[TF] Frame of Reference 04/07
Jan. 23rd, 2020 06:17 am![[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 Four
Details are Prowl’s realm of expertise.
It is up to Optimus to broker the peace, and Prowl to bring forth the guidelines for both leaders to sign. Soundwave, apparently, is working on his own version of a treaty, and it’ll be up to them to work together to come to an accord.
Fair enough. Prowl can work with Soundwave.
The Ark-22 hums around him, finally in motion, moving forward rather than drifting around a planet without discernible progress. It’s a bit disconcerting to know the Nemesis is on their heels, trailing them back to Cybertron. It feels a bit like having weapons pointed at one’s back, and only Soundwave’s presence on the Ark-22 brings Prowl some comfort.
Of course, he could have done without shuttling Ratchet over to the Nemesis, but such is the way of trust. Megatron won’t fire upon the Ark while Soundwave is aboard, and the Autobots would never harm Ratchet. It’s a subtle reassurance, if unspoken, in form of a hostage exchange.
He'd sent Sideswipe with Ratchet, because the twins had argued the loudest against allowing Ratchet aboard the Nemesis, but relented when Prowl agreed to send one of them along. Sideswipe was the first to speak up, bare seconds before his brother, and so Sideswipe had gone.
But now Prowl has a sulking Sunstreaker lurking about his office, pouting because he misses his twin. He’s also about his pseudo-caretaker, and has decided that glaring through the wall at Soundwave next door, working hard on his version of the treaty, is his best course of action.
It would be distracting, if Prowl wasn't already used to working around his twins and their eccentricities.
It's better for Ratchet to be aboard the Nemesis anyway. There he can get started researching the virus, determining who is infected versus who isn't, and he has ready access to Shockwave and Starscream’s expertise.
Prowl would have sent Drift along with Ratchet, for treatment's sake, if Perceptor hadn't protested so vehemently. Perceptor doesn’t want Drift anywhere near the Decepticons while he’s unconscious. Apparently, Deadlock had left quite a few grudges in his wake.
This does not surprise Prowl in the least.
"You really think this cease-fire is going to work?" Sunstreaker asks, not for the first time, as he paces back and forth, ignoring the distractions Prowl has already attempted to give him.
"I want to believe it will," Prowl answers without inflection. He understands Sunstreaker's anxiety. He shares it. But he won’t let it distract him. "I can't be the only one tired of war. It will be nice not to worry about you and Sideswipe on the battlefield."
Sunstreaker snorts. "You shouldn't worry anyway. There's no Decepticon out there can kill us."
"Your confidence is the most charming thing about you," Prowl says, with a curl of amusement to the corner of his lips.
"At least you didn't call it arrogance."
Prowl smiles and adds in a clause regarding punishment and judgment of crimes prior to the signing of the treaty. While there are many Decepticons he'd love to put on trial and execute, logically, he knows it's not feasible. To even suggest such a thing would careen them right back into war.
Worse, he knows there are Autobots he'll be protecting with this clause as well. Jazz comes to mind. As do Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who've committed their share of dark deeds against the Decepticons.
His mail chimes with a new message, so Prowl saves his work and clicks on the blinking icon, which announces Ratchet as the sender. The words are brief, as Ratchet is known to be when he's otherwise occupied.
Only command-level Decepticons have been affected apparently. Ratchet suspects it was designed to seek out certain personnel identifiers. It would make sense. Manipulating the Decepticon army is much easier by targeting the leadership. It's what Prowl would have done.
He tucks away that knowledge and gets back to work. It takes him far too long to realize Sunstreaker has moved into his space and now peers over his shoulder, reading over the treaty terms as Prowl composes them.
“Let me know if you see something you disagree with,” Prowl says, unconsciously leaning into the warmth and comfort of Sunstreaker’s field, though the edges of it radiate unease. Sunstreaker won’t be able to relax until he’s sure his brother and his surrogate caretaker are safely within sight.
“I trust you,” Sunstreaker says. “Optimus trusts you, too. And I think, as much as they might loathe you, the Decepticons know how skilled you are. Negotiation is going to be a piece of oil cake.”
Would that he has Sunstreaker’s confidence. Still, his sensory panels flutter with appreciation for the compliment.
“I’ll be in late tonight,” Prowl says by way of response, though part of him longs to close his workspace down and join Sunstreaker in the berth immediately. It’s rare that he gets a twin to himself. “There’s a lot of work left to do.”
Sunstreaker sweeps his fingers along the topmost edge of Prowl’s sensory panels, making them tingle. “It’s a shortcoming we’ve learned to accept. You’re ours where it counts,” he says with a contemplative hum which makes Prowl’s spark flutter again.
Prowl is not ready to admit how much he likes the sound of their claiming.
“I’ll stay. Keep you company. Promise not to be a distraction,” Sunstreaker murmurs, and it’s almost a purr, in conjunction with the way he torments Prowl’s panels.
“Your promise and your actions do not seem to be aligned,” Prowl points out, and Sunstreaker’s quiet chuckle is music to his audials.
“I am still Sideswipe’s brother, mischief and all,” Sunstreaker hums with a kiss to the very tip of Prowl’s chevron, his ex-vents moist and warm.
Prowl holds himself still to conceal a shiver and grasps for the nearest datapad, only to push it at Sunstreaker, narrowly avoiding his nasal ridge. “You can help, if you’re going to stay,” he says with a tone both twins have learned mean business.
“You are incorrigible,” Sunstreaker says, but it’s with affection. He accepts the datapad and drops into the chair across from Prowl, leaning back to get comfortable. “We still love you anyway.”
Prowl’s insides flutter with warmth, and his sensory panels echo it. He says nothing, but the touch of his field to Sunstreaker’s speaks for itself.
~
His head aches. His entire frame aches, truth be told, but it's the dull throb in his head that is the most upsetting.
He doesn't want to online his optics. He picks up sounds: the low murmur of conversation, the steady beep of machines, the distant hum of a ship in motion, the familiar rattling whirr of his lover. He's not in his berthroom, but Perceptor is beside him, so it can't be too terrible.
And then he remembers.
Anger. Pain. Fury. Agony.
He'd attacked Whirl. He'd swung at Top Spin.
He'd punched Perceptor.
And then his world had gone dark.
Oh, Primus. What had he done?
Regret echoes in his chassis. He forces his optics to online, despite the pain, because he doesn't deserve comfort right now. He's in a medbay, if an unfamiliar one, and the overhead lights are dim. He's attached to a number of machines, and Perceptor slumps over the edge of the berth next to him, hand tightly clasped with Drift's.
There's no shadow of a dent on his face. Either Drift had managed to hold back, or he's been out long enough for Perceptor to heal.
Of all the mechs he's never wanted to hurt...
Perceptor stirs before Drift has a chance to figure out what he's going to say.
Drift panics, but he's aching and numb all over, unable to do little more than twitch and shift on the berth. Perceptor lifts his head, cycles his optics, and he looks directly at Drift, who braces himself.
"I'm sor--"
"You're online!" Relief gushes in Perceptor's field. He tightly squeezes Drift's hand. "I was starting to think we'd never get you back online."
