[TF] Frame of Reference 02/07
Jan. 9th, 2020 10:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Frame of Reference
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
Part Two
It’s a toss-up who’s more exhausted, Perceptor draped on the side of Drift’s berth, head pillowed on his abdomen, fingers of one hand tangled with Drift’s.
Or Ratchet, whose back aches and head hurts and every time he shutters his optics, he sees lines of code streaming through his internal viewscreen. He feels like he’s going to be dreaming of code for weeks.
His shift has been over for hours. He doesn’t dare stop. He lets Perceptor recharge, because it’s obvious Perceptor hasn’t had much of it since Drift fell ill. Ratchet, however, can’t bring himself to stop.
There’s an answer here. He’s sure of it.
He’s worried he might have fibbed a little to Perceptor. Because whatever is causing Drift to remain in stasis lock, is sending a cascade of failures through his internal system. There’s a distinct clash. An incongruity of programs.
Ratchet has to find them before it’s too late. They’re both buried deep, so far into Drift’s matrix that they surround his base coding. Coding that should never be touched. Coding that has obviously been tampered with. It makes Ratchet angry.
He sincerely doubts Drift consented to the tampering. No mech in their right mind would allow someone to futz with their core coding. It’s not a matter of adjusting proficiencies or capabilities. It goes down to a functional level. The slightest misstep could result in spark failure, processor corruption, personality shifts.
Death.
Someone did this to Drift. Whatever it is.
They’d better hope Ratchet can’t ever put a face to a designation. It’s unconscionable.
Ratchet bends his focus back to the code. He’s got two datapads in front of him, one running a line by line analysis of what Drift’s code should look like by drawing a comparison to three different sources -- Blurr, Hot Rod, and Smokescreen. The other is running a script of Drift’s current code, and both are spooling through a similarity program to identify anomalies.
The expected ones are acknowledged and dismissed -- differences in weapon capabilities, frame upgrades, et cetera.
The unexpected anomalies are shunted aside for Ratchet to examine himself. So far, he’s found three requiring his immediate attention, but none of them are the source of Drift’s illness. They need to be corrected, of course, but they are minor issues. Subtle glitches that would have worked themselves out during Drift’s next self-induced nanite upgrade
The steady, quiet hum of the machines surrounding Drift are reassuring and soothing. The endless scrolling of coding might as well be a lullabye. Ratchet unintentionally starts to drift into a light doze when his datapad honks at him, announcing another discrepancy he needs to identify.
Ratchet grumbles, stirs, and bends his focus on the report.
His vents stall. He cycles his optics and sits up straight.
This isn’t a discrepancy. This is something which should not exist. This doesn’t match any coding Ratchet recognizes, and it has wound itself very deeply around Drift’s core behavioral guidelines and moral imperatives. It’s burrowed itself into Drift’s spark coding.
It’s time-stamped for decades after Drift was sparked. Core coding does not get added after sparking. It’s updated and adjusted on a social, surface level, but not at a spark-based level.
Ratchet taps the highlighted string, sends it to another datapad. He sets the first two aside to let them keep running the diagnostic program, and brings up the third datapad. Anger builds in his spark as he skims the coding, tracing it all the way back to the upload date.
This would coincide with Drift’s service to the Decepticons, he’s sure of that much. Ratchet doesn’t recognize the origin location code, but there’s something familiar about it, something he feels he’s seen before.
The code itself could explain Drift’s odd behavior. It’s so deeply entwined with his behavioral matrices that it would subtly affect every choice Drift makes, and every emotion his spark translates. It’s a heinous bit of code, and it’s been wrapped around Drift for so long, it’s rooted itself.
Ratchet fears it may impossible to remove.
His datapad beeps again. Ratchet lifts it to see what else has been highlighted, and his orbital ridges climb upward. There’s another incongruent program, one that doesn’t show in any of the comparison models. It’s newer, matches the timeline where Drift defected, and Ratchet sees the problem right away.
This newly updated program and the older, fouler one, have opposing priority trees. The two of them in combination with Drift’s initial coding have been causing massive conflicts. No wonder he’s in stasis. As the older, more violent coding jostled for space with the newer upload, Drift’s processor couldn’t keep up.
