[IDW] A Perfect Storm 06/16
May. 13th, 2019 06:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: A Perfect Storm
Universe: TF G1/IDW
Characters: Blurr, Jazz, Bluestreak, Ricochet, Prowl, Rodimus, Drift, Ratchet
Pairings: Blurr/Jazz, Blurr/Ricochet, Blurr/Ricochet/Jazz, Ricochet/Jazz, Bluestreak/Jazz, Drift/Ratchet,
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest, Mechpreg, Canon Typical Violence
Description: Blurr happens to enjoy life on post-war Cybertron, but when a serial murderer starts targeting former Wreckers, Blurr ends up saddled with a bodyguard who rubs him in all the wrong ways. Or right ways, if you were to ask Ricochet. Let the battle begin.
Commission for MamaBlurr.
Chapter Six
No matter how many times Jazz watched the video, he didn’t believe it.
Sure, the feed seemed to show Ricochet stealing into Piston’s apartment, breaking into the security system, and letting himself inside. And yeah, the timestamp on the video matched the exact date and time Piston had been killed.
Jazz still didn’t believe it.
Yes, Ricochet had been a Decepticon once. And yes, as a Decepticon, he’d been what they would’ve considered a Special Ops agent or even a Wrecker. But that didn’t mean he was behind the killings now. It didn’t matter that it was well within his skillset.
For one, it was sloppy.
For two, he’d never lie to Jazz. He couldn’t lie to Jazz. He wasn’t lying to Jazz now. He didn’t do it.
The murders were personal. Smokescreen admitted as much. Where was the motive? The reasoning? Why would Ricochet do it?
Prowl couldn’t answer those questions. Refused to even consider them. The sneaky aft. He’d made sure to arrest Ricochet when Jazz was otherwise occupied because he knew Jazz would protest.
Someday, that was going to bite him in the aft. Jazz had his ways.
"It's not him!" Jazz insisted, slamming his hands down on the desk in front of Prowl, the loud smack of his palms against the heavy metal echoing through the office.
Prowl didn't flinch. "The evidence suggests otherwise." His sensory panels remained perfectly still, his field a tightly contained box Jazz couldn't pry open. "If you want to convince me of his innocence, bring me proof and a more plausible subject. He doesn't get a pass just because he's your twin."
"You are not this much of an idiot," Jazz hissed, anger spiking through his field before he could contain it. "What the frag is his motive?"
"Motive will be determined through an interview with the suspect." Prowl made a notation before setting down his stylus and folding his hands together on top of the desk. He finally looked up at Jazz. "You are aware of how the process works, I know."
"Don't give me that even-toned pitslag." Jazz seethed, hissing a vent through his denta. "His arrest is a farce, and you know it. You're so damn eager to have someone to blame, you don't want to see any further than the first bit of shaky evidence."
Prowl arched an orbital ridge. "Video evidence is hardly shaky," he said. "And the fact is, your brother's skillset certainly fits within the specifications for the crime."
"That doesn't mean he's guilty!"
"Perhaps not. But I would be remiss if I did not treat him as a suspect." Prowl sighed a vent, the long, hissing sigh of exasperation Jazz loathed because he only aimed it at mechs he considered idiots. "I have to consider the evidence. I can't assume he's innocent because you told me to. I need proof, Jazz. That's how things work on."
Jazz squared his jaw. He glared.
Prowl didn't flinch.
It had been like this with them for centuries. They worked well as a unit. But when they clashed, it was fire and brimstone, and more than once, they'd nearly started an interfactional war.
"You are a self-serving aft," Jazz snarled.
Prowl unfolded his hands, picked up his stylus, and bent back over his datapad. "Bring me evidence. Then we can talk about releasing Ricochet."
"You've denied him a bond hearing?"
"Of course. He's dangerous and liable to leave the planet if given half the chance. So long as he's a suspect, he's going to remain in custody."
Fury flashed wide and bright in Jazz's field before he could contain it. The only indication Prowl sensed it was the tiniest twitch in his left sensory panel. Cold as liquid nitrogen, Prowl was. He fit the nickname "Icespark" all too well.
Jazz spoke through gritted denta, "This is one of the stupidest things you've done."
Prowl didn't look at him. "Bring me another suspect with sufficient evidence, and I will free your brother. It's that simple, Jazz. I'm sure you are capable of understanding that."
Jazz's engine growled so hard it slipped into a whine. His fingertips curved against the desk in a thin shriek of metal on metal. He vented loudly, bundling up all his anger and his fury, before slamming it down behind a wall.
"Fine," he said, and pushed off the desk, every plate of his armor taut with tension. "You owe me an apology after this."
"If one is deserved, one will be given." Prowl flicked his stylus in a signature and moved to the next datapad. "Dismissed."
Jazz stomped out of the office. He had work to do.
~
"I apologize. I know this is frustrating. I'll be done soon," Springarm said, with a tone that was falsely soothing and a smile equally false. He must have been a good student at the school of Prowl Facial Expressions.
