[IDW] A Perfect Storm 09/16
Jun. 3rd, 2019 06:23 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 Nine
Bluestreak did not like the underlevels. They were dark and cramped and smelled of ancient, dead things. It was a honeycomb maze of dead ends, rusted walkways, and collapsed tunnels. There was too much interference from various electrical devices left to whirr and click and run with no one to care about their maintenance for his sensory panels to guide him.
He was left with the sloppily drawn map, courtesy of Jazz, with all its spec ops shorthand directions, and the hope that he’d find Jazz and Ricochet’s lair before he got lost. After all, there was no comming for help down here. They were far too deep for a signal to make it out.
He stepped in something tacky and slick and had to catch himself before he fell. He ducked under a nest of frayed wires, hanging down from the ceiling like grasping hands. He skirted over a very narrow ledge which hung over a dark and endless abyss.
He started to wonder if Jazz had given him the complicated directions on purpose.
But the directions held true, and soon enough, he hopped over a narrow pitfall and shuffled down a slightly wider corridor. He found the door hidden behind a very convincing pile of rubble and debris. Honestly, he wouldn’t have found it if he hadn’t known to look for it.
He rapped on the door and when he didn’t get a response, plugged in the complicated code to the electronic door panel which looked as if it might explode at a moment’s notice. Knowing Jazz, it probably would. Extra protection and all that.
The door creaked open, and Bluestreak took that to mean he’d put in the code correctly, since he didn’t explode in a fiery death. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and heard the lock snick back into place. There wasn’t much to the place, a cramped main room and two adjacent doors, one wide open and revealing a washrack, the other ajar, through which recognizable sounds floated free.
Bluestreak was no saint. His insides twisted with heat. He crept closer, hovered near the open doorway, and listened. Gasps and moans, the slick noise of arrays meeting, through the crack he could see flashes of biolights and armor.
Jazz and Ricochet were fragging. He could hear Jazz begging and Ricochet murmuring commands and praise in equal measure. Jazz’s engine reached a delicious pitch, and Bluestreak shivered, processor supplying an image of what Jazz’s face must have looked like, wracked with pleasure.
Bluestreak only let himself listen for a few minutes more, ruminating on possibilities and potentials, before he pulled away, back to the rickety couch. He gave it a consideration and detoured to the chair-less table. He pulled out his datapads and set them on the table, arranging the new data he’d composed in a way that made the most sense.
He distracted himself with the details, the calculations, the tidbits of information he gathered up in his processor, rolled around, played mix and match.
The door eventually creaked open fully, and Bluestreak turned to look as Ricochet and Jazz both emerged, somewhat tidied, though lubricant still glistened across Ricochet's groin.
"We have a visitor," Ricochet drawled as he reached behind Jazz and gave his aft a squeeze. "I think it's for you, bro."
Jazz swung an elbow into his side. "Go get washed up."
Ricochet's grin wavered between mocking and insincere. "If you say so. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He tipped his head at Bluestreak. "Good seein' ya, kid."
"I'm older than I look," Bluestreak pointed out.
"Yeah. I know."
Ricochet vanished into the washrack and no sooner had the spray started did Bluestreak pick up the faint sound of out-of-tune singing. Not a care in the world, that one. How did he live like that?
"Glad you finally used that code I sent ya," Jazz said, drawing Bluestreak's attention back. He reached into a freestanding closet and pulled out three folded chairs, setting them around the table. "What news you got?"
"Prowl's furious. I had to lie to him, Jazz."
Jazz rolled his shoulders. "He should be used to getting lied to by now. If it makes ya feel better, blame it all on me."
"I don't have to. He'll forgive me." Bluestreak took one of the chairs, though he sat gingerly, just in case it decided not to hold his weight. "I have information on the case for you." He gestured to the datapads. "Check it out."
"Baby Blue, you are amazin'." Jazz hopped into one of the chairs, scooting it closer to the table. "What ya got for me?"
Bluestreak's face heated. He coughed a ventilation. "Hopefully, something that will help. I figured out that he's going after Wreckers who are happy."
"What?"
"Think about it." Bluestreak pulled up the datapads and showed Jazz the conjunx announcement for Drift and Ratchet's engagement. He tapped pointedly at the date. "The killings started immediately after this, didn't they?"
"Could be a coincidence."
"I don't think so. Something had to set him off." Bluestreak switched to another datapad, the one listing all of those murdered and the one survivor. "Every one of these, with the exception of Springer, has been happy in some way or another. Visibly happy. I'm talking the kind of happy that people notice. I'll bet you my wages for the month that's why Whirl and Roadbuster haven't been attacked yet and won't ever be."