It shut him down out of sheer self-preservation.
What the frag is going on here?
Ratchet sends that program over to his third datapad as well. This is going to take ages to sort out. He wishes he had a copy of Drift’s original core coding, but only Drift would have that, if he’s ever made a secure backup. Ratchet might have to start from scratch, and he’s not the best at this.
Frag it all.
He sighs and looks at Drift recharging and Perceptor snuggled up beside him. “What did you get yourself into, kid?” Ratchet murmurs.
And then he gets back to work.
~
The meeting ping pulls Prowl out of a sound recharge. He snaps into alertness, acknowledging the summons, and gingerly tries to climb out from between the two frontliners cuddling him. Sideswipe growls and makes a grab for him, and Sunstreaker mutters something unkind about Prowl’s parentage.
Prowl deftly avoids Sideswipe’s grab, and presses a kiss to Sunstreaker’s cheek in apology. “I’ll see you both tonight,” he promises, and grabs a cube from the dispenser, his datapads from his desk, and slides out the door before either can give chase.
Which they’ve been known to do.
Despite being pulled from recharge, Prowl is still one of the first to arrive in the conference room, and he snags a seat next to an alert Jazz, who’s wriggling in his seat to music Prowl can’t hear. He’s bent over a datapad, but Prowl’s not holding his vents that Jazz is actually completing the report that’s been overdue for a week.
“All’s quiet on the Drift front,” Jazz says without looking up. “At least in terms of sketchy behavior. Hear Ratch has answers for us about why he’s in stasis.”
Prowl makes himself comfortable. “Do you think he’s a security risk?”
“Not anymore.” Jazz frowns, and his visor flattens to a dim blue. “I looked at that coding, Prowl. It’s a virus, sure enough, but it’s Autobot make.”
Prowl cycles his optics. “What? Optimus would have never--”
“And he didn’t.” Jazz’s mouth flattens into a thin line of disgust, his field flicking Prowl’s as if chastising him for even thinking Optimus capable of ordering such a thing. “This predates Optimus. Frag, it predates the war.”
Predates the…?
“This was done by order of the Senate?” Prowl asks.
“So it seems. We’ll have to see what Ratch has to say.” Jazz’s words are terse, and his posture has lost all signs of good humor. There’s anger in the sharp flick of his fingers over his datapad, and the flat clamp of his armor to his frame. “If I’m right, then this whole war coulda been over centuries ago.”
It’s a revelation beyond Prowl’s capabilities to comprehend right now. It sets his thoughts twirling, sets his sensory panels into a high arch. He stares dumbly at his best friend, clutching tight to datapads, some of whom overlay their upcoming offense and defense strategies against the Decepticons.
The rest of the command staff filter in. Ultra Magnus and Kup. Optimus and Ratchet. Ironhide. Red Alert. Prowl rearranges his datapads in front of him, because it feels like his processor has stalled, and he doesn’t know how to move forward from here.
He admits, if only to himself, that there’s a certain righteousness to the Autobot creed. An idea that they are on the right side of the war, that the Decepticons are the lawless, brutal foes who kill without compunction and would see everyone slaughtered. There is an otherness to the Decepticons, and Prowl knows it’s a symptom of having to fight against what might be considered one’s kin.
If they don’t see the Decepticons as ‘other’, they might not be able to label them as ‘enemy’. They might not pull the trigger. They might not win the war. It’s a sacrifice they’ve made to ensure victory.
It’s what a soldier has to do.
“Let’s not waste any time,” Optimus says once the door closes and locks with a familiar tri-tone beep. It’s the most secure, privacy screen they can activate on the Ark-22, and Prowl immediately straightens at the sound of it. “Ratchet, please share your report with everyone else.”
Ratchet, for his part, looks exhausted, like he hasn’t recharged since he began treating Drift. His optics are dim, his paint dull, and there’s a deep set to his shoulders, as though he can’t spare the energy to keep them squared.
He tosses a datapad to the table, braces one elbow on the surface and rubs his face with the other hand. “It’s a fragging mess of a situation, Optimus,” Ratchet says, and his voice is riddled with static, his field a limping pulse of fatigue and dismay. “Near as I can tell, Drift’s in stasis because he has two conflicting codeclusters, neither of which he consented to.”