Drift blinks. "What happened?" he asks, and is alarmed by how staticky his vocalizer sounds. He checks his chronometer but has no frame of reference for how long it's been.
Perceptor rises, only to sit on the edge of the berth, his hip pressing to Drift's. "You have a virus.” He pulls Drift’s hands into his lap, thumbs running over Drift’s knuckles. "It's conflicting with a forced coding upload the Knights gave you. That's what caused your erratic behavior."
"A virus?"
"Yes. One lurking in the Decepticon database, striking anyone who's ever carried a leadership mantle. You can imagine how it was placed there." Perceptor's optics flash with anger, his hands tightening around Drift's, before he smooths it away, burying it, like the war has taught him to do.
Perceptor’s anger is a cold one, building and building beneath the surface, ever plotting for a means to be set loose.
"Autobots?"
Perceptor gives him a thin smile. "Yes and no. It was a plot of the Senate’s, to de-legitimize the Decepticon cause and make them appear more monstrous and feral. Unfortunately, it has worked."
Drift wishes he could be surprised. He presses his lips together, shutters his optics, cycles a ventilation around the rage seeking to rise up and swallow him whole. He's worked very hard to become Drift again, but Deadlock lurks around every corner, waiting to remind him how much easier it was when he ignored his conscience.
"The other coding issue was brought upon by the Knights and while they think of themselves as Neutral, they also see themselves as Autobots." Perceptor cycles a ventilation. "You have had so many of your choices taken from you, Drift. For that, I apologize."
Drift shakes his head, though the motion causes a wave of faint dizziness. "I should be saying sorry," he says. "I hit you. I don't even know why. I just remember being so angry, and the next thing I knew--"
"It's not your fault. I don't blame you for it."
"I blame myself." Drift winces and tries to sit up, though much of his frame doesn't want to respond. He feels half-present, like he's only half-working.
Perceptor grabs the berth controls to raise the upper half of the berth. "You're only conscious because we built a firewall between the virus, the coding, and your personal coding. We have to find a cure to really repair you."
"You'll find it," Drift says, with utmost certainty. Perceptor is the smartest mech he knows, and there’s no one Drift trusts more. "Where are we? What happened?"
Perceptor sits on the berth with him, taking Drift's hand once more. "I had to put you in stasis, and we changed course to the nearest Autobot base, which happened to be the Ark-22. We're in command central's mainbay with--"
"Ratchet," Drift finishes for him, and winces before he can stop himself. That’s a reunion he simultaneously dreads and anticipates. He wonders what Ratchet thinks of what he’s become. "Between the two of you, I'm in good hands."
Perceptor smiles, but it's strained. He's obviously recharged, but it's not been very restful. His field is a frazzled flicker around him, and were he a stronger mech, Drift would wince at the strength of his grip.
"We hope. There's a search party heading into Iacon underground as we speak, to see if anything can be found about the virus. With any luck, they'll find knowledge of an anti-virus."
Drift snorts. "I sincerely doubt the Senate would have had any intentions of curing whoever they infected, but I appreciate the attempt. Is it just me?"
"No." Perceptor finds the far wall abruptly fascinating, his armor clamping tightly to his substructure as if drawing on his defensive protocols. "It's every Decepticon who holds a command post. If not for the conflict in your coding, we might have never known to look for a virus."
The rage rises back up again, a thick mass in the back of his intake. He wants to purge and he wants to scream, and his tanks clench with disgust.
"There were reasons I became a Decepticon," Drift says, speaking low. Hopefully, he's not being monitored. Hopefully, they're not looking for a reason to doubt his defection. "And forced change or not, there are reasons I became an Autobot. Now, I don't know if I was ever given a choice about anything."
Perceptor’s vents sharpen. "That's... fair," he says, like one choosing his words with care. "I can't begin to understand. My life was a lot easier than yours so I'm in no position to comment."
Drift manages a lopsided smile and tugs Perceptor's hand. "Come on. Lie down with me. I'm not mad about that."
"I didn't think you were." Perceptor listens though, carefully manuevering around the wires and things to notch himself next to Drift on the berth, barely fitting in the narrow space. His field is a familiar comfort, and Drift isn’t ashamed to admit how hard he latches on to it.
"I am angry though," Drift says. "I'd have killed over this. If not for you, I might have crossed the lines again."
"The war's on hold," Perceptor offers, one hand resting on Drift's abdomen, thumb stroking a transformation seam. "A cease-fire. It was Megatron's idea even. We might get a treaty out of it."
"And all it took was the Senate stealing our agency. Imagine that." Drift grimaces, the fury boiling fierce and bright inside of him. He hasn't the energy to do anything about it, but by Primus, does he want to. "We should have burned it all to the ground."
Perceptor's hand stills. His ventilations catch on a cycle before picking up rhythm once more. "You think we're beyond saving?"
"I think we've done our level best to destroy each other, long before the war started," Drift answers, truthfully. "Whether it's by crushing the lesser under the Senate's heels or death by war."
Perceptor presses his head against Drift’s, but it’s gentle, as is the way his field offers itself to Drift. “I think there are still good mechs. I think our home is still worth saving.”
It’s weird to hear Perceptor sound so optimistic. But then, it’s weird to be sitting in Ratchet’s medbay with rumors of a cease-fire beyond the doors. There’s a whole lot of weird going on right now.
Maybe Perceptor’s right. Maybe he could use a little more hope.
Besides, there’s definitely one thing Drift still trusts, one beacon of brightness that he found as Deadlock and somehow managed to keep as Drift. There’s one mech in his life he’d fight to keep, one reason to keep moving forward.
He tangles his fingers around Perceptor’s and makes a non-committal noise. “Maybe,” he says, deferring for now. “Tell me more about what’s going on. Since I can’t leave the berth yet, I’m relying on you for all the best gossip.”
Perceptor snorts. “I should get Whirl in here for that, but he’s still smarting over the gash you gave him. Be warned, he might seek revenge.”
“Pfft. I can handle Whirl.”
With Perceptor next to him, there’s nothing Drift can’t handle.
~
There is no better place to begin their research than Iacon, but standing on the bridge as they sweep over the ruined city is like a punch to the spark. Prowl aches, deep in the core of him, at the devastation they have wrought to a once grand metropolis.
The current state of Cybertron is painful enough. Remembering the burnt husk that is Praxus makes his spark feel raw and agonized all over again. This, somehow, is worse.
Iacon had been the last seat of power for the Autobots, before they were forced to flee the planet. Left behind, Iacon had crumbled, razed to the ground as the Decepticons flew triumphant over the burning remains.
It’s a sobering sight.
The Decepticons, at least, have the decency not to gloat. Perhaps because they’re recalling Kaon’s current state. And Tarn. And Tesarus. And every other city or stronghold the Decepticons had claimed, which the Autobots destroyed.
There is no inch of Cybertron that escaped the war. The open lands are toxic wastes. The once beautiful Sea of Rust is a sludgy slag pit. The crystal forest is a shattered ruin of ash-soaked death. The flora and fauna native to the planet have gone extinct. It’d be a miracle to find Cybertron habitable at all.