Someone had an idol. Frankly, Blurr would have picked one with more social acumen.
Blurr scrubbed his forehead, an ache building behind his optics, one leg jittering up and down from restrained energy. He'd been in this chair for an hour. He wanted to go home. "You're asking me the same questions over and over. Why do you think you're going to get a different answer?"
"It's standard procedure," Springarm said, still with that blatantly disingenuous smile. "Liars often forget the webs of their own lies. If you're telling the truth, you'll be consistent."
"How am I even a suspect?" Blurr demanded.
"You're not." Springarm scooted a cube of midgrade across the table, despite the fact Blurr had refused it twice already. "But your statement could help us convict a dangerous criminal."
Blurr crossed his arms and sank down in the chair a bit further. "Or free him."
"That as well. After all, right now, you are his only alibi for the night in question."
"Your accusation doesn't make sense!" Blurr tossed his arms in the air before he folded them again, the other leg starting to jitter now. "If he's the one doing this, why aren't I dead already? Why is he doing it in the first place? What's the point?"
Springarm slid a datapad in front of him, a slim, tiny device that had seen a lot of use, given the scratches and dents in the protective case. "There are many potential motives for someone of Ricochet's skillset. It may not be personal. It may be business. Or it may be political." His tone was bland, but his jaw was tight.
The bruising around his right ocular socket might have had something to do with it. Ricochet hadn't enjoyed being arrested. Nor had he appreciated how rough they'd been with him. More than a few Enforcers had walked out of Blurr's bar with dents, scrapes, and torn cables.
"You two are involved, yes?" Springarm asked, for the third time this interview, though each time it had been worded slightly differently.
"Involved is a strong word."
"You have engaged in intimate relationships, yes?"
Blurr rolled his optics. "We've fragged." There was no point in being cute about it. "I don't see how that's relevant."
"Personal relationships can often skew one's perception of another individual," Springarm said as he made a notation on his datapad.
"It's not a relationship." Blurr leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "We've fragged. Other than that, I barely know him. He's only living with me because Jazz asked him to watch my back since there’s a serial murderer running around."
Springarm hummed thoughtfully. "It must've come as a shock, then, when he was arrested for those same murders."
"It's pitslag. He didn't do it."
Springarm looked up at him, one orbital ridge raised. "You sound very certain considering you, in your own words, barely know him."
"He was in my berth! Fragging me!" Blurr spluttered, tossing his arms in the air and smacking back into the chair, his boosters clanging painfully. "He couldn't have done it. I'm not protecting him, I'm just telling you the truth as it is!"
Springarm made a noncommittal noise. "He's not the first mech with a saboteur skillset who's shared your berth, is he?"
Blurr cycled his optics. "What?"
Springarm tapped the datapad with the end of his stylus. "You've had intimate relations with other mechs who we would consider 'spies'?" The last he enunciated with actual, physical air quotes.
"Why does that even matter?"
"I'm trying to make a point here, Blurr."
He vented noisily. "Yes," Blurr admitted, though his engine revved, and his field flicked with annoyance. "I've interfaced with spies and mechs who have unique saboteur talents."
"And they've never slipped from your berth without you knowing it?"
Blurr's mouth opened, and then snapped shut again. For the first time, a seed of doubt took root in his processor.
Jazz was notorious for leaving the berth before morning with Blurr being none the wiser. Sometimes, so skillfully, Blurr doubted he'd ever been there at all. Sometimes, even after Blurr had fallen into recharge with Jazz beneath him, their limbs tangled.
"So." Springarm laced his fingers on top of his datapad. "Given that, do you think it might be possible Ricochet is capable of the same?"
Blurr couldn't find any words. Because he knew Springarm had a point. Besides, wouldn't it be the perfect cover? To act as a backup for someone who you either never intended to target or would target last?
Further, Ricochet was a Decepticon. Formerly, yes, but just because the war was over didn't mean that alliances and bonds had been cast aside. Springarm's suggestion of a political motivation made sense. Ricochet wasn't exactly working before he accepted Jazz's offer. How was he earning his creds? Was he still a Decepticon? Or was he a Neutral freelancer?
Mechs had killed for less.
"Right now, you are Ricochet's only alibi." Springarm had gone back to his soothing, cajoling tone. "So I want you to think long and hard about what you're risking for him."
Blurr swallowed hard. "Am I under arrest?"
"Of course not. You've done nothing wrong." Springarm smiled blandly and spread his hands. "Thank you for your cooperation, Blurr. You've been most helpful."
"Then I can go?"
Springarm nodded. "Yes, I think I have all I need. I'll contact you if I have any further questions."
Blurr rose from the chair, eager to be on his way. He was angry, and he was confused, and he needed answers, without knowing where to find them.
"You have my comm code," Springarm added as he stood to hold the door open for Blurr, his tone carefully polite and gentle. "If you remember anything further, you know how to reach me."
