[IDW] A Perfect Storm 11/16
Jun. 17th, 2019 06:20 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 Eleven
Prowl missed the war.
Not often and not always, but there were times, when staring at his stacks of datawork and contemplating the confusing tangles of political affiliations, he missed the simplicity of the war. Autobots versus Decepticons. Clearly defined enemies. Easy to understand parameters. Fewer gray areas.
Lesser likelihood of being questioned by mechs who had no idea what his job really entailed or even how to do it, but thought they knew better nonetheless.
Prowl sighed and scrubbed his forehead. He was tired. He hadn't recharged properly in days. There was an ache behind his left optic, and that ache was named Jazz. Why couldn't that idiot ever let anything be simple?
His door burst open. Prowl prepared a scowl, expecting it to be Jazz -- though that unworthy hadn't been seen since he broke his brother out of the holding cell. Prowl was sure Jazz was around, and he didn’t want to be seen, so he wouldn’t be.
"I have proof," Bluestreak said, looking rather harried, his optics bright, his sensory panels twitching arrhythmically. He waved a datapad at Prowl. "Or at least enough data for you to finally realize what we've all been trying to tell you all along."
That ache behind Prowl's left optic turned into a sharp stab. "Come on in," he said and gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Oh, wait. You already did." He sighed. "Where's Jazz?"
"I have no idea," Bluestreak said without hesitation. He was an even better liar than Jazz sometimes. If Prowl didn't know him so well, he'd have believed Bluestreak in an instant.
He dropped down into the chair, but not before planting the datapad in the middle of Prowl's desk, right on top of his current work.
"I did my job," Bluestreak said.
Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sensing some aggression on your part. What did I do to offend?"
"You arrested Ricochet to provoke Jazz."
Prowl lifted the datapad and powered it on, skimming the contents. Or pretending to do so at any rate. He already knew all the data on it. "I had evidence suggesting Ricochet was involved in the murders."
"Don't give me that pitslag." Bluestreak snorted and rolled his optics. "Any halfwit could see that was a set-up."
"Not according to the general public." Prowl nodded approvingly at the data, purely for Bluestreak’s benefit.
It felt good to be right. Jazz would forgive him eventually. Bluestreak would as well. After all, they'd gotten results, hadn't they?
"Two of your suspects are dead," Prowl pointed out, conclusions he’d drawn when he’d first reviewed the data, but had been unable to comment on.
"Since when does anyone stay dead anymore?"
"Fair point."
Prowl handed the datapad back to Bluestreak. “I’ll make a call so you can speak with Whirl,” he said, though he’d done so already. “When you have a legitimate designation, I'll recall the hunt for Ricochet and Jazz." He read the frustration and anger in Bluestreak’s face, and ignored the sharp pang of guilt it produced. "And tell Blurr he's lucky I'm not seriously tracking him, because his attempts at stealth are pathetic."
"Why do you bother asking me where Jazz is if you already know?" Bluestreak grumbled as he took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it in his subspace. "One of these days someone's going to catch you in your games."
"They are hardly games." Prowl returned his attention to his complicated paperwork, half-wishing it were a troop-movement report rather than a summary of petty crimes and misdemeanors in the past week in Autobot City. “Perhaps one day you’ll be in my position and you’ll understand better.”
Bluestreak snorted. “Not likely.” He stood, and Prowl expected him to turn and leave, but he paused, and his hesitation was enough for Prowl to glance up at him.
“What?” Prowl asked.
“Maybe if you didn’t work so hard on getting people to hate you, you’d actually want to leave your office,” Bluestreak said, in that cuttingly blunt manner Prowl simultaneously admired and loathed.
Prowl clenched his jaw, felt a cable in it jump. His spark spun into a tight ball of old, familiar hurts. “It’s not worth it,” he said, and stared at his datapad. “Go. Find me a suspect.”
Bluestreak sighed. “Sir, yes, sir.”
He left.
Glyphs swirled in front of Prowl. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shuttering his optics. He cycled a ventilation -- one, two three -- and then he picked up his stylus and got back to work.
~
Bluestreak was two steps out of Prowl’s office when his comms pinged, and he raised his orbital ridges at the ident code on the sender.
“I figured you’d still be aberth at this time,” Bluestreak said as he turned a corner and made a beeline for the jailhouse. “Obviously not alone.”
“I can’t decide if that’s judgment in your tone or not,” Blurr replied, and his vocals sounded raspy, either from lack of sleep or a night spent in Ricochet’s tender care. Maybe both. “Ricochet said you have a lead.”
“I might. I have to talk to Whirl first. And you.” Bluestreak checked the traffic flow before he darted across the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a cherry-red minibot.
“I’ll meet you. Where?”
“What about New Maccadam’s?”
“I called Mirage.”
Wow. Bluestreak was impressed. And a little curious what Blurr used to convince Mirage to open the bar for the day.
Bluestreak posted in front of the jailhouse, taking a casual pose near a street vendor. “Come to the jailhouse. We can talk to Whirl together.” It might be better that way. Blurr served with Whirl more than Bluestreak had.
“I’m already halfway there.”
Bluestreak didn’t have to wait long. This was Blurr after all, and while there were technically laws and speed limits, there wasn’t a single Enforcer who could catch Blurr if he put his processor to it. There were rumors of races starting up again, because entertainment was sorely lacking on Cybertron, and Bluestreak knew his boss would be first in line to sign up.
The loitering got to Bluestreak, and he found himself buying an oil cake off the street vendor before Blurr jogged up to meet him. Sticky bits of cake clung to Bluestreak’s lips, and he knew he looked like a sparkling caught in the treat jar as Blurr skidded to a halt in front of him.
“It didn’t take me that long,” he said, a bit affronted.