They coordinate with the Nemesis and find a place to land, on the outskirts of Iacon, where a battle destroyed the outer rings of the city into a flat collapse, so terrible it sank below the surface, into the underlevels.
“It should be stable,” Hound tells them. “Enough.”
There’s no better option.
They land, the Ark first as it’s heavier, and then the Nemesis nearby. They hold their collective vents, but while Cybertron creaks and moans a death rattle around them, it holds their weight. Perhaps they’ve earned a respite from Primus, having returned under a cease-fire.
Prowl volunteers to lead the search party. He takes Sideswipe with him, because they don’t want to leave Ratchet unguarded with so many Decepticons, but the twins were about to brawl over who was spending more time with Prowl.
It is easy enough to swap their assignments.
His team is comprised of volunteers. Soundwave, of course, is the first to lift a hand, and his cassettes intend to scamper through smaller areas the larger mechs might not fit. He’s the one to hack into an unguarded database and find them a map of the underlevels. With Chromedome and Rewind to help sift through the data, and Cyclonus to provide support, they’ve a well-rounded crew.
"Main database interface destroyed," Soundwave informs them as he leads the way to an underlevel access tunnel. "Mainframe only possible source of information."
"And it's deep below the city," Prowl says, for the benefit of anyone in the group who perhaps has never been to Iacon or knows little about the structure of it. "We've far to go, and unstable ground to pass through. Keep your optics open. Who knows what lurks down here."
It's not only sentient defenses that are a concern, but automatic defenses running on auxilliary power, last set to attack anything that comes near.
"Whatever it is, we can handle it," says Frenzy, or Rumble, Prowl has never been sure which is which. He turns to his brother and they bump fists with matching smirks of glee.
"Ravage to take point," Soundwave says as he releases his feline cassette and the dark shape lopes into the tunnel ahead of them. Prowl bites his glossa on a rebuttal.
This is meant to be a joint effort, after all, and it’s not his place to tell Soundwave what he should do with his subordinates.
"I will bring up the rear," Cyclonus offers, and there's something reassuring about the dour mech watching their backs. Cyclonus is a creature of honor, which is something in short supply from the Decepticons.
They begin their descent. Sideswipe stays close enough to be an appropriate defense, without being obnoxious about it. As much as he and his brother tease and play, they are the best at what they do. They know when it's time to be serious.
Prowl has always admired that about them.
It takes hours.
Down here, lighting is minimal. Walkways are rusted ruins. They have to find alternate routes around places where ordinance has destroyed the tunnels. At one point, Ravage warns them of a hibernating nest of Insecticons, and they change course rather than fight.
It's eerily silent, lacking even the ambient hum of a living planet, albeit one in stasis. Metal creaks and groans beneath their weight. Conversation is minimal, whether because they don't trust each other, or because it feels like they shouldn't joke while traversing what amounts to an enormous corpse.
Down, down, down they go.
Prowl is not a Seeker, but he still twitches at the weight of Cybertron above them. At least five levels of metal and equipment and a metropolis on top of that. It's hard to ventilate, the air heavy and cold, damp even. There's a sour tang in the air, like rotting energon and fluids.
When they find the mainframe, Prowl's not the only one showing visible signs of relief. The defense systems are inactive, granting them access with only a few quick hacks on Soundwave's part.
"Emergency power only," Soundwave observes as the doors creak open and they step into the humming quiet of the mainframe, little orange and red lights twinkling in dim corners and the ceiling.
"We'll have to plug in directly," Rewind says as he moves to the nearest console and starts jabbing at buttons. "Power the search with our own systems. We'll have to be quick. Cable up if we have to."
"Affirmative," Soundwave says and moves to another access console, cables already extending from his arms to sink into the visible ports.
"Now for the boring part," Sideswipe says as he leans up against the console Prowl chooses to start his own search.
Prowl's lips twitch toward a smile as he sinks a single cable into the access port. "You volunteered for this."
"Yeah, because I was tired of Sunny getting all the snuggle time." Sideswipe snorts and crosses his arms, affecting a pose of preparedness that makes him intensely attractive. And he knows it.
Prowl won't let himself be distracted.
"Not much time for that here," Prowl murmurs as he slides into the database, only allowing ten percent of his concentration to be devoted to Sideswipe. He keeps a weather optic on his energy levels as well. He'd hate to push himself too far and collapse.
"This is good, too," Sideswipe says with a shrug. He glances toward Soundwave, the cassettes, Cyclonus. "Feels weird to be so close to something with a purple badge but not try to kill it."
Prowl hums a noncommittal note. "I imagine they feel the same way."
Sideswipe chuckles. "Yeah. You're probably right." He tilts his head, optics narrowing. "How long do you think this is going to take?"
"Longer than you'd like, and hopefully, before we run out of energon."
"That won't happen."
Prowl spares a moment to offer him a small smile. "From your mouth to Primus' audials, as Kup would say." He bends his focus back to the database, pulling up the operating system and a search. Though it's hard to know where to start.
Sideswipe chuckles.
For a moment, it's quiet. Just the sound of Chromedome pacing behind Rewind, Soundwave's twins scrapping in a corner, the soft whirr of cooling fans and vents as the three researchers scan billions of terrabytes of data for a drop in the sea.
"Perimeter's clear," Cyclonus announces occasionally before he ventures out again, keeping a continuous patrol with Ravage a dark shadow loping ahead of him.
"Sunny says he's pretty sure Ratchet and Starscream are flirting," Sideswipe says, offhand, talking for the sake of talking. "Which means I wasn't imagining things."
"It's interesting you can still reach each other, given the distance," Prowl comments.
"We're special that way."
Prowl's lips twitch into another smile. "In other ways, too."
"Awww, Prowl. Now why you have to go and be charming at a time I can't do anything about it?" Sideswipe's lower lip juts out in a playful pout. "You're a tease. You're worse than Jazz."
Prowl spares a second to give Sideswipe a look. "No one is worse than Jazz."
"It depends on the situation."
Prowl chuckles before he makes himself bend his focus back to his duty. He's found his way into the Enforcer database and unlocked an access code that should let him venture further. "Does Sunstreaker seem disturbed by the notion?"
"We've been saying forever Ratch needs someone to look after him. Figures it'd be someone like Screamer. "
"What makes you say that?"
Sideswipe's weight shifts, his expression turned thoughtful, as though he's tapping into that intelligence he often tries to hide, so others will underestimate him. "They're both stubborn and snarky. Won't take slag from each other. Got a lot in common." He rolls his shoulders again. "Makes sense to me."
He supposes it does.
"Prowl. I've found something." Rewind's voice cuts into the conversation.
Prowl pauses his search and disengages from the console. Behind him, Rewind's face is reflected in the glow of a monitor, and Chromedome is already cabled up to him, offering a secondary power source for the minibot.
"It's a program called DIVIDE. It talks about creating and disseminating a virus that sounds a lot like the one we found," Rewind says, his fingers flying across the keys as images flash across the monitor, almost faster than Prowl can perceive. "It was ordered into use by the Senate -- majority vote -- and planted at the onset of the war."
"Send that file to me." Prowl peers over Rewind's shoulder, anger building inside of him. He should have known the Senate would do something so vile.