"Yeah. I do."
Blurr left before they could ask him anything else, though he felt Springarm's judging gaze on him every step of the way.
~
Rodimus did not like paperwork.
He didn't like being cooped up in his office with Ultra Magnus breathing down his neck, staring down the barrel of a stack of datapads half as tall as himself. His fingers cramped, his back cables knotted up, and it was a challenge to stay awake. He was a doer not a sitter.
Which meant Jazz storming into his office in a fit of pique had just become the highlight of his day.
Rodimus tossed his stylus over his shoulder and greeted Jazz with a grin, though a part of him quailed at the fury bleeding from Jazz's visor. He was not immune to the danger Jazz presented, especially in his current state.
"Please tell me you have something interesting," Rodimus said.
Jazz's hands pulled into fists. "Prowl arrested my brother."
Rodimus cycled his optics. "What did he do?"
"Nothing!"
Rodimus' orbital ridges tried to climb away from his face. "Prowl's not one to randomly arrest mechs. What aren't you telling me?"
Jazz scrubbed at his forehead and started to pace, like a caged animal desperate to be unleashed. "You know about the Wrecker Murders?"
"Jazz, I'm the Prime. Of course I know about the murders." Rodimus cycled his optics as the pieces fell into place, and he made the connection. "Wait. Your brother?"
"Of course not!" Jazz snapped, and his field flashed molten with fury around the room. "But a little bit of obviously doctored footage, and Prowl's so damn eager to arrest someone, he's thrown Ricochet into a cell!"
Rodimus pressed his lips together. He sat back in his chair, feeling an ache behind his optics. "You know for sure the footage is doctored?"
"Well. I haven't had a chance to examine it yet," Jazz admitted, and he gave Rodimus a sidelong look.
Primus. How had something already terrible devolved into a complete nightmare? Aside from the friction between two of his best leaders, it was a political nightmare as well. Ricochet was a former Decepticon.
Starscream was going to get one whiff of this, and there would be no hearing the end of it. He was already making noise about Metrocon getting the lesser end of the supply deliveries and pay. If he thought Autobots were unfairly arresting Decepticons, even former Decepticons, he'd pitch a fit.
Rodimus pinched his nose. "So you want me to order Prowl to release Ricochet with no evidence on the sole reason that he is your brother?"
"He didn't do it!"
"I hear you." Rodimus held up a hand to forestall further argument. He couldn't give off the same commanding presence Optimus had, but he tried anyway. "And I'm not saying he did it. I'm just saying that somewhere in that stack is Prowl's current report on the situation." He pointed to the leaning tower of datapads on the corner of his desk. "Which means you know more about what's going on than I do. If I stick my nose in it, I'm treading on all kinds of toes."
Jazz threw his hands into the air and noisily vented. "You're the Prime!"
"I'm not an all encompassing leader. Not anymore, remember? I'm basically a figurehead." Rodimus leaned back in his chair and sighed, sinking into the unyielding firmness of it. "They want my signature. They want me to smile for the cameras, but real power? I don't have it." He spread his hands. "Safety and Security is Prowl's purview."
"That's pitslag." Jazz whirled toward him and planted his hands on the desk, leaning over it to glare at Rodimus with enough heat his backstrut quailed. "He answers to you."
"He answers to the people of Autobot City," Rodimus corrected. An ache began behind his optics, and of all the mechs of his council, he’d always thought Jazz would never be the one to cause it. “Rumors have already spread about the murders. People think we can’t keep them safe. I’ve already got two separate groups lobbying for open carry of weapons again.”
Jazz’s visor flashed. “So you’re just going to let him use my brother as an example?”
“I trust that Prowl has just cause to detain him,” Rodimus replied, and prayed to Primus he wasn’t making an enemy. “If you find proof Prowl is being disingenuous in his arrest, or that Ricochet was wrongly accused, I will interfere. I promise. But for now, he stays in Enforcer custody.”
Jazz stared at him, and he was impossible to read. Rodimus had never been particularly close to Jazz, he’d always been closer to Optimus than anyone else. Perhaps if he’d had a better relationship, Jazz would trust him without question.
Jazz’s jaw twisted. He spoke, and it came out low and menacing. “Optimus would have trusted me.”
Ouch.
That was so not fair and completely unnecessary.
Rodimus flinched. He couldn’t help it. “Well Optimus is gone,” he said, matching Jazz’s cold and even tone. “So I’m what you’re stuck with. And I kindly ask that you leave my office since I obviously can’t help you.”
For a moment, he thought there was apology in Jazz’s visor. But then it was gone, hidden behind an immediate wall of transsteel and danger.
“Fine.” Jazz pushed off the desk and spun on a heelstrut, storming from Rodimus’ office without so much as a by-your-leave.
In his absence, Rodimus vented and dropped his head back, shuttering his optics. Primus, what a nightmare.
