Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers!

Please R&R

(Thanks to everybody who is enjoying this and has reviewed and faved! I am so loving my head cannon for this... Enjoy!)


===Smokescreen===

Standing with a casual disinterested air in the doorway to his brother's office, the Gambler withdrew his last Cygarette from his subspace, carefully snapping his claws together to create the spark that would light the internal fuel of his addiction.

His supplier of his specially servo blended and crafted Cygarettes; scheduled to make a delivery in the morning joors yesterorn, had not delivered, thus, now the Gambler was hot on his trail to claim his already bought and paid for package. But he had regretfully had to dismiss his mission until later as Prowl had demanded his presence, and one didn't disobey their Big Brother; Barricade was far too important to him for petty rebellion.

Prowl must have sensed his agitation, inviting him to play a game of cards while Bluestreak exuberantly chattered about how processor numbingly brilliant the experience of interfacing with a Warrior Class framed gladiator was, bouncing in the plush luxurious seats of Barricade's personal office.

He inhaled from his habit deeply, the smoke that was released from the substance that burned within the Cygarette, packed full of special magnetic particles, was filtered through his frame and into two hidden canisters under his protective, lightweight shoulder armour. The ash like particles, once inhaled were chemically changed and polarised by the heat of the Cygarette, making them easy to manipulate into a blinding cloud with his powerful servo magnets after the dark particles were released, thus the reasoning for his name that was bestowed upon him the orn he detached from his Carrier's spark. And like his frame had been a gift from their Uncle Wheeljack, his name had been a gift from Prowl.

He exhaled the useless smoke, the dark ash cloud that he inhaled puffing out in a hazy light grey fog as his systems sifted and filtered out every magnetic particle. Leaning back into his chair, he dealt his family heirloom out onto the desk before his black and white brother, Bluestreak's wild talk washing over their audios as he described, in detail, the figure of the golden mech he had so recently seduced into the berth.

He flared his crystal cards in a fan, shuffling his Cygarette to the corner of his oral cavity with his glossa, his poker face a picture of artist's emotion to his brother's frozen frown.

"I have some business to deal with in the market once the Recharge Cycle ends." Barricade commented, gently placing down the violet hued crystal card and drawing another from the stack as they began their simple, almost childish game they had played by Bluestreak's crib side when the youngest of the Enforcer Family was but a tiny Sparkling, clicking, warbling and giggling his way into their lives. "I will accompany you into the city tomorrow Smokescreen. While I take care of business, you take care of that dealer. Bluestreak…"

The youngest of them quietened, ever attentive to their Big Brother's needs as Smokescreen gave a low hum of acknowledgement, also trading out a few of the cards in his hands for a better advantage against his brother. He ruffled his wings, the metal shuddering as he flexed and arched the doorwings in