"There are linked files, too. You want those?" Rewind asks.
"Anything pertaining to DIVIDE. Anything you think we might use," Prowl confirms. He catches Chromedome's gaze with a nod of gratitude. "Don't drain either of you to empty."
Chromedome rests a hand on Rewind’s shoulder as the file pings Prowl’s inbox. “Don’t worry. That won’t happen.”
“Good.” Prowl returns to his own console, thoughts spinning inward, bending upon the data Rewind sent to him.
There are indications some of the information has been redacted, but Rewind has already restored the files to their original condition. Majority Leader Senator Highline had been the one to order the dissemination of the virus, and that task had been given to a loyal Autobot designated Crossflex. He’d joined the Decepticons under false pretenses, found his way to their main database before it earned the designation ‘Nemesis’ and uploaded DIVIDE.
What happened to him after that is a mystery. Possibly the Senate didn’t care. Crossflex was supposed to return to the Autobots, but there’s no record of it. That his actions hadn’t been uncovered suggested he wasn’t caught by the Decepticons. Prowl supposes he could have fled the war entirely. He might have stayed a Decepticon, working as an infiltrator, until he offlined in some battle.
Jazz might know more. He has a keener processor for understanding how Special Ops mechs might behave under certain situations.
“What is it?” Sideswipe asks, leaning against the console beside him. He nudges Prowl with an elbow, and presses warmth into the brief moment of contact.
Prowl shakes his head. “An infiltrator planted the virus. There’s no indication of his whereabouts afterward. It’s just a point of curiosity.”
“Huh. What else?”
Prowl peels through more layers, clumps upon clumps of legalese and jargon and scientific babbling he’ll have to tumble into Perceptor or Wheeljack’s hands if he hopes to make sense of it. Perhaps they can find the cure buried in the creation process.
“The virus is designed to seek out Decepticon leadership, a rather efficient tactic,” Prowl muses aloud, less to Sideswipe than he is speaking in general. “It buried itself in their mainframe and was made to look like innocent code. Daily security sweeps would have never found it.”
Or at least, he assumes Nemesis performs a daily sweep. Teletraan does and most advanced AIs are built from the same basic coding. Decepticons are also far more suspicious than Autobots. Megatron in particular, knowing of Jazz’s existence, wuold be especially wary.
“It’s amazing no one found it after so long,” Sideswipe says.
Prowl’s sensory panels flick. “We might have never discovered it existed, if not for Drift.” His spark squeezes into a ball of disappointment, and he sincerely hopes this truce rings permanent.
“I’m running into something else,” Rewind says, again capturing Prowl’s attention. “While the virus was ordered into use by Senator Highline, Project Cipher designed its coding and formulated the dissemination plan.”
“Project Cipher of defense department origin,” Soundwave speaks up from his console. “Activating files now.”
“What is Project Cipher?” Prowl asks. The designation is unfamiliar to him, though Rewind is right, it’s mentioned several times in the DIVIDE files. It’s tagged in the system as a related entry.
“Not what. Who,” Rewind says.
“Sparked on 20211.08.30,” Soundwave fills in, and Prowl goes still. “Praxus. The Helix Gardens bloom. Given an Enforcer frame.”
A low sound of static spills from Prowl’s mouth before he can stop it. He storms up to Rewind’s side. “That file. Send it to me now.”
“Prowl?” Concern radiates from Sideswipe’s direction, but Prowl shakes it off.
“You’re sure of that sparkdate, Soundwave?” Prowl asks as the file pings, and he immediately opens it.
“Affirmative.” Soundwave pauses, and there’s unease in the hesitation. “Project Cipher designated battle computer, designed to compute probabilities and outcomes for inputted information, specific to war effort.”
It’s getting harder to ventilate.
“It was very, very powerful software, akin to Teletraan or Nemesis,” Rewind adds, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, through a dark tunnel without a light at the end. “They used it for all sorts of things, but its main purpose was to devise a plan of action against the Decepticons. They chose to use DIVIDE because Cipher gave them a positive result.”
“Wait.” Sideswipe stands straighter and frowns, his gaze darting between Prowl and Soundwave. “You said it’s a program, and you said it’s a person. Which one is it?”
“Both.” Soundwave disengages from the console and briefly sways as he turns around, both Frenzy and Rumble reaching up to steady their carrier. “Program given a frame for ease of transportation, and a spark to sustain the energy requirements.”
Prowl’s hands shake as he reviews the files. He doesn’t need to hear Rewind’s follow-up reply to know what it’s going to be.
He recognizes that spark-date. He recognizes the spark location, and the frame build, and the processor model. He’s familiar with the software.
“They designated the subject Battleship, but later changed his designation,” Rewind says.
“To Prowl,” Prowl finishes, and there’s a cold dread in the pit of his tanks. It’s like his spark -- his power source apparently -- has shrank into a tiny ball and buried itself deep for sheer self-preservation.
“What? That’s ridiculous,” Sideswipe sputters. “You’re not a machine.”
Prowl works his intake. “According to this, I am.” So much of it matches his service record. How in the bombing of Praxus, they’d evacuated him to Iacon. He’d suffered a blow to the head that prompted a long stint in medbay and damaged his memory core. His escort had been killed in the attack.
He woke in a medical center with fractured memories and a clear directive -- to offer his services to the Autobots. To help win the war.
No wonder he doesn’t have fond memories of the other Enforcers he was supposed to have served with. Those memories are false. Implanted. They’d pretended their program was a mech to keep it safe.
But he’s not.
He’s a machine. A machine powered by a spark, granted, but a machine. One owned by the Senate, created for their purposes.
He supposes he owes Starscream his freedom, since Starscream killed the Senate, but is a machine truly free?
“Prowl?”
He shakes his head, moves away before Sideswipe can embrace him or touch his arm or offer any gentleness. He’s a machine, not a person. He’s a program, not a mech. He’s an emotionless computer, everyone has always said it, and the truth is here, in black and white, in files buried beneath Iacon.
“We have to return to the surface,” Prowl says, his voice coming out distant, mechanical, his processor working while logic spins around him. “We have what we came for.”
He’s moving toward the exit without thinking about it, where Cyclonus lurks with crossed arms and a face empty of emotion. Except he’s not the computer here, Prowl is. Funny how real mechs and pretend mechs can look the same on the outside.
His head hurts. His chest feels tight.
The air down here is too thin and damp to get an easy vent.
“Prowl?”
Someone speaks to him from far away. It’s a familiar voice, if only he could tap into the memory. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He’s a machine, like they always claimed him to be. The rumors and the whispers and truth, and Prowl wishes it doesn’t make as much sense as it does.
He’s to blame.
He’s as much to blame as the Senate. This virus. This horrific imposition upon a mech’s free will and sense of self. He’d given them the proof to use it. And they had. Have.
Static dances in Prowl’s periphery. They should reboot him. Off. Back on again. Just like any malfunctioning computer. There’s a queer sensation in his chest. A tightness. A squeeze on his vents. He’s hot, and there are warnings -- overheating, overstimulation. Warning. Warning.
He takes a step. Two. Three. They’re done here. They’ve found the truth. They’ve found the mech to blame.
Four.
Five.
