[IDW] Break the Chain 09/10
Dec. 3rd, 2018 06:12 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 Nine
Prowl’s been denied his request for legal representation. Apparently, domestic terrorists aren’t afforded that right. If it’s a law, it’s new to him, but it’s not as though Prowl can comm anyone to complain.
He can’t make a single comm right now. He’s tried. He’d thought to contact Shockwave, Orion Pax, even the twins. He didn’t dare try reaching out to Megatron.
There’s always static, nothing but static. They’ve stuck him in a cell with a signal dampener, as if he’s the worse kind of villain.
It’s hard to interrogate an Enforcer. They already know the playbook, and Prowl’s no different. He opts for silence, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He spends the hours in meditation, going through the evidence and facts one by one until he forms a concrete theory at the back of his mind.
The only unsolved mystery is the mastermind. Who he has to blame for the whole charade. It has to be someone with enormous political pull. Prowl can think of no one he’s angered that much. Or perhaps it’s not even about him.
It’s probably about Megatron and the Decepticons, and Prowl is nothing more than unfortunate collateral damage. He’s not special. He’s simply the one Megatron reached out to, the one who rattled the cage, the one who made it far too easy for them.
Silverspire questions him. Over and over. Always with a grin, a flicker of his armor that suggests he’s gloating. He’s never much liked Prowl, and it’s even clearer now. He’s thrilled to be getting rid of the scraplet gnawing on his heel.
Give an idiot a modicum of power in a system where very few have any, and he’ll think himself so special he doesn’t care how he’s told to use it.
The idea of a trial is laughable at best, but it’s still being insisted upon. Prowl suspects they want to make an example of him, to prove any number of things, to both the citizenry and the Decepticons. His face, his story, will become a rallying cry, a lie made into a promise, and Prowl will either rot away in Blackgate, or he’ll be summarily executed. It’s only a matter of time.
He gets no visitors. Whether it’s because no one cares or no one is being allowed to visit him, Prowl doesn’t know. He suspects it’s more of the former than the latter. He’s made few friends over the years. Even fewer allies.
Tumbler doesn’t come. He wishes he weren’t surprised. He wishes, even more, it didn’t hurt.
He’d thought if he focused on his duty, on his job, it would get him somewhere. He thought he could prove his dedication, his work ethic. He thought if he worked hard enough, they would see the circumstances of his sparking had little to do with what he was actually capable of. Then maybe, just maybe, he could work past the framism and acquire the position he sought.
He’s a fool. That’s all there is to it.
Four days into his imprisonment and Silverspire swaggers into his cell with a look of triumph. “Well, as fun as this has been, it’s time to turn you over to someone else’s authority,” he says and a hint of disgruntlement flickers over his face before it’s buried behind the glee again. “Apparently your crimes deserve a higher authority.”
Prowl says nothing. Silence has been his only ally.
Silverspire continues without his input. “We’ll be transferring you out shortly. It’s in your best interest to cooperate.” He tucks his hands behind his back, bobs on his heels. “I hear Captain Format is a real hard-aft.”
Yes. Prowl has heard of Format. He’s one step between Prowl and a lifelong residence in Blackgate.
Prowl picks at the armor beneath his magna-cuffs, where the paint has been scraped raw, until there’s nothing but protoform visible now.
Silverspire gusts a vent. “Your silence isn’t helping you, Prowl. I know you know that.”
When Prowl says nothing, Silverspire grits his denta so hard his jaw tics. “Have fun in Blackgate,” he says, and spins on a heel, banging on the door for the guards on the other side to let him out.
Prowl doesn’t watch him go. There’s little point. A transfer, hm? Well, at least he can rely on a change in scenery for however brief a time.
He doesn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately after Silverspire departs, his cell clicks open again, and two new faces squeeze inside. One of them bears the quadruple bars of a sergeant. The other is a standard officer, and he’s the one who has a weapon trained on Prowl from the moment they enter.
“This is who we’re going through so much trouble for?” the sergeant says. He huffs derisively. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Don’t you know, boss? It’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” the officer drawls.
There’s something almost familiar about his voice, but Prowl can’t be certain. He doesn’t recognize the mech, but perhaps he’s seen him while working another case over the decades. He’d visited Format’s precinct once or twice, and none of Format’s detectives had left a good impression on him.
Said officer steps forward and kicks Prowl in the nearest shin. “All right, traitor. Get up. Nice and slow. I’ve got a twitchy trigger finger, and sometimes, I just can’t help myself.”
Prowl rises, knees and joints aching and crackling like a mech thousands of years his senior. He feels old and heavy, burdened perhaps. Or that’s because his sensory panels are still a dead weight behind him, and he can’t adjust for them, making his balance a tenuous thing.
The sergeant takes him by the elbow, and Prowl gets a glimpse of the glyphs stamped into the side of the mech’s head. It’s a name, rank and serial number.