Bluestreak stared.
Blurr was, for lack of a better word, marked. There were bites on his intake, on his neck, on his shoulder. Paint streaked across his hips and sides -- colors that were a perfect match for Ricochet. Wow, someone had been desperate to mark their territory.
“I felt guilty for loitering.” Bluestreak shoved the rest of the oilcake into his mouth. “Everything okay?” he asked around the mouthful.
Blurr gave him a weird look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason.” Bluestreak dusted his hands and started toward the jailhouse, his boss in tow. “Did they show you the list and the files?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Blurr shook his head. “I’m not any help. I obeyed orders, and that’s the extent of it.”
Frag. Well, maybe Whirl would be able to shake some screws loose and shed some light on the situation. Because right now, it looked like all their hard work led toward nothing but another dead end.
Inside the jailhouse, most mechs would have expected noisy chaos. Frequent misdemeanors and domestic disturbances and overcharged mecha tended to make for a chaotic atmosphere. But then, most jailhouses weren’t overseen by Kup. Mech like that commanded respect across factional lines.
Autobot City Jailhouse was the most orderly containment system Bluestreak had ever had the pleasure of visiting.
He gave his designation to the front clerk and no other questions were asked -- Prowl had definitely made the call. From there, Bluestreak and Blurr were whisked to an interview room and planted in chairs, awaiting Whirl’s arrival.
“One of these days I’m goin’ ta stop jumpin’ to obey when Prowl snaps his fingers ya know,” Kup grunted as he brought Whirl in, the latter not at all cuffed.
Whirl, every time he ended up in a cell, was a model prisoner. Sometimes, Bluestreak thought Whirl preferred the four walls and the stability of it. For some mechs, peace-time was harder than war. Bluestreak could understand that.
“Awww, Kup. But this favor is for me,” Bluestreak said with a grin, giving Kup that big-opticked stare he knew let him get away with almost anything.
Kup dropped Whirl into the chair, keeping his hand briefly on the heli’s shoulder. “And that’s the only reason I didn’t argue ‘bout it.” He gave a squeeze to Whirl’s shoulder. “Behave, kid. Maybe I can get ya an early release.”
“Don’t bother,” Whirl said. “I’m better off in here.”
“Yeah, I know.” Kup swiveled his cygar from one side of his mouth to the other. He tossed Bluestreak a look. “Give me a ping when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.” Bluestreak tossed off a playful salute.
Kup left, and Whirl slouched in his chair, spreading his clawed hands across the table. “So. Ya got a special meetin’ with me. How can I help ya?”
“Hey, Whirl.” Blurr flicked his hand in greeting. “I”m not going to ask how you’re doing because it’s pretty obvious.”
“Yeah. I’m not doing as well as you.” Whirl laughed, and it was self-deprecating. His rotors twitched. “Could be doing worse though, so I guess I can’t complain.”
Bluestreak pulled out his datapad and flicked it to the proper file. He set it on the table and spun it around to face Whirl. “You get much news in here? Current events?”
“I’m in jail, not under a rock.” Whirl scoffed, and he cocked his head to the side. He leaned forward, peering at the screen. “This about the Wrecker murders? ‘Cause it wasn’t me.”
Bluestreak snorted. “Obviously.” He tapped the datapad. “I’m on the case. With Jazz.”
“Really? Good for you!” Whirl tipped his head back and chortled. “Was wondering if that little spark would ever ignite.” His laugh echoed around the room before he focused on the datapad again. “Shame about his brother though. Nasty business. Prowl’s losing his touch.”
One claw tapped on the datapad. “This a suspect list then?”
“Sort of,” Blurr said. He leaned against the table, arms folded on the edge. “You remember these missions?”
“Some. Hard to remember things these days, but some things, you don’t forget.” Whirl’s single optic flashed at Blurr in a sort of Wreckers solidarity, Bluestreak assumed. “Forgot we were on the same side for a while there, Zippy. Them were the fun times.”
“You know I hate that nickname.”
Whirl laughed, and he tilted his head again. His ocular focus narrowed. He tapped the datapad pointedly. “Well, Prowl’s really off his game. This is wrong.”
Bluestreak straightened. “What’s wrong?” He peered at the datapad and the Autobot profile currently on screen.
“He ain’t dead.” Whirl sat back and rolled his shoulders. “I’ve seen him around, here and there. Forgot I was supposed to know him, you know. But looking now? Yeah. He’s a bit different, but not different enough.”
Bluestreak grabbed the datapad and spun it back toward him, Blurr leaning in to peer over his shoulder at the profile. Autobot by the name of Whipstrike, he’d been in special operations back then. Part of an infiltration team the Wreckers had been sent to recover. Reportedly, the whole team, save for its leader, had died in the explosion of the Decepticon base.
The report details were vague, as they often were when plans went FUBAR or high command was trying to hide something. Bluestreak figured the infiltration team wasn’t meant to survive. Sometimes, the only way to clean up a mess was to nuke it all from orbit.
“I was on this mission,” Blurr said. He frowned, forehead crinkling. “We were supposed to rescue the team. They had valuable intel about a Decepticon fortress.”
“What happened?” Bluestreak asked.
Blurr blinked and sat back in his chair. “Nothing happened. We got the lieutenant out; he had the intel.”
“What about the rest of the team?”
Blurr squirmed and stared at the table. Whirl scraped a claw across the surface, making a shrill, painful sound.
“The same thing that happens to any Autobot not important enough,” Whirl said with a scoff, his field pulsing sharp and annoyed through the room. “Sacrificed for a worthy cause. Couldn’t get ‘em all out, so we focused on the important one.”
Bluestreak raised his orbital ridges. “And left the rest to die?”