Jazz frowned, but peered at the datapad, realization unfurling in his field. "Because Roadbuster's been under psychiatric care after his breakdown, and Whirl's been in and out of jail for disturbing the peace."
"Right."
Jazz rapped his fingers on another datapad, reviewing the contents again. "So we've established how he's pickin' them. Now we need ta know why. What's the motive?"
"It's not a Decepticon," Bluestreak murmured.
"Yeah, I figured. We've all been thinkin' that. Prowl's the only one who's been hopin' otherwise." Jazz sighed and sank down into the chair, laying his datapad down in front of him. He braced his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. "Someone the Wreckers betrayed. Someone they failed. Someone they hurt."
The door to the washrack slid open in a plume of steam, releasing a freshly washed Ricochet to the room at large. "Springer's a clue," he said as he wiped the towel over his arm, wicking away the last bits of solvent. "He's the one who doesn't fit the pattern."
"Because he survived?" Bluestreak asked. He didn't bother to ask how Ricochet knew what they were discussing. He'd been around Sunstreaker and Sideswipe long enough.
"Because he wasn't happy." Ricochet strutted toward the table and came up behind Jazz, leaning against his back and resting his chin on the top of Jazz's head. He gave Bluestreak a look that was almost challenging. "I seem to remember some pretty nasty rumors a few months back."
Bluestreak held Ricochet's gaze and curved his lips in a smile. "I didn't hear them."
"That's cause you don't always have the right audials, Blue." Jazz's field flooded with warmth as he leaned back into Ricochet's embrace. "This was political mess and Prowl subterfuge tryin' to bury it. Surprised you even heard it, bro."
"I have my ways." Ricochet chuckled and slid a hand down Jazz's shoulder, over his bumper, fingers cupping a headlight. "Rumor has it the reason he stepped down from the Wreckers, disbandment or not, is because he's secretly part-Decepticon."
Bluestreak pulled out a chair and sat. "That's ridiculous."
"Only because it's true." Jazz pressed his fingertips to his lips. "The public doesn't know that tidbit. And it ain't my place to spread Springer's business, but yeah. You're right, bro. He wasn't happy."
"So why break the pattern?" Ricochet turned his head, gave a lick to Jazz's sensory horn before he pinned it between his denta. "What makes Springer different?"
Bluestreak grabbed the Wrecker roster again, scanning through it.
"Ric, stop," Jazz murmured, swinging an elbow back at his brother even as he shivered, his field pulsing with want. "I'm tryin' to concentrate."
"He was the commander of the unit at the time," Bluestreak realized aloud, his fingers drawing connecting patterns between names. "Which doesn't help much because he's been commander of the Wreckers for a large portion of their tenure."
"Narrows down the field though, doesn't it?" Ricochet gave his brother's horn another bite before he backed up, one hand lingering possessively on a headlight. "Missions Springer led which contained all or at least some of the ones killed."
Bluestreak was already nodding and inputting an algorithm to narrow it down. He didn't bother to ask why the perpetrator would kill those he wasn't personally angry with. Hatred and loathing was rarely logical, and if he truly was former spec ops like they thought, he would know the value of misdirection and muddying the patterns.
"If he was smart, he'd have gone after Impactor and Ultra Magnus, too, just to obscure his motives," Ricochet said as he rubbed his fingers over Jazz's headlight, and Jazz’s armor shuddered in obvious arousal. "But Ultra Magnus is almost impossible to get to and Impactor hasn't been seen in decades."
"But why pin it on you?" Bluestreak asked as the algorithm started to run. It would take a minute at most, thanks to Prowl’s careful data collation, but it gave him time to talk.
Ricochet shrugged and finally left Jazz be after another elbow jab to the midsection. "Easy, convenient target. I'm a former 'Con. I got the skills to match. It would distract Jazz. Pretty brilliant if ya ask me." He dragged over another chair and slouched into the rickety, rusted seat.
Well, he wasn't wrong.
"How're you so good at this anyway, Blue?" Jazz asked as he idly toyed with a datapad, his tone suggesting nonchalance but his frame language betraying otherwise. "Your file doesn't say you used to be investigative."
"It wouldn't." Bluestreak pressed his lips together, age-old feelings of being inadequate and worthless bubbling up inside his spark. "My application was denied five times in a row which meant--"
"You'd exceeded the number of tries," Ricochet finished for him.
Bluestreak nodded slowly. "I don't process fast enough." He folded his arms under his bumper, sat back in his chair. "I like puzzles. Always have. Wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my functioning solving them. But I wasn't quick enough. Couldn't pass the exams within the allotted time."