Prowl’s appalled. He’s heard of other districts that mar their Enforcers in such a way, but he’s never seen it. Sergeant Acres, according to his glyphs, tugs Prowl forward, and Prowl stumbles after him, carefully keeping his silence. The officer trails in their wake, and Prowl senses the weapon aimed at his back, between his panels, right at his spark.
In the hall, two more officers wait. One is unfamiliar, the other Prowl recognizes.
Barricade grins at him, his gaze long and lingering as it rakes Prowl up and down. “Well, well, well,” he drawls as he shifts his weight, and his glossa slicks his lips. “We meet again, old friend.”
‘Friend’ is one way to put it. Torrid love affair of bad ideas is another. Barricade’s had a repaint since then. He’s mostly black with only hints of white, when before his paint had matched Prowl’s almost exactly. Others used to think them twins and maybe that was part of the allure for Barricade.
“Hear you’re coming to my turf now,” Barricade continues with a flutter of his sensory panels, head tilted to highlight the glyphs stamped on the side of his head. “It’ll be just like old times.”
“The transport ready?” Sergeant Acres asks.
The other officer snaps to attention, in the way that only new recruits and initiates do. “Sir, yes, sir. It’s waiting out front.”
Sergeant Acres sighs and tightens his grip on Prowl’s elbow. “Go get it running. We’ll meet you there.”
Newbie snaps a salute and then he’s gone, at a run almost, and Prowl can’t tell if he’s eager or frightened. Maybe it’s both. This is kind of like throwing an infant into deep water. Sink or swim. Maybe that’s just how Captain Format operates.
“The rest of you, let’s go, standard formation,” Acres barks and he tugs on Prowl again, towing him down the hallway.
Prowl stumbles after. Officer One keeps the blaster trained on his back. Officer Two takes a point. Barricade slides in on Prowl’s other side, boxing him in. Prowl’s not made any attempt to escape or retaliate. Why the heavy security?
He doesn’t ask. He suspects no one would answer anyway.
They’d preemptively cleared the halls, but as the odd procession passes transteel windows and through them, Prowl can see the in-house staff of the station watching his march of shame. Mechs he’s worked with for decades, staring, their expressions a mixture of disgust, pity, and anger.
Barricade leans in close, his ex-vents washing over Prowl’s audial. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he murmurs, quiet enough it carries no further than Prowl. “You have to learn to play the game.”
Prowl tightens his jaw. He keeps his optics pointed forward.
Barricade chuckles and leans back.
There’s a media circus waiting outside. Prowl winces at the barrage of flashing lights from multiple vidcaptures. Recording devices are thrust his direction, and so many questions are shouted at him, he can’t pick up a single one from the chaos. Nameless officers one and two move to the forefront, shoving the crowd aside so the sergeant and Barricade can push Prowl through.
A heavily-armored transport waits for them at the curb, powerful engine thrumming noisily, and the trainee stands at attention outside it. Prowl is unceremoniously lead to the back, and he fumbles as he climbs inside, a task made difficult with his wrists restrained to the manacle around his waist.
Barricade and one of the officers climbs in beside him. Sergeant Acres stands at the door, glaring as he holds each side open.
“My mechs have been instructed to shoot to kill if you so much as twitch wrong,” he growls in such a way that suggests he’s learned all of his conversational skills from poorly rendered legal shows. “I’d prefer not to arrive at the station with a frame punched full of holes.”
Prowl keeps his silence, but he matches Acres’ steely gaze with a steady look of his own.
Acres chuffs a vent and slams the doors shut. The entire transport rocks from the force of it. Silence descends as the cacophony of the crowd outside dulls to a low drone.
Prowl leans forward, braces his elbows on his knees, and stares at the grated floor, bright spots of emergency lights running visibly beneath. There’s a strange prickle in the air, like that of an unfamiliar energy field, and Prowl can’t pinpoint it. He knows it’s not Barricade or the unnamed officer. He wouldn’t be able to sense the two riding up front.
“So I’m curious,” Barricade says as he lounges back in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him, elbows braced on the bar running behind him and along the length of the transport’s wall. “When did you decide to go dark side?”
Prowl ignores him. He grits his denta, tries to count statistical anomalies in his head, but Barricade’s voice grates on him, as it always did. Too snide, too smug, too much of everything that made him a bad idea. Prowl’s the king of bad ideas. Always has been.
“I mean, come on, aligning with the Decepticons?” Barricade barks a laugh as the transport lurches into movement, pulling them smoothly into traffic and away from the station. “I can’t decide if that was your first mistake, your worst mistake, or some combination of the two.”
Prowl’s fingers spasm where they thread together. He hunches his shoulders.
“And then murder? Primus, didn’t think you had it in you, but I should’ve known. There was always something a little too perfectionist about you,” Barricade continues without any prompting on Prowl’s part. “Know what I mean, kid? How it is with those obsessive types?”
