be, unless it’s Tumbler. Had he commed his former partner in the midst of his overindulgence last night?
He doesn’t recognize the ident code, but again, it has an origin code in Slaughter City. An inkling of identity drizzles through his processor. Somehow, he’s rather certain it’s not a solicitation.
“Prowl here.”
“Prowl.” The rough-rumble pours into his audials, and Prowl will never admit that it sends a tingle down his spinal strut. “You sound alert. I trust you’re feeling better?”
Heat flushes Prowl’s cheeks. Thank Primus Megatron is not in front of him. “Yes, I am.” He works his jaw, swallowing his embarrassment. “I appreciate your assistance last night, though I apologize it was necessary.”
“It’s quite alright. We all have our moments. Is that not what friends are for?”
Prowl steps out of the traffic flow, moving into the shadow of a balcony overhead. “Is that what we are?”
“I’d like to think so.” Megatron’s voice is as warm as an idling engine. “And I promise, I did not take advantage of you last night.”
Prowl coughs a ventilation. “I’m aware of that.” He shifts his weight and watches the other mechs pass, none of whom take notice of him. “I would like to thank you, if at all possible.”
“I’m still in the city.”
“Why?”
Megatron chuckles softly. “Research. Materials in Slaughter City are lacking, as I’m sure you know. I’m currently at The Collective.”
The Collective. Prowl can’t imagine Megatron sitting in the posh and polished atrium. He’d look as out of place as Soundwave with his mechanimal cassettes. It’s an incongruous image.
Frankly, he’s surprised they let Megatron through the door.
“I’m nearby,” Prowl says. “I can be there in ten minutes if you’ll let me buy you a drink. Not an intoxicant, however.”
“I think I have the time to spare,” Megatron drawls. Amusement rings rich in his tone. “I’m in the historical archives at present. I’ll see you shortly.”
The call ends.
Prowl cycles a ventilation, rubbing a hand over his head. Yes, he wants to thank Megatron, but he also has questions. The list feels heavy where it sits in his compartment. He has to know if the Decepticons are at all complicit.
He has to know how much of a fool Megatron is making of him.
Fortunately, he’s only a few blocks away from the Collective. It takes him no time at all to find the massive building in downtown center. It’s large enough to welcome a shuttle through the front doors, with access ports on the outside for the rare few larger than that who cannot fit.
Prowl stops in at the attached cafe before he ventures further inside, and purchases a sampling of treats and two sealed cubes of spiced midgrade. After that, it’s down two spiraling railwells to the second underground level where the historical archives are kept. It’s an open floor plan, and he spies Megatron immediately, holding court in the middle with an array of datapads stacked on the table around him.
There are no other patrons in sight. Prowl doesn’t know if it’s because Soundwave is lurking in the shadows, preventing others from bothering Megatron, or if Megatron’s managed to scare everyone away.
Megatron looks up as Prowl approaches, and he greets Prowl with a smile. “That was faster than ten minutes.”
“I like to give myself breathing room.” Prowl offers one of the cubes. “Will this do?”
Megatron peels off the seal and gives it a tentative sniff. “This is perfect. Thank you.” He gestures to one of the empty chairs. “Have a seat. That is, if you intend to stay for a while.”
“Long enough. I have some questions.” Prowl chooses a seat that puts a table between himself and Megatron, a stack of datapads neatly concealing Megatron so that only his upper torso, shoulders, and head are visible. Not that he doesn’t trust the Decepticon leader or anything.
Prowl sets the box of goodies between them, the delicious smells wafting from it and tempting him enough to withdraw an oil cake. Nothing cures overindulgence quite like sticky sweets without any nutritional value whatsoever.
“Nothing terrible I hope,” Megatron says, and if he eyes some of the sweets in Prowl’s box with longing, Prowl is polite enough not to comment.
“Help yourself,” he says, hiding a smile as Megatron nearly dives into the box and pulls out a handful of rust sticks. “And I suppose it depends on the answers you give me.”
Prowl skims the datapads scattered around the table. Some of the titles are visible and to his surprise, Megatron hadn’t exaggerated. He very much is here to read historical volumes, though they do seem to be focused on periods in Cybertronian history that relate to political upheavals.
“Then that depends on the questions you have.” Tiny crumbs fleck on Megatron’s lips, and he licks them away. “Though I am relieved to see you’ve recovered from your overindulgence last night.”
Heat threatens to steal into Prowl’s cheeks. He valiantly fights it down. “That was a moment of weakness which will not be repeated.”
“We have those from time to time. It’s to be expected.” Megatron rolls his shoulders and settles into his chair. “But your field is agitated. Ask your questions.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation and withdraws the datapad. He rests it on the table next to his forgotten cube of midgrade. “You’re aware I’m investigating the deaths of Chancellor Bracket and Minister Deltus, yes?”
“I am.” Not so much as a flinch from Megatron.
“I spoke with Senator Shockwave today. He informed me they were members of a committee specifically created to deal with the Decepticons.” Prowl watches Megatron carefully, searching for any tells. “At the time of Bracket’s death, they were debating the merits of a registry. Did you know anything about that?”
Megatron shakes his head and sits up, lacing his fingers together to rest them on the tabletop. “I’ve heard rumors. Whispers. But nothing concrete. Though I will cast my vote now on such a thing being a terrible idea.”
“Really?” Prowl frowns to mask the anger bubbling up in his spark. “I find that very hard to believe.”
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “You think I’m lying?”
“Either that or Soundwave is not as loyal as you think.”
A storm flashes across Megatron’s face. “Explain,” he demands, his shoulders wreathed with tension, fingers tightening around one another.
Prowl sets his expression in stone. “Senator Ratbat is also on the committee.”
“So you’re assuming Ratbat tells his slave everything and therefore, Soundwave must be aware of the purpose of this committee,” Megatron growls.
Prowl doesn’t flinch, though he imagines Megatron is used to threatening others with that tone. Prowl is not so easily cowed. “You mean to tell me Soundwave wouldn’t have come across the information on his own?”