Red Alert works his jaw. “I’m sorry, Ratchet,” he says, lifting a hand, his lips pulling into a severe frown. “I need you to explain further. What do you mean?”
Ratchet’s free hand taps the datapad. “One of the code clusters is trying to rewrite his neural pathways to remove violent and self-destructive impulses while encouraging pacifism.” He shifts his hand, tapping another datapad. “The other, much older code cluster rewrote his neural pathways to promote savagery, to dissuade his conscience from accepting a peaceful resolution, and to amp his paranoia and violent tendencies.”
“I don’t understand,” Ultra Magnus says, his face crinkling into confusion. “Are you saying the Decepticons forced coding uploads into their soldiers to make them more violent?”
“I almost wish I were.” Ratchet sighs again and shutters his optics, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The older clusters were created by a replicating virus, one with an Autobot imprint in the source code. And it predates what we all consider the first volley of open war.”
“And the newer cluster?” Optimus asks, his voice soft and grave, not that Prowl doesn’t feel the same sadness.
Ratchet rolls his shoulders. “It coincides with Drift’s defection to the Autobots, according to Perceptor. I’d like to have a talk with that so-called Circle of Light about their recruitment methods because I’m not convinced Deadlock had much of a choice in the matter.” His scowl could have qualified as laserfire.
“Wait a slagging minute,” Ironhide snaps, his vents huffing a burst of hot air into the room. “Are ya tellin’ me that the Senate infected the ‘Cons with a virus before we officially went to war?”
“So it would seem,” Prowl says, and is alarmed to find himself trembling, the ramifications of the revelation almost too much to contemplate. “It makes an alarming amount of sense.”
“Does it?” Red Alert asks.
Ultra Magnus sighs and scrubs his forehead, looking deeply troubled. “Yes, it does. If the Decepticons are too violent, too irrational, they lose any credibility with the general public while bolstering support for the Senate. Their initial goals get lost in the madness, leaving the Senate free to emerge as the more reasonable leadership.”
“Does it even matter?” Ironhide demands and he sits back in his chair, loudly scraping the wheels over the floor. “It doesn’t mean they ain’t to blame for all the Autobots they’ve killed. It doesn’t change who they are, right?”
Ratchet shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t,” he says, like it hurts him to admit it. “But it does make them unreasonable, unwilling to consider peace or a treaty, unwilling to surrender when it might benefit them the most.” He pauses, draws in a shuddering breath. “They’ll fight to the last spark because of this. There’s no hope for a peaceful end to the war.”
“You’re sure of this?” Ultra Magnus asks.
“Unfortunately.” Ratchet sighs, and his fatigue settles around him like an inescapable mantle. “This coding is insidious. It’s subtle, and it’s brilliant, and I’d like to meet the mech who wrote it, both to shake their hand, and to wring their neck.”
Red Alert shakes his head, slow and disbelieving. “That the Senate would stoop so low...” His lips press in a thin line before he looks at all of them. “I am not a Decepticon. I never considered joining the Decepticons. But that does not mean I was not aware of the initial reasons why they fought or their plight. This... this is...”
He stutters into silence, clearly at a loss for words. Prowl feels much the same way. He believes in the Autobot cause. He believes the part they play in the war is necessary. At times, he even believes in victory at any cost.
Jazz’s engine revs. “I still don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like the coding made them declare war. It didn’t build their army, and it sure as frag didn’t tell them to bomb Praxus.” His armor flutters, anger writ across his features. “Why does it fragging matter?
“Because we are better than this,” Optimus says, and the conviction in his voice makes Prowl shiver. He bends his full attention to their Prime, who rises to his feet, who braces his hands on the table and pins them all with a commanding look. “We took up arms against the Decepticons to defend ourselves. To protect those who couldn’t. We did not start this fight to slaughter them.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “The war began for genuine reasons,” he says, much more quietly than Optimus, but he gains everyone’s attention nonetheless. “This virus has corrupted the Decepticons. Has taken away their will, their right to choose. We are the worst of hypocrites if we use it to our advantage.”