The officer scoffs. “I’m not a kid,” he says in a tone far less respectful than it should be toward someone considered his superior.
Then again, Barricade is an aft and a half, so Prowl can’t blame the mech for his disrespect.
“True.” Barricade, of all things, leers in the officer’s direction. “Would be a waste of a pretty frame if you were.”
The officer makes a disgusted noise. “No, thanks. We may not be exclusive, but we’re definitely selective.” He cuts blue optics at Barricade with a derisive curl to his lips. “And you don’t make the cut.”
If he’d hoped to insult Barricade, he hoped in vain. Barricade had always been one to let every insult roll of his back. Had a prideful streak wider than he was tall.
“Your brother might think otherwise,” Barricade says with a distinct leer.
The officer snorts and leans back, kicking up a heel, tip of his foot pointed toward the ceiling. “I can guarantee you he doesn’t.”
“Awww. Come on. Sunshine there looks like he’d enjoy some rough and tumble. Not everyone wants the sweet nothings I’ll bet you whisper day in and out,” Barricade says with a laugh.
Brother? Sunshine?
Wait.
Prowl’s head jerks up. He looks at the officer again, for the first time giving him some serious contemplation. His paint has the gleam of the newly-applied. He holds himself with a casual ease and familiarity with danger and weapons – more like someone higher ranked than an unbadged grunt. Definitely higher ranked than what’s slapped on the side of his head.
And his smile. His voice.
Prowl leans back, his sensory panels clanging against the wall of the transport. His gaze slides to Barricade and back again.
“Oh, he likes it rough all right.” The officer sets his weapon down on the bench beside him – a broken rule right there – and pats himself on the abdomen. “And I get to reap the benefits of it.”
Barricade tosses his head back and laughs. “Please tell me you two at least have video.”
“Not for the general public, nope.” The officer pops the last word with a lazy confidence that almost beats Barricade for sheer audacity.
… Sideswipe?
Prowl squints. No, that can’t be right. This doesn’t make any sense. Why would Sideswipe be here in the first place?
Barricade’s optics cut toward him. “What’s this? Finally deigning to lift your head?” He pops an orbital ridge. “Here I thought you were just going to sit here feeling pathetic and sorry for yourself.”
Prowl works his jaw. “What is going on?” he asks, and is horrified by the raspiness of his vocals. He hadn’t spoken in so long, it feels odd.
“Took you long enough,” the officer says and leans past Prowl to bang on the wall beside him, three rapid beats.
There’s a response in the form of two knocks and a rattle.
Prowl’s ventilations hitch. “Are you…?” He doesn’t know if he dares finish the query, lest he be wrong, his hopes dashed, and made a fool in front of Barricade.
“Sunny wanted to come,” Sideswipe – for yes, it is him after all – says as he slides over the bench and hops to sit next to Prowl, pulling a set of keys from his compartment. “But after painting all of us and making sure we could pass inspection, he was exhausted. Left him snuggling up with a very smart-afted Seeker.”
Prowl’s mouth moves, but he can’t seem to form words. His optics slide to Barricade instead, who winks two of his four optics and pats a hand over the Enforcer badge on his chest, twice. It fizzles out of view – hologram – and in its place, a Decepticon badge shines stark and purple against the black.
“We told you, remember?” Sideswipe unlocks Prowl’s magnacuffs and frees him from the manacle around his waist. “Where you go, we go. Lean forward for me.”
Prowl’s mind spins. He obeys because it’s easier than trying to make sense of the universe. Even when Sideswipe grips the inhibitor claw on his back and gives it a twist, disengaging the lock mechanism.
Prowl hisses air through his denta as sensation and noise immediately rush in, his sensory panels twitching at the sudden burst of stimulation. He groans, rubs at his forehead, processor aching and the world spinning around him.
“Easy Prowl. Take it slow.” That can’t be Sideswipe trying to soothe him, but it is. The red twin’s hand is on his shoulder, giving him a few awkward pats.
In the background, Barricade laughs.
Prowl searches for a distraction, any distraction. “… how?” he manages to ask through the pain spiking his helm and the quiver in his struts.
“It’s a long story.” Sideswipe peers at the inhibitor claw before he wrinkles his nose and throws it across the floor. “But I’ll try to make it short. This is a rescue operation organized by Megatron. Me and Sunny offered our help because we wanted to and apparently, Barricade’s been a Decepticon for months, and he couldn’t resist rubbing his assistance in your face.”
“Guilty as charged,” Barricade drawls.
“Our transport here is Onslaught,” Sideswipe says with a gesture to the vehicle ferrying them. “Former military. All Decepticon.” He pats the wall of the transport. “How’re we doin’ out there, Ons?”