"But you passed," Ricochet said.
"Every time. Just not quick enough." Bluestreak cycled a ventilation. "Prowl knew. He had me help out on cases sometimes, feeding me data and letting me mull it over. I don't process... laterally. I process in circles. It's why I talk so much. It takes forever to get to a point."
His datapad beeped as the algorithm finished, and Bluestreak picked it up, skimming through the results. "None of them served at all the same time. They've served in batches, but there are still at least over a hundred missions to sift through."
"It's a start," Jazz said, and leaned across the table. "Can I see?"
Bluestreak handed it over. He snagged a different datapad, the one detailing the various murders and their modus operandi. There had to be something here, some clue about the perpetrator, that could help narrow it down.
He never killed exactly the same way twice. Why? Was it planned? Was it opportunity? Was it because he wanted to muddy the data? Was it because he could?
"Blurr's on the list," Jazz pointed out as he poked his brother in the side. "Looks like he's still a target."
Ricochet chuffed. "Why should I care?"
"No reason." Jazz smirked.
Bluestreak couldn't group the killings by type, but perhaps by severity? Or at least, by general methods. Explosive devices, blaster, or vibroknife. Some were more clinical, like executions, others were messy and violent, as if the perpetrator had wanted to make it last, to take his time. He'd used inhibitor clamps on a couple of the Wreckers to keep them from fighting back -- like Springer.
The brutal ones. They were a clue, too. They were far more personal.
Bluestreak brought those names up. There were only two. He transmitted those specifications to Jazz's datapad to narrow down the results further, to include only those mission reports with Springer and those two mechs at the very least.
Jazz's datapad chimed as it received the data. "What's this?"
"A hunch." Bluestreak continued to skim his own datapad. "Let me know what those filters bring up for you."
"Ten missions," Jazz answered in a flash. He sat up a little straighter, and a genuine smile curled his lips. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"Let me see."
Jazz handed the datapad over to Ricochet, whose visor narrowed and his frown grew darker. "Blurr's designation is on all these mission reports. So's Whirl's."
"Anyone else alive we can talk to?" Bluestreak asked. "Or I guess just me since the both of you are wanted fugitives."
"Here." Ricochet tapped Jazz in the shoulder and smirked. "Got it down to three. Ya'll forgot to filter it by missions involving Autobot casualties."
Jazz flickered his visor. "That's assuming our Autobot perpetrator didn't have family, friend, or lover in the Decepticons."
"Not everyone is as liberal as us, spark of my spark." Ricochet dragged a finger down the side of Jazz's intake, making him visibly shiver. "But if it means that much to ya, add 'em back in if these three missions don't pan out."
"Fair enough." Bluestreak watched the path of Ricochet's finger, and the way Jazz's visor dimmed to a heated hue, the way his field flickered and opened up to his brother's caresses.
Bluestreak wanted to claim him so badly it hurt.
Ricochet caught him looking and leaned in closer to Jazz, slinging an arm over his brother's shoulder and cupping the same headlight from before. "You could always join us," he said with a long, lingering look up and down at Bluestreak. "I've been wondering what those wings of yours taste like."
"As much as I appreciate the offer, you and I would only clash." Bluestreak lifted his chin and his orbital ridges. "I don't think you take orders that well, and I'm only in the habit of giving them."
Ricochet barked a laugh. "Well, you're not wrong there." He gave a pointed flick to Jazz's headlight. "You can play with Jazz if ya want. He obeys orders really well."
Jazz spat something at Ricochet in a language Bluestreak didn't know, and he swatted his brother's hand away. He glared and said something else, causing Ricochet's optical visor to narrow and his mouth to form a thin line. He leaned out of Jazz's personal space and said something in a low, careful voice.
Jazz's engine growled. He bared his denta, and Ricochet snatched at him, gripping his chin and forcing Jazz's attention on him. He spoke again in that odd language, his tone a warning or chastisement.
Jazz flinched.
Bluestreak tensed. He wondered if he should intervene.
Jazz's head drifted down, just a little, in Ricochet's grip. It seemed like submission, and maybe Ricochet took it as one because he smirked broad enough to bare his denta. He swept his thumb over Jazz's bottom lip before he let go and sat back.
Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. "Did I miss something?"
"Just a brotherly spat." Ricochet's grin broadened even more, and he went lazy in his chair. "So what's next?"
“Next we talk to anyone on that list who’s still alive, see what they can tell us about those missions.” Jazz’s arms folded under his bumper, but his tone was casual. Not that Bluestreak believed it for a moment. “Can you get in to see Whirl?”
