Help. His pride had no place in this, especially not with Bluestreak on the line. I have to call for-
Prowl flinched, servos springing up to shield his aching audios, some sound of agony letting loose. "Oh, that's unfortunate. You didn't think I would account for comm-links? Your signals, however miniscule, are scrambled. It's going to be hard for you to call for help when there's no way for you to, much less anyone to hear it." Sadistic, half-choked laughter followed his unapologetic mocking. Red optics moved as the mech's helm tilted, a predator's gaze fixated on his squirming prey.
"Don't," came the hollow whisper, optics leaving those of his brother only for the slightest of moments to search for anything or anyone that could be of use.
Drift laid on the cool unforgiving ground, and he didn't look like he was moving, not even to vent. The only change was the splatter of energon on the metal, a leak from somewhere in the mech creating a rather nasty looking puddle. That was not a good sign.
This can't be happening. Not again. Once more, Prowl looked between the sinister intruder and his captor, a certain gray praxian. But, pulling his optics from Bluestreak, they only gravitated towards that glyph he'd been loath to see put on the wall of the memorial.
He looked back at the snarling, positively enormous mech and tried to keep his fear from showing. Vorns of experience suggested that he was doing so, but only by the enormity of his self-control and some miracle from Primus himself. The only one he was going to get, it seemed.
The Decepticon glowered at him, the light of his optics glinting harshly on Bluestreak's faceplate. Coolant formed in the significantly younger mech's optics and he trembled just on occasion in the grasp of his adversary. "Right," came the growl of that spiky warrior, rolling his optics at the base commander.
The blade pressed that much closer to Bluestreak's primary fuel line, and if that didn't tear Prowl up, the squeak that his brother didn't completely stifle made it that much worse. His doorwings quivered just the once, but it was enough for the mech to sneer at. "I think you don't need me to remind you that you are not in a position to make demands. Not if you want your precious Bluestreak to keep his head about him,"
That jagged knife was up against the very top of his brother's throat, just under his chin, and left the gray mech to struggle between staying on the very ends of his peds to letting the sharp notches cut into him. He could already feel himself beginning to slip, but the telltale trickle of cool liquid down his neck warned him against moving more than he already had.
Bluestreak looked pleadingly at his elder brother and prayed that Prowl wouldn't do anything stupid. Somehow, he had a feeling that it was in vain, and the look in his brother's optics only made the sniper's spark sink in its casing.
"You? Well, you're going to come with me," lips pulled around dentae into a sinister fanged smile. "If you try and pull anything, I'll just have to kill little old Bluestreak here, and then make you do what I want anyways."
The base commander's murderous optics had sent more than a few Decepticons fleeing over the course of the war, and a small number of Autobots had shrunk pitifully under the hateful glare that the masked mech was on the receiving end of. He didn't even flinch. To him, it was an empty threat; nothing more than the wrath of a glitch mouse. Good. Prowl thought to himself. Let him underestimate me.
"Don't waste your energy on that stupid look you've got on your faceplate. We've got some work to do, now don't we, Commander?" he asked mockingly.
His servo clenched into a fist, and then unraveled just as quickly as it'd curled up. "Of course," Prowl retorted, sarcasm dripping from every icy word, "I wouldn't want to keep you waiting,"
"Ooh!" came a sharp invent from the Decepticon, "Someone is awfully touchy about this whole thing. Would you believe me if I said it wasn't personal?"
Prowl clenched his jaw. "No."
One wicked laugh only infuriated the praxian all the more. "Good, because it is," Bluestreak's captor dragged the gray mech onwards, heading towards the door with an ironclad grip on his new shiny toy. "Shall we, then?"
A long list of insults and biting words came to mind; Prowl reigned in every desire he had to rip this mech to shreds. He would have time and getting angry would only hurt one mech: Bluestreak. Playing this smart, like so many other situations, was the best and only option to get this resolved in a way that didn't end poorly.
"Hurry up," the mech hissed, shoving Bluestreak a little harder than necessary and dragging the unwilling mech along with them.
"You don't need him, you know," Prowl said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "You only need me. You can let him go, you don't have to hurt Bluestreak to get me to do what you want,"
Blue yelped, and Prowl didn't blame him for it. The blade wasn't exactly a toy, and it was clear this mech not only knew how to use it but was more than willing to do just that. "What, do you think I'm stupid?"