“If he has, he hasn’t shared it with me. But neither has he acted on his own and certainly not in such a manner as to be both obvious and foolish.” Megatron makes a disgusted noise and flicks a finger over his cube of midgrade. “Whoever is responsible for your killings either wants to be caught or is setting a trap. It’s not us.”
Prowl frowns. He believes Megatron, and that’s perhaps the traitorous part of him. It’s always struck him as too easy to blame the Decepticons, even before Megatron contacted him. What foolish revolution would do something so incendiary?
But if not the Decepticons, then who?
“I don’t suppose you have an alternative suspect,” Prowl asks.
Megatron shakes his head. “No. But I’ve been having Soundwave look into it on the side. We’re as invested in locating the true perpetrators as you are.” He brushes a hand over his head, looking the most strained Prowl has seen thus far. “If this revolution has any hope of succeeding, our cause can’t be tainted by these lies.”
Prowl snorts a ventilation before he can stop himself. “These incidents aren’t going to be what breaks your revolution, Megatron.”
“Is that so?” If Megatron’s angry, it doesn’t show on his face.
“Yes.” Prowl toys with his barely touched cube of energon. “You have to realize that what you’re doing right now isn’t working.”
Megatron leans back, arms folding over his chassis. “I’ve raised an army,” he points out, a touch of indignation in his tone.
“No, you’ve raised a mob. An angry, unruly one.”
“Of course they’re angry! They’ve been used, discarded, treated like nothing.” Megatron’s voice slides into a hiss, and he cycles an audible ventilation.
Prowl surprises himself with how little he fears Megatron’s anger. “There’s nothing wrong with anger. Anger is good. It can stoke the fires and get you motivated, but without direction, it turns into chaos.”
“They have direction!”
“Not a concrete one.” Prowl pauses and straightens, reminding himself to keep control. Megatron is not Silverspire. He’s not to blame for the anger writhing in Prowl’s spark.
“Look, you have power here. You have influence. And yes, you have an army. But right now, you’re angry and causing chaos and lashing out. You’re not effecting change. You’re building an army, but you need to gain the support of the people, too. Not just the ones who are going to fight with their fists, but the ones who fight with words.”
“Cowards, you mean.” Megatron’s lip curls with disgust.
Prowl glares. “What do you really want from this? Change or chaos?”
“Talking has gotten us nowhere.”
“You’ve hardly tried!” Prowl’s voice echoes in the room, and he clamps his hands around his knees rather than bang a fist on the table. He glances around, but there’s no one close to them, save Soundwave, who appears to be guarding the exit.
Well, at least this conversation is semi-private.
Prowl settles in his chair and continues, “I understand. I’m angry, too. Change is slow to come, and mechs are dying faster than you can save them. But this path you’re on right now? It’s only ending in one way I can see, and that’s with everyone dying. You can be a hero who unites Cybertron for a better future, or you can be angry and divide it and be left with the ashes after your vengeance. Which do you want?”
Megatron presses his lips in a thin line before he says, “The one’s in power will never listen without force.”
“That may be true. But they’re not the ones you’re trying to convince.”
Megatron cycles his optics. “Explain.”
He’s actually listening.
A burst of something grows in Prowl’s spark. Hope, perhaps, that if he can get through to Megatron, perhaps real change can be effected. Perhaps what the Decepticons can accomplish will be more productive rather than destructive.
Maybe there’s a chance.
“The people, Megatron. The average mech,” Prowl says, careful to keep his tone even rather than chastising. “The ones who outnumber the Senate and the council and those who are in power. They are an unimaginable force. Cybertron wouldn’t function without the everyday mech. It’s them you need to convince, not the Senate.”
Megatron stares at him for a long moment. He leans back in his chair as though understanding has dawned on him. “You understand then?”
Prowl flattens his orbital ridges. “To what are you referring?”
“Why I need you on my staff.” Megatron threads his hands together and folds them on his abdomen. He looks rather pleased with himself, smugness radiating from his field. “Myself, Soundwave, Starscream… We all come from a certain point of view. There are things we can’t understand.”
“And you think I do?”
“I know it.” Megatron gives him an appraising look. “You are steeped in law. You have studied it, mastered it, tried your very best to rise up within it, only to be kicked back down to your place by those who would seek to use you in a way they see fit and none other. You understand how mechs like the Senate and those who own us think. You can help us act within the boundaries of what’s legal.”
Prowl snorts. “As if legality has stopped you before.”
“True,” Megatron admits with a tip of his head. “But if a law is unjust, is that not a law which must be disobeyed? Laws are not permanent concepts which can never adapt. But the only way to change them is to challenge them.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you mean in a court of law.”
Megatron spreads his hands. “If we were given a legitimate voice, perhaps I would. But you know as well as I do that the Senate has no interest in letting the Decepticons be heard. They don’t want us to challenge the status quo. They don’t want change. And they absolutely do not want to lose their mindless workforce.”
“Not everyone in the Senate is as corrupt as you think,” Prowl replies, thinking first of Shockwave, who has lobbied so hard for the disadvantaged and those capable of greater things.
“They are few and far between.” Megatron cycles a ventilation and leans forward, hands clasped and elbows braced. “The Senate does not wish to listen. Therefore, there is but one path left to us, the one which you so openly disdain.”
“Violence,” Prowl acknowledges. He presses his lips together, contemplating. “Revolutions can often not succeed without it. And yes, you’re right. The Senate will not loosen their claws without a fight. But you can’t ignore the civilian casualties. You can’t simply consider them collateral damage. You will lose support and damage your credibility.”
“I cannot use an angry, unruly mob. I must have an army,” Megatron rephrases, with a curl of his lips suggesting he approves. “We would win with you, Prowl. You must see that.”
Prowl works his intake. “I’m not sure what I see.”
He flattens his hands on the table, gazing over Megatron’s shoulder at the shelves stacked with datapads full of ancient history and violence and death. He’s studied it extensively. He knows the weight of war and it’s penalties. He knows that every victory will feel hollow for the losses suffered.
He also knows, at this point, fighting is inevitable.