Bluestreak nodded. “I’m sure Prowl will let me, yeah.”
“Good. Blurr’s supposed to come by later, we’ll ask him then.” Jazz’s visor shifted, him cutting a glance at Ricochet. “We gotta find somethin’. Mechs are still dyin’, and I’m useless while I’m on the run.”
“We’ll figure this out. I promise.” Bluestreak stood, sensing the thickness of tension in the air, his sensory panels starting to twitch.
Ricochet and Jazz needed to have a talk apparently, one without Bluestreak sitting there, obviously the focus of the discussion.
“I’ll come back when I have something concrete.”
“Good.” Ricochet gave him a pointed look, though his hand went back to lingering against the nape of Jazz’s neck. “We need to have a conversation. When this is over, o’ course.” His tone was thick, heavy with meaning.
Jazz shivered.
Bluestreak met his gaze with an equally heavy, meaningful one of his own. “Yeah, we do.”
Business first.
Personal later.
~
“It’s pretty obvious Jazz is behind the escape, though we’ve yet to determine who was helping him, how he broke into holding, and how he walked out with Ricochet without anyone noticing or attempting to stop him,” Springarm recited.
Prowl was only marginally listening. “Jazz is too familiar with our methods, our mechs, and our facilities. His success was inevitable.”
Springarm’s armor creaked as he shifted his weight. “With all due respect, sir, you sound like you expected this to happen.”
“It was one of the outcomes I hypothesized, yes. I have learned not to underestimate Jazz’s boldness.” Prowl shifted his attention as one of his datapads beeped, indicating a new transfer of information. Ah, the datapad he’d given Bluestreak was being accessed and updated.
Interesting.
He put down the monthly budget estimates for the security department and picked up the datapad instead -- the one linked to Bluestreak’s. They were exact duplicates, and whatever Bluestreak did on his, transferred to Prowl’s as soon as it pinged on an open transmission line.
“If you suspected it, why not assign more guards to Ricochet? You had him in minimum security holding. He probably would have broken out himself if Jazz hadn’t done it first,” Springer asked, and a note of irritation thickened his tone.
Oh, what’s this? An actual suspect list? Well, weren’t they busy little investigators.
“There are only a few powerful motivators in the universe, Springarm. Love is one of them, and it makes us reckless.” Prowl glanced up at the Enforcer captain, whose field flicked around him in aggravated waves. “You have a partner, yes?”
Springarm coughed, and his field flushed with embarrassment. Springarm was a good Enforcer, but he would have made a terrible agent. He couldn’t hide his emotions if his spark depended on it.
“Yes, sir. For three years now.”
Prowl dropped his attention back to his datapad. “And you know what you’d do for him, don’t you?”
“I-I don’t think--”
“It’s alright. I’m not asking you to commit treason, and I’m not asking to test your loyalty, I’m simply making a point.”
His words didn’t soothe. Springarm’s armor fluttered, and his field settled around him in uneasy waves now.
Prowl skimmed the data Bluestreak’s pad provided him, a smile threatening to curve his lips. This was what he’d call progress. From hundreds of possibilities, to a means to make a suspect list. Amazing what a little motivation could do.
“I apologize for what appears to be a charade, captain, but I assure you it was necessary.” Prowl made a notation and sent a quick message to the commander of Whirl’s jail sector, allowing Bluestreak whatever access he desired. “In the end, it will save lives.”
“But not reputations.”
Prowl cycled his optics and looked up. Springarm wouldn’t meet his gaze, and almost seemed embarrassed for his outburst.
Ah. So that was the core of the issue, was it?
“Your mechs will receive no reprimands or punishments for this,” Prowl said as he dropped his attention back to the datapad. With any luck, no more lives would be lost. “They performed admirably and as expected. Once it is all settled, I will instruct Jazz to help you find the holes in your security.”
Silence.
Quiet until the resentment seethed in an undercurrent of Springarm’s field.
“I presume you don’t want me to finish the investigation into Ricochet’s escape then?”
“It won’t be necessary,” Prowl confirmed. He saved the new data and set it aside, returning to his original work. It was enough to know progress was being made. “Thank you, Springarm. That will be all.”
The captain saluted and let himself out of Prowl’s office, taking his overly expressive field with him. Prowl ex-vented with relief. He only had so much tolerance for wild fields.
He probably should have warned Springarm to turn a blind optic to Ricochet or Jazz if they happened to appear in public, but it wasn’t necessary. Both of them were too skilled to be caught especially by what constituted the Autobot Enforcers. It was a good thing.
After all, Prowl needed them both out of jail and free to search for the serial murderer. He didn’t want to see any more dead Wreckers.