“Orders are orders,” Whirl said, spreading his clawed hands. “We destroyed the base. That was rescue enough. We got the intel, and made a major strike against the ‘Cons. Better to be dead, then stuck in a ‘Con cell, if you ask me.”
Bluestreak frowned and rapped his fingers on the table. He stared at Whipstrike’s profile. “I doubt anyone on that team would have agreed with you.”
“Well, they all died. Supposedly.” Whirl shrugged. “Guess not. He must’ve survived somehow. Lucky fragger. Changed his name. Changed his looks. But not enough.” He tapped the side of his head. “Thought he looked familiar. Didn’t connect it until now. Lot of dead mechs around here.”
“I’ve seen him before, too,” Blurr said, something in his tone dull and guilty. “Now that I think about it. He’s been in the bar.”
Bluestreak twisted his jaw. “A lot of mechs have been in the bar. How’re you sure he has?”
“I’m not. Maybe I’m just extrapolating because I want someone to blame.” Blurr snorted and snatched the datapad off the table, fingers flicking through the screens. “He’s a regular. Keeps to himself. Usually leaves before it starts getting busy.”
But he was alive. That was the important part. He was alive, and he had reason to carry a grudge. Was it enough? Bluestreak didn’t know. The very least they could do was talk to him. Whipstrike certainly fit the bill. He had the skills. He had the motive.
And Springer led that mission.
“He bought me a drink once,” Whirl said, head tilting back, optic focused on the ceiling. His tone turned contemplative. “Said mechs like us have to stick together. Which was weird ‘cause you know, I had no idea who he was at the time. But whatever. Free booze.”
“What did he mean?” Blurr asked.
Whirl focused on them, and though he didn’t have a face, Bluestreak got the impression of a smirk from him and his field. “Mechs who got screwed over by the war, I’d guess. We all got ghosts.”
Yeah.
Ghosts.
Bluestreak saved his datapad from Blurr and stared hard at the mech on the screen. Dark blue armor, slight frame, no visible kibble, but he wore a visor, probably modded to support his infiltration, like Jazz’s.
Who knew how many mechs were wandering Cybertron, officially listed as killed in action, but alive and well and trying to start over with that knowledge on their shoulders. How many of them had grudges?
It had been a long, long war.
“Can’t blame him honestly,” Whirl said, sounding a little distant, a little bitter. “After a certain point, we were all cannon fodder waiting for our turn to die.” He snorted. “Guess Whipstrike decided it was time to return the favor.”
~
The door opened before Blurr could finish entering the ridiculously complicated code that would allow him access to Ricochet and Jazz’s hideout. He cycled his optics as he straightened, staring straight into Ricochet’s smirk.
“You’re late,” he said.
Blurr crinkled his orbital ridge. “For what?”
Ricochet stepped back, letting him into the safehouse, and Blurr was immediately swallowed by a sensation of emptiness. He wasn’t sure why. It was still furnished as far as he could tell, but there was something about it that felt abandoned.
“For the big move,” Ricochet said with a broad sweep of his arms. “I’m free and clear and I can finally move out of this dump and go back home. The mystery has been solved.”
Blurr cycled his optics and drew up straight. “You found out quick.”
“Jazz is useful for a few things.” Ricochet’s glossa slicked over his lips, and the weight of suggestion was heavy in his words. “Not just in the berth either.”
Blurr folded his arms and swallowed down a huff. “Great. Someone could have told me before I hiked down here to fill you two in.”
Ricochet slung his arm over Blurr’s shoulder and tugged Blurr against his side. “Don’t think bro was thinking rationally. He muttered something about Prowl being an aft, and then he was outta here before I could convince him into a quickie.”
“My spark bleeds for you,” Blurr drawled. He rolled his optics and shrugged out from under Ricochet’s arm. “Then I don’t need to be here at all. I have a bar to run.”
He didn’t make it two steps before Ricochet snagged him and reeled him back in, mouth finding the sensitive curve of Blurr’s neck.
“It’s dangerous to go alone,” he rumbled, and Blurr shivered, heat tiptoeing downward and pooling in his groin. “I’m still yer bodyguard.”
Blurr refused to allow himself to melt into the touch, no matter the arousal surging up and down his backstrut. “Against what? Jazz and an Enforcer contingent are going to arrest Whipstrike as we speak.”
“If he’s even the guilty party.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Dunno. Really want to take that chance?” Ricochet asked, and his hands gripped Blurr’s aft, squeezing and tugging him against Ricochet in a clatter of hot armor.
Blurr swallowed a groan, hooking his fingers into Ricochet’s seams, need surging through his lines, riding the heels of sparked coding. Drift’s words lingered at the back of his mind. He knew he should say something, but what was the point?
It was over. The bad guy had been identified. Blurr didn’t need a bodyguard anymore, if he ever did, and Ricochet would walk away, and Blurr had no intention of making some cheap attempt to keep him around. Ricochet wouldn’t want it, and Blurr didn’t want to force him to choose either.
Better this way.
“Fine,” Blurr said and extricated himself from Ricochet’s arms, despite the pull of want in the pit of his belly. “But only because it’s not worth the hassle.”
Ricochet laughed. One finger flicked a tire, setting it to spinning. “Whatever you say, Zippy.”
Blurr harrumphed and stalked toward the door, expecting Ricochet to follow him. “Grab whatever you need to grab. This place makes me itch.”
“Of course it does, spoiled Racer like you. Needs the finer things in life,” Ricochet drawled, but he snagged a couple of items and stowed them in his subspace. “So let’s get you back to your tower, princess.”
Blurr swallowed down a retort, only because it would add fuel to the flame. And prove Ricochet’s point.