“This is no small decision,” Prowl continues. “This will change everything. Life as I know ceases to exist. My future becomes tenuous. Spontaneous.” The very idea of not having a plan makes his spark rattle in its chamber. “I don’t know yet if it’s the right thing.” He cocks his head and shifts his gaze to Megatron. “I don’t know I can trust you.”
“That’s fair.” Megatron straightens, his expression softening. “But war is coming. You will have to choose a side. Either way, your future is tenuous. You can now only ask yourself if you want to fight to maintain the status quo, or if you want to fight for change.”
“That’s not a question I can answer at this moment,” Prowl says, and not because he’s stalling for time, but because it’s perhaps the most important decision he could make in his entire functioning. “I need time to think.”
“Time you can have. Not that it’s up to me to give you permission.” Amusement trickles into the edges of Megatron’s field.
Prowl cycles a ventilation and glances to the main doorway. Soundwave still lurks there, his visor a baleful crimson. “And I’ll be allowed to walk away?”
“Of course.” Megatron pauses and his field reaches out, touching Prowl, the edges of it offering reassurance and something like hope. “I need you, Prowl. But if you’re not committed to the cause, there’s little point. I can’t manipulate you. I can’t trick you. I can’t lie you into joining us. I need you to make the choice of your own accord or it’s meaningless.”
“You put a lot of faith into someone you barely know,” Prowl comments. He pushes to his feet, the chair making a horrendous screech as the wheels roll back.
Megatron looks up at him, and there’s something in his gaze Prowl can’t identify. “I know enough.” He withdraws a chip from subspace and sets it on the counter, pushing it toward Prowl with a tip of his finger. “My contact information. Should you have a question or have an answer, you can reach me there. It’s encrypted of course, and you won’t be able to use it to track me.”
Prowl slips the chip off the table and stows it in an arm compartment for safekeeping. “I recognize the gesture of trust nonetheless.” His attention flicks to the box of goodies mostly forgotten in the middle of the table. “Feel free to keep those. Consider the rest my gratitude for ensuring I got home safely and unmolested.”
“It was my pleasure.” Megatron chuckles. “If you need company again, you know the number.”
“Indeed I do.” A flush of warmth wars with the chill of caution, fighting for dominance in his spark. “Thank you for the conversation. It was…”
“Enlightening,” Megatron finishes for him. He presses his fingertips together, a glimmer of something in his optics.
“Yes. That.” Prowl slides another step back from the table, feeling oddly reluctant to leave. “Perhaps we can debate again another time.”
Megatron’s lips curve. “I’ll look forward to it.”
***
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.
It’s a dark, dusty corner, both literally and figuratively. The Leaky Spigot cannot possibly pass the health code inspection, but it’s still open for business, so either the inspector has very greased fingers, or hasn’t bothered to actually investigate in cycles. The floor is tacky, the windows are grimy, and there are literal ironspider webs in the corner above Prowl’s head.
The engex is cheap, the high grade cheaper, and ceiling fans clatter lazily, stirring the dusty, otherwise tepid air. The tables are full, the bar stools fuller, but it’s not loud in here. Rather it’s quiet, with an undercurrent of tension. It’s the kind of place that breeds Decepticons, if you ask Prowl.
There’s a subtle, unspoken rule. No one bothers anyone else. Prowl doesn’t arrest anyone. No one gives him the stink optic for being an Enforcer. He can drink and brood in peace. Though he’s not, precisely, brooding.
He orders engex he’s not drinking so he can keep the table, and nurses the same cube all night, liquid carefully poured from the house cube into one he’s brought from his own suite. He doesn’t trust the cleanliness of the cube it came in.
There are a few vidscreens powered on, displaying the evening news. One of them shows reruns of a classic sitcom. Prowl has his back to all four. He has no interest in viewing what sent him here in the first place.
His thoughts rattle around inside his head like ball bearings bouncing down a staircase. He’s angry, and he’s tired, and he’s stuck in a spinning wheel, making no progress, because he doesn’t know what to do, and he doesn’t know who to ask.
Someone hovers in his peripheral vision. Prowl acknowledges them distantly, but makes no move to greet the stranger. So far, his chilly reception and thousand yard stare has kept even the most curious or intrigued from making a move.
“Is this seat taken?”
Prowl knows that voice. He goes still, turning slowly to look up and up to find Megatron standing there, a smile curling his lips, a cube of engex in his hand. But surely he must be mistaken. Why in the world would the leader of the Decepticons be here?
“Megatron?”
“The one and only,” he says and slides into the booth across from Prowl, pushing the table a bit closer to Prowl to make room for his bulk. He looks too small to be crouched in the booth, or maybe it’s just his personality.
“Is that wise?” Prowl asks, orbital ridges lifted. He leans out of the booth, peering into the smoky atmosphere of the bar, but no one seems to take much notice of the mech sitting across from him.
Megatron rolls his massive shoulders. “You’re technically the only one who can see me. Everyone else sees the average construction mech who may or may not be familiar.” He lifts his cube with a frown. “I don’t think they’ve washed these in a decade.”
“What?” Prowl asks, confused.
“It’s quite filthy,” Megatron says, tilting the cube toward him and pointing at a greasy streak.
Prowl hisses through his denta. “Not the cube. Why can’t anyone see you?”
“Ah, yes. That.” Megatron sets the cube on the table and pushes it toward the edge with a single finger. He then laces his fingers and rests his hands on the table. “It was Starscream’s idea. He said, and I quote ‘if you’re intent on doing something so monumentally stupid, I am obligated to both inform you that it’s a bad idea and do my best to try and lessen your risk.’”
Prowl crinkles his nose. “He sounds charming.”
Megatron rolls his shoulders, something casual and unassuming about it. “You get used to him.”
“No, thanks.” Prowl leans back, concealing a grimace as his panels chime against the rough material behind him. “In case it isn’t already obvious, I want to be alone.”
Megatron arches a single orbital ridge. “If you wanted solitude, you wouldn’t have come to a bar.”
Prowl makes a pointed look at his solitary corner, the darkness and webs gathered around it, the fact that not even a server has paused by their table to inquire about their comfort. He narrows his optics.