He’s a machine. A tool.
Six.
Darkness.
***
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.
Details are Prowl’s realm of expertise.
It is up to Optimus to broker the peace, and Prowl to bring forth the guidelines for both leaders to sign. Soundwave, apparently, is working on his own version of a treaty, and it’ll be up to them to work together to come to an accord.
Fair enough. Prowl can work with Soundwave.
The Ark-22 hums around him, finally in motion, moving forward rather than drifting around a planet without discernible progress. It’s a bit disconcerting to know the Nemesis is on their heels, trailing them back to Cybertron. It feels a bit like having weapons pointed at one’s back, and only Soundwave’s presence on the Ark-22 brings Prowl some comfort.
Of course, he could have done without shuttling Ratchet over to the Nemesis, but such is the way of trust. Megatron won’t fire upon the Ark while Soundwave is aboard, and the Autobots would never harm Ratchet. It’s a subtle reassurance, if unspoken, in form of a hostage exchange.
He'd sent Sideswipe with Ratchet, because the twins had argued the loudest against allowing Ratchet aboard the Nemesis, but relented when Prowl agreed to send one of them along. Sideswipe was the first to speak up, bare seconds before his brother, and so Sideswipe had gone.
But now Prowl has a sulking Sunstreaker lurking about his office, pouting because he misses his twin. He’s also about his pseudo-caretaker, and has decided that glaring through the wall at Soundwave next door, working hard on his version of the treaty, is his best course of action.
It would be distracting, if Prowl wasn't already used to working around his twins and their eccentricities.
It's better for Ratchet to be aboard the Nemesis anyway. There he can get started researching the virus, determining who is infected versus who isn't, and he has ready access to Shockwave and Starscream’s expertise.
Prowl would have sent Drift along with Ratchet, for treatment's sake, if Perceptor hadn't protested so vehemently. Perceptor doesn’t want Drift anywhere near the Decepticons while he’s unconscious. Apparently, Deadlock had left quite a few grudges in his wake.
This does not surprise Prowl in the least.
"You really think this cease-fire is going to work?" Sunstreaker asks, not for the first time, as he paces back and forth, ignoring the distractions Prowl has already attempted to give him.
"I want to believe it will," Prowl answers without inflection. He understands Sunstreaker's anxiety. He shares it. But he won’t let it distract him. "I can't be the only one tired of war. It will be nice not to worry about you and Sideswipe on the battlefield."
Sunstreaker snorts. "You shouldn't worry anyway. There's no Decepticon out there can kill us."
"Your confidence is the most charming thing about you," Prowl says, with a curl of amusement to the corner of his lips.
"At least you didn't call it arrogance."
Prowl smiles and adds in a clause regarding punishment and judgment of crimes prior to the signing of the treaty. While there are many Decepticons he'd love to put on trial and execute, logically, he knows it's not feasible. To even suggest such a thing would careen them right back into war.
Worse, he knows there are Autobots he'll be protecting with this clause as well. Jazz comes to mind. As do Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who've committed their share of dark deeds against the Decepticons.
His mail chimes with a new message, so Prowl saves his work and clicks on the blinking icon, which announces Ratchet as the sender. The words are brief, as Ratchet is known to be when he's otherwise occupied.
Only command-level Decepticons have been affected apparently. Ratchet suspects it was designed to seek out certain personnel identifiers. It would make sense. Manipulating the Decepticon army is much easier by targeting the leadership. It's what Prowl would have done.
He tucks away that knowledge and gets back to work. It takes him far too long to realize Sunstreaker has moved into his space and now peers over his shoulder, reading over the treaty terms as Prowl composes them.
“Let me know if you see something you disagree with,” Prowl says, unconsciously leaning into the warmth and comfort of Sunstreaker’s field, though the edges of it radiate unease. Sunstreaker won’t be able to relax until he’s sure his brother and his surrogate caretaker are safely within sight.
“I trust you,” Sunstreaker says. “Optimus trusts you, too. And I think, as much as they might loathe you, the Decepticons know how skilled you are. Negotiation is going to be a piece of oil cake.”
Would that he has Sunstreaker’s confidence. Still, his sensory panels flutter with appreciation for the compliment.
“I’ll be in late tonight,” Prowl says by way of response, though part of him longs to close his workspace down and join Sunstreaker in the berth immediately. It’s rare that he gets a twin to himself. “There’s a lot of work left to do.”
Sunstreaker sweeps his fingers along the topmost edge of Prowl’s sensory panels, making them tingle. “It’s a shortcoming we’ve learned to accept. You’re ours where it counts,” he says with a contemplative hum which makes Prowl’s spark flutter again.
Prowl is not ready to admit how much he likes the sound of their claiming.
“I’ll stay. Keep you company. Promise not to be a distraction,” Sunstreaker murmurs, and it’s almost a purr, in conjunction with the way he torments Prowl’s panels.
“Your promise and your actions do not seem to be aligned,” Prowl points out, and Sunstreaker’s quiet chuckle is music to his audials.
“I am still Sideswipe’s brother, mischief and all,” Sunstreaker hums with a kiss to the very tip of Prowl’s chevron, his ex-vents moist and warm.
Prowl holds himself still to conceal a shiver and grasps for the nearest datapad, only to push it at Sunstreaker, narrowly avoiding his nasal ridge. “You can help, if you’re going to stay,” he says with a tone both twins have learned mean business.
“You are incorrigible,” Sunstreaker says, but it’s with affection. He accepts the datapad and drops into the chair across from Prowl, leaning back to get comfortable. “We still love you anyway.”
Prowl’s insides flutter with warmth, and his sensory panels echo it. He says nothing, but the touch of his field to Sunstreaker’s speaks for itself.
His head aches. His entire frame aches, truth be told, but it's the dull throb in his head that is the most upsetting.
He doesn't want to online his optics. He picks up sounds: the low murmur of conversation, the steady beep of machines, the distant hum of a ship in motion, the familiar rattling whirr of his lover. He's not in his berthroom, but Perceptor is beside him, so it can't be too terrible.
And then he remembers.
Anger. Pain. Fury. Agony.
He'd attacked Whirl. He'd swung at Top Spin.
He'd punched Perceptor.
And then his world had gone dark.
Oh, Primus. What had he done?
Regret echoes in his chassis. He forces his optics to online, despite the pain, because he doesn't deserve comfort right now. He's in a medbay, if an unfamiliar one, and the overhead lights are dim. He's attached to a number of machines, and Perceptor slumps over the edge of the berth next to him, hand tightly clasped with Drift's.
There's no shadow of a dent on his face. Either Drift had managed to hold back, or he's been out long enough for Perceptor to heal.
Of all the mechs he's never wanted to hurt...
Perceptor stirs before Drift has a chance to figure out what he's going to say.
Drift panics, but he's aching and numb all over, unable to do little more than twitch and shift on the berth. Perceptor lifts his head, cycles his optics, and he looks directly at Drift, who braces himself.
"I'm sor--"
"You're online!" Relief gushes in Perceptor's field. He tightly squeezes Drift's hand. "I was starting to think we'd never get you back online."