He scrubbed his forehead again, dug through his stack of datapads for the relevant one, and pinged Prowl. He could, at the very least, look into the matter.
It was what Optimus would have done.
~
Blurr went home.
Bluestreak and Riptide had New Maccadam’s well in hand, and he didn’t want to deal with the questions anyway. The place was going to be a media circus as soon as the news picked up on the public arrest, especially considering they’d pulled Blurr in for an interview at the same time.
This was not the kind of publicity that was beneficial.
Blurr was tired, and he was angry, and he was confused, and all he wanted to do was be home. By himself. Was he safe now? He didn’t know what to think.
Jazz was waiting for him. Inside his apartment, no less, as if to show how shoddy his security system was.
“I thought Ricochet upgraded my security,” Blurr said, and his exhaustion leaked into his vocals, echoing them with static.
“He left me a backdoor,” Jazz said from his position on Blurr’s couch, less a sprawl and more of a tightly contained seat. He sounded as dull and narrowly angry as Blurr felt.
Blurr twisted his jaw. “Wonder who else he left a backdoor for.”
Jazz looked up at him slowly, the light behind his visor narrowing to a thin line of accusation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly the way it sounds.” Blurr folded his arms and stared Jazz down. He wasn’t afraid of the saboteur, he’d spent too long in Jazz’s berth for that. “Was I going to be next on the list?”
Jazz’s lip curled back. “You can’t honestly believe he did it.”
“Why can’t I? I barely know him.”
“Yeah, but you know me!” Jazz shot to his feet, his engine audibly revving, his armor drawing tight to his frame. “You think I’d put you in danger like that?”
Blurr worked his intake. “I think that love blinds you, and you love your twin very, very much.”
Jazz chuffed a vent. “Yeah, I love ‘im. But that don’t mean I don’t know when he’s an asshole. He’s done a lot of bad things, but he didn’t do this. I swear it, Blurr. I dunno what’s going on, but I know he’s not the murderer.”
Blurr shifted his weight, tearing his gaze away. Jazz sounded so earnest, and it was impossible not to believe him. Especially since Blurr wanted to. He wanted to believe he hadn’t been fragging the mech responsible for killing so many of his fellow Wreckers in such brutal ways.
“And I need your help.”
Blurr’s gaze jerked back toward Jazz. “My help? For what?”
“For breaking Ricochet out of jail.”
Blurr stared. “Come again?”
Jazz sighed and came around the low table in front of the couch, scrubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “Prowl won’t listen to reason. Someone has to be setting my brother up. I’m worried he’s not safe in jail, and I can’t try and figure out what’s going on if he’s stuck in there.”
Blurr’s mouth opened. Closed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am.” Jazz moved closer, and his field was a jittery mess, which was weird enough, considering Blurr usually couldn’t feel it. “While he’s sitting in jail, Prowl’s looking in all the wrong places, and the real killer is still out there.”
Blurr shook his head, his confusion deepening. “Breaking him out of prison doesn’t solve any of that. It just makes him look more guilty.”
“Yeah, well at least he’ll be alive. I don’t know he’s going to stay that way otherwise,” Jazz snapped. His armor fluffed, talons extending from his fingertips before he retracted them. “I could use your help.”
Blurr nibbled on his bottom lip. “Jazz, I’m grateful to you for a lot, but helping you get him out of jail? I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Jazz demanded.
“Both.”
Jazz loudly vented, and Blurr echoed the noise, feeling more than a little trapped by Jazz’s insistence. “Look, I’m not ungrateful. It’s just not a small favor, and I’m not sure what to believe right now.”
He didn’t know who to trust, and that scared Blurr most of all. Especially since he had so much to lose if this went wrong or the Enforcers got so much of a whiff of Blurr’s involvement. They could take his bar, they could throw him in prison. His life would be ruined.
“Fine,” Jazz bit out. He slid past Blurr, his field spooling tight to his frame. “Just be careful. The real perpetrator is still out there, and everyone’s gonna be less on their guard because they think they’re safe.”
Blurr turned to watch him go, trying to ignore the little curl of guilt building in his tank. He couldn’t.
Jazz was his friend, and Ricochet had been his berth partner, and they’d both tried to protect him in their own ways. Blurr didn’t know what to believe, but he was sure Jazz had been genuine in his desire to keep Blurr safe.
Worse. Jazz was right. Everyone would believe they were safe with Ricochet in custody. The Wreckers wouldn’t be on their guard. The ones tasked with keeping the Wreckers safe would either be pulled from their duties, or would be more lax. If Ricochet wasn’t the perpetrator, a lot of mechs were in greater danger now.
There was a lot more at stake than Blurr’s business.
“I’ll think about it,” Blurr said as Jazz palmed the door open, the security system recognizing him even though it should have only recognized Blurr.
“Good.”
Jazz left.
Blurr stared where he’d been, the exhaustion settling on his shoulders like a heavy weight. He scrubbed at his forehead and cycled a ventilation.