"No. I am only saying-"
"Self-preservation is highly motivating?" the intruder offered readily. It was as if he'd been waiting for him to make this point.
Prowl shrugged. "Well, yes,"
"Well, no. You may not know me, but I know you," the warrior snapped, and something told Prowl he really did, "I know you work yourself into the ground every single orn, you barely recharge, you act with swift and calculating precision most mechs can only dream of having. You don't give a frag about your own well-being; just everyone else. Bluestreak here just so happens to be one of the more meaningful pieces of the everyone else collection,"
Bluestreak, Prowl noted, looked rather angry himself, "Leave him alone, fragger. He's never going to help you, no matter what you do to me,"
Another knowing laugh. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Prowl. Your brother? Well, he wishes he wasn't right now. I'm personally very glad I'm not either. You seem to have a habit of losing them one too many times, now don't you?"
Two gray servos clenched his captor's arm, trying to keep the motions of the mech from driving those jagged edges any further than they had grazed already, and the younger Praxian fought to keep his balance. "It isn't his fault. It never was,"
"Oh, of course. It's someone else's fault. Some underling; a low-ranking, disconnected Autobot who got the brunt of your mistake. Excuse me for forgetting myself. We all know what kind of mechs are really responsible for their commanders' mishaps,"
His words, Prowl had realized, had meaning beyond what he was saying. They were not complex in structure, but in their ideas and signifying something more than what was taken in at a first glance. As crafty as his assailant was, Prowl was by far more intelligent.
This mech was no stray Decepticon. He was the manifestation of the vengeance of one spiteful traitor in their ranks.
Mole. There's a mole. It would explain the nonexistent alarms, the brazen confidence with which they were being led down sentry-less halls. He had designed the routes; he had made sure whatever gaps that had existed were minimal. Whoever was leading this Decepticon through their security network was not only on the inside, he was someone who had the ability to observe and share this information as it was happening in real time.
Each step they took Prowl knew was one closer to fulfilling whichever devious plan was in motion, something he couldn't afford given all the progress that had been made despite such an enormous struggle. Setbacks in times like these would only serve as discouragement and would poorly affect morale more than any fear of attack.
He had two options, the way he saw it. One: put the Autobot cause first in one instant, and leave Bluestreak to the wolves, (or rather, just the one clawed and bloodthirsty wolf.) That was not necessarily an option for him. Two: he could outsmart this stranger. Unfortunately, the plan did not extend beyond "be clever" which as far as he was concerned was not much of a plan. Much less than sacrificing his brother, giving the Decepticon what he wanted was in no uncertain terms not a possibility, so "be clever" was about it for him.
Comm-link signals were individualized; as personal as their owners. Targeting all collective signals required something that not only prevented signals in and out of a communications system, but also a failsafe that acted as an occupant of the frequency space traditional communications took place in. His own signal was blocked, as was Bluestreak's. This mech, however, needed a guide through the base, and it most certainly was not Prowl. Unfortunate in this circumstance, because he could have led them straight into a highly populated area and gotten both himself and Bluestreak free with at least a hundred soldiers within optic view. The mech would have been taken down in an instant.
Jazz might have been able to hijack not only the signal this Decepticon was using, but also the scrambler occupying all of their frequencies. Prowl was less talented, but he could certainly manipulate it to achieve his goal. Yes, that would do quite nicely. A high-pitched noise, an even more grating firewall breaker… that would be all he saw.
"If you know so much about me, Decepticon, then tell me something," Prowl said, mapping out every fragment of the plan he'd stumbled into.
He snarled and pushed the both of them a little too hard. Prowl flinched at the sudden disorienting movement but didn't react otherwise. "I don't work for you,"
"Humor me," Prowl said, more impassive than any normal mech could've been where he was. "If you know so much about us, then who was responsible for my brother's death?"
He hesitated. The brilliant thinker could see that hesitation written all over his faceplate, debating something. This mech knew it was a trap, but he just didn't know how, and it was bothering him like Prowl almost couldn't believe.
The mech snorted. "Shouldn't you know that?"
"Who pulled the trigger?" the tactician amended. That was surely easy enough to say.
"A Decepticon," the mech snapped.
"Which Decepticon?" Prowl pressed.