“You would have stayed in your habsuite and drank yourself to oblivion there,” Megatron continues, with a tone of experience to his words. “Instead, you came here. You chose a dark corner, granted. You don’t want company, but you don’t want to be alone.”
And they aren’t necessarily the same thing.
“How astute of you.”
“I won’t qualify as company,” Megatron says as he leans back. He pulls something from subspace – a small bottle of high grade by the looks of it. “We don’t even have to talk.”
“Good. Because I don’t intend to,” says Prowl, and he takes a long, spiteful sip of his engex, even though it burns like fire, and turns to sludge in his tanks. He hadn’t intended to drink it at all, but he needs the distraction now.
Megatron’s lip curls like he’s amused, but staving it off. “I already know why you’re here. I don’t need you to.”
The cube hits the table with a dull thunk, liquid splashing out over Prowl’s fingers. “Are you stalking me?” he demands, sensory panels flicking up, smacking the back of the seat.
And there it is, the smile that’s a smirk, a gleam of satisfaction in Megatron’s optics that has no business fluttering through Prowl’s internals. “I prefer to think of it as intelligence gathering.”
Prowl glares.
Megatron shakes his head and tips it toward one of the bar’s vidscreens, closed captioning providing a running tape of the newscasters reports. “I watch the news, Prowl. I’m well aware of what the top story is on every local chapter.” He raps one hand on the table, knuckles making a rat-tat-tat. “It wasn’t us, by the way.”
Prowl rolls his optics. “I know.” He drags down the latter half of his engex and worries he’s losing sensation in his glossa. “Or at least, it wasn’t on your orders if a Decepticon was responsible.”
“In the optics of your superiors, there’s little difference,” Megatron says.
“It matters to me,” Prowl says before his logic circuit intercedes and reminds him he’s being too honest. He blames the cheap engex. It’s disrupting his neural connections.
Megatron stares at him.
A server walks by, scooping up Megatron’s dirty cube, snatching Prowl’s empty one, and leaving two full cubes in their wake. If Prowl had to wager, these are even filthier than before, but suddenly, they sparkle like new, and he needs the engex in them more than he needs the worry about their cleanliness.
He empties a third of his cube.
“How did you know I was here?” Prowl asks, desperate to change the subject.
Megatron smirks, easygoing. “I’m stalking you,” he says, and tugs his cube closer, examining it like one might a legal datapad.
“Aft,” Prowl mutters.
Megatron laughs, and there’s something carefree in it, something genuine. Whatever it means, Megatron decides now’s the perfect time to indulge in his engex, and he drains half the cube with a grimace, though he wipes at his mouth afterward.
“You have terrible taste in drinking establishments,” Megatron says.
“Noted.” Another third of the cube goes down easy. Perhaps too easy. There’s an odd spinning motion at the back of his head, but Silverspire and Tumbler and Barricade are all faded to a dull ache in his memories. They aren’t bothering him right now.
Prowl rolls the burn of the engex around in his mouth, glossa running over his denta, shoulders hunched. He cups the cube, head spinning and spinning. He peers up at Megatron.
“You’re not trying to recruit me,” he comments.
“Not at this present moment, no. I do have some propriety.” Megatron’s elbows meet the edge of the table. He leans forward, gaze not leaving Prowl. “It occurs to me that right now what you need is not someone who wants something from you, but a friend.”
Prowl snorts. It’s a wet, unattractive sound. “Don’t know how you can be one when you’re trying to be the other.”
Megatron tilts his head. “Practice.”
Prowl laughs, and the noise drowns in the quick finish of his cheap engex, something gritty sliding across his glossa in the dregs. His tank clenches as he shoves the empty toward the edge. His fingers shake.
He eyes the half-empty cube in front of Megatron. “You going to finish that?”
Megatron drags a finger around the rim of the cube. “No, but I don’t think you should either.”
“You don’t know what I need,” Prowl growls, and he’s too blitzed to be horrified by the slur to his words, the crackling of static on the edges.
He doesn’t indulge enough. He rarely touches intoxicants, and it shows. Two cubes of greasy, chunky cheap engex and his gyros spin.
The last time this happened, he’d been turned down for a promotion again. He’d called Tumbler to come get him. Tumbler had towed him home, giving him disappointed, chiding looks the whole time.
‘You should know better,’ he’d said.
‘I do,’ Prowl had croaked in reply.
Knowing better doesn’t often mean you act upon the smarter course. Sometimes, you just want to be an idiot.
Like now.
Prowl’s listing in his seat, a ship in the midst of a storm without an anchor to keep him stable. The crash will happen soon enough. He should be in his berth when it does.
He should be home.
Prowl stands up and clutches the table to keep his balance. The floor dips and sways beneath him. It moves out from under his feet.
There’s an arm on his elbow, keeping him upright. “I may not know what you need,” says a warm, deep voice. “But right now, I can guess you should be home.”
“Good guess,” Prowl mumbles. He clumsily digs through his arm panel, looking for a cred chip.
One appears on the table, and he blinks at it dumbly. He’s still fishing around his compartment; he doesn’t remember finding one.
The table moves away. No, Prowl’s leaving it, thanks to the firm hand on his elbow, the tall and strong presence at his side. Gentle as it leads Prowl away from the table, threads him through the furniture at the bar, and out into a chilly evening, chilly enough Prowl’s armor creaks and draws in tight to his protoform.
His world is a smear of color. His tanks clench and threaten to rebel. Prowl cycles his optics again and again, but nothing clarifies. The harder he tries to focus, the more it slips away.
“I can call you a transport, or I can take you home.”
Prowl blinks up at his savior, sees a smear of gray and red. “You know where I live?”
“I’m stalking you. Remember?”
Prowl laughs, noisy and messy, and flops against warm metal, a powerful engine thrumming beneath his clumsy palm.
“Take me home,” Prowl says.
To his quiet, sterile home that hasn’t seen any face but his for months. Where his research and his investigation spreads throughout his home office like a monument to his failures.