What a fragging mess.
***
Universe: TF G1/IDW
Characters: Blurr, Jazz, Bluestreak, Ricochet, Prowl, Rodimus, Drift, Ratchet
Pairings: Blurr/Jazz, Blurr/Ricochet, Blurr/Ricochet/Jazz, Ricochet/Jazz, Bluestreak/Jazz, Drift/Ratchet,
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest, Mechpreg, Canon Typical Violence
Description: Blurr happens to enjoy life on post-war Cybertron, but when a serial murderer starts targeting former Wreckers, Blurr ends up saddled with a bodyguard who rubs him in all the wrong ways. Or right ways, if you were to ask Ricochet. Let the battle begin.
Commission for MamaBlurr.
No matter how many times Jazz watched the video, he didn’t believe it.
Sure, the feed seemed to show Ricochet stealing into Piston’s apartment, breaking into the security system, and letting himself inside. And yeah, the timestamp on the video matched the exact date and time Piston had been killed.
Jazz still didn’t believe it.
Yes, Ricochet had been a Decepticon once. And yes, as a Decepticon, he’d been what they would’ve considered a Special Ops agent or even a Wrecker. But that didn’t mean he was behind the killings now. It didn’t matter that it was well within his skillset.
For one, it was sloppy.
For two, he’d never lie to Jazz. He couldn’t lie to Jazz. He wasn’t lying to Jazz now. He didn’t do it.
The murders were personal. Smokescreen admitted as much. Where was the motive? The reasoning? Why would Ricochet do it?
Prowl couldn’t answer those questions. Refused to even consider them. The sneaky aft. He’d made sure to arrest Ricochet when Jazz was otherwise occupied because he knew Jazz would protest.
Someday, that was going to bite him in the aft. Jazz had his ways.
"It's not him!" Jazz insisted, slamming his hands down on the desk in front of Prowl, the loud smack of his palms against the heavy metal echoing through the office.
Prowl didn't flinch. "The evidence suggests otherwise." His sensory panels remained perfectly still, his field a tightly contained box Jazz couldn't pry open. "If you want to convince me of his innocence, bring me proof and a more plausible subject. He doesn't get a pass just because he's your twin."
"You are not this much of an idiot," Jazz hissed, anger spiking through his field before he could contain it. "What the frag is his motive?"
"Motive will be determined through an interview with the suspect." Prowl made a notation before setting down his stylus and folding his hands together on top of the desk. He finally looked up at Jazz. "You are aware of how the process works, I know."
"Don't give me that even-toned pitslag." Jazz seethed, hissing a vent through his denta. "His arrest is a farce, and you know it. You're so damn eager to have someone to blame, you don't want to see any further than the first bit of shaky evidence."
Prowl arched an orbital ridge. "Video evidence is hardly shaky," he said. "And the fact is, your brother's skillset certainly fits within the specifications for the crime."
"That doesn't mean he's guilty!"
"Perhaps not. But I would be remiss if I did not treat him as a suspect." Prowl sighed a vent, the long, hissing sigh of exasperation Jazz loathed because he only aimed it at mechs he considered idiots. "I have to consider the evidence. I can't assume he's innocent because you told me to. I need proof, Jazz. That's how things work on."
Jazz squared his jaw. He glared.
Prowl didn't flinch.
It had been like this with them for centuries. They worked well as a unit. But when they clashed, it was fire and brimstone, and more than once, they'd nearly started an interfactional war.
"You are a self-serving aft," Jazz snarled.
Prowl unfolded his hands, picked up his stylus, and bent back over his datapad. "Bring me evidence. Then we can talk about releasing Ricochet."
"You've denied him a bond hearing?"
"Of course. He's dangerous and liable to leave the planet if given half the chance. So long as he's a suspect, he's going to remain in custody."
Fury flashed wide and bright in Jazz's field before he could contain it. The only indication Prowl sensed it was the tiniest twitch in his left sensory panel. Cold as liquid nitrogen, Prowl was. He fit the nickname "Icespark" all too well.
Jazz spoke through gritted denta, "This is one of the stupidest things you've done."
Prowl didn't look at him. "Bring me another suspect with sufficient evidence, and I will free your brother. It's that simple, Jazz. I'm sure you are capable of understanding that."
Jazz's engine growled so hard it slipped into a whine. His fingertips curved against the desk in a thin shriek of metal on metal. He vented loudly, bundling up all his anger and his fury, before slamming it down behind a wall.
"Fine," he said, and pushed off the desk, every plate of his armor taut with tension. "You owe me an apology after this."
"If one is deserved, one will be given." Prowl flicked his stylus in a signature and moved to the next datapad. "Dismissed."
Jazz stomped out of the office. He had work to do.
"I apologize. I know this is frustrating. I'll be done soon," Springarm said, with a tone that was falsely soothing and a smile equally false. He must have been a good student at the school of Prowl Facial Expressions.