The mech did a double-take, and he gave Prowl a bizarre look. "How-?" a shake of the helm as if to discard what he'd said. "That doesn't make any sense. How am I supposed to know this?"
"Shouldn't you?"
"No," he grumbled, one servo coming up to touch his forehelm in a twinge of pain, "Just stop this slag, it's making my helm hurt,"
"Answer the question,"
A pause, a garble of comm-link chatter. "I don't know. You don't even know. Your records are incomplete,"
Frag, it hadn't kicked in his firewalls yet. "Yours aren't." Prowl pleaded for this to be distracting enough. Vengeance made little sense, and as much as it hurt he'd never been able to find the answers, this was about more than avenging Smokescreen. Keeping his living brother that way was the most important thing.
A peeved snarl, and scoff. "What makes you think we keep track of the glitch mice we step on?"
"Bounty hunters do. How else do they get paid?"
"No one put a hit on your stupid brothers, Autobot. Maybe on you, but these doorwingers are just cannon fodder, and we don't give a flying frag about them." One irritated mech, this foreign bounty hunter, was fighting back the urge to rip him into shreds. He needed Prowl, but Prowl was decidedly not too inclined to keep this mech around.
"Actually," Prowl began, optics locking with Bluestreak's and internally begging for him to be ready, "I do." A shrill screech of metal shearing and folding in on itself filled the mech's audios and he didn't fight off the sound; how could he? One gray praxian wrangled himself from the mech's grasp and shoved the invader away, watching him topple over and hit the ground in agony.
Prowl tore Bluestreak away from the mech, not like he needed convincing to leave, and the two bolted, "Sentries!" the Autobot commander hollered upon the telltale sound of peds gracing metallic hallway floors, "Intruder!"
Sluggish systems whined in protest as they booted up, one by one waging war on the drugs that clearly had slagged them to pieces. He hated being drugged, but something about trauma and rest and being forced into a medical berth had led First Aid to subdue him with the touch of a screen.
Blue optics snapped open and immediately closed. The world was spinning. Forget drugged, he'd been violently sedated. Does First Aid not realize how potent these things are? For Primus sake, this is ridiculous. Digits pressed into his faceplate and Prowl groaned. Pit-spawned insane medical sedatives. If there were ever a mech who was Ratchet's polar opposite in this instance, it was Aid. As much as he had confidence in the matured medic's abilities, it was absolute slag to have to struggle to think straight.
By some work of the unmaker, his audios still rang with Bluestreak's yelling, something that had clearly not yielded whatever he'd intended to in spite of angering their medic. Surprisingly, he'd fought off medical care nearly as fiercely as Prowl.
Bluestreak. The thought sent a jolt through his frame, and his lifeblood roared, the rapids of a thousand ocean planets coming to life within him. A throb in his helm greeted the sudden increase in his pulse and pushed away his focus in favor of pain. The aftermath of whatever had been in his systems warded off some of the agony, but the odd mix of medicine's aftereffects and newfound pain was doing nothing for him.
He turned his helm and dared to see if First Aid was around to fix whatever was wrong with him. Instead, he was surprised by the sight of one steely-opticed black and white mech.
"Jazz," Prowl sighed in relief, "It's good to see you,"
"You too, Prowl," the saboteur grinned wryly. While his tone seemed lightsparked, Prowl noticed his optics still told a different story. "You gave all of us a good old scare. You know better than to leave me in charge of anything, much less the base,"
"You are more than capable, and you don't need me to tell you that much,"
"Yeah. Doesn't mean I like it. I just- Prowl," Jazz sighed, and took on a conflicted look, sitting on the medical berth besides him, "I know you better than anyone, and I still couldn't do what you do,"
"I have lieutenants. Co-commanders, officers who are delegated responsibilities. And you, someone who just so happens to be a large part of supporting what it is I do," one black servo rested upon his friend's shoulder, "I have complete confidence in your ability to do your job. You should as well."
They fell into a comfortable silence, and Jazz went to speak, but hesitated. Not a good sign, Prowl knew. "So, we have no idea what he wanted? None?" He asked, faceplate contorting in disappointment.
"Bluestreak was collateral; so was Drift," Jazz said, dejected. "He didn't give you any information besides the mole, which we've determined is one of the mechs you demoted, Rollback. He fits the criteria a few times over. Bitter? Check. Traitor? Double check."