They left the small, cramped, and rusted safehouse, with Ricochet carefully locking and securing it behind him. He even reset the code into something equally complicated as before.
“Never know when we might need to bug out again,” he said while Blurr waited, not patiently, but not impatiently either. “Always good to have a backup plan. That’s the peasant in us.”
Blurr narrowed his optics. It felt like an accusation and a slight. He resisted the temptation to rise to the jab.
They began the long, arduous trek back to the surface. Blurr let Ricochet take the lead, and the focus required meant Ricochet didn’t waste his vents on being snarky or a tease. There were times the words almost escaped Blurr.
I’m sparked. Pretty sure it’s yours.
His glossa stalled before they passed his lips. He couldn’t think of a good reason. Ricochet didn’t need to know. Blurr didn’t need or want his help. Accidents happened. Blurr was a Racer. He’d learned to pick himself up, buff out the dents, and keep running.
The silence of the natural dampening field gave way to the chaotic background noise and bustle of Autobot City and the constant streams of communication. Ricochet winced, armor drawing taut with agitation before he must have dialed down the gain of his comms, because he relaxed.
“Almost forgot what it was like to be in a city again,” he grunted as he reached down to help pull Blurr out of the hatch.
Blurr didn’t need the help.
He let Ricochet pull him out anyway.
“One last guarding shift for the road, right?” Ricochet said with a half-flash of his visor like a wink, and an unfairly attractive smirk. “Got to get your cred’s worth.”
“I’m not even paying you,” Blurr grumbled, but he kept unnecessarily close to Ricochet as they plunged into the busy streets, the sideways choked with mechs as it was mid-afternoon, between shifts, and fellow Cybertronians had Things To Do.
“Not with creds.” Ricochet leered, and a bolt of irritation burned away the arousal burning in his belly.
Blurr pinged Jazz to distract himself. He received a busy signal and huffily closed the connection without leaving a message. He hoped it meant Jazz was engaged with arresting Whipstrike.
“I really don’t need an escort,” Blurr said as they pushed through the crowds, more than a few mechs pausing to give Ricochet a startled look. Considering his face had been splashed all over the newsfeeds for the past week, Blurr couldn’t blame them.
“Come on. You’re not going to let me walk away from a job unfinished, are you?” Ricochet slung his arm over Blurr’s shoulders again, tucking Blurr against his side. “Think of what that would do for my reputation.”
“I think your reputation will survive,” Blurr drawled. “Considering it’s already thoroughly torched thanks to Prowl.”
Ricochet’s engine growled. “Yeah. Thanks for the reminder. He and I are gonna talk.”
“I don’t think that’s going to go well for you.”
“Other way around, Zippy.”
Blurr sighed. He debated arguing about the nickname before letting it slide. For one last time, what did it matter? In fact, what would one last time hurt? Might as well get his fun in before the sparkling came, right?
Right.
Blurr’s apartment building finally came into view. Jazz pinged him right as they stepped into the lift, and Blurr pushed off Ricochet’s wandering hand as he answered the comm.
“Please tell me you arrested the mech so I can dismiss my bodyguard,” Blurr said as the doors slid shut, and Ricochet crowded him against the back wall of the lift, his knee notching between Blurr’s thighs.
He didn’t have it in him to push Ricochet off.
Ricochet laughed in his audial, rough and growling, enough to send a tingle down Blurr’s spinal strut. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere just yet.”
“No, we didn’t,” Jazz said, his words coming through the comm like a splash of cold solvent to the face. “We showed up, and the building blew itself to pieces.”
Blurr twisted away from Ricochet, the response sending a sharp stab of caution through his frame. “Wait. What?”
Ricochet grabbed for him, and Blurr batted his hands away, shooting off a glare. “Stop it. They didn’t get Whipstrike.”
Ricochet abruptly drew back, the light in his visor going harsh and flat. “Explain,” he growled, almost louder than Jazz’s answer.
“The place was rigged to blow. Fragger knew we were coming, or at least expected it. We don’t have a clue where he’s at,” Jazz spat into the comm, his frustration bleeding through. “You gotta be careful, Blurr. You’re on his list.”
The lift dinged, depositing them on the proper floor. Blurr stumbled out, his processor spinning, Ricochet on his heels, sticking close now, but without the erotic flavor it carried before.
"How many died?" Blurr asked, feeling numb, Ricochet's grip on his elbow keeping him upright. "Are you all right?"
"I'm going to kill that fragger," Ricochet snarled, low and dangerous, and the twist of heat in Blurr's belly was completely inappropriate. He pulled Blurr toward his apartment, the last door on the hall.
"I'm fine," Jazz said, but a sigh came gusty and static through the comm. "I didn't go in with the specials team. Look. I've got a mess to clean up here, and Prowl ridin' my aft. We'll catch up later, all right? Tell Rico he's gotta job to do."
"He already knows," Blurr replied. He hated himself for the tremble in his fingers as he put his code into the panel, processor steaming as thoughts crashed one into the other.
The comm ended with a click and a crackle as Blurr's door panel chimed cheerfully.
"Don't worry," Ricochet said. "I'll keep ya safe, Zippy."
Blurr managed a scowl and a half-glare as he palmed his door open. "Who's worried?"
Pain.
Blurr grunted as a bolt of laserfire slammed into his right shoulder, shoving him backward, the crackling energy of it sending him right into Ricochet's chassis. His world spun as Ricochet yanked him from the doorway, spinning him into the cover of the wall just as another shot flew past, where Blurr's spark would have been.
"Frag," Ricochet snarled, and his field pumped hot and furious into the air. "I should've known."
Blurr's head spun. He slumped into Ricochet's grasp, his arm aching and armor blackening where the laserfire had scorched him.
