The abomination survived. The others might be convinced - or rather, snowed - by Starscream's assurances and promises, but Bombshock knew the truth. CC 26G643AB was an abomination and it yet lived. Meta lived.
No Decepticon would ever be safe again until CC 26G643AB was dead. Truly dead, and his grotesque little body ground into dust so fine, that even the infiltration Hounds couldn't find a trace of it. Speaking of Hounds...
"You know what to do," Bombshock intoned as he slid the datastick across the table toward the silent charcoal figure standing in the shadows on the other side.
He always kept it dark when he met his operative. Less chance for Stiletto to see him, to pick out the finer details of his identity. To be able to finger him in a line-up. Just a voice in the darkness, and a modulated voice at that. If Bombshock had his preference, Stiletto wouldn't even be allowed that, but sometimes one had to make compromises when one wanted the best, and the assassin was one of the best. Shortly to be very"was", but there was no reason for Stiletto to know that Bombshock was planning the assassin's retirement already. No sense leaving such a valuable, and dangerous, weapon free to turn on him, too.
"Of course."
"Good. Dismissed."
Silver claws slid out of the shadows and the datastick vanished. Another moment, and the door hissed shut, leaving Bombshock alone with his thoughts. Yes, the others might believe the Air Commander, but Bombshock alone knew the truth about that... horror. Fortunately he also had the bearings to do something about it. Too bad he was the only one of them that did.
Well, one thing at a time.
Bombshock was an idiot.
"Come."
From the darkness beside the door, another shadow flowed into step beside Stiletto as he strode confidently away from the "Controller's" hidden sanctum. "Controller". What a joke. Stiletto was far too disciplined to do something so damning as snort aloud at the thought of the pompous windbag's bloated self-image, but internally, the assassin sneered.
He wasn't even supposed to know Bombshock's identity. Their meetings were always in darkness, shrouded in voice modulators and heat distorters, and Tracker, Stiletto's Hound partner, was never allowed within, lest he get the "Controller's" scent profile. As if Tracker couldn't snag it from the ambient air that hung about Stiletto , or even from what wafted out when the doors opened.
That was how they had tracked Bombshock down after the first time the "Controller" had contacted them, actually.
His claws drifted down to scratch the top of Tracker's head as he checked the datastick for traps and trojans. Clear. Good thing. He'd hate to tip his hand so soon and eliminate the windbag so precipitously. Not until he could get the footage back and get clear of Bombshock's control. Of all the times to be sloppy, it had to be a mission where Bombshock, of all mechs, managed to track down the video evidence that had implicated Stiletto.
Then again, he mused, better to be under the thumb of an idiot that could be eliminated eventually, than a realthreat, like Megatron. Or Starscream.
He inserted the datastick once it was cleared and checked the full mission parameters. Meta, huh? Not like Stiletto wasn't expecting this. Meta had been too competent, too good at his job, for Bombshock to tolerate the threat. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Not that Stiletto had any real respect for the others in CC Command if they didn't understand what a liability Bombshock was to them, and to the Decepticons.
All things in their time, though. First, complete the Mission. Then get back to tracking down where the windbag had secured his leverage against Stiletto. Get back the video, and then fix everything.
Tracker growled his agreement as he absorbed the assassins thoughts and the mission parameters through their datalink. The growl changed timber, a note of annoyed resignation creeping into the tone, even as Stiletto felt the familiar tug of summons through their link.
"Go," he agreed, giving Tracker one last scratch. "Soon enough."
A flash of assent, and then the dark cat flowed away back into the darkness as swiftly and silently as he had appeared.
Just as soon as they could take care of Bombshock, they'd be free to track down that equally foolish mech in Intelligence that erroneously assumed that he was Tracker's Master. As if anyone could truly Master a Hound. They weren't drones, no matter what common thought was. The good"Masters" knew. The ones who gave their Hounds the freedom to work that they deserved, that they excelled under. Soundwave, for example.
Of course, if Tracker's "Master" hadn't been such an idiot, Tracker never would have been so badly fragged, and if he hadn't, Stiletto never would have stumbled upon the damaged cat during one of his own missions. The mission where he'd learned that hidden truth about the Hounds.
Meta wasn't the only one who could range-hack, after all.
Expecting no resistance from the processor of a badly fragged Hound - little better than drones, they were, or at least, they were supposed to be - Stiletto had hacked the downed Hound to grab the visual feed from the cat's forward position. He hadn't been expecting to meet that mind, resigned to death, but instinctively grasping for any chance, for survival.