No matter what it took.
****
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.
Bluestreak did not like the underlevels. They were dark and cramped and smelled of ancient, dead things. It was a honeycomb maze of dead ends, rusted walkways, and collapsed tunnels. There was too much interference from various electrical devices left to whirr and click and run with no one to care about their maintenance for his sensory panels to guide him.
He was left with the sloppily drawn map, courtesy of Jazz, with all its spec ops shorthand directions, and the hope that he’d find Jazz and Ricochet’s lair before he got lost. After all, there was no comming for help down here. They were far too deep for a signal to make it out.
He stepped in something tacky and slick and had to catch himself before he fell. He ducked under a nest of frayed wires, hanging down from the ceiling like grasping hands. He skirted over a very narrow ledge which hung over a dark and endless abyss.
He started to wonder if Jazz had given him the complicated directions on purpose.
But the directions held true, and soon enough, he hopped over a narrow pitfall and shuffled down a slightly wider corridor. He found the door hidden behind a very convincing pile of rubble and debris. Honestly, he wouldn’t have found it if he hadn’t known to look for it.
He rapped on the door and when he didn’t get a response, plugged in the complicated code to the electronic door panel which looked as if it might explode at a moment’s notice. Knowing Jazz, it probably would. Extra protection and all that.
The door creaked open, and Bluestreak took that to mean he’d put in the code correctly, since he didn’t explode in a fiery death. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and heard the lock snick back into place. There wasn’t much to the place, a cramped main room and two adjacent doors, one wide open and revealing a washrack, the other ajar, through which recognizable sounds floated free.
Bluestreak was no saint. His insides twisted with heat. He crept closer, hovered near the open doorway, and listened. Gasps and moans, the slick noise of arrays meeting, through the crack he could see flashes of biolights and armor.
Jazz and Ricochet were fragging. He could hear Jazz begging and Ricochet murmuring commands and praise in equal measure. Jazz’s engine reached a delicious pitch, and Bluestreak shivered, processor supplying an image of what Jazz’s face must have looked like, wracked with pleasure.
Bluestreak only let himself listen for a few minutes more, ruminating on possibilities and potentials, before he pulled away, back to the rickety couch. He gave it a consideration and detoured to the chair-less table. He pulled out his datapads and set them on the table, arranging the new data he’d composed in a way that made the most sense.
He distracted himself with the details, the calculations, the tidbits of information he gathered up in his processor, rolled around, played mix and match.
The door eventually creaked open fully, and Bluestreak turned to look as Ricochet and Jazz both emerged, somewhat tidied, though lubricant still glistened across Ricochet's groin.
"We have a visitor," Ricochet drawled as he reached behind Jazz and gave his aft a squeeze. "I think it's for you, bro."
Jazz swung an elbow into his side. "Go get washed up."
Ricochet's grin wavered between mocking and insincere. "If you say so. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He tipped his head at Bluestreak. "Good seein' ya, kid."
"I'm older than I look," Bluestreak pointed out.
"Yeah. I know."
Ricochet vanished into the washrack and no sooner had the spray started did Bluestreak pick up the faint sound of out-of-tune singing. Not a care in the world, that one. How did he live like that?
"Glad you finally used that code I sent ya," Jazz said, drawing Bluestreak's attention back. He reached into a freestanding closet and pulled out three folded chairs, setting them around the table. "What news you got?"
"Prowl's furious. I had to lie to him, Jazz."
Jazz rolled his shoulders. "He should be used to getting lied to by now. If it makes ya feel better, blame it all on me."
"I don't have to. He'll forgive me." Bluestreak took one of the chairs, though he sat gingerly, just in case it decided not to hold his weight. "I have information on the case for you." He gestured to the datapads. "Check it out."
"Baby Blue, you are amazin'." Jazz hopped into one of the chairs, scooting it closer to the table. "What ya got for me?"
Bluestreak's face heated. He coughed a ventilation. "Hopefully, something that will help. I figured out that he's going after Wreckers who are happy."
"What?"
"Think about it." Bluestreak pulled up the datapads and showed Jazz the conjunx announcement for Drift and Ratchet's engagement. He tapped pointedly at the date. "The killings started immediately after this, didn't they?"
"Could be a coincidence."
"I don't think so. Something had to set him off." Bluestreak switched to another datapad, the one listing all of those murdered and the one survivor. "Every one of these, with the exception of Springer, has been happy in some way or another. Visibly happy. I'm talking the kind of happy that people notice. I'll bet you my wages for the month that's why Whirl and Roadbuster haven't been attacked yet and won't ever be."