"Well," he said. "We found him."
***
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.
Prowl missed the war.
Not often and not always, but there were times, when staring at his stacks of datawork and contemplating the confusing tangles of political affiliations, he missed the simplicity of the war. Autobots versus Decepticons. Clearly defined enemies. Easy to understand parameters. Fewer gray areas.
Lesser likelihood of being questioned by mechs who had no idea what his job really entailed or even how to do it, but thought they knew better nonetheless.
Prowl sighed and scrubbed his forehead. He was tired. He hadn't recharged properly in days. There was an ache behind his left optic, and that ache was named Jazz. Why couldn't that idiot ever let anything be simple?
His door burst open. Prowl prepared a scowl, expecting it to be Jazz -- though that unworthy hadn't been seen since he broke his brother out of the holding cell. Prowl was sure Jazz was around, and he didn’t want to be seen, so he wouldn’t be.
"I have proof," Bluestreak said, looking rather harried, his optics bright, his sensory panels twitching arrhythmically. He waved a datapad at Prowl. "Or at least enough data for you to finally realize what we've all been trying to tell you all along."
That ache behind Prowl's left optic turned into a sharp stab. "Come on in," he said and gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Oh, wait. You already did." He sighed. "Where's Jazz?"
"I have no idea," Bluestreak said without hesitation. He was an even better liar than Jazz sometimes. If Prowl didn't know him so well, he'd have believed Bluestreak in an instant.
He dropped down into the chair, but not before planting the datapad in the middle of Prowl's desk, right on top of his current work.
"I did my job," Bluestreak said.
Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sensing some aggression on your part. What did I do to offend?"
"You arrested Ricochet to provoke Jazz."
Prowl lifted the datapad and powered it on, skimming the contents. Or pretending to do so at any rate. He already knew all the data on it. "I had evidence suggesting Ricochet was involved in the murders."
"Don't give me that pitslag." Bluestreak snorted and rolled his optics. "Any halfwit could see that was a set-up."
"Not according to the general public." Prowl nodded approvingly at the data, purely for Bluestreak’s benefit.
It felt good to be right. Jazz would forgive him eventually. Bluestreak would as well. After all, they'd gotten results, hadn't they?
"Two of your suspects are dead," Prowl pointed out, conclusions he’d drawn when he’d first reviewed the data, but had been unable to comment on.
"Since when does anyone stay dead anymore?"
"Fair point."
Prowl handed the datapad back to Bluestreak. “I’ll make a call so you can speak with Whirl,” he said, though he’d done so already. “When you have a legitimate designation, I'll recall the hunt for Ricochet and Jazz." He read the frustration and anger in Bluestreak’s face, and ignored the sharp pang of guilt it produced. "And tell Blurr he's lucky I'm not seriously tracking him, because his attempts at stealth are pathetic."
"Why do you bother asking me where Jazz is if you already know?" Bluestreak grumbled as he took the datapad from Prowl and stowed it in his subspace. "One of these days someone's going to catch you in your games."
"They are hardly games." Prowl returned his attention to his complicated paperwork, half-wishing it were a troop-movement report rather than a summary of petty crimes and misdemeanors in the past week in Autobot City. “Perhaps one day you’ll be in my position and you’ll understand better.”
Bluestreak snorted. “Not likely.” He stood, and Prowl expected him to turn and leave, but he paused, and his hesitation was enough for Prowl to glance up at him.
“What?” Prowl asked.
“Maybe if you didn’t work so hard on getting people to hate you, you’d actually want to leave your office,” Bluestreak said, in that cuttingly blunt manner Prowl simultaneously admired and loathed.
Prowl clenched his jaw, felt a cable in it jump. His spark spun into a tight ball of old, familiar hurts. “It’s not worth it,” he said, and stared at his datapad. “Go. Find me a suspect.”
Bluestreak sighed. “Sir, yes, sir.”
He left.
Glyphs swirled in front of Prowl. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shuttering his optics. He cycled a ventilation -- one, two three -- and then he picked up his stylus and got back to work.
Bluestreak was two steps out of Prowl’s office when his comms pinged, and he raised his orbital ridges at the ident code on the sender.
“I figured you’d still be aberth at this time,” Bluestreak said as he turned a corner and made a beeline for the jailhouse. “Obviously not alone.”
“I can’t decide if that’s judgment in your tone or not,” Blurr replied, and his vocals sounded raspy, either from lack of sleep or a night spent in Ricochet’s tender care. Maybe both. “Ricochet said you have a lead.”
“I might. I have to talk to Whirl first. And you.” Bluestreak checked the traffic flow before he darted across the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a cherry-red minibot.
“I’ll meet you. Where?”
“What about New Maccadam’s?”
“I called Mirage.”
Wow. Bluestreak was impressed. And a little curious what Blurr used to convince Mirage to open the bar for the day.
Bluestreak posted in front of the jailhouse, taking a casual pose near a street vendor. “Come to the jailhouse. We can talk to Whirl together.” It might be better that way. Blurr served with Whirl more than Bluestreak had.
“I’m already halfway there.”
Bluestreak didn’t have to wait long. This was Blurr after all, and while there were technically laws and speed limits, there wasn’t a single Enforcer who could catch Blurr if he put his processor to it. There were rumors of races starting up again, because entertainment was sorely lacking on Cybertron, and Bluestreak knew his boss would be first in line to sign up.
The loitering got to Bluestreak, and he found himself buying an oil cake off the street vendor before Blurr jogged up to meet him. Sticky bits of cake clung to Bluestreak’s lips, and he knew he looked like a sparkling caught in the treat jar as Blurr skidded to a halt in front of him.
“It didn’t take me that long,” he said, a bit affronted.