“It’s not the way I want to win this war.” Optimus glances at Jazz, and something unspoken passes between them -- echoes of an argument Prowl knows they’ve had before. “It’s unconscionable that they have had their will subverted. I cannot, in good conscience, take advantage of it any longer.”
Cybertronians don’t need to breathe as most organics do, but nonetheless, Optimus’ declaration seems to take all the air from the room, his words like a physical blow.
Ultra Magnus folds his hands over a datapad. “What do you intend to do, sir?”
“Set things right,” Optimus says, firm and unyielding. He shifts his attention to Red Alert, who automatically straightens under the weight of his gaze. “Put security measures in place, then inform Blaster to make a courtesy call to the Decepticons. You know the code to use.”
Red Alert’s optics widen enormously. “Sir, you can’t think Megatron will believe--”
“He most likely will not, but the very least I can do is try,” Optimus’ tone gentles, though it carries the same gravitas. “We will prepare the information we have and send it to him, let him draw his own conclusions.”
Ratchet scrubs at his forehead. “It might bolster their anger, given the context of this virus. It might infuriate them into an irrational attack.”
“We will deal with the consequences as they arise.” Optimus vents long and slow, while Prowl drags a datapad closer and starts to furiously make notes and potential plans for Decepticon retaliation. “We can move forward with a clear conscience after the attempt has been made. Are we in accord?”
No one argues. Perhaps because no one dares.
Prowl can read the hesitation in the room, the apprehension. It’s obvious they all have their concerns, but when it comes down to it, they serve under Optimus for a reason. They believe in Optimus, more than they believe in the office of the Prime.
“I’ll arrange to make contact at once,” Red Alert says.
“And me and ‘Hide can prepare for possible retaliation,” Jazz adds, but there’s a iciness to his tone, a tightness to his jaw, that suggests Jazz will bring his protests to Optimus later. Privately.
“With any luck, we are looking at a possible end to the war, rather than an extension of it,” Optimus says. “Thank you everyone, for your support in this.”
Prowl cycles a long, steadying ventilation. He doesn’t know how this is going to end. He’s too pragmatic for hope, but he wants to believe because Optimus believes.
He wants the war to be over, he truly does, but never in a million years, would he have thought this would be the reason why.
***
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
It’s a toss-up who’s more exhausted, Perceptor draped on the side of Drift’s berth, head pillowed on his abdomen, fingers of one hand tangled with Drift’s.
Or Ratchet, whose back aches and head hurts and every time he shutters his optics, he sees lines of code streaming through his internal viewscreen. He feels like he’s going to be dreaming of code for weeks.
His shift has been over for hours. He doesn’t dare stop. He lets Perceptor recharge, because it’s obvious Perceptor hasn’t had much of it since Drift fell ill. Ratchet, however, can’t bring himself to stop.
There’s an answer here. He’s sure of it.
He’s worried he might have fibbed a little to Perceptor. Because whatever is causing Drift to remain in stasis lock, is sending a cascade of failures through his internal system. There’s a distinct clash. An incongruity of programs.
Ratchet has to find them before it’s too late. They’re both buried deep, so far into Drift’s matrix that they surround his base coding. Coding that should never be touched. Coding that has obviously been tampered with. It makes Ratchet angry.
He sincerely doubts Drift consented to the tampering. No mech in their right mind would allow someone to futz with their core coding. It’s not a matter of adjusting proficiencies or capabilities. It goes down to a functional level. The slightest misstep could result in spark failure, processor corruption, personality shifts.
Death.
Someone did this to Drift. Whatever it is.
They’d better hope Ratchet can’t ever put a face to a designation. It’s unconscionable.
Ratchet bends his focus back to the code. He’s got two datapads in front of him, one running a line by line analysis of what Drift’s code should look like by drawing a comparison to three different sources -- Blurr, Hot Rod, and Smokescreen. The other is running a script of Drift’s current code, and both are spooling through a similarity program to identify anomalies.
The expected ones are acknowledged and dismissed -- differences in weapon capabilities, frame upgrades, et cetera.