He’s not quite sure how he gets there, but he remembers distantly that it’s Megatron who’s less of a villain and more of a sitter. It’s Megatron who hauls him out of the transport and into the lift and shoves Prowl’s limp palm against his door so his suite unlocks. It’s Megatron who dumps Prowl onto his berth, though kindly, and it’s Megatron who says,
“I don’t envy the ache you’ll have in the morning.”
“You don’t want this,” Prowl says into his pillow, face muffled into the foam padding, his sensory flats sending conflicting readings where they blanket his back. “Find another Enforcer.”
Megatron lingers in his doorway, casting a long shadow, all darkness and stripes of biolight. “You’re the best,” he rumbles.
Or Prowl thinks he rumbles anyway. Sound is a blur of static and noise, a wash of words filtering through the gray in his audials.
The next time he looks, the shadow in his doorway is gone, and the lights in his suite are dim, and the tick-tick-tick of the chronometer in the main hallway is the only thing to break the quiest. Prowl groans and clutches a pillow under his head and hates himself for this weakness.
It’s why he’ll never be anything more than he is, he thinks, and then the gray eclipses all else and the tide of excess tugs him under.
Prowl pays for his overindulgence.
The morning cycle dawns, too bright, too loud, and with a queasy clench to his tanks he holds back with willpower alone. He staggers through a washcycle in the racks, he chugs low grade and coolant, and glares daggers at the bright light streaming through his windows.
There’s a note on his console monitor. A looping script speaks of archivists, not miners, but it’s signed by Megatron nonetheless.
‘I have the utmost faith in you.’
That’s all it says. Prowl can’t decide if Megatron is referring to Prowl’s choice regarding the Decepticons, or the two investigations currently stalling. Perhaps both.
He debates discarding the note, but keeps it instead, saving the file to his secure drive. He flops down into his chair, sips at his low grade, and forces himself to focus through the pounding in his head. Everything hurts, but he can’t get distracted. He has work to do.
He idly reviews the information he’s gathered so far. The interviews, the evidence, the forensics analyses.
A designation stands out from the crowd. Not because Prowl thinks the mech responsible. Of course not. But because he’s a link, a connection. A thin line drawn from Chancellor Bracket to Minister Deltus.
Senator Shockwave. The name is not unfamiliar to Prowl. After all, he is the one who sponsored Prowl’s first application for frame exemption and promotion to the Enforcers.
The lead is thin, but it’s the first one Prowl’s found. The threat of another lecture from Silverspire hangs over his head. He needs to make progress. He’ll take what he can get.
Morning cycle punishes him further by being painfully bright, and the throb in Prowl’s head migrates to sit right behind his optics. He doesn’t trust himself to drive, so he hails a transport to Senator Shockwave’s office, where his receptionist assures Prowl he can be found.
Shockwave’s office is bright and cheerful, with eager faces hurrying past Prowl, and not all of them are administrative frames. He thinks Shockwave must make a habit of hiring the disenfranchised or the odd and unusual. Outliers must flock to him in droves.
Prowl’s shown straight to Senator Shockwave’s private office without an ounce of suspicion or arrogant disrespect. It’s kind of refreshing actually.
“Prowl,” Shockwave greets with a smile and an extended hand. There’s no hesitation, his joy genuine, and his field open to Prowl. “When I was told you wanted to speak with me, I was delighted to accept the request. It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?”
“Decades at least, sir,” Prowl says. He knows Shockwave tangentially. He’d only met the mech once, at his frame exemption hearing. There’s very little about the senator that seems to have changed since then.
To this day, he’s still not sure why Shockwave chose to sponsor him.
“Is that so?” Shockwave smiles and clasps Prowl’s hand in a firm shake. When they separate, he gestures to a chair across from the desk. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
Prowl takes the offered chair, perching at the edge of the foam cushion, more than a little taken by the massive windows forming the back wall of Shockwave’s office. There’s nothing but sky for miles, with the occasional skyscraper to break up the horizon. From here, what do normal mechs look like? Tiny creatures scurrying about?
Shockwave lowers himself into his own chair with an audible creak of springs. “So, how can I be of assistance?”
“I was hoping you could answer some questions for me regarding Chancellor Bracket and Minister Deltus,” Prowl answers. No point in loitering or making small talk.
Shockwave nods slowly. “I understand they were murdered,” he says as though each word is carefully chosen. One hand flattens on the desktop, fingers rapping. “I don’t know how I can help you, but I will try.”
“I appreciate it.” Prowl powers on his datapad, flips out a stylus, and starts a new file. “What connection did you have with the victims?”
Shockwave sucks in a vent. “Well, you surely don’t bother with pleasantries.” He doesn’t appear startled or angry, but in fact, there’s something almost… pleased in the way he looks at Prowl. As if he’s proud.
“I’m on something of a deadline.” Prowl smiles, but it’s thin. Silverspire’s warning is fresh in his mind, and the newscast seems to be running on a steady line of failure and blame.
“Understandable.” Shockwave raps his fingers on the desk again. His optics dim in thought. “They, along with myself, were part of a committee whose sole purpose was to prepare a plan to handle the Decepticons.”
That tacks with several conclusions Prowl had already drawn. It’s a thin connection, a thin motive, but it’s better than none.
He nods. “I’ve heard as much, but Deltus and Bracket’s associates were shy on the details. It was considered a confidential matter.” One of Deltus’ undersecretaries had mentioned a cooperative project, and Bracket’s personal assistant had hinted to a team, but both hadn’t offered anything further than an eavesdropped comment.
“They would say that, wouldn’t they?” Shockwave chuckles, but it’s not amused. “The proposition was to allow the Decepticons to become a political party that could give them a voice in both the Senate and the high council. It was an attempt to find a middle ground, to offer a truce to Megatron in order to cease the bloodshed until terms could be decided.”
“A seemingly fair proposal.”
“Seemingly being the operative word here.” Shockwave’s lips thin into a smile. “There were some within the committee who would not budge on certain tenets of the proposition. Namely, the requirement that all Decepticons register for the political party in order to prove its existence.”