“There is no indication our ruse was anything less than successful,” a dark, rumbling voice remarks from all around them. “And don’t call me that.”
“He and Sunny get along great,” Sideswipe says with a wink.
Barricade chuckles and gestures with a clawed hand toward the front. “Up there is Ricochet and Makeshift. Poor Sergeant Acres missed this little rescue operation on account of the fact he opposed it.” He smirks, baring his denta. “Makeshift is good at replacing people.”
Prowl’s head spins. “And this was all…. Megatron’s idea?”
“Well, Megatron’s and Starscream’s and Soundwave’s, if you want to be picky about it.” Sideswipe shrugs. “You had over a dozen mechs working together to rescue you, Prowl. Kind of makes a bot feel special, don’t it?”
It actually doesn’t. It makes him wonder if he’s worth the effort.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Thank you.”
“Hey, it wasn’t just me. It took a lot of teamwork to spring you.” Sideswipe holds up his hands. “Of course, you’re going to be a wanted fugitive from now on, but them’s the breaks.”
“At least they won’t be blaming the Decepticons,” Barricade points out with another tap to the badge on his chest. Seems to be rather proud of it.
“Oh, good point,” Sideswipe says.
Prowl peers at his former partner, in more ways than one. “Won’t your absence be suspicious? Especially considering you came in under your own designation to transport me.”
Barricade smirks and winks again. “Not if I publicly defect.” His optics grow big and wide, gleaming with mischief. “Hey, maybe I’ll be listed as your accomplice. You know, your partner in crime.” He chuckles and licks his lips. “Partners again. Mmm. I do like the sound of that.”
Prowl tosses Sideswipe a pained look. “Is it too late to return me to my cell?”
Sideswipe’s head tips back as he busts into laughter. “Yes, it is.” His voice is thick with amusement. “I don’t think Megatron will like that too much. But don’t worry, you’re allowed to break Barricade’s arm if he gets too handsy.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Prowl mutters, and winces when Barricade says the same thing in the exact moment.
Prowl sighs.
Barricade laughs.
“It’s going to be a long drive,” Prowl says.
Sideswipe leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. “But an entertaining one. Man, Sunny is so missing out.”
~
“How is he?” Megatron asks.
Starscream shrugs, his gaze distant. “According to Wrench, he’s in decent shape. Mind’s a bit wobbly from the extended sensor dampener. But it looks like they didn’t torture him.”
“Indeed. What would have been the point? They already knew he wasn’t guilty.” Megatron frowns, directing his glare out the window so Starscream can’t see it. “He was injured when he arrived.”
“Just because he wasn’t tortured, doesn’t mean a few mechs didn’t get their licks in.” Starscream tilts his head, optics gleaming. “It happens. As you well know.”
Megatron presses his lips together. He doesn’t need the reminder.
“Anyway.” Starscream flicks his fingers. “I’m not going to say that you’re right, but since him flocking to us means we grabbed a half-dozen other recruits, too, I’m not going to keep complaining about him. So long as it doesn’t turn into a long con. I’m still wary of that.”
Megatron presses his knuckles to his mouth. “Soundwave is taking care of that.”
“I’m sure he is.” Starscream snorts.
“And the search for Shockwave?”
“Dead end. To be blunt.” Starscream cycles a vent, his wing tips flicking left and right. “He’s vanished off the face of Cybertron, and every answer we get speaks of rumor and things that don’t exist.”
Megatron raises his eyebrows. “Like?”
“The Institute.”
A cold flush trickles down Megatron’s spine. “I see.” He sighs and shifts his weight. “Orion has no leads either.”
“Oh, so we’re working with the police now, are we? When did that happen?”
“We take allies where we can get them.”
Starscream chuffs a vent. “Your charge for authority doesn’t fit with our philosophy, does it?”
Megatron narrows his optics. Starscream doesn’t look the least bit chastened.
“It’s a matter of legitimacy,” Megatron says.
“Sure.” Starscream shoves to his feet, wings hiking upward with amusement. “You just keep panting after every pretty face with a badge. I’ve got a pair of ne’er do well twins to chase.”
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “Now who’s thinking with the wrong head?”
“I have a better chance than you,” Starscream retorts. He all but flounces toward Megatron’s office door and palms it open. “Mine are at least interested.”
He’s gone before Megatron can form a retort. He supposes it’s fine to let Starscream get the last word in every once a while. He had, after all, helped Megatron put together a very successful heist.
Megatron sits back and rubs his chin. Starscream, Soundwave, and now Prowl, with Onslaught to serve as secondary tactical advice. He’s got an arsenal of intelligence at his disposal, a collection of brilliant minds. He looks at those he’s gathered into the fold, and he allows himself to think optimistically.
They’d had a chance before, however small. But now? Now they are more. They are smarter, organized, talented.
The Decepticons are more than a ragtag revolutionary movement now. They will have a plan, a purpose.