The unexpected anomalies are shunted aside for Ratchet to examine himself. So far, he’s found three requiring his immediate attention, but none of them are the source of Drift’s illness. They need to be corrected, of course, but they are minor issues. Subtle glitches that would have worked themselves out during Drift’s next self-induced nanite upgrade
The steady, quiet hum of the machines surrounding Drift are reassuring and soothing. The endless scrolling of coding might as well be a lullabye. Ratchet unintentionally starts to drift into a light doze when his datapad honks at him, announcing another discrepancy he needs to identify.
Ratchet grumbles, stirs, and bends his focus on the report.
His vents stall. He cycles his optics and sits up straight.
This isn’t a discrepancy. This is something which should not exist. This doesn’t match any coding Ratchet recognizes, and it has wound itself very deeply around Drift’s core behavioral guidelines and moral imperatives. It’s burrowed itself into Drift’s spark coding.
It’s time-stamped for decades after Drift was sparked. Core coding does not get added after sparking. It’s updated and adjusted on a social, surface level, but not at a spark-based level.
Ratchet taps the highlighted string, sends it to another datapad. He sets the first two aside to let them keep running the diagnostic program, and brings up the third datapad. Anger builds in his spark as he skims the coding, tracing it all the way back to the upload date.
This would coincide with Drift’s service to the Decepticons, he’s sure of that much. Ratchet doesn’t recognize the origin location code, but there’s something familiar about it, something he feels he’s seen before.
The code itself could explain Drift’s odd behavior. It’s so deeply entwined with his behavioral matrices that it would subtly affect every choice Drift makes, and every emotion his spark translates. It’s a heinous bit of code, and it’s been wrapped around Drift for so long, it’s rooted itself.
Ratchet fears it may impossible to remove.
His datapad beeps again. Ratchet lifts it to see what else has been highlighted, and his orbital ridges climb upward. There’s another incongruent program, one that doesn’t show in any of the comparison models. It’s newer, matches the timeline where Drift defected, and Ratchet sees the problem right away.
This newly updated program and the older, fouler one, have opposing priority trees. The two of them in combination with Drift’s initial coding have been causing massive conflicts. No wonder he’s in stasis. As the older, more violent coding jostled for space with the newer upload, Drift’s processor couldn’t keep up.
It shut him down out of sheer self-preservation.
What the frag is going on here?
Ratchet sends that program over to his third datapad as well. This is going to take ages to sort out. He wishes he had a copy of Drift’s original core coding, but only Drift would have that, if he’s ever made a secure backup. Ratchet might have to start from scratch, and he’s not the best at this.
Frag it all.
He sighs and looks at Drift recharging and Perceptor snuggled up beside him. “What did you get yourself into, kid?” Ratchet murmurs.
And then he gets back to work.
The meeting ping pulls Prowl out of a sound recharge. He snaps into alertness, acknowledging the summons, and gingerly tries to climb out from between the two frontliners cuddling him. Sideswipe growls and makes a grab for him, and Sunstreaker mutters something unkind about Prowl’s parentage.
Prowl deftly avoids Sideswipe’s grab, and presses a kiss to Sunstreaker’s cheek in apology. “I’ll see you both tonight,” he promises, and grabs a cube from the dispenser, his datapads from his desk, and slides out the door before either can give chase.
Which they’ve been known to do.
Despite being pulled from recharge, Prowl is still one of the first to arrive in the conference room, and he snags a seat next to an alert Jazz, who’s wriggling in his seat to music Prowl can’t hear. He’s bent over a datapad, but Prowl’s not holding his vents that Jazz is actually completing the report that’s been overdue for a week.
“All’s quiet on the Drift front,” Jazz says without looking up. “At least in terms of sketchy behavior. Hear Ratch has answers for us about why he’s in stasis.”
Prowl makes himself comfortable. “Do you think he’s a security risk?”
“Not anymore.” Jazz frowns, and his visor flattens to a dim blue. “I looked at that coding, Prowl. It’s a virus, sure enough, but it’s Autobot make.”
Prowl cycles his optics. “What? Optimus would have never--”
“And he didn’t.” Jazz’s mouth flattens into a thin line of disgust, his field flicking Prowl’s as if chastising him for even thinking Optimus capable of ordering such a thing. “This predates Optimus. Frag, it predates the war.”
Predates the…?
“This was done by order of the Senate?” Prowl asks.