“A registry.” Prowl’s sensory panels flatten against his back, matching his vocal tones. “In other words, a list of every Decepticon, including those who may only be interested in the cause but not party to violence, which the Senate could then use to exact punishment.”
“You are as intelligent as I always thought you were.” Shockwave toys with an item on his desk. “So you can see why others, like myself, were not on board with the idea.”
Prowl scribbles down a notation. “Let me guess, Bracket and Deltus were of the registry argument.”
Shockwave slides a hand down his face. “Yes.” He rubs fingers around his mouth. “Small wonder the Decepticons are being blamed. Though I am curious as to how they’ve learned the particulars of the committee. It’s supposed to be confidential.”
“Would you be willing to give me a list of the members?” Prowl asks.
Shockwave slides into his chair, sitting with the heaviness of someone who carries a terrible burden. “And notate the ones who proposed the registration?”
“It would be helpful,” Prowl says.
“You think someone’s targeting them specifically,” Shockwave replies, and it’s a statement, not a question. His fingers tap across a datapad in rapid staccato.
“It would appear so. Which if that is the case, whoever else is on the list may be next.” Prowl frowns, his internals squirming. He still doesn’t believe the perpetrators to be Decepticon. There’s something else at work here. He’s sure of it. “They need to be warned.”
Shockwave slides the datapad across the desk. “Be careful,” he says. “You’re stepping into a halornet’s nest of tangled politics. Maybe it was the Decepticons, maybe it wasn’t. But something tells me you caught these cases for a reason.”
Prowl presses his lips together. He accepts the datapad but doesn’t power it on. Warnings echo upon themselves at the back of his processor. There’s a pattern here, and Prowl’s certain it’s not coincidental.
“I fear you may be right.” He pauses, debating. Should he mention his inability to acquire a promotion? Silverspire’s thinly veiled warning? His own meetings with Megatron? Does he trust Shockwave this far? “It would be nice if my abilities were the only reason, but it’s clear by now they will never be respected.”
Prowl rises, tucking the datapad into his subspace. “I appreciate your time and the information, Senator Shockwave. It’s been very helpful.”
“Of course.” Shockwave stands as well, and clasps hands with Prowl. “If you have any further questions, you can contact me any time.”
“Likewise.” Prowl smiles politely.
He excuses himself, leaving Shockwave to his business, whatever that might be, and the no doubt pressing concerns of the committee, now short two members. There will be others, more politicians to fill in the empty slots. Perhaps the assassinations – because Prowl can’t think of them as anything but – are meant to be both deterrent and warning. The message is getting muddled, however. No one’s supposed to know that a) the committee exists and b) the purpose of it.
In the lift, Prowl pulls out the datapad and skims the designations – noting which ones Shockwave has indicated are pro-registration.
A designation sticks out more than the rest – Senator Ratbat.
Prowl’s denta clench. Ratbat, who is also Soundwave’s sponsor. Soundwave, who is Megatron’s closest confidante, or at least one of them. And yet, he is meant to believe the Decepticons are not involved? When all signs point to the victims being targeted because of their support of the registry?
Prowl’s vents hitch. He notes the other designations and makes it a point to inform Silverspire to set them all an extra guard just in case.
The lift chimes and deposits him on the lowest floor. Prowl tucks the datapad away and exits the office building in a haze. Pointing fingers at the Decepticons remains the easiest answer, because Primus-below it makes sense. Prowl’s still not ready to accept it.
He’s not sure anymore if it’s because he’s biased, or if he’s see something that’s truly there.
Prowl hasn’t managed two steps from the front entrance of the office building before his comm chirps. It’s not the official line, which means it isn’t Silverspire. He doesn’t know who else it could be, unless it’s Tumbler. Had he commed his former partner in the midst of his overindulgence last night?
He doesn’t recognize the ident code, but again, it has an origin code in Slaughter City. An inkling of identity drizzles through his processor. Somehow, he’s rather certain it’s not a solicitation.
“Prowl here.”
“Prowl.” The rough-rumble pours into his audials, and Prowl will never admit that it sends a tingle down his spinal strut. “You sound alert. I trust you’re feeling better?”
Heat flushes Prowl’s cheeks. Thank Primus Megatron is not in front of him. “Yes, I am.” He works his jaw, swallowing his embarrassment. “I appreciate your assistance last night, though I apologize it was necessary.”
“It’s quite alright. We all have our moments. Is that not what friends are for?”
Prowl steps out of the traffic flow, moving into the shadow of a balcony overhead. “Is that what we are?”
“I’d like to think so.” Megatron’s voice is as warm as an idling engine. “And I promise, I did not take advantage of you last night.”
Prowl coughs a ventilation. “I’m aware of that.” He shifts his weight and watches the other mechs pass, none of whom take notice of him. “I would like to thank you, if at all possible.”
“I’m still in the city.”
“Why?”
Megatron chuckles softly. “Research. Materials in Slaughter City are lacking, as I’m sure you know. I’m currently at The Collective.”
The Collective. Prowl can’t imagine Megatron sitting in the posh and polished atrium. He’d look as out of place as Soundwave with his mechanimal cassettes. It’s an incongruous image.
Frankly, he’s surprised they let Megatron through the door.
“I’m nearby,” Prowl says. “I can be there in ten minutes if you’ll let me buy you a drink. Not an intoxicant, however.”
“I think I have the time to spare,” Megatron drawls. Amusement rings rich in his tone. “I’m in the historical archives at present. I’ll see you shortly.”
The call ends.
Prowl cycles a ventilation, rubbing a hand over his head. Yes, he wants to thank Megatron, but he also has questions. The list feels heavy where it sits in his compartment. He has to know if the Decepticons are at all complicit.
He has to know how much of a fool Megatron is making of him.
Fortunately, he’s only a few blocks away from the Collective. It takes him no time at all to find the massive building in downtown center. It’s large enough to welcome a shuttle through the front doors, with access ports on the outside for the rare few larger than that who cannot fit.
Prowl stops in at the attached cafe before he ventures further inside, and purchases a sampling of treats and two sealed cubes of spiced midgrade. After that, it’s down two spiraling railwells to the second underground level where the historical archives are kept. It’s an open floor plan, and he spies Megatron immediately, holding court in the middle with an array of datapads stacked on the table around him.