They can win.
*
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.
Prowl’s been denied his request for legal representation. Apparently, domestic terrorists aren’t afforded that right. If it’s a law, it’s new to him, but it’s not as though Prowl can comm anyone to complain.
He can’t make a single comm right now. He’s tried. He’d thought to contact Shockwave, Orion Pax, even the twins. He didn’t dare try reaching out to Megatron.
There’s always static, nothing but static. They’ve stuck him in a cell with a signal dampener, as if he’s the worse kind of villain.
It’s hard to interrogate an Enforcer. They already know the playbook, and Prowl’s no different. He opts for silence, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He spends the hours in meditation, going through the evidence and facts one by one until he forms a concrete theory at the back of his mind.
The only unsolved mystery is the mastermind. Who he has to blame for the whole charade. It has to be someone with enormous political pull. Prowl can think of no one he’s angered that much. Or perhaps it’s not even about him.
It’s probably about Megatron and the Decepticons, and Prowl is nothing more than unfortunate collateral damage. He’s not special. He’s simply the one Megatron reached out to, the one who rattled the cage, the one who made it far too easy for them.
Silverspire questions him. Over and over. Always with a grin, a flicker of his armor that suggests he’s gloating. He’s never much liked Prowl, and it’s even clearer now. He’s thrilled to be getting rid of the scraplet gnawing on his heel.
Give an idiot a modicum of power in a system where very few have any, and he’ll think himself so special he doesn’t care how he’s told to use it.
The idea of a trial is laughable at best, but it’s still being insisted upon. Prowl suspects they want to make an example of him, to prove any number of things, to both the citizenry and the Decepticons. His face, his story, will become a rallying cry, a lie made into a promise, and Prowl will either rot away in Blackgate, or he’ll be summarily executed. It’s only a matter of time.
He gets no visitors. Whether it’s because no one cares or no one is being allowed to visit him, Prowl doesn’t know. He suspects it’s more of the former than the latter. He’s made few friends over the years. Even fewer allies.
Tumbler doesn’t come. He wishes he weren’t surprised. He wishes, even more, it didn’t hurt.
He’d thought if he focused on his duty, on his job, it would get him somewhere. He thought he could prove his dedication, his work ethic. He thought if he worked hard enough, they would see the circumstances of his sparking had little to do with what he was actually capable of. Then maybe, just maybe, he could work past the framism and acquire the position he sought.
He’s a fool. That’s all there is to it.
Four days into his imprisonment and Silverspire swaggers into his cell with a look of triumph. “Well, as fun as this has been, it’s time to turn you over to someone else’s authority,” he says and a hint of disgruntlement flickers over his face before it’s buried behind the glee again. “Apparently your crimes deserve a higher authority.”
Prowl says nothing. Silence has been his only ally.
Silverspire continues without his input. “We’ll be transferring you out shortly. It’s in your best interest to cooperate.” He tucks his hands behind his back, bobs on his heels. “I hear Captain Format is a real hard-aft.”
Yes. Prowl has heard of Format. He’s one step between Prowl and a lifelong residence in Blackgate.
Prowl picks at the armor beneath his magna-cuffs, where the paint has been scraped raw, until there’s nothing but protoform visible now.
Silverspire gusts a vent. “Your silence isn’t helping you, Prowl. I know you know that.”
When Prowl says nothing, Silverspire grits his denta so hard his jaw tics. “Have fun in Blackgate,” he says, and spins on a heel, banging on the door for the guards on the other side to let him out.
Prowl doesn’t watch him go. There’s little point. A transfer, hm? Well, at least he can rely on a change in scenery for however brief a time.
He doesn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately after Silverspire departs, his cell clicks open again, and two new faces squeeze inside. One of them bears the quadruple bars of a sergeant. The other is a standard officer, and he’s the one who has a weapon trained on Prowl from the moment they enter.
“This is who we’re going through so much trouble for?” the sergeant says. He huffs derisively. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Don’t you know, boss? It’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” the officer drawls.
There’s something almost familiar about his voice, but Prowl can’t be certain. He doesn’t recognize the mech, but perhaps he’s seen him while working another case over the decades. He’d visited Format’s precinct once or twice, and none of Format’s detectives had left a good impression on him.
Said officer steps forward and kicks Prowl in the nearest shin. “All right, traitor. Get up. Nice and slow. I’ve got a twitchy trigger finger, and sometimes, I just can’t help myself.”
Prowl rises, knees and joints aching and crackling like a mech thousands of years his senior. He feels old and heavy, burdened perhaps. Or that’s because his sensory panels are still a dead weight behind him, and he can’t adjust for them, making his balance a tenuous thing.
The sergeant takes him by the elbow, and Prowl gets a glimpse of the glyphs stamped into the side of the mech’s head. It’s a name, rank and serial number.