Drift blinks. "What happened?" he asks, and is alarmed by how staticky his vocalizer sounds. He checks his chronometer but has no frame of reference for how long it's been.
Perceptor rises, only to sit on the edge of the berth, his hip pressing to Drift's. "You have a virus.” He pulls Drift’s hands into his lap, thumbs running over Drift’s knuckles. "It's conflicting with a forced coding upload the Knights gave you. That's what caused your erratic behavior."
"A virus?"
"Yes. One lurking in the Decepticon database, striking anyone who's ever carried a leadership mantle. You can imagine how it was placed there." Perceptor's optics flash with anger, his hands tightening around Drift's, before he smooths it away, burying it, like the war has taught him to do.
Perceptor’s anger is a cold one, building and building beneath the surface, ever plotting for a means to be set loose.
"Autobots?"
Perceptor gives him a thin smile. "Yes and no. It was a plot of the Senate’s, to de-legitimize the Decepticon cause and make them appear more monstrous and feral. Unfortunately, it has worked."
Drift wishes he could be surprised. He presses his lips together, shutters his optics, cycles a ventilation around the rage seeking to rise up and swallow him whole. He's worked very hard to become Drift again, but Deadlock lurks around every corner, waiting to remind him how much easier it was when he ignored his conscience.
"The other coding issue was brought upon by the Knights and while they think of themselves as Neutral, they also see themselves as Autobots." Perceptor cycles a ventilation. "You have had so many of your choices taken from you, Drift. For that, I apologize."
Drift shakes his head, though the motion causes a wave of faint dizziness. "I should be saying sorry," he says. "I hit you. I don't even know why. I just remember being so angry, and the next thing I knew--"
"It's not your fault. I don't blame you for it."
"I blame myself." Drift winces and tries to sit up, though much of his frame doesn't want to respond. He feels half-present, like he's only half-working.
Perceptor grabs the berth controls to raise the upper half of the berth. "You're only conscious because we built a firewall between the virus, the coding, and your personal coding. We have to find a cure to really repair you."
"You'll find it," Drift says, with utmost certainty. Perceptor is the smartest mech he knows, and there’s no one Drift trusts more. "Where are we? What happened?"
Perceptor sits on the berth with him, taking Drift's hand once more. "I had to put you in stasis, and we changed course to the nearest Autobot base, which happened to be the Ark-22. We're in command central's mainbay with--"
"Ratchet," Drift finishes for him, and winces before he can stop himself. That’s a reunion he simultaneously dreads and anticipates. He wonders what Ratchet thinks of what he’s become. "Between the two of you, I'm in good hands."
Perceptor smiles, but it's strained. He's obviously recharged, but it's not been very restful. His field is a frazzled flicker around him, and were he a stronger mech, Drift would wince at the strength of his grip.
"We hope. There's a search party heading into Iacon underground as we speak, to see if anything can be found about the virus. With any luck, they'll find knowledge of an anti-virus."
Drift snorts. "I sincerely doubt the Senate would have had any intentions of curing whoever they infected, but I appreciate the attempt. Is it just me?"
"No." Perceptor finds the far wall abruptly fascinating, his armor clamping tightly to his substructure as if drawing on his defensive protocols. "It's every Decepticon who holds a command post. If not for the conflict in your coding, we might have never known to look for a virus."
The rage rises back up again, a thick mass in the back of his intake. He wants to purge and he wants to scream, and his tanks clench with disgust.
"There were reasons I became a Decepticon," Drift says, speaking low. Hopefully, he's not being monitored. Hopefully, they're not looking for a reason to doubt his defection. "And forced change or not, there are reasons I became an Autobot. Now, I don't know if I was ever given a choice about anything."
Perceptor’s vents sharpen. "That's... fair," he says, like one choosing his words with care. "I can't begin to understand. My life was a lot easier than yours so I'm in no position to comment."
Drift manages a lopsided smile and tugs Perceptor's hand. "Come on. Lie down with me. I'm not mad about that."
"I didn't think you were." Perceptor listens though, carefully manuevering around the wires and things to notch himself next to Drift on the berth, barely fitting in the narrow space. His field is a familiar comfort, and Drift isn’t ashamed to admit how hard he latches on to it.
"I am angry though," Drift says. "I'd have killed over this. If not for you, I might have crossed the lines again."
"The war's on hold," Perceptor offers, one hand resting on Drift's abdomen, thumb stroking a transformation seam. "A cease-fire. It was Megatron's idea even. We might get a treaty out of it."
"And all it took was the Senate stealing our agency. Imagine that." Drift grimaces, the fury boiling fierce and bright inside of him. He hasn't the energy to do anything about it, but by Primus, does he want to. "We should have burned it all to the ground."
Perceptor's hand stills. His ventilations catch on a cycle before picking up rhythm once more. "You think we're beyond saving?"
"I think we've done our level best to destroy each other, long before the war started," Drift answers, truthfully. "Whether it's by crushing the lesser under the Senate's heels or death by war."
Perceptor presses his head against Drift’s, but it’s gentle, as is the way his field offers itself to Drift. “I think there are still good mechs. I think our home is still worth saving.”
It’s weird to hear Perceptor sound so optimistic. But then, it’s weird to be sitting in Ratchet’s medbay with rumors of a cease-fire beyond the doors. There’s a whole lot of weird going on right now.
Maybe Perceptor’s right. Maybe he could use a little more hope.
Besides, there’s definitely one thing Drift still trusts, one beacon of brightness that he found as Deadlock and somehow managed to keep as Drift. There’s one mech in his life he’d fight to keep, one reason to keep moving forward.
He tangles his fingers around Perceptor’s and makes a non-committal noise. “Maybe,” he says, deferring for now. “Tell me more about what’s going on. Since I can’t leave the berth yet, I’m relying on you for all the best gossip.”
Perceptor snorts. “I should get Whirl in here for that, but he’s still smarting over the gash you gave him. Be warned, he might seek revenge.”
“Pfft. I can handle Whirl.”
With Perceptor next to him, there’s nothing Drift can’t handle.
There is no better place to begin their research than Iacon, but standing on the bridge as they sweep over the ruined city is like a punch to the spark. Prowl aches, deep in the core of him, at the devastation they have wrought to a once grand metropolis.
The current state of Cybertron is painful enough. Remembering the burnt husk that is Praxus makes his spark feel raw and agonized all over again. This, somehow, is worse.
Iacon had been the last seat of power for the Autobots, before they were forced to flee the planet. Left behind, Iacon had crumbled, razed to the ground as the Decepticons flew triumphant over the burning remains.
It’s a sobering sight.
The Decepticons, at least, have the decency not to gloat. Perhaps because they’re recalling Kaon’s current state. And Tarn. And Tesarus. And every other city or stronghold the Decepticons had claimed, which the Autobots destroyed.
There is no inch of Cybertron that escaped the war. The open lands are toxic wastes. The once beautiful Sea of Rust is a sludgy slag pit. The crystal forest is a shattered ruin of ash-soaked death. The flora and fauna native to the planet have gone extinct. It’d be a miracle to find Cybertron habitable at all.
They coordinate with the Nemesis and find a place to land, on the outskirts of Iacon, where a battle destroyed the outer rings of the city into a flat collapse, so terrible it sank below the surface, into the underlevels.