Someone had an idol. Frankly, Blurr would have picked one with more social acumen.
Blurr scrubbed his forehead, an ache building behind his optics, one leg jittering up and down from restrained energy. He'd been in this chair for an hour. He wanted to go home. "You're asking me the same questions over and over. Why do you think you're going to get a different answer?"
"It's standard procedure," Springarm said, still with that blatantly disingenuous smile. "Liars often forget the webs of their own lies. If you're telling the truth, you'll be consistent."
"How am I even a suspect?" Blurr demanded.
"You're not." Springarm scooted a cube of midgrade across the table, despite the fact Blurr had refused it twice already. "But your statement could help us convict a dangerous criminal."
Blurr crossed his arms and sank down in the chair a bit further. "Or free him."
"That as well. After all, right now, you are his only alibi for the night in question."
"Your accusation doesn't make sense!" Blurr tossed his arms in the air before he folded them again, the other leg starting to jitter now. "If he's the one doing this, why aren't I dead already? Why is he doing it in the first place? What's the point?"
Springarm slid a datapad in front of him, a slim, tiny device that had seen a lot of use, given the scratches and dents in the protective case. "There are many potential motives for someone of Ricochet's skillset. It may not be personal. It may be business. Or it may be political." His tone was bland, but his jaw was tight.
The bruising around his right ocular socket might have had something to do with it. Ricochet hadn't enjoyed being arrested. Nor had he appreciated how rough they'd been with him. More than a few Enforcers had walked out of Blurr's bar with dents, scrapes, and torn cables.
"You two are involved, yes?" Springarm asked, for the third time this interview, though each time it had been worded slightly differently.
"Involved is a strong word."
"You have engaged in intimate relationships, yes?"
Blurr rolled his optics. "We've fragged." There was no point in being cute about it. "I don't see how that's relevant."
"Personal relationships can often skew one's perception of another individual," Springarm said as he made a notation on his datapad.
"It's not a relationship." Blurr leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "We've fragged. Other than that, I barely know him. He's only living with me because Jazz asked him to watch my back since there’s a serial murderer running around."
Springarm hummed thoughtfully. "It must've come as a shock, then, when he was arrested for those same murders."
"It's pitslag. He didn't do it."
Springarm looked up at him, one orbital ridge raised. "You sound very certain considering you, in your own words, barely know him."
"He was in my berth! Fragging me!" Blurr spluttered, tossing his arms in the air and smacking back into the chair, his boosters clanging painfully. "He couldn't have done it. I'm not protecting him, I'm just telling you the truth as it is!"
Springarm made a noncommittal noise. "He's not the first mech with a saboteur skillset who's shared your berth, is he?"
Blurr cycled his optics. "What?"
Springarm tapped the datapad with the end of his stylus. "You've had intimate relations with other mechs who we would consider 'spies'?" The last he enunciated with actual, physical air quotes.
"Why does that even matter?"
"I'm trying to make a point here, Blurr."
He vented noisily. "Yes," Blurr admitted, though his engine revved, and his field flicked with annoyance. "I've interfaced with spies and mechs who have unique saboteur talents."
"And they've never slipped from your berth without you knowing it?"
Blurr's mouth opened, and then snapped shut again. For the first time, a seed of doubt took root in his processor.
Jazz was notorious for leaving the berth before morning with Blurr being none the wiser. Sometimes, so skillfully, Blurr doubted he'd ever been there at all. Sometimes, even after Blurr had fallen into recharge with Jazz beneath him, their limbs tangled.
"So." Springarm laced his fingers on top of his datapad. "Given that, do you think it might be possible Ricochet is capable of the same?"
Blurr couldn't find any words. Because he knew Springarm had a point. Besides, wouldn't it be the perfect cover? To act as a backup for someone who you either never intended to target or would target last?
Further, Ricochet was a Decepticon. Formerly, yes, but just because the war was over didn't mean that alliances and bonds had been cast aside. Springarm's suggestion of a political motivation made sense. Ricochet wasn't exactly working before he accepted Jazz's offer. How was he earning his creds? Was he still a Decepticon? Or was he a Neutral freelancer?
Mechs had killed for less.
"Right now, you are Ricochet's only alibi." Springarm had gone back to his soothing, cajoling tone. "So I want you to think long and hard about what you're risking for him."
Blurr swallowed hard. "Am I under arrest?"
"Of course not. You've done nothing wrong." Springarm smiled blandly and spread his hands. "Thank you for your cooperation, Blurr. You've been most helpful."
"Then I can go?"
Springarm nodded. "Yes, I think I have all I need. I'll contact you if I have any further questions."
Blurr rose from the chair, eager to be on his way. He was angry, and he was confused, and he needed answers, without knowing where to find them.
"You have my comm code," Springarm added as he stood to hold the door open for Blurr, his tone carefully polite and gentle. "If you remember anything further, you know how to reach me."