Bluestreak stared.
Blurr was, for lack of a better word, marked. There were bites on his intake, on his neck, on his shoulder. Paint streaked across his hips and sides -- colors that were a perfect match for Ricochet. Wow, someone had been desperate to mark their territory.
“I felt guilty for loitering.” Bluestreak shoved the rest of the oilcake into his mouth. “Everything okay?” he asked around the mouthful.
Blurr gave him a weird look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason.” Bluestreak dusted his hands and started toward the jailhouse, his boss in tow. “Did they show you the list and the files?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Blurr shook his head. “I’m not any help. I obeyed orders, and that’s the extent of it.”
Frag. Well, maybe Whirl would be able to shake some screws loose and shed some light on the situation. Because right now, it looked like all their hard work led toward nothing but another dead end.
Inside the jailhouse, most mechs would have expected noisy chaos. Frequent misdemeanors and domestic disturbances and overcharged mecha tended to make for a chaotic atmosphere. But then, most jailhouses weren’t overseen by Kup. Mech like that commanded respect across factional lines.
Autobot City Jailhouse was the most orderly containment system Bluestreak had ever had the pleasure of visiting.
He gave his designation to the front clerk and no other questions were asked -- Prowl had definitely made the call. From there, Bluestreak and Blurr were whisked to an interview room and planted in chairs, awaiting Whirl’s arrival.
“One of these days I’m goin’ ta stop jumpin’ to obey when Prowl snaps his fingers ya know,” Kup grunted as he brought Whirl in, the latter not at all cuffed.
Whirl, every time he ended up in a cell, was a model prisoner. Sometimes, Bluestreak thought Whirl preferred the four walls and the stability of it. For some mechs, peace-time was harder than war. Bluestreak could understand that.
“Awww, Kup. But this favor is for me,” Bluestreak said with a grin, giving Kup that big-opticked stare he knew let him get away with almost anything.
Kup dropped Whirl into the chair, keeping his hand briefly on the heli’s shoulder. “And that’s the only reason I didn’t argue ‘bout it.” He gave a squeeze to Whirl’s shoulder. “Behave, kid. Maybe I can get ya an early release.”
“Don’t bother,” Whirl said. “I’m better off in here.”
“Yeah, I know.” Kup swiveled his cygar from one side of his mouth to the other. He tossed Bluestreak a look. “Give me a ping when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.” Bluestreak tossed off a playful salute.
Kup left, and Whirl slouched in his chair, spreading his clawed hands across the table. “So. Ya got a special meetin’ with me. How can I help ya?”
“Hey, Whirl.” Blurr flicked his hand in greeting. “I”m not going to ask how you’re doing because it’s pretty obvious.”
“Yeah. I’m not doing as well as you.” Whirl laughed, and it was self-deprecating. His rotors twitched. “Could be doing worse though, so I guess I can’t complain.”
Bluestreak pulled out his datapad and flicked it to the proper file. He set it on the table and spun it around to face Whirl. “You get much news in here? Current events?”
“I’m in jail, not under a rock.” Whirl scoffed, and he cocked his head to the side. He leaned forward, peering at the screen. “This about the Wrecker murders? ‘Cause it wasn’t me.”
Bluestreak snorted. “Obviously.” He tapped the datapad. “I’m on the case. With Jazz.”
“Really? Good for you!” Whirl tipped his head back and chortled. “Was wondering if that little spark would ever ignite.” His laugh echoed around the room before he focused on the datapad again. “Shame about his brother though. Nasty business. Prowl’s losing his touch.”
One claw tapped on the datapad. “This a suspect list then?”
“Sort of,” Blurr said. He leaned against the table, arms folded on the edge. “You remember these missions?”
“Some. Hard to remember things these days, but some things, you don’t forget.” Whirl’s single optic flashed at Blurr in a sort of Wreckers solidarity, Bluestreak assumed. “Forgot we were on the same side for a while there, Zippy. Them were the fun times.”
“You know I hate that nickname.”
Whirl laughed, and he tilted his head again. His ocular focus narrowed. He tapped the datapad pointedly. “Well, Prowl’s really off his game. This is wrong.”
Bluestreak straightened. “What’s wrong?” He peered at the datapad and the Autobot profile currently on screen.
“He ain’t dead.” Whirl sat back and rolled his shoulders. “I’ve seen him around, here and there. Forgot I was supposed to know him, you know. But looking now? Yeah. He’s a bit different, but not different enough.”
Bluestreak grabbed the datapad and spun it back toward him, Blurr leaning in to peer over his shoulder at the profile. Autobot by the name of Whipstrike, he’d been in special operations back then. Part of an infiltration team the Wreckers had been sent to recover. Reportedly, the whole team, save for its leader, had died in the explosion of the Decepticon base.
The report details were vague, as they often were when plans went FUBAR or high command was trying to hide something. Bluestreak figured the infiltration team wasn’t meant to survive. Sometimes, the only way to clean up a mess was to nuke it all from orbit.
“I was on this mission,” Blurr said. He frowned, forehead crinkling. “We were supposed to rescue the team. They had valuable intel about a Decepticon fortress.”
“What happened?” Bluestreak asked.
Blurr blinked and sat back in his chair. “Nothing happened. We got the lieutenant out; he had the intel.”
“What about the rest of the team?”
Blurr squirmed and stared at the table. Whirl scraped a claw across the surface, making a shrill, painful sound.
“The same thing that happens to any Autobot not important enough,” Whirl said with a scoff, his field pulsing sharp and annoyed through the room. “Sacrificed for a worthy cause. Couldn’t get ‘em all out, so we focused on the important one.”
Bluestreak raised his orbital ridges. “And left the rest to die?”