"He was demoted for more than sating my appetite for wrath,"
"I know that. The rest of them know it too. The new policies really are making bots feel safer. I'm sorry I made you doubt that. Jittery or not, they know you're capable. You've got their backs, and they're more than willing to have yours."
"Where is he now?"
"Interrogation. I was just with him and the collection of guards we have following him everywhere," Jazz answered, no hint of playfulness of bemusement to be seen. "You're lucky to be alive. With the bark he had, there was just as bad a bite to match. He was heavily armed; not just to the teeth, somehow beyond that."
"He wasn't using them,"
"Because he didn't need to. If he really wanted to, you'd have been dead on the floor,"
"Then why spare Drift?"
"He sure as frag didn't plan on it. First Aid is still complaining about the welding that has to be done. I think he didn't see the mech, and by the time he did, a clean kill just didn't happen,"
"That's not possible, Jazz." Prowl shook his helm. "This mech is highly skilled, highly capable. He managed to get one of our own to turn on his faction and help him. Help him accurately, and frighteningly so. This efficiency wasn't just one born out of being informed; it was precision shaped by experience. Much like my own capabilities, the refinement of his executing whatever plan was formed was near perfect. That is not something that just happens on its own. He knew what he was doing,"
"He wanted the mech to suffer then? Draw out the kill and make it painful?"
Prowl shook his helm again. "No. To make him an example. The memorial is painful enough as is for so many amongst our ranks. We are no exception." He grimaced but pushed himself off the berth and fought with his equilibrium sensors as he wobbled in his place. "Bluestreak and I were put in our place before we knew what was happening. Jazz-" he hobbled across the room to stand besides Bluestreak's berth. "He planned it. He planned it all before we could think. He isn't just clever, he is not someone we can dismiss. Whoever he is, and whoever he is working with, they are a real threat to us."
"I'm not exactly underestimating him here, Prowl. He has twenty guards; he has been searched to the point of violating his sense of self. To be clear, he has two, redundant sets of stasis cuffs, and he can move about as fast as a shuffling, imprisoned, beaten mech, so escape isn't possible. This mech has given enough drugs to slow an army of Megatrons, much less one,"
"First Aid was likely displeased with your use of the drugs, no matter how sedative-happy he is- Ow, frag," a press of his servo to his faceplate once more. "Can you check to see if my processor melted and is leaking out my audios?" Came the sarcastic request, hoping to alleviate the bloodlust in Jazz's optics with his dry humor.
The saboteur wouldn't be deterred. "Frag the morals of medicine. He could have killed the both of you. If he's so absent minded he can't think straight, that's better than this mech slipping out and causing more damage." At Prowl's abrupt perk up, Jazz shook his helm firmly. "Oh, no. You are not dealing with any of this."
Prowl frowned. "I can, and I should. I have responsibilities, drugged or not." A stern look in Jazz's direction said the rest.
"No," his co-commander said, Prowl scowling furiously, "No! Do you think I have a death wish? I wouldn't wish your job on anyone, but definitely not you. Not with First Aid ready to destroy me if I let you so much as twitch the wrong way,"
He quirked an optic ridge while his doorwings did in fact, twitch a few times. "You of all mechs? You're afraid of First Aid?"
"Yeah, and that should say something," Jazz rose to his peds and pointed accusingly at his friend. "Your little stunt pissed him off, not to mention Drift's condition making his existence that much harder. He's Ratchet's apprentice, Prowler, not just any old medic. He will obliterate you, and then me, and then you again for undoing all of his hard work. I don't want to do this job for longer than I have to, but as long as I do need to, I will. Better a few orns than ten when he confines you to this berth,"
Deterred, Prowl vented heavily. "I suppose it would be unfair to sic our tranq-happy, CMO-scary paradox on you if you have all this work to do, then?"
"Yeah. We'll figure it out, eventually." Jazz shrugged, those same serious optics giving him an affirmative as he walked backwards out of the medbay. "I'm glad you're not dead. Now stay put, or I'll have to arrange a memorial, too."
Prowl scoffed and rolled his optics. "Thank you, Jazz. Friend of the century. What would I do without you?"
"Develop some really unhealthy, anti-self-care habits?" The mech offered.
"Indubitably," he said, his sarcasm muffled by the pressing of his servos to his faceplate. The doors hissed open and closed; Prowl didn't need to look to know Jazz had gone.