“So it seems. We’ll have to see what Ratch has to say.” Jazz’s words are terse, and his posture has lost all signs of good humor. There’s anger in the sharp flick of his fingers over his datapad, and the flat clamp of his armor to his frame. “If I’m right, then this whole war coulda been over centuries ago.”
It’s a revelation beyond Prowl’s capabilities to comprehend right now. It sets his thoughts twirling, sets his sensory panels into a high arch. He stares dumbly at his best friend, clutching tight to datapads, some of whom overlay their upcoming offense and defense strategies against the Decepticons.
The rest of the command staff filter in. Ultra Magnus and Kup. Optimus and Ratchet. Ironhide. Red Alert. Prowl rearranges his datapads in front of him, because it feels like his processor has stalled, and he doesn’t know how to move forward from here.
He admits, if only to himself, that there’s a certain righteousness to the Autobot creed. An idea that they are on the right side of the war, that the Decepticons are the lawless, brutal foes who kill without compunction and would see everyone slaughtered. There is an otherness to the Decepticons, and Prowl knows it’s a symptom of having to fight against what might be considered one’s kin.
If they don’t see the Decepticons as ‘other’, they might not be able to label them as ‘enemy’. They might not pull the trigger. They might not win the war. It’s a sacrifice they’ve made to ensure victory.
It’s what a soldier has to do.
“Let’s not waste any time,” Optimus says once the door closes and locks with a familiar tri-tone beep. It’s the most secure, privacy screen they can activate on the Ark-22, and Prowl immediately straightens at the sound of it. “Ratchet, please share your report with everyone else.”
Ratchet, for his part, looks exhausted, like he hasn’t recharged since he began treating Drift. His optics are dim, his paint dull, and there’s a deep set to his shoulders, as though he can’t spare the energy to keep them squared.
He tosses a datapad to the table, braces one elbow on the surface and rubs his face with the other hand. “It’s a fragging mess of a situation, Optimus,” Ratchet says, and his voice is riddled with static, his field a limping pulse of fatigue and dismay. “Near as I can tell, Drift’s in stasis because he has two conflicting codeclusters, neither of which he consented to.”
Red Alert works his jaw. “I’m sorry, Ratchet,” he says, lifting a hand, his lips pulling into a severe frown. “I need you to explain further. What do you mean?”
Ratchet’s free hand taps the datapad. “One of the code clusters is trying to rewrite his neural pathways to remove violent and self-destructive impulses while encouraging pacifism.” He shifts his hand, tapping another datapad. “The other, much older code cluster rewrote his neural pathways to promote savagery, to dissuade his conscience from accepting a peaceful resolution, and to amp his paranoia and violent tendencies.”
“I don’t understand,” Ultra Magnus says, his face crinkling into confusion. “Are you saying the Decepticons forced coding uploads into their soldiers to make them more violent?”
“I almost wish I were.” Ratchet sighs again and shutters his optics, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The older clusters were created by a replicating virus, one with an Autobot imprint in the source code. And it predates what we all consider the first volley of open war.”
“And the newer cluster?” Optimus asks, his voice soft and grave, not that Prowl doesn’t feel the same sadness.
Ratchet rolls his shoulders. “It coincides with Drift’s defection to the Autobots, according to Perceptor. I’d like to have a talk with that so-called Circle of Light about their recruitment methods because I’m not convinced Deadlock had much of a choice in the matter.” His scowl could have qualified as laserfire.
“Wait a slagging minute,” Ironhide snaps, his vents huffing a burst of hot air into the room. “Are ya tellin’ me that the Senate infected the ‘Cons with a virus before we officially went to war?”
“So it would seem,” Prowl says, and is alarmed to find himself trembling, the ramifications of the revelation almost too much to contemplate. “It makes an alarming amount of sense.”
“Does it?” Red Alert asks.
Ultra Magnus sighs and scrubs his forehead, looking deeply troubled. “Yes, it does. If the Decepticons are too violent, too irrational, they lose any credibility with the general public while bolstering support for the Senate. Their initial goals get lost in the madness, leaving the Senate free to emerge as the more reasonable leadership.”