“Orders are orders,” Whirl said, spreading his clawed hands. “We destroyed the base. That was rescue enough. We got the intel, and made a major strike against the ‘Cons. Better to be dead, then stuck in a ‘Con cell, if you ask me.”
Bluestreak frowned and rapped his fingers on the table. He stared at Whipstrike’s profile. “I doubt anyone on that team would have agreed with you.”
“Well, they all died. Supposedly.” Whirl shrugged. “Guess not. He must’ve survived somehow. Lucky fragger. Changed his name. Changed his looks. But not enough.” He tapped the side of his head. “Thought he looked familiar. Didn’t connect it until now. Lot of dead mechs around here.”
“I’ve seen him before, too,” Blurr said, something in his tone dull and guilty. “Now that I think about it. He’s been in the bar.”
Bluestreak twisted his jaw. “A lot of mechs have been in the bar. How’re you sure he has?”
“I’m not. Maybe I’m just extrapolating because I want someone to blame.” Blurr snorted and snatched the datapad off the table, fingers flicking through the screens. “He’s a regular. Keeps to himself. Usually leaves before it starts getting busy.”
But he was alive. That was the important part. He was alive, and he had reason to carry a grudge. Was it enough? Bluestreak didn’t know. The very least they could do was talk to him. Whipstrike certainly fit the bill. He had the skills. He had the motive.
And Springer led that mission.
“He bought me a drink once,” Whirl said, head tilting back, optic focused on the ceiling. His tone turned contemplative. “Said mechs like us have to stick together. Which was weird ‘cause you know, I had no idea who he was at the time. But whatever. Free booze.”
“What did he mean?” Blurr asked.
Whirl focused on them, and though he didn’t have a face, Bluestreak got the impression of a smirk from him and his field. “Mechs who got screwed over by the war, I’d guess. We all got ghosts.”
Yeah.
Ghosts.
Bluestreak saved his datapad from Blurr and stared hard at the mech on the screen. Dark blue armor, slight frame, no visible kibble, but he wore a visor, probably modded to support his infiltration, like Jazz’s.
Who knew how many mechs were wandering Cybertron, officially listed as killed in action, but alive and well and trying to start over with that knowledge on their shoulders. How many of them had grudges?
It had been a long, long war.
“Can’t blame him honestly,” Whirl said, sounding a little distant, a little bitter. “After a certain point, we were all cannon fodder waiting for our turn to die.” He snorted. “Guess Whipstrike decided it was time to return the favor.”
The door opened before Blurr could finish entering the ridiculously complicated code that would allow him access to Ricochet and Jazz’s hideout. He cycled his optics as he straightened, staring straight into Ricochet’s smirk.
“You’re late,” he said.
Blurr crinkled his orbital ridge. “For what?”
Ricochet stepped back, letting him into the safehouse, and Blurr was immediately swallowed by a sensation of emptiness. He wasn’t sure why. It was still furnished as far as he could tell, but there was something about it that felt abandoned.
“For the big move,” Ricochet said with a broad sweep of his arms. “I’m free and clear and I can finally move out of this dump and go back home. The mystery has been solved.”
Blurr cycled his optics and drew up straight. “You found out quick.”
“Jazz is useful for a few things.” Ricochet’s glossa slicked over his lips, and the weight of suggestion was heavy in his words. “Not just in the berth either.”
Blurr folded his arms and swallowed down a huff. “Great. Someone could have told me before I hiked down here to fill you two in.”
Ricochet slung his arm over Blurr’s shoulder and tugged Blurr against his side. “Don’t think bro was thinking rationally. He muttered something about Prowl being an aft, and then he was outta here before I could convince him into a quickie.”
“My spark bleeds for you,” Blurr drawled. He rolled his optics and shrugged out from under Ricochet’s arm. “Then I don’t need to be here at all. I have a bar to run.”
He didn’t make it two steps before Ricochet snagged him and reeled him back in, mouth finding the sensitive curve of Blurr’s neck.
“It’s dangerous to go alone,” he rumbled, and Blurr shivered, heat tiptoeing downward and pooling in his groin. “I’m still yer bodyguard.”
Blurr refused to allow himself to melt into the touch, no matter the arousal surging up and down his backstrut. “Against what? Jazz and an Enforcer contingent are going to arrest Whipstrike as we speak.”
“If he’s even the guilty party.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Dunno. Really want to take that chance?” Ricochet asked, and his hands gripped Blurr’s aft, squeezing and tugging him against Ricochet in a clatter of hot armor.
Blurr swallowed a groan, hooking his fingers into Ricochet’s seams, need surging through his lines, riding the heels of sparked coding. Drift’s words lingered at the back of his mind. He knew he should say something, but what was the point?
It was over. The bad guy had been identified. Blurr didn’t need a bodyguard anymore, if he ever did, and Ricochet would walk away, and Blurr had no intention of making some cheap attempt to keep him around. Ricochet wouldn’t want it, and Blurr didn’t want to force him to choose either.
Better this way.
“Fine,” Blurr said and extricated himself from Ricochet’s arms, despite the pull of want in the pit of his belly. “But only because it’s not worth the hassle.”
Ricochet laughed. One finger flicked a tire, setting it to spinning. “Whatever you say, Zippy.”
Blurr harrumphed and stalked toward the door, expecting Ricochet to follow him. “Grab whatever you need to grab. This place makes me itch.”
“Of course it does, spoiled Racer like you. Needs the finer things in life,” Ricochet drawled, but he snagged a couple of items and stowed them in his subspace. “So let’s get you back to your tower, princess.”
Blurr swallowed down a retort, only because it would add fuel to the flame. And prove Ricochet’s point.