Jazz frowned, but peered at the datapad, realization unfurling in his field. "Because Roadbuster's been under psychiatric care after his breakdown, and Whirl's been in and out of jail for disturbing the peace."
"Right."
Jazz rapped his fingers on another datapad, reviewing the contents again. "So we've established how he's pickin' them. Now we need ta know why. What's the motive?"
"It's not a Decepticon," Bluestreak murmured.
"Yeah, I figured. We've all been thinkin' that. Prowl's the only one who's been hopin' otherwise." Jazz sighed and sank down into the chair, laying his datapad down in front of him. He braced his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together. "Someone the Wreckers betrayed. Someone they failed. Someone they hurt."
The door to the washrack slid open in a plume of steam, releasing a freshly washed Ricochet to the room at large. "Springer's a clue," he said as he wiped the towel over his arm, wicking away the last bits of solvent. "He's the one who doesn't fit the pattern."
"Because he survived?" Bluestreak asked. He didn't bother to ask how Ricochet knew what they were discussing. He'd been around Sunstreaker and Sideswipe long enough.
"Because he wasn't happy." Ricochet strutted toward the table and came up behind Jazz, leaning against his back and resting his chin on the top of Jazz's head. He gave Bluestreak a look that was almost challenging. "I seem to remember some pretty nasty rumors a few months back."
Bluestreak held Ricochet's gaze and curved his lips in a smile. "I didn't hear them."
"That's cause you don't always have the right audials, Blue." Jazz's field flooded with warmth as he leaned back into Ricochet's embrace. "This was political mess and Prowl subterfuge tryin' to bury it. Surprised you even heard it, bro."
"I have my ways." Ricochet chuckled and slid a hand down Jazz's shoulder, over his bumper, fingers cupping a headlight. "Rumor has it the reason he stepped down from the Wreckers, disbandment or not, is because he's secretly part-Decepticon."
Bluestreak pulled out a chair and sat. "That's ridiculous."
"Only because it's true." Jazz pressed his fingertips to his lips. "The public doesn't know that tidbit. And it ain't my place to spread Springer's business, but yeah. You're right, bro. He wasn't happy."
"So why break the pattern?" Ricochet turned his head, gave a lick to Jazz's sensory horn before he pinned it between his denta. "What makes Springer different?"
Bluestreak grabbed the Wrecker roster again, scanning through it.
"Ric, stop," Jazz murmured, swinging an elbow back at his brother even as he shivered, his field pulsing with want. "I'm tryin' to concentrate."
"He was the commander of the unit at the time," Bluestreak realized aloud, his fingers drawing connecting patterns between names. "Which doesn't help much because he's been commander of the Wreckers for a large portion of their tenure."
"Narrows down the field though, doesn't it?" Ricochet gave his brother's horn another bite before he backed up, one hand lingering possessively on a headlight. "Missions Springer led which contained all or at least some of the ones killed."
Bluestreak was already nodding and inputting an algorithm to narrow it down. He didn't bother to ask why the perpetrator would kill those he wasn't personally angry with. Hatred and loathing was rarely logical, and if he truly was former spec ops like they thought, he would know the value of misdirection and muddying the patterns.
"If he was smart, he'd have gone after Impactor and Ultra Magnus, too, just to obscure his motives," Ricochet said as he rubbed his fingers over Jazz's headlight, and Jazz’s armor shuddered in obvious arousal. "But Ultra Magnus is almost impossible to get to and Impactor hasn't been seen in decades."
"But why pin it on you?" Bluestreak asked as the algorithm started to run. It would take a minute at most, thanks to Prowl’s careful data collation, but it gave him time to talk.
Ricochet shrugged and finally left Jazz be after another elbow jab to the midsection. "Easy, convenient target. I'm a former 'Con. I got the skills to match. It would distract Jazz. Pretty brilliant if ya ask me." He dragged over another chair and slouched into the rickety, rusted seat.
Well, he wasn't wrong.
"How're you so good at this anyway, Blue?" Jazz asked as he idly toyed with a datapad, his tone suggesting nonchalance but his frame language betraying otherwise. "Your file doesn't say you used to be investigative."
"It wouldn't." Bluestreak pressed his lips together, age-old feelings of being inadequate and worthless bubbling up inside his spark. "My application was denied five times in a row which meant--"
"You'd exceeded the number of tries," Ricochet finished for him.
Bluestreak nodded slowly. "I don't process fast enough." He folded his arms under his bumper, sat back in his chair. "I like puzzles. Always have. Wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my functioning solving them. But I wasn't quick enough. Couldn't pass the exams within the allotted time."