There are no other patrons in sight. Prowl doesn’t know if it’s because Soundwave is lurking in the shadows, preventing others from bothering Megatron, or if Megatron’s managed to scare everyone away.
Megatron looks up as Prowl approaches, and he greets Prowl with a smile. “That was faster than ten minutes.”
“I like to give myself breathing room.” Prowl offers one of the cubes. “Will this do?”
Megatron peels off the seal and gives it a tentative sniff. “This is perfect. Thank you.” He gestures to one of the empty chairs. “Have a seat. That is, if you intend to stay for a while.”
“Long enough. I have some questions.” Prowl chooses a seat that puts a table between himself and Megatron, a stack of datapads neatly concealing Megatron so that only his upper torso, shoulders, and head are visible. Not that he doesn’t trust the Decepticon leader or anything.
Prowl sets the box of goodies between them, the delicious smells wafting from it and tempting him enough to withdraw an oil cake. Nothing cures overindulgence quite like sticky sweets without any nutritional value whatsoever.
“Nothing terrible I hope,” Megatron says, and if he eyes some of the sweets in Prowl’s box with longing, Prowl is polite enough not to comment.
“Help yourself,” he says, hiding a smile as Megatron nearly dives into the box and pulls out a handful of rust sticks. “And I suppose it depends on the answers you give me.”
Prowl skims the datapads scattered around the table. Some of the titles are visible and to his surprise, Megatron hadn’t exaggerated. He very much is here to read historical volumes, though they do seem to be focused on periods in Cybertronian history that relate to political upheavals.
“Then that depends on the questions you have.” Tiny crumbs fleck on Megatron’s lips, and he licks them away. “Though I am relieved to see you’ve recovered from your overindulgence last night.”
Heat threatens to steal into Prowl’s cheeks. He valiantly fights it down. “That was a moment of weakness which will not be repeated.”
“We have those from time to time. It’s to be expected.” Megatron rolls his shoulders and settles into his chair. “But your field is agitated. Ask your questions.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation and withdraws the datapad. He rests it on the table next to his forgotten cube of midgrade. “You’re aware I’m investigating the deaths of Chancellor Bracket and Minister Deltus, yes?”
“I am.” Not so much as a flinch from Megatron.
“I spoke with Senator Shockwave today. He informed me they were members of a committee specifically created to deal with the Decepticons.” Prowl watches Megatron carefully, searching for any tells. “At the time of Bracket’s death, they were debating the merits of a registry. Did you know anything about that?”
Megatron shakes his head and sits up, lacing his fingers together to rest them on the tabletop. “I’ve heard rumors. Whispers. But nothing concrete. Though I will cast my vote now on such a thing being a terrible idea.”
“Really?” Prowl frowns to mask the anger bubbling up in his spark. “I find that very hard to believe.”
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “You think I’m lying?”
“Either that or Soundwave is not as loyal as you think.”
A storm flashes across Megatron’s face. “Explain,” he demands, his shoulders wreathed with tension, fingers tightening around one another.
Prowl sets his expression in stone. “Senator Ratbat is also on the committee.”
“So you’re assuming Ratbat tells his slave everything and therefore, Soundwave must be aware of the purpose of this committee,” Megatron growls.
Prowl doesn’t flinch, though he imagines Megatron is used to threatening others with that tone. Prowl is not so easily cowed. “You mean to tell me Soundwave wouldn’t have come across the information on his own?”
“If he has, he hasn’t shared it with me. But neither has he acted on his own and certainly not in such a manner as to be both obvious and foolish.” Megatron makes a disgusted noise and flicks a finger over his cube of midgrade. “Whoever is responsible for your killings either wants to be caught or is setting a trap. It’s not us.”
Prowl frowns. He believes Megatron, and that’s perhaps the traitorous part of him. It’s always struck him as too easy to blame the Decepticons, even before Megatron contacted him. What foolish revolution would do something so incendiary?
But if not the Decepticons, then who?
“I don’t suppose you have an alternative suspect,” Prowl asks.
Megatron shakes his head. “No. But I’ve been having Soundwave look into it on the side. We’re as invested in locating the true perpetrators as you are.” He brushes a hand over his head, looking the most strained Prowl has seen thus far. “If this revolution has any hope of succeeding, our cause can’t be tainted by these lies.”
Prowl snorts a ventilation before he can stop himself. “These incidents aren’t going to be what breaks your revolution, Megatron.”
“Is that so?” If Megatron’s angry, it doesn’t show on his face.
“Yes.” Prowl toys with his barely touched cube of energon. “You have to realize that what you’re doing right now isn’t working.”
Megatron leans back, arms folding over his chassis. “I’ve raised an army,” he points out, a touch of indignation in his tone.
“No, you’ve raised a mob. An angry, unruly one.”
“Of course they’re angry! They’ve been used, discarded, treated like nothing.” Megatron’s voice slides into a hiss, and he cycles an audible ventilation.
Prowl surprises himself with how little he fears Megatron’s anger. “There’s nothing wrong with anger. Anger is good. It can stoke the fires and get you motivated, but without direction, it turns into chaos.”
“They have direction!”
“Not a concrete one.” Prowl pauses and straightens, reminding himself to keep control. Megatron is not Silverspire. He’s not to blame for the anger writhing in Prowl’s spark.
“Look, you have power here. You have influence. And yes, you have an army. But right now, you’re angry and causing chaos and lashing out. You’re not effecting change. You’re building an army, but you need to gain the support of the people, too. Not just the ones who are going to fight with their fists, but the ones who fight with words.”
“Cowards, you mean.” Megatron’s lip curls with disgust.
Prowl glares. “What do you really want from this? Change or chaos?”
“Talking has gotten us nowhere.”
“You’ve hardly tried!” Prowl’s voice echoes in the room, and he clamps his hands around his knees rather than bang a fist on the table. He glances around, but there’s no one close to them, save Soundwave, who appears to be guarding the exit.