“Does it even matter?” Ironhide demands and he sits back in his chair, loudly scraping the wheels over the floor. “It doesn’t mean they ain’t to blame for all the Autobots they’ve killed. It doesn’t change who they are, right?”
Ratchet shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t,” he says, like it hurts him to admit it. “But it does make them unreasonable, unwilling to consider peace or a treaty, unwilling to surrender when it might benefit them the most.” He pauses, draws in a shuddering breath. “They’ll fight to the last spark because of this. There’s no hope for a peaceful end to the war.”
“You’re sure of this?” Ultra Magnus asks.
“Unfortunately.” Ratchet sighs, and his fatigue settles around him like an inescapable mantle. “This coding is insidious. It’s subtle, and it’s brilliant, and I’d like to meet the mech who wrote it, both to shake their hand, and to wring their neck.”
Red Alert shakes his head, slow and disbelieving. “That the Senate would stoop so low...” His lips press in a thin line before he looks at all of them. “I am not a Decepticon. I never considered joining the Decepticons. But that does not mean I was not aware of the initial reasons why they fought or their plight. This... this is...”
He stutters into silence, clearly at a loss for words. Prowl feels much the same way. He believes in the Autobot cause. He believes the part they play in the war is necessary. At times, he even believes in victory at any cost.
Jazz’s engine revs. “I still don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like the coding made them declare war. It didn’t build their army, and it sure as frag didn’t tell them to bomb Praxus.” His armor flutters, anger writ across his features. “Why does it fragging matter?
“Because we are better than this,” Optimus says, and the conviction in his voice makes Prowl shiver. He bends his full attention to their Prime, who rises to his feet, who braces his hands on the table and pins them all with a commanding look. “We took up arms against the Decepticons to defend ourselves. To protect those who couldn’t. We did not start this fight to slaughter them.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “The war began for genuine reasons,” he says, much more quietly than Optimus, but he gains everyone’s attention nonetheless. “This virus has corrupted the Decepticons. Has taken away their will, their right to choose. We are the worst of hypocrites if we use it to our advantage.”
“It’s not the way I want to win this war.” Optimus glances at Jazz, and something unspoken passes between them -- echoes of an argument Prowl knows they’ve had before. “It’s unconscionable that they have had their will subverted. I cannot, in good conscience, take advantage of it any longer.”
Cybertronians don’t need to breathe as most organics do, but nonetheless, Optimus’ declaration seems to take all the air from the room, his words like a physical blow.
Ultra Magnus folds his hands over a datapad. “What do you intend to do, sir?”
“Set things right,” Optimus says, firm and unyielding. He shifts his attention to Red Alert, who automatically straightens under the weight of his gaze. “Put security measures in place, then inform Blaster to make a courtesy call to the Decepticons. You know the code to use.”
Red Alert’s optics widen enormously. “Sir, you can’t think Megatron will believe--”
“He most likely will not, but the very least I can do is try,” Optimus’ tone gentles, though it carries the same gravitas. “We will prepare the information we have and send it to him, let him draw his own conclusions.”
Ratchet scrubs at his forehead. “It might bolster their anger, given the context of this virus. It might infuriate them into an irrational attack.”
“We will deal with the consequences as they arise.” Optimus vents long and slow, while Prowl drags a datapad closer and starts to furiously make notes and potential plans for Decepticon retaliation. “We can move forward with a clear conscience after the attempt has been made. Are we in accord?”
No one argues. Perhaps because no one dares.
Prowl can read the hesitation in the room, the apprehension. It’s obvious they all have their concerns, but when it comes down to it, they serve under Optimus for a reason. They believe in Optimus, more than they believe in the office of the Prime.
“I’ll arrange to make contact at once,” Red Alert says.
“And me and ‘Hide can prepare for possible retaliation,” Jazz adds, but there’s a iciness to his tone, a tightness to his jaw, that suggests Jazz will bring his protests to Optimus later. Privately.
“With any luck, we are looking at a possible end to the war, rather than an extension of it,” Optimus says. “Thank you everyone, for your support in this.”
Prowl cycles a long, steadying ventilation. He doesn’t know how this is going to end. He’s too pragmatic for hope, but he wants to believe because Optimus believes.
He wants the war to be over, he truly does, but never in a million years, would he have thought this would be the reason why.