"Yeah. I do."
Blurr left before they could ask him anything else, though he felt Springarm's judging gaze on him every step of the way.
Rodimus did not like paperwork.
He didn't like being cooped up in his office with Ultra Magnus breathing down his neck, staring down the barrel of a stack of datapads half as tall as himself. His fingers cramped, his back cables knotted up, and it was a challenge to stay awake. He was a doer not a sitter.
Which meant Jazz storming into his office in a fit of pique had just become the highlight of his day.
Rodimus tossed his stylus over his shoulder and greeted Jazz with a grin, though a part of him quailed at the fury bleeding from Jazz's visor. He was not immune to the danger Jazz presented, especially in his current state.
"Please tell me you have something interesting," Rodimus said.
Jazz's hands pulled into fists. "Prowl arrested my brother."
Rodimus cycled his optics. "What did he do?"
"Nothing!"
Rodimus' orbital ridges tried to climb away from his face. "Prowl's not one to randomly arrest mechs. What aren't you telling me?"
Jazz scrubbed at his forehead and started to pace, like a caged animal desperate to be unleashed. "You know about the Wrecker Murders?"
"Jazz, I'm the Prime. Of course I know about the murders." Rodimus cycled his optics as the pieces fell into place, and he made the connection. "Wait. Your brother?"
"Of course not!" Jazz snapped, and his field flashed molten with fury around the room. "But a little bit of obviously doctored footage, and Prowl's so damn eager to arrest someone, he's thrown Ricochet into a cell!"
Rodimus pressed his lips together. He sat back in his chair, feeling an ache behind his optics. "You know for sure the footage is doctored?"
"Well. I haven't had a chance to examine it yet," Jazz admitted, and he gave Rodimus a sidelong look.
Primus. How had something already terrible devolved into a complete nightmare? Aside from the friction between two of his best leaders, it was a political nightmare as well. Ricochet was a former Decepticon.
Starscream was going to get one whiff of this, and there would be no hearing the end of it. He was already making noise about Metrocon getting the lesser end of the supply deliveries and pay. If he thought Autobots were unfairly arresting Decepticons, even former Decepticons, he'd pitch a fit.
Rodimus pinched his nose. "So you want me to order Prowl to release Ricochet with no evidence on the sole reason that he is your brother?"
"He didn't do it!"
"I hear you." Rodimus held up a hand to forestall further argument. He couldn't give off the same commanding presence Optimus had, but he tried anyway. "And I'm not saying he did it. I'm just saying that somewhere in that stack is Prowl's current report on the situation." He pointed to the leaning tower of datapads on the corner of his desk. "Which means you know more about what's going on than I do. If I stick my nose in it, I'm treading on all kinds of toes."
Jazz threw his hands into the air and noisily vented. "You're the Prime!"
"I'm not an all encompassing leader. Not anymore, remember? I'm basically a figurehead." Rodimus leaned back in his chair and sighed, sinking into the unyielding firmness of it. "They want my signature. They want me to smile for the cameras, but real power? I don't have it." He spread his hands. "Safety and Security is Prowl's purview."
"That's pitslag." Jazz whirled toward him and planted his hands on the desk, leaning over it to glare at Rodimus with enough heat his backstrut quailed. "He answers to you."
"He answers to the people of Autobot City," Rodimus corrected. An ache began behind his optics, and of all the mechs of his council, he’d always thought Jazz would never be the one to cause it. “Rumors have already spread about the murders. People think we can’t keep them safe. I’ve already got two separate groups lobbying for open carry of weapons again.”
Jazz’s visor flashed. “So you’re just going to let him use my brother as an example?”
“I trust that Prowl has just cause to detain him,” Rodimus replied, and prayed to Primus he wasn’t making an enemy. “If you find proof Prowl is being disingenuous in his arrest, or that Ricochet was wrongly accused, I will interfere. I promise. But for now, he stays in Enforcer custody.”
Jazz stared at him, and he was impossible to read. Rodimus had never been particularly close to Jazz, he’d always been closer to Optimus than anyone else. Perhaps if he’d had a better relationship, Jazz would trust him without question.
Jazz’s jaw twisted. He spoke, and it came out low and menacing. “Optimus would have trusted me.”
Ouch.
That was so not fair and completely unnecessary.
Rodimus flinched. He couldn’t help it. “Well Optimus is gone,” he said, matching Jazz’s cold and even tone. “So I’m what you’re stuck with. And I kindly ask that you leave my office since I obviously can’t help you.”
For a moment, he thought there was apology in Jazz’s visor. But then it was gone, hidden behind an immediate wall of transsteel and danger.
“Fine.” Jazz pushed off the desk and spun on a heelstrut, storming from Rodimus’ office without so much as a by-your-leave.
In his absence, Rodimus vented and dropped his head back, shuttering his optics. Primus, what a nightmare.
He scrubbed his forehead again, dug through his stack of datapads for the relevant one, and pinged Prowl. He could, at the very least, look into the matter.