Prowl’s appalled. He’s heard of other districts that mar their Enforcers in such a way, but he’s never seen it. Sergeant Acres, according to his glyphs, tugs Prowl forward, and Prowl stumbles after him, carefully keeping his silence. The officer trails in their wake, and Prowl senses the weapon aimed at his back, between his panels, right at his spark.
In the hall, two more officers wait. One is unfamiliar, the other Prowl recognizes.
Barricade grins at him, his gaze long and lingering as it rakes Prowl up and down. “Well, well, well,” he drawls as he shifts his weight, and his glossa slicks his lips. “We meet again, old friend.”
‘Friend’ is one way to put it. Torrid love affair of bad ideas is another. Barricade’s had a repaint since then. He’s mostly black with only hints of white, when before his paint had matched Prowl’s almost exactly. Others used to think them twins and maybe that was part of the allure for Barricade.
“Hear you’re coming to my turf now,” Barricade continues with a flutter of his sensory panels, head tilted to highlight the glyphs stamped on the side of his head. “It’ll be just like old times.”
“The transport ready?” Sergeant Acres asks.
The other officer snaps to attention, in the way that only new recruits and initiates do. “Sir, yes, sir. It’s waiting out front.”
Sergeant Acres sighs and tightens his grip on Prowl’s elbow. “Go get it running. We’ll meet you there.”
Newbie snaps a salute and then he’s gone, at a run almost, and Prowl can’t tell if he’s eager or frightened. Maybe it’s both. This is kind of like throwing an infant into deep water. Sink or swim. Maybe that’s just how Captain Format operates.
“The rest of you, let’s go, standard formation,” Acres barks and he tugs on Prowl again, towing him down the hallway.
Prowl stumbles after. Officer One keeps the blaster trained on his back. Officer Two takes a point. Barricade slides in on Prowl’s other side, boxing him in. Prowl’s not made any attempt to escape or retaliate. Why the heavy security?
He doesn’t ask. He suspects no one would answer anyway.
They’d preemptively cleared the halls, but as the odd procession passes transteel windows and through them, Prowl can see the in-house staff of the station watching his march of shame. Mechs he’s worked with for decades, staring, their expressions a mixture of disgust, pity, and anger.
Barricade leans in close, his ex-vents washing over Prowl’s audial. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he murmurs, quiet enough it carries no further than Prowl. “You have to learn to play the game.”
Prowl tightens his jaw. He keeps his optics pointed forward.
Barricade chuckles and leans back.
There’s a media circus waiting outside. Prowl winces at the barrage of flashing lights from multiple vidcaptures. Recording devices are thrust his direction, and so many questions are shouted at him, he can’t pick up a single one from the chaos. Nameless officers one and two move to the forefront, shoving the crowd aside so the sergeant and Barricade can push Prowl through.
A heavily-armored transport waits for them at the curb, powerful engine thrumming noisily, and the trainee stands at attention outside it. Prowl is unceremoniously lead to the back, and he fumbles as he climbs inside, a task made difficult with his wrists restrained to the manacle around his waist.
Barricade and one of the officers climbs in beside him. Sergeant Acres stands at the door, glaring as he holds each side open.
“My mechs have been instructed to shoot to kill if you so much as twitch wrong,” he growls in such a way that suggests he’s learned all of his conversational skills from poorly rendered legal shows. “I’d prefer not to arrive at the station with a frame punched full of holes.”
Prowl keeps his silence, but he matches Acres’ steely gaze with a steady look of his own.
Acres chuffs a vent and slams the doors shut. The entire transport rocks from the force of it. Silence descends as the cacophony of the crowd outside dulls to a low drone.
Prowl leans forward, braces his elbows on his knees, and stares at the grated floor, bright spots of emergency lights running visibly beneath. There’s a strange prickle in the air, like that of an unfamiliar energy field, and Prowl can’t pinpoint it. He knows it’s not Barricade or the unnamed officer. He wouldn’t be able to sense the two riding up front.
“So I’m curious,” Barricade says as he lounges back in his seat, legs stretched out in front of him, elbows braced on the bar running behind him and along the length of the transport’s wall. “When did you decide to go dark side?”
Prowl ignores him. He grits his denta, tries to count statistical anomalies in his head, but Barricade’s voice grates on him, as it always did. Too snide, too smug, too much of everything that made him a bad idea. Prowl’s the king of bad ideas. Always has been.
“I mean, come on, aligning with the Decepticons?” Barricade barks a laugh as the transport lurches into movement, pulling them smoothly into traffic and away from the station. “I can’t decide if that was your first mistake, your worst mistake, or some combination of the two.”
Prowl’s fingers spasm where they thread together. He hunches his shoulders.
“And then murder? Primus, didn’t think you had it in you, but I should’ve known. There was always something a little too perfectionist about you,” Barricade continues without any prompting on Prowl’s part. “Know what I mean, kid? How it is with those obsessive types?”