Well, at least this conversation is semi-private.
Prowl settles in his chair and continues, “I understand. I’m angry, too. Change is slow to come, and mechs are dying faster than you can save them. But this path you’re on right now? It’s only ending in one way I can see, and that’s with everyone dying. You can be a hero who unites Cybertron for a better future, or you can be angry and divide it and be left with the ashes after your vengeance. Which do you want?”
Megatron presses his lips in a thin line before he says, “The one’s in power will never listen without force.”
“That may be true. But they’re not the ones you’re trying to convince.”
Megatron cycles his optics. “Explain.”
He’s actually listening.
A burst of something grows in Prowl’s spark. Hope, perhaps, that if he can get through to Megatron, perhaps real change can be effected. Perhaps what the Decepticons can accomplish will be more productive rather than destructive.
Maybe there’s a chance.
“The people, Megatron. The average mech,” Prowl says, careful to keep his tone even rather than chastising. “The ones who outnumber the Senate and the council and those who are in power. They are an unimaginable force. Cybertron wouldn’t function without the everyday mech. It’s them you need to convince, not the Senate.”
Megatron stares at him for a long moment. He leans back in his chair as though understanding has dawned on him. “You understand then?”
Prowl flattens his orbital ridges. “To what are you referring?”
“Why I need you on my staff.” Megatron threads his hands together and folds them on his abdomen. He looks rather pleased with himself, smugness radiating from his field. “Myself, Soundwave, Starscream… We all come from a certain point of view. There are things we can’t understand.”
“And you think I do?”
“I know it.” Megatron gives him an appraising look. “You are steeped in law. You have studied it, mastered it, tried your very best to rise up within it, only to be kicked back down to your place by those who would seek to use you in a way they see fit and none other. You understand how mechs like the Senate and those who own us think. You can help us act within the boundaries of what’s legal.”
Prowl snorts. “As if legality has stopped you before.”
“True,” Megatron admits with a tip of his head. “But if a law is unjust, is that not a law which must be disobeyed? Laws are not permanent concepts which can never adapt. But the only way to change them is to challenge them.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you mean in a court of law.”
Megatron spreads his hands. “If we were given a legitimate voice, perhaps I would. But you know as well as I do that the Senate has no interest in letting the Decepticons be heard. They don’t want us to challenge the status quo. They don’t want change. And they absolutely do not want to lose their mindless workforce.”
“Not everyone in the Senate is as corrupt as you think,” Prowl replies, thinking first of Shockwave, who has lobbied so hard for the disadvantaged and those capable of greater things.
“They are few and far between.” Megatron cycles a ventilation and leans forward, hands clasped and elbows braced. “The Senate does not wish to listen. Therefore, there is but one path left to us, the one which you so openly disdain.”
“Violence,” Prowl acknowledges. He presses his lips together, contemplating. “Revolutions can often not succeed without it. And yes, you’re right. The Senate will not loosen their claws without a fight. But you can’t ignore the civilian casualties. You can’t simply consider them collateral damage. You will lose support and damage your credibility.”
“I cannot use an angry, unruly mob. I must have an army,” Megatron rephrases, with a curl of his lips suggesting he approves. “We would win with you, Prowl. You must see that.”
Prowl works his intake. “I’m not sure what I see.”
He flattens his hands on the table, gazing over Megatron’s shoulder at the shelves stacked with datapads full of ancient history and violence and death. He’s studied it extensively. He knows the weight of war and it’s penalties. He knows that every victory will feel hollow for the losses suffered.
He also knows, at this point, fighting is inevitable.
“This is no small decision,” Prowl continues. “This will change everything. Life as I know ceases to exist. My future becomes tenuous. Spontaneous.” The very idea of not having a plan makes his spark rattle in its chamber. “I don’t know yet if it’s the right thing.” He cocks his head and shifts his gaze to Megatron. “I don’t know I can trust you.”
“That’s fair.” Megatron straightens, his expression softening. “But war is coming. You will have to choose a side. Either way, your future is tenuous. You can now only ask yourself if you want to fight to maintain the status quo, or if you want to fight for change.”
“That’s not a question I can answer at this moment,” Prowl says, and not because he’s stalling for time, but because it’s perhaps the most important decision he could make in his entire functioning. “I need time to think.”
“Time you can have. Not that it’s up to me to give you permission.” Amusement trickles into the edges of Megatron’s field.
Prowl cycles a ventilation and glances to the main doorway. Soundwave still lurks there, his visor a baleful crimson. “And I’ll be allowed to walk away?”
“Of course.” Megatron pauses and his field reaches out, touching Prowl, the edges of it offering reassurance and something like hope. “I need you, Prowl. But if you’re not committed to the cause, there’s little point. I can’t manipulate you. I can’t trick you. I can’t lie you into joining us. I need you to make the choice of your own accord or it’s meaningless.”
“You put a lot of faith into someone you barely know,” Prowl comments. He pushes to his feet, the chair making a horrendous screech as the wheels roll back.
Megatron looks up at him, and there’s something in his gaze Prowl can’t identify. “I know enough.” He withdraws a chip from subspace and sets it on the counter, pushing it toward Prowl with a tip of his finger. “My contact information. Should you have a question or have an answer, you can reach me there. It’s encrypted of course, and you won’t be able to use it to track me.”
Prowl slips the chip off the table and stows it in an arm compartment for safekeeping. “I recognize the gesture of trust nonetheless.” His attention flicks to the box of goodies mostly forgotten in the middle of the table. “Feel free to keep those. Consider the rest my gratitude for ensuring I got home safely and unmolested.”
“It was my pleasure.” Megatron chuckles. “If you need company again, you know the number.”
“Indeed I do.” A flush of warmth wars with the chill of caution, fighting for dominance in his spark. “Thank you for the conversation. It was…”
“Enlightening,” Megatron finishes for him. He presses his fingertips together, a glimmer of something in his optics.
“Yes. That.” Prowl slides another step back from the table, feeling oddly reluctant to leave. “Perhaps we can debate again another time.”
Megatron’s lips curve. “I’ll look forward to it.”