It was what Optimus would have done.
Blurr went home.
Bluestreak and Riptide had New Maccadam’s well in hand, and he didn’t want to deal with the questions anyway. The place was going to be a media circus as soon as the news picked up on the public arrest, especially considering they’d pulled Blurr in for an interview at the same time.
This was not the kind of publicity that was beneficial.
Blurr was tired, and he was angry, and he was confused, and all he wanted to do was be home. By himself. Was he safe now? He didn’t know what to think.
Jazz was waiting for him. Inside his apartment, no less, as if to show how shoddy his security system was.
“I thought Ricochet upgraded my security,” Blurr said, and his exhaustion leaked into his vocals, echoing them with static.
“He left me a backdoor,” Jazz said from his position on Blurr’s couch, less a sprawl and more of a tightly contained seat. He sounded as dull and narrowly angry as Blurr felt.
Blurr twisted his jaw. “Wonder who else he left a backdoor for.”
Jazz looked up at him slowly, the light behind his visor narrowing to a thin line of accusation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly the way it sounds.” Blurr folded his arms and stared Jazz down. He wasn’t afraid of the saboteur, he’d spent too long in Jazz’s berth for that. “Was I going to be next on the list?”
Jazz’s lip curled back. “You can’t honestly believe he did it.”
“Why can’t I? I barely know him.”
“Yeah, but you know me!” Jazz shot to his feet, his engine audibly revving, his armor drawing tight to his frame. “You think I’d put you in danger like that?”
Blurr worked his intake. “I think that love blinds you, and you love your twin very, very much.”
Jazz chuffed a vent. “Yeah, I love ‘im. But that don’t mean I don’t know when he’s an asshole. He’s done a lot of bad things, but he didn’t do this. I swear it, Blurr. I dunno what’s going on, but I know he’s not the murderer.”
Blurr shifted his weight, tearing his gaze away. Jazz sounded so earnest, and it was impossible not to believe him. Especially since Blurr wanted to. He wanted to believe he hadn’t been fragging the mech responsible for killing so many of his fellow Wreckers in such brutal ways.
“And I need your help.”
Blurr’s gaze jerked back toward Jazz. “My help? For what?”
“For breaking Ricochet out of jail.”
Blurr stared. “Come again?”
Jazz sighed and came around the low table in front of the couch, scrubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “Prowl won’t listen to reason. Someone has to be setting my brother up. I’m worried he’s not safe in jail, and I can’t try and figure out what’s going on if he’s stuck in there.”
Blurr’s mouth opened. Closed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I am.” Jazz moved closer, and his field was a jittery mess, which was weird enough, considering Blurr usually couldn’t feel it. “While he’s sitting in jail, Prowl’s looking in all the wrong places, and the real killer is still out there.”
Blurr shook his head, his confusion deepening. “Breaking him out of prison doesn’t solve any of that. It just makes him look more guilty.”
“Yeah, well at least he’ll be alive. I don’t know he’s going to stay that way otherwise,” Jazz snapped. His armor fluffed, talons extending from his fingertips before he retracted them. “I could use your help.”
Blurr nibbled on his bottom lip. “Jazz, I’m grateful to you for a lot, but helping you get him out of jail? I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Jazz demanded.
“Both.”
Jazz loudly vented, and Blurr echoed the noise, feeling more than a little trapped by Jazz’s insistence. “Look, I’m not ungrateful. It’s just not a small favor, and I’m not sure what to believe right now.”
He didn’t know who to trust, and that scared Blurr most of all. Especially since he had so much to lose if this went wrong or the Enforcers got so much of a whiff of Blurr’s involvement. They could take his bar, they could throw him in prison. His life would be ruined.
“Fine,” Jazz bit out. He slid past Blurr, his field spooling tight to his frame. “Just be careful. The real perpetrator is still out there, and everyone’s gonna be less on their guard because they think they’re safe.”
Blurr turned to watch him go, trying to ignore the little curl of guilt building in his tank. He couldn’t.
Jazz was his friend, and Ricochet had been his berth partner, and they’d both tried to protect him in their own ways. Blurr didn’t know what to believe, but he was sure Jazz had been genuine in his desire to keep Blurr safe.
Worse. Jazz was right. Everyone would believe they were safe with Ricochet in custody. The Wreckers wouldn’t be on their guard. The ones tasked with keeping the Wreckers safe would either be pulled from their duties, or would be more lax. If Ricochet wasn’t the perpetrator, a lot of mechs were in greater danger now.
There was a lot more at stake than Blurr’s business.
“I’ll think about it,” Blurr said as Jazz palmed the door open, the security system recognizing him even though it should have only recognized Blurr.
“Good.”
Jazz left.
Blurr stared where he’d been, the exhaustion settling on his shoulders like a heavy weight. He scrubbed at his forehead and cycled a ventilation.
What a fragging mess.