The officer scoffs. “I’m not a kid,” he says in a tone far less respectful than it should be toward someone considered his superior.
Then again, Barricade is an aft and a half, so Prowl can’t blame the mech for his disrespect.
“True.” Barricade, of all things, leers in the officer’s direction. “Would be a waste of a pretty frame if you were.”
The officer makes a disgusted noise. “No, thanks. We may not be exclusive, but we’re definitely selective.” He cuts blue optics at Barricade with a derisive curl to his lips. “And you don’t make the cut.”
If he’d hoped to insult Barricade, he hoped in vain. Barricade had always been one to let every insult roll of his back. Had a prideful streak wider than he was tall.
“Your brother might think otherwise,” Barricade says with a distinct leer.
The officer snorts and leans back, kicking up a heel, tip of his foot pointed toward the ceiling. “I can guarantee you he doesn’t.”
“Awww. Come on. Sunshine there looks like he’d enjoy some rough and tumble. Not everyone wants the sweet nothings I’ll bet you whisper day in and out,” Barricade says with a laugh.
Brother? Sunshine?
Wait.
Prowl’s head jerks up. He looks at the officer again, for the first time giving him some serious contemplation. His paint has the gleam of the newly-applied. He holds himself with a casual ease and familiarity with danger and weapons – more like someone higher ranked than an unbadged grunt. Definitely higher ranked than what’s slapped on the side of his head.
And his smile. His voice.
Prowl leans back, his sensory panels clanging against the wall of the transport. His gaze slides to Barricade and back again.
“Oh, he likes it rough all right.” The officer sets his weapon down on the bench beside him – a broken rule right there – and pats himself on the abdomen. “And I get to reap the benefits of it.”
Barricade tosses his head back and laughs. “Please tell me you two at least have video.”
“Not for the general public, nope.” The officer pops the last word with a lazy confidence that almost beats Barricade for sheer audacity.
… Sideswipe?
Prowl squints. No, that can’t be right. This doesn’t make any sense. Why would Sideswipe be here in the first place?
Barricade’s optics cut toward him. “What’s this? Finally deigning to lift your head?” He pops an orbital ridge. “Here I thought you were just going to sit here feeling pathetic and sorry for yourself.”
Prowl works his jaw. “What is going on?” he asks, and is horrified by the raspiness of his vocals. He hadn’t spoken in so long, it feels odd.
“Took you long enough,” the officer says and leans past Prowl to bang on the wall beside him, three rapid beats.
There’s a response in the form of two knocks and a rattle.
Prowl’s ventilations hitch. “Are you…?” He doesn’t know if he dares finish the query, lest he be wrong, his hopes dashed, and made a fool in front of Barricade.
“Sunny wanted to come,” Sideswipe – for yes, it is him after all – says as he slides over the bench and hops to sit next to Prowl, pulling a set of keys from his compartment. “But after painting all of us and making sure we could pass inspection, he was exhausted. Left him snuggling up with a very smart-afted Seeker.”
Prowl’s mouth moves, but he can’t seem to form words. His optics slide to Barricade instead, who winks two of his four optics and pats a hand over the Enforcer badge on his chest, twice. It fizzles out of view – hologram – and in its place, a Decepticon badge shines stark and purple against the black.
“We told you, remember?” Sideswipe unlocks Prowl’s magnacuffs and frees him from the manacle around his waist. “Where you go, we go. Lean forward for me.”
Prowl’s mind spins. He obeys because it’s easier than trying to make sense of the universe. Even when Sideswipe grips the inhibitor claw on his back and gives it a twist, disengaging the lock mechanism.
Prowl hisses air through his denta as sensation and noise immediately rush in, his sensory panels twitching at the sudden burst of stimulation. He groans, rubs at his forehead, processor aching and the world spinning around him.
“Easy Prowl. Take it slow.” That can’t be Sideswipe trying to soothe him, but it is. The red twin’s hand is on his shoulder, giving him a few awkward pats.
In the background, Barricade laughs.
Prowl searches for a distraction, any distraction. “… how?” he manages to ask through the pain spiking his helm and the quiver in his struts.
“It’s a long story.” Sideswipe peers at the inhibitor claw before he wrinkles his nose and throws it across the floor. “But I’ll try to make it short. This is a rescue operation organized by Megatron. Me and Sunny offered our help because we wanted to and apparently, Barricade’s been a Decepticon for months, and he couldn’t resist rubbing his assistance in your face.”
“Guilty as charged,” Barricade drawls.
“Our transport here is Onslaught,” Sideswipe says with a gesture to the vehicle ferrying them. “Former military. All Decepticon.” He pats the wall of the transport. “How’re we doin’ out there, Ons?”
“There is no indication our ruse was anything less than successful,” a dark, rumbling voice remarks from all around them. “And don’t call me that.”