“It should be stable,” Hound tells them. “Enough.”
There’s no better option.
They land, the Ark first as it’s heavier, and then the Nemesis nearby. They hold their collective vents, but while Cybertron creaks and moans a death rattle around them, it holds their weight. Perhaps they’ve earned a respite from Primus, having returned under a cease-fire.
Prowl volunteers to lead the search party. He takes Sideswipe with him, because they don’t want to leave Ratchet unguarded with so many Decepticons, but the twins were about to brawl over who was spending more time with Prowl.
It is easy enough to swap their assignments.
His team is comprised of volunteers. Soundwave, of course, is the first to lift a hand, and his cassettes intend to scamper through smaller areas the larger mechs might not fit. He’s the one to hack into an unguarded database and find them a map of the underlevels. With Chromedome and Rewind to help sift through the data, and Cyclonus to provide support, they’ve a well-rounded crew.
"Main database interface destroyed," Soundwave informs them as he leads the way to an underlevel access tunnel. "Mainframe only possible source of information."
"And it's deep below the city," Prowl says, for the benefit of anyone in the group who perhaps has never been to Iacon or knows little about the structure of it. "We've far to go, and unstable ground to pass through. Keep your optics open. Who knows what lurks down here."
It's not only sentient defenses that are a concern, but automatic defenses running on auxilliary power, last set to attack anything that comes near.
"Whatever it is, we can handle it," says Frenzy, or Rumble, Prowl has never been sure which is which. He turns to his brother and they bump fists with matching smirks of glee.
"Ravage to take point," Soundwave says as he releases his feline cassette and the dark shape lopes into the tunnel ahead of them. Prowl bites his glossa on a rebuttal.
This is meant to be a joint effort, after all, and it’s not his place to tell Soundwave what he should do with his subordinates.
"I will bring up the rear," Cyclonus offers, and there's something reassuring about the dour mech watching their backs. Cyclonus is a creature of honor, which is something in short supply from the Decepticons.
They begin their descent. Sideswipe stays close enough to be an appropriate defense, without being obnoxious about it. As much as he and his brother tease and play, they are the best at what they do. They know when it's time to be serious.
Prowl has always admired that about them.
It takes hours.
Down here, lighting is minimal. Walkways are rusted ruins. They have to find alternate routes around places where ordinance has destroyed the tunnels. At one point, Ravage warns them of a hibernating nest of Insecticons, and they change course rather than fight.
It's eerily silent, lacking even the ambient hum of a living planet, albeit one in stasis. Metal creaks and groans beneath their weight. Conversation is minimal, whether because they don't trust each other, or because it feels like they shouldn't joke while traversing what amounts to an enormous corpse.
Down, down, down they go.
Prowl is not a Seeker, but he still twitches at the weight of Cybertron above them. At least five levels of metal and equipment and a metropolis on top of that. It's hard to ventilate, the air heavy and cold, damp even. There's a sour tang in the air, like rotting energon and fluids.
When they find the mainframe, Prowl's not the only one showing visible signs of relief. The defense systems are inactive, granting them access with only a few quick hacks on Soundwave's part.
"Emergency power only," Soundwave observes as the doors creak open and they step into the humming quiet of the mainframe, little orange and red lights twinkling in dim corners and the ceiling.
"We'll have to plug in directly," Rewind says as he moves to the nearest console and starts jabbing at buttons. "Power the search with our own systems. We'll have to be quick. Cable up if we have to."
"Affirmative," Soundwave says and moves to another access console, cables already extending from his arms to sink into the visible ports.
"Now for the boring part," Sideswipe says as he leans up against the console Prowl chooses to start his own search.
Prowl's lips twitch toward a smile as he sinks a single cable into the access port. "You volunteered for this."
"Yeah, because I was tired of Sunny getting all the snuggle time." Sideswipe snorts and crosses his arms, affecting a pose of preparedness that makes him intensely attractive. And he knows it.
Prowl won't let himself be distracted.
"Not much time for that here," Prowl murmurs as he slides into the database, only allowing ten percent of his concentration to be devoted to Sideswipe. He keeps a weather optic on his energy levels as well. He'd hate to push himself too far and collapse.
"This is good, too," Sideswipe says with a shrug. He glances toward Soundwave, the cassettes, Cyclonus. "Feels weird to be so close to something with a purple badge but not try to kill it."
Prowl hums a noncommittal note. "I imagine they feel the same way."
Sideswipe chuckles. "Yeah. You're probably right." He tilts his head, optics narrowing. "How long do you think this is going to take?"
"Longer than you'd like, and hopefully, before we run out of energon."
"That won't happen."
Prowl spares a moment to offer him a small smile. "From your mouth to Primus' audials, as Kup would say." He bends his focus back to the database, pulling up the operating system and a search. Though it's hard to know where to start.
Sideswipe chuckles.
For a moment, it's quiet. Just the sound of Chromedome pacing behind Rewind, Soundwave's twins scrapping in a corner, the soft whirr of cooling fans and vents as the three researchers scan billions of terrabytes of data for a drop in the sea.
"Perimeter's clear," Cyclonus announces occasionally before he ventures out again, keeping a continuous patrol with Ravage a dark shadow loping ahead of him.
"Sunny says he's pretty sure Ratchet and Starscream are flirting," Sideswipe says, offhand, talking for the sake of talking. "Which means I wasn't imagining things."
"It's interesting you can still reach each other, given the distance," Prowl comments.
"We're special that way."
Prowl's lips twitch into another smile. "In other ways, too."
"Awww, Prowl. Now why you have to go and be charming at a time I can't do anything about it?" Sideswipe's lower lip juts out in a playful pout. "You're a tease. You're worse than Jazz."
Prowl spares a second to give Sideswipe a look. "No one is worse than Jazz."
"It depends on the situation."
Prowl chuckles before he makes himself bend his focus back to his duty. He's found his way into the Enforcer database and unlocked an access code that should let him venture further. "Does Sunstreaker seem disturbed by the notion?"
"We've been saying forever Ratch needs someone to look after him. Figures it'd be someone like Screamer. "
"What makes you say that?"
Sideswipe's weight shifts, his expression turned thoughtful, as though he's tapping into that intelligence he often tries to hide, so others will underestimate him. "They're both stubborn and snarky. Won't take slag from each other. Got a lot in common." He rolls his shoulders again. "Makes sense to me."
He supposes it does.
"Prowl. I've found something." Rewind's voice cuts into the conversation.
Prowl pauses his search and disengages from the console. Behind him, Rewind's face is reflected in the glow of a monitor, and Chromedome is already cabled up to him, offering a secondary power source for the minibot.
"It's a program called DIVIDE. It talks about creating and disseminating a virus that sounds a lot like the one we found," Rewind says, his fingers flying across the keys as images flash across the monitor, almost faster than Prowl can perceive. "It was ordered into use by the Senate -- majority vote -- and planted at the onset of the war."
"Send that file to me." Prowl peers over Rewind's shoulder, anger building inside of him. He should have known the Senate would do something so vile.
"There are linked files, too. You want those?" Rewind asks.