Even now, Stiletto wasn't quite certain exactly what had happened, whether Tracker had managed to hack him, or if it had been each of their hunter's instincts finding a mate in the other and responding. Maybe both, maybe something completely different. He'd just found himself advancing into the fireline to get to Tracker, to save the Hound, and then, later, once Tracker had been repaired, finding himself bound to the cat, their thoughts intertwined deeper than a mere radio could transmit, but not so deep as a binary. No firewalls between them, no secrets, but, oddly, no intrusion.
It was, he would come to find, the link that a good Master should share with his Hound. The link Tracker's Master had never bothered with, assuming the Hound little more than a drone with good instincts. It was a link never meant for someone lacking protocols to be a Master. That was the only reason Stiletto and Tracker continued the farce of a charade that Tracker still "belonged" to his "Master". Their secret weapon. Their edge.
It was what made them one of the best.
Too bad for Meta. Bombshock wanted Meta dead, so Meta would die, simple as that. Stiletto hadn't failed a mission yet, and he wasn't about to now, even if it meant being more delicate than usual to stay under Starscream's radar. No need to earn himself an enemy that highly placed. And unlike Bombshock, Starscream was smart. Cunning. Meta, too, for that matter. Stiletto had checked, had heard of Meta even before "Controller" had thrown this mission at him. Best CC stats in the whole system. Saved a lot of their own mechs from useless death. Pah. Bombshock really was an idiotto want Meta dead, but until Stiletto could win himself free, a mission was a mission.
Even if he didn't agree with it.
He could feel Tracker deeply cycle atmosphere through his olfactory sensors. Starscream's scent was thick, but stale, a sharp contrast to Meta's thinner, but hotter scent. He was alone, just as Stiletto had planned. He flashed his assent to Tracker, even as he insinuated his thoughts carefully into the nearest security net systems. So gently, like dipping a toe into a trickle of energon, testing the net, testing the flow.
No resistance, no awareness, no alarm. He pulled folds of the system's current around himself like a shroud as he dove in, letting the data flow carry him along the lines and nodes. A few cameras and security feeds, as expected. A couple of tertiary backups to the backups, and a hidden feed. Also expected. The Air Commander hadn't risen to his position by being careless. With long-practiced skill, Stiletto hacked their feeds, wrapping a loop of harmless data over and over into their input ports, masking it with a maintenance algorithm. No suspicious broken feeds, but now, no eyes, no ears within the Air Commander's quarters until Stiletto willed it.
Until Tracker had slipped within and snapped the Meta drone's spark like corroded plating. In and out, quick, surgical, hidden, and when Starscream returned, he would find one broken little droneling whose atrophied and undeveloped chassis had just given up on his poor spark. Happened all the time these days, with energon just starting to get more and more scarce. Such a shame.
Such a waste. In every sense. Waste of the dronelings, waste of their young, waste of Meta. Stiletto couldn't wait until this whole disagreeable mission was done with. Within the maintenance ducting inside, Tracker hissed his own agreement.
Inside, the duct cover slid out of the way with a soft schnickt, releasing Tracker into the quiet quarters where their target rested, waiting for Starscream's return. Quiet. Quiet and simple. Pad across the floor, over to where the small form lay curled on its side. It looked so tiny and helpless through Tracker's optics. Spindly, more angular than he was expecting, all thin, useless limbs and all four optics dark, with some silent horror twisting the horrid little features. What dreams and nightmares plagued the little wreck in his rest?
It didn't matter. Quick and clean. Would barely even take a swipe of Tracker's paw to end this, finish the mission. He felt Tracker shift.
Four optics suddenly flared to life.
Stiletto froze as he felt dagger claws sink into Tracker's shoulders, and the world seemed to dissolve into a whirling hurricane of knives and fury. He could hear the droneling's shrieks of rage and fury as Tracker spun and flailed, flinging himself to the floor to crush the monster clinging to his back, trying to sever his primary motor cables along his dorsal line. The assassin cursed silently to himself as he pried loose one of the external duct covers and wedged his way into the ducting, forcing his bulk into the tight squeeze. Wouldn't be pretty, but he'd make it to Starscream's quarters - though half his attention was still hacked deep into the security net, ensuring that no one would see or hear this, nor that Starscream would return and interrupt them, unknowing - and assist Tracker. Messy, not quiet and neat anymore. Messy, but it was the mission, and they would finish--
NONONO! WON'T!
Stiletto froze as the foreign thought intruded, and then his motor servos locked up. Hacked.
What the FRAG!? Tracker?!
Inside, Tracker simultaneously froze as well, toppling over mid-spin, as his own motor servos froze.