“He and Sunny get along great,” Sideswipe says with a wink.
Barricade chuckles and gestures with a clawed hand toward the front. “Up there is Ricochet and Makeshift. Poor Sergeant Acres missed this little rescue operation on account of the fact he opposed it.” He smirks, baring his denta. “Makeshift is good at replacing people.”
Prowl’s head spins. “And this was all…. Megatron’s idea?”
“Well, Megatron’s and Starscream’s and Soundwave’s, if you want to be picky about it.” Sideswipe shrugs. “You had over a dozen mechs working together to rescue you, Prowl. Kind of makes a bot feel special, don’t it?”
It actually doesn’t. It makes him wonder if he’s worth the effort.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Thank you.”
“Hey, it wasn’t just me. It took a lot of teamwork to spring you.” Sideswipe holds up his hands. “Of course, you’re going to be a wanted fugitive from now on, but them’s the breaks.”
“At least they won’t be blaming the Decepticons,” Barricade points out with another tap to the badge on his chest. Seems to be rather proud of it.
“Oh, good point,” Sideswipe says.
Prowl peers at his former partner, in more ways than one. “Won’t your absence be suspicious? Especially considering you came in under your own designation to transport me.”
Barricade smirks and winks again. “Not if I publicly defect.” His optics grow big and wide, gleaming with mischief. “Hey, maybe I’ll be listed as your accomplice. You know, your partner in crime.” He chuckles and licks his lips. “Partners again. Mmm. I do like the sound of that.”
Prowl tosses Sideswipe a pained look. “Is it too late to return me to my cell?”
Sideswipe’s head tips back as he busts into laughter. “Yes, it is.” His voice is thick with amusement. “I don’t think Megatron will like that too much. But don’t worry, you’re allowed to break Barricade’s arm if he gets too handsy.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Prowl mutters, and winces when Barricade says the same thing in the exact moment.
Prowl sighs.
Barricade laughs.
“It’s going to be a long drive,” Prowl says.
Sideswipe leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. “But an entertaining one. Man, Sunny is so missing out.”
“How is he?” Megatron asks.
Starscream shrugs, his gaze distant. “According to Wrench, he’s in decent shape. Mind’s a bit wobbly from the extended sensor dampener. But it looks like they didn’t torture him.”
“Indeed. What would have been the point? They already knew he wasn’t guilty.” Megatron frowns, directing his glare out the window so Starscream can’t see it. “He was injured when he arrived.”
“Just because he wasn’t tortured, doesn’t mean a few mechs didn’t get their licks in.” Starscream tilts his head, optics gleaming. “It happens. As you well know.”
Megatron presses his lips together. He doesn’t need the reminder.
“Anyway.” Starscream flicks his fingers. “I’m not going to say that you’re right, but since him flocking to us means we grabbed a half-dozen other recruits, too, I’m not going to keep complaining about him. So long as it doesn’t turn into a long con. I’m still wary of that.”
Megatron presses his knuckles to his mouth. “Soundwave is taking care of that.”
“I’m sure he is.” Starscream snorts.
“And the search for Shockwave?”
“Dead end. To be blunt.” Starscream cycles a vent, his wing tips flicking left and right. “He’s vanished off the face of Cybertron, and every answer we get speaks of rumor and things that don’t exist.”
Megatron raises his eyebrows. “Like?”
“The Institute.”
A cold flush trickles down Megatron’s spine. “I see.” He sighs and shifts his weight. “Orion has no leads either.”
“Oh, so we’re working with the police now, are we? When did that happen?”
“We take allies where we can get them.”
Starscream chuffs a vent. “Your charge for authority doesn’t fit with our philosophy, does it?”
Megatron narrows his optics. Starscream doesn’t look the least bit chastened.
“It’s a matter of legitimacy,” Megatron says.
“Sure.” Starscream shoves to his feet, wings hiking upward with amusement. “You just keep panting after every pretty face with a badge. I’ve got a pair of ne’er do well twins to chase.”
Megatron arches an orbital ridge. “Now who’s thinking with the wrong head?”
“I have a better chance than you,” Starscream retorts. He all but flounces toward Megatron’s office door and palms it open. “Mine are at least interested.”
He’s gone before Megatron can form a retort. He supposes it’s fine to let Starscream get the last word in every once a while. He had, after all, helped Megatron put together a very successful heist.
Megatron sits back and rubs his chin. Starscream, Soundwave, and now Prowl, with Onslaught to serve as secondary tactical advice. He’s got an arsenal of intelligence at his disposal, a collection of brilliant minds. He looks at those he’s gathered into the fold, and he allows himself to think optimistically.
They’d had a chance before, however small. But now? Now they are more. They are smarter, organized, talented.
The Decepticons are more than a ragtag revolutionary movement now. They will have a plan, a purpose.
They can win.
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