"Anything pertaining to DIVIDE. Anything you think we might use," Prowl confirms. He catches Chromedome's gaze with a nod of gratitude. "Don't drain either of you to empty."
Chromedome rests a hand on Rewind’s shoulder as the file pings Prowl’s inbox. “Don’t worry. That won’t happen.”
“Good.” Prowl returns to his own console, thoughts spinning inward, bending upon the data Rewind sent to him.
There are indications some of the information has been redacted, but Rewind has already restored the files to their original condition. Majority Leader Senator Highline had been the one to order the dissemination of the virus, and that task had been given to a loyal Autobot designated Crossflex. He’d joined the Decepticons under false pretenses, found his way to their main database before it earned the designation ‘Nemesis’ and uploaded DIVIDE.
What happened to him after that is a mystery. Possibly the Senate didn’t care. Crossflex was supposed to return to the Autobots, but there’s no record of it. That his actions hadn’t been uncovered suggested he wasn’t caught by the Decepticons. Prowl supposes he could have fled the war entirely. He might have stayed a Decepticon, working as an infiltrator, until he offlined in some battle.
Jazz might know more. He has a keener processor for understanding how Special Ops mechs might behave under certain situations.
“What is it?” Sideswipe asks, leaning against the console beside him. He nudges Prowl with an elbow, and presses warmth into the brief moment of contact.
Prowl shakes his head. “An infiltrator planted the virus. There’s no indication of his whereabouts afterward. It’s just a point of curiosity.”
“Huh. What else?”
Prowl peels through more layers, clumps upon clumps of legalese and jargon and scientific babbling he’ll have to tumble into Perceptor or Wheeljack’s hands if he hopes to make sense of it. Perhaps they can find the cure buried in the creation process.
“The virus is designed to seek out Decepticon leadership, a rather efficient tactic,” Prowl muses aloud, less to Sideswipe than he is speaking in general. “It buried itself in their mainframe and was made to look like innocent code. Daily security sweeps would have never found it.”
Or at least, he assumes Nemesis performs a daily sweep. Teletraan does and most advanced AIs are built from the same basic coding. Decepticons are also far more suspicious than Autobots. Megatron in particular, knowing of Jazz’s existence, wuold be especially wary.
“It’s amazing no one found it after so long,” Sideswipe says.
Prowl’s sensory panels flick. “We might have never discovered it existed, if not for Drift.” His spark squeezes into a ball of disappointment, and he sincerely hopes this truce rings permanent.
“I’m running into something else,” Rewind says, again capturing Prowl’s attention. “While the virus was ordered into use by Senator Highline, Project Cipher designed its coding and formulated the dissemination plan.”
“Project Cipher of defense department origin,” Soundwave speaks up from his console. “Activating files now.”
“What is Project Cipher?” Prowl asks. The designation is unfamiliar to him, though Rewind is right, it’s mentioned several times in the DIVIDE files. It’s tagged in the system as a related entry.
“Not what. Who,” Rewind says.
“Sparked on 20211.08.30,” Soundwave fills in, and Prowl goes still. “Praxus. The Helix Gardens bloom. Given an Enforcer frame.”
A low sound of static spills from Prowl’s mouth before he can stop it. He storms up to Rewind’s side. “That file. Send it to me now.”
“Prowl?” Concern radiates from Sideswipe’s direction, but Prowl shakes it off.
“You’re sure of that sparkdate, Soundwave?” Prowl asks as the file pings, and he immediately opens it.
“Affirmative.” Soundwave pauses, and there’s unease in the hesitation. “Project Cipher designated battle computer, designed to compute probabilities and outcomes for inputted information, specific to war effort.”
It’s getting harder to ventilate.
“It was very, very powerful software, akin to Teletraan or Nemesis,” Rewind adds, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, through a dark tunnel without a light at the end. “They used it for all sorts of things, but its main purpose was to devise a plan of action against the Decepticons. They chose to use DIVIDE because Cipher gave them a positive result.”
“Wait.” Sideswipe stands straighter and frowns, his gaze darting between Prowl and Soundwave. “You said it’s a program, and you said it’s a person. Which one is it?”
“Both.” Soundwave disengages from the console and briefly sways as he turns around, both Frenzy and Rumble reaching up to steady their carrier. “Program given a frame for ease of transportation, and a spark to sustain the energy requirements.”
Prowl’s hands shake as he reviews the files. He doesn’t need to hear Rewind’s follow-up reply to know what it’s going to be.
He recognizes that spark-date. He recognizes the spark location, and the frame build, and the processor model. He’s familiar with the software.
“They designated the subject Battleship, but later changed his designation,” Rewind says.
“To Prowl,” Prowl finishes, and there’s a cold dread in the pit of his tanks. It’s like his spark -- his power source apparently -- has shrank into a tiny ball and buried itself deep for sheer self-preservation.
“What? That’s ridiculous,” Sideswipe sputters. “You’re not a machine.”
Prowl works his intake. “According to this, I am.” So much of it matches his service record. How in the bombing of Praxus, they’d evacuated him to Iacon. He’d suffered a blow to the head that prompted a long stint in medbay and damaged his memory core. His escort had been killed in the attack.
He woke in a medical center with fractured memories and a clear directive -- to offer his services to the Autobots. To help win the war.
No wonder he doesn’t have fond memories of the other Enforcers he was supposed to have served with. Those memories are false. Implanted. They’d pretended their program was a mech to keep it safe.
But he’s not.
He’s a machine. A machine powered by a spark, granted, but a machine. One owned by the Senate, created for their purposes.
He supposes he owes Starscream his freedom, since Starscream killed the Senate, but is a machine truly free?
“Prowl?”
He shakes his head, moves away before Sideswipe can embrace him or touch his arm or offer any gentleness. He’s a machine, not a person. He’s a program, not a mech. He’s an emotionless computer, everyone has always said it, and the truth is here, in black and white, in files buried beneath Iacon.
“We have to return to the surface,” Prowl says, his voice coming out distant, mechanical, his processor working while logic spins around him. “We have what we came for.”
He’s moving toward the exit without thinking about it, where Cyclonus lurks with crossed arms and a face empty of emotion. Except he’s not the computer here, Prowl is. Funny how real mechs and pretend mechs can look the same on the outside.
His head hurts. His chest feels tight.
The air down here is too thin and damp to get an easy vent.
“Prowl?”
Someone speaks to him from far away. It’s a familiar voice, if only he could tap into the memory. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He’s a machine, like they always claimed him to be. The rumors and the whispers and truth, and Prowl wishes it doesn’t make as much sense as it does.
He’s to blame.
He’s as much to blame as the Senate. This virus. This horrific imposition upon a mech’s free will and sense of self. He’d given them the proof to use it. And they had. Have.
Static dances in Prowl’s periphery. They should reboot him. Off. Back on again. Just like any malfunctioning computer. There’s a queer sensation in his chest. A tightness. A squeeze on his vents. He’s hot, and there are warnings -- overheating, overstimulation. Warning. Warning.
He takes a step. Two. Three. They’re done here. They’ve found the truth. They’ve found the mech to blame.
Four.
Five.
He’s a machine. A tool.
Six.
Darkness.