"But you passed," Ricochet said.
"Every time. Just not quick enough." Bluestreak cycled a ventilation. "Prowl knew. He had me help out on cases sometimes, feeding me data and letting me mull it over. I don't process... laterally. I process in circles. It's why I talk so much. It takes forever to get to a point."
His datapad beeped as the algorithm finished, and Bluestreak picked it up, skimming through the results. "None of them served at all the same time. They've served in batches, but there are still at least over a hundred missions to sift through."
"It's a start," Jazz said, and leaned across the table. "Can I see?"
Bluestreak handed it over. He snagged a different datapad, the one detailing the various murders and their modus operandi. There had to be something here, some clue about the perpetrator, that could help narrow it down.
He never killed exactly the same way twice. Why? Was it planned? Was it opportunity? Was it because he wanted to muddy the data? Was it because he could?
"Blurr's on the list," Jazz pointed out as he poked his brother in the side. "Looks like he's still a target."
Ricochet chuffed. "Why should I care?"
"No reason." Jazz smirked.
Bluestreak couldn't group the killings by type, but perhaps by severity? Or at least, by general methods. Explosive devices, blaster, or vibroknife. Some were more clinical, like executions, others were messy and violent, as if the perpetrator had wanted to make it last, to take his time. He'd used inhibitor clamps on a couple of the Wreckers to keep them from fighting back -- like Springer.
The brutal ones. They were a clue, too. They were far more personal.
Bluestreak brought those names up. There were only two. He transmitted those specifications to Jazz's datapad to narrow down the results further, to include only those mission reports with Springer and those two mechs at the very least.
Jazz's datapad chimed as it received the data. "What's this?"
"A hunch." Bluestreak continued to skim his own datapad. "Let me know what those filters bring up for you."
"Ten missions," Jazz answered in a flash. He sat up a little straighter, and a genuine smile curled his lips. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"Let me see."
Jazz handed the datapad over to Ricochet, whose visor narrowed and his frown grew darker. "Blurr's designation is on all these mission reports. So's Whirl's."
"Anyone else alive we can talk to?" Bluestreak asked. "Or I guess just me since the both of you are wanted fugitives."
"Here." Ricochet tapped Jazz in the shoulder and smirked. "Got it down to three. Ya'll forgot to filter it by missions involving Autobot casualties."
Jazz flickered his visor. "That's assuming our Autobot perpetrator didn't have family, friend, or lover in the Decepticons."
"Not everyone is as liberal as us, spark of my spark." Ricochet dragged a finger down the side of Jazz's intake, making him visibly shiver. "But if it means that much to ya, add 'em back in if these three missions don't pan out."
"Fair enough." Bluestreak watched the path of Ricochet's finger, and the way Jazz's visor dimmed to a heated hue, the way his field flickered and opened up to his brother's caresses.
Bluestreak wanted to claim him so badly it hurt.
Ricochet caught him looking and leaned in closer to Jazz, slinging an arm over his brother's shoulder and cupping the same headlight from before. "You could always join us," he said with a long, lingering look up and down at Bluestreak. "I've been wondering what those wings of yours taste like."
"As much as I appreciate the offer, you and I would only clash." Bluestreak lifted his chin and his orbital ridges. "I don't think you take orders that well, and I'm only in the habit of giving them."
Ricochet barked a laugh. "Well, you're not wrong there." He gave a pointed flick to Jazz's headlight. "You can play with Jazz if ya want. He obeys orders really well."
Jazz spat something at Ricochet in a language Bluestreak didn't know, and he swatted his brother's hand away. He glared and said something else, causing Ricochet's optical visor to narrow and his mouth to form a thin line. He leaned out of Jazz's personal space and said something in a low, careful voice.
Jazz's engine growled. He bared his denta, and Ricochet snatched at him, gripping his chin and forcing Jazz's attention on him. He spoke again in that odd language, his tone a warning or chastisement.
Jazz flinched.
Bluestreak tensed. He wondered if he should intervene.
Jazz's head drifted down, just a little, in Ricochet's grip. It seemed like submission, and maybe Ricochet took it as one because he smirked broad enough to bare his denta. He swept his thumb over Jazz's bottom lip before he let go and sat back.
Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. "Did I miss something?"
"Just a brotherly spat." Ricochet's grin broadened even more, and he went lazy in his chair. "So what's next?"
“Next we talk to anyone on that list who’s still alive, see what they can tell us about those missions.” Jazz’s arms folded under his bumper, but his tone was casual. Not that Bluestreak believed it for a moment. “Can you get in to see Whirl?”
Bluestreak nodded. “I’m sure Prowl will let me, yeah.”