His Master. Tracker's fragging Master had been under CC control before. Tracker's Master, now range-hacked when Meta, seeing the threat, had responded in the only way he could. Through the Master, to Tracker. Tracker, who had no firewalls between he and Stiletto .
WHO!?
Hate and fear and fury slid through Stiletto's mind like acid, burning everything it touched as Meta ransacked his memories, seizing every spark of information he could access. Claws, thin like needles, seized Tracker's primary motor cables and yanked, severing them. Stiletto couldn't even howl in pain as he felt those same claws worm deep within and find the spark chamber, find the primary energy feeds. Slice. Far away, a Master topped to the floor, also dead.
TRACKER!
Darkness only. Darkness, and sudden quiet. Oblivion.
Who you?
He doesn't know.
Have to.
Darkness. Pain. It was gone. He was gone. Hurt. Failed. Hurt.
Why?
The mission. Was supposed to complete the mission. Went wrong. Failed. He didn't remember everything, but he remembered the darkness descending. Remembered failing. Remembered falling. Remembered the pain. Remembered that he wasn't this alone once. Didn't hurt like this before. Failed. Alone. So alone. Hurt.
Not alone.
Not? No. Wrong. Hurt. Failed. Alone. Hurt.
No. Not alone. Here now. You. Me. Us.
You?
Me. US.
Promise?
Promise.
....okay. Us.
His optics powered up slowly, and he had to remember to stay still as everything rebooted. It all looked weird, wrong, even in the darkness, and the duct felt too tight, too small. Duct? Oh, yeah. He was in the duct. Heading for... heading...
Oh, to Starscream's quarters. To help... his partner? Yes, his partner.
His partner ahead gave a shudder, a bit of a heave, and tumbled free of the dead mech sprawled on the floor. He could feel his partner dive effortlessly through his own systems, into the security net that he was still hacked into. As easily as cycling ventilation, his partner swam through the data, from system to system, out of the security, into the current of pure data.
There. That file. A video feed. A hidden one. A special one. They needed that. Theirs at last. Proper payment for a completed mission. Yes.
Mission complete. Meta was dead.
He flipped off the news feed, a thin trickle of a smirk twisting his features. Still no answer to why one of the Intelligence community had attempted to assassinate the Air Commander. Fortunately, the drone Starscream had been harboring had thwarted the attack by killing the Master's Hound, at great personal risk, even. Such a hero the little drone was being hailed as.
Starscream, of course, had to know that he'd never been the target. Probably why he'd agreed to the drone's suggestions. Change the drone's name, change his appearance a little. No one would see Meta in those blue optics now, nor in the slightly stronger frame that the repairs had provided to Frenzy. Yeah, Starscream had to know. They would have to explain the rest of the truth to him later, though. In time.
First, they had a mission. He had a mission to complete.
Pitifully easy to hack his way through the security here to gain access to these quarters. Pitifully easy to wait. The rightful occupant didn't even notice the deeper darkness in the shadows as he stormed through the door and secured it. Didn't even notice the lock override engage behind him.
"Hello Bombshock."
The "Controller" turned as the assassin stepped out of the shadows and carelessly flipped on the overhead lights. He wasn't sure what was more satisfying, Bombshock's fear, his surprise, or his anger.
"Who are you?" Bombshock demanded, frowning. "Stiletto?"
"Guess again." He advanced, claws flexing, his new optics - had to get a second set to augment his visual field since, like having only two arms, it was just too hard trying to adjust to having his capabilities halved again, even with the increase in size - narrowing with satisfaction as Bombshock took an involuntary step back.
"Liar. I know you! You belong to ME!" Bombshock growled, furious at having to reveal that, at the botched mission, at everything. He relaxed from his wary crouch to glare down at the smaller mech invading his quarters. "Not sure how you found me, but you screwed up. CC 26G643AB was supposed to DIE, not end up a hero!"
"Meta is dead. Killed him myself," he contradicted.
"Obviously, you're deluded. I've seen the news. You botched it, and now? You're finished. I'll bury you. Wonder how much of a hero I'll be when I thwart my own assassination attempt, huh?" Bombshock sneered, raising his weapon.
"Oh, no. You can't hurt us; we already have the video, and I promise you, Meta is dead." He smirked as Bombshock froze, motor servos locking up against his own will, and weapon cycling down. "We are Barricade." He grated out a nasty chuckle as Bombshock began to gibber in helpless panic.
It took the windbag a gratifyingly long time to die.
"I... am Barricade. And you... are dead. Good-bye."