They left the small, cramped, and rusted safehouse, with Ricochet carefully locking and securing it behind him. He even reset the code into something equally complicated as before.
“Never know when we might need to bug out again,” he said while Blurr waited, not patiently, but not impatiently either. “Always good to have a backup plan. That’s the peasant in us.”
Blurr narrowed his optics. It felt like an accusation and a slight. He resisted the temptation to rise to the jab.
They began the long, arduous trek back to the surface. Blurr let Ricochet take the lead, and the focus required meant Ricochet didn’t waste his vents on being snarky or a tease. There were times the words almost escaped Blurr.
I’m sparked. Pretty sure it’s yours.
His glossa stalled before they passed his lips. He couldn’t think of a good reason. Ricochet didn’t need to know. Blurr didn’t need or want his help. Accidents happened. Blurr was a Racer. He’d learned to pick himself up, buff out the dents, and keep running.
The silence of the natural dampening field gave way to the chaotic background noise and bustle of Autobot City and the constant streams of communication. Ricochet winced, armor drawing taut with agitation before he must have dialed down the gain of his comms, because he relaxed.
“Almost forgot what it was like to be in a city again,” he grunted as he reached down to help pull Blurr out of the hatch.
Blurr didn’t need the help.
He let Ricochet pull him out anyway.
“One last guarding shift for the road, right?” Ricochet said with a half-flash of his visor like a wink, and an unfairly attractive smirk. “Got to get your cred’s worth.”
“I’m not even paying you,” Blurr grumbled, but he kept unnecessarily close to Ricochet as they plunged into the busy streets, the sideways choked with mechs as it was mid-afternoon, between shifts, and fellow Cybertronians had Things To Do.
“Not with creds.” Ricochet leered, and a bolt of irritation burned away the arousal burning in his belly.
Blurr pinged Jazz to distract himself. He received a busy signal and huffily closed the connection without leaving a message. He hoped it meant Jazz was engaged with arresting Whipstrike.
“I really don’t need an escort,” Blurr said as they pushed through the crowds, more than a few mechs pausing to give Ricochet a startled look. Considering his face had been splashed all over the newsfeeds for the past week, Blurr couldn’t blame them.
“Come on. You’re not going to let me walk away from a job unfinished, are you?” Ricochet slung his arm over Blurr’s shoulders again, tucking Blurr against his side. “Think of what that would do for my reputation.”
“I think your reputation will survive,” Blurr drawled. “Considering it’s already thoroughly torched thanks to Prowl.”
Ricochet’s engine growled. “Yeah. Thanks for the reminder. He and I are gonna talk.”
“I don’t think that’s going to go well for you.”
“Other way around, Zippy.”
Blurr sighed. He debated arguing about the nickname before letting it slide. For one last time, what did it matter? In fact, what would one last time hurt? Might as well get his fun in before the sparkling came, right?
Right.
Blurr’s apartment building finally came into view. Jazz pinged him right as they stepped into the lift, and Blurr pushed off Ricochet’s wandering hand as he answered the comm.
“Please tell me you arrested the mech so I can dismiss my bodyguard,” Blurr said as the doors slid shut, and Ricochet crowded him against the back wall of the lift, his knee notching between Blurr’s thighs.
He didn’t have it in him to push Ricochet off.
Ricochet laughed in his audial, rough and growling, enough to send a tingle down Blurr’s spinal strut. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere just yet.”
“No, we didn’t,” Jazz said, his words coming through the comm like a splash of cold solvent to the face. “We showed up, and the building blew itself to pieces.”
Blurr twisted away from Ricochet, the response sending a sharp stab of caution through his frame. “Wait. What?”
Ricochet grabbed for him, and Blurr batted his hands away, shooting off a glare. “Stop it. They didn’t get Whipstrike.”
Ricochet abruptly drew back, the light in his visor going harsh and flat. “Explain,” he growled, almost louder than Jazz’s answer.
“The place was rigged to blow. Fragger knew we were coming, or at least expected it. We don’t have a clue where he’s at,” Jazz spat into the comm, his frustration bleeding through. “You gotta be careful, Blurr. You’re on his list.”
The lift dinged, depositing them on the proper floor. Blurr stumbled out, his processor spinning, Ricochet on his heels, sticking close now, but without the erotic flavor it carried before.
"How many died?" Blurr asked, feeling numb, Ricochet's grip on his elbow keeping him upright. "Are you all right?"
"I'm going to kill that fragger," Ricochet snarled, low and dangerous, and the twist of heat in Blurr's belly was completely inappropriate. He pulled Blurr toward his apartment, the last door on the hall.
"I'm fine," Jazz said, but a sigh came gusty and static through the comm. "I didn't go in with the specials team. Look. I've got a mess to clean up here, and Prowl ridin' my aft. We'll catch up later, all right? Tell Rico he's gotta job to do."
"He already knows," Blurr replied. He hated himself for the tremble in his fingers as he put his code into the panel, processor steaming as thoughts crashed one into the other.
The comm ended with a click and a crackle as Blurr's door panel chimed cheerfully.
"Don't worry," Ricochet said. "I'll keep ya safe, Zippy."
Blurr managed a scowl and a half-glare as he palmed his door open. "Who's worried?"
Pain.
Blurr grunted as a bolt of laserfire slammed into his right shoulder, shoving him backward, the crackling energy of it sending him right into Ricochet's chassis. His world spun as Ricochet yanked him from the doorway, spinning him into the cover of the wall just as another shot flew past, where Blurr's spark would have been.
"Frag," Ricochet snarled, and his field pumped hot and furious into the air. "I should've known."
Blurr's head spun. He slumped into Ricochet's grasp, his arm aching and armor blackening where the laserfire had scorched him.
"Well," he said. "We found him."