“Good. Blurr’s supposed to come by later, we’ll ask him then.” Jazz’s visor shifted, him cutting a glance at Ricochet. “We gotta find somethin’. Mechs are still dyin’, and I’m useless while I’m on the run.”
“We’ll figure this out. I promise.” Bluestreak stood, sensing the thickness of tension in the air, his sensory panels starting to twitch.
Ricochet and Jazz needed to have a talk apparently, one without Bluestreak sitting there, obviously the focus of the discussion.
“I’ll come back when I have something concrete.”
“Good.” Ricochet gave him a pointed look, though his hand went back to lingering against the nape of Jazz’s neck. “We need to have a conversation. When this is over, o’ course.” His tone was thick, heavy with meaning.
Jazz shivered.
Bluestreak met his gaze with an equally heavy, meaningful one of his own. “Yeah, we do.”
Business first.
Personal later.
“It’s pretty obvious Jazz is behind the escape, though we’ve yet to determine who was helping him, how he broke into holding, and how he walked out with Ricochet without anyone noticing or attempting to stop him,” Springarm recited.
Prowl was only marginally listening. “Jazz is too familiar with our methods, our mechs, and our facilities. His success was inevitable.”
Springarm’s armor creaked as he shifted his weight. “With all due respect, sir, you sound like you expected this to happen.”
“It was one of the outcomes I hypothesized, yes. I have learned not to underestimate Jazz’s boldness.” Prowl shifted his attention as one of his datapads beeped, indicating a new transfer of information. Ah, the datapad he’d given Bluestreak was being accessed and updated.
Interesting.
He put down the monthly budget estimates for the security department and picked up the datapad instead -- the one linked to Bluestreak’s. They were exact duplicates, and whatever Bluestreak did on his, transferred to Prowl’s as soon as it pinged on an open transmission line.
“If you suspected it, why not assign more guards to Ricochet? You had him in minimum security holding. He probably would have broken out himself if Jazz hadn’t done it first,” Springer asked, and a note of irritation thickened his tone.
Oh, what’s this? An actual suspect list? Well, weren’t they busy little investigators.
“There are only a few powerful motivators in the universe, Springarm. Love is one of them, and it makes us reckless.” Prowl glanced up at the Enforcer captain, whose field flicked around him in aggravated waves. “You have a partner, yes?”
Springarm coughed, and his field flushed with embarrassment. Springarm was a good Enforcer, but he would have made a terrible agent. He couldn’t hide his emotions if his spark depended on it.
“Yes, sir. For three years now.”
Prowl dropped his attention back to his datapad. “And you know what you’d do for him, don’t you?”
“I-I don’t think--”
“It’s alright. I’m not asking you to commit treason, and I’m not asking to test your loyalty, I’m simply making a point.”
His words didn’t soothe. Springarm’s armor fluttered, and his field settled around him in uneasy waves now.
Prowl skimmed the data Bluestreak’s pad provided him, a smile threatening to curve his lips. This was what he’d call progress. From hundreds of possibilities, to a means to make a suspect list. Amazing what a little motivation could do.
“I apologize for what appears to be a charade, captain, but I assure you it was necessary.” Prowl made a notation and sent a quick message to the commander of Whirl’s jail sector, allowing Bluestreak whatever access he desired. “In the end, it will save lives.”
“But not reputations.”
Prowl cycled his optics and looked up. Springarm wouldn’t meet his gaze, and almost seemed embarrassed for his outburst.
Ah. So that was the core of the issue, was it?
“Your mechs will receive no reprimands or punishments for this,” Prowl said as he dropped his attention back to the datapad. With any luck, no more lives would be lost. “They performed admirably and as expected. Once it is all settled, I will instruct Jazz to help you find the holes in your security.”
Silence.
Quiet until the resentment seethed in an undercurrent of Springarm’s field.
“I presume you don’t want me to finish the investigation into Ricochet’s escape then?”
“It won’t be necessary,” Prowl confirmed. He saved the new data and set it aside, returning to his original work. It was enough to know progress was being made. “Thank you, Springarm. That will be all.”
The captain saluted and let himself out of Prowl’s office, taking his overly expressive field with him. Prowl ex-vented with relief. He only had so much tolerance for wild fields.
He probably should have warned Springarm to turn a blind optic to Ricochet or Jazz if they happened to appear in public, but it wasn’t necessary. Both of them were too skilled to be caught especially by what constituted the Autobot Enforcers. It was a good thing.
After all, Prowl needed them both out of jail and free to search for the serial murderer. He didn’t want to see any more dead Wreckers.
No matter what it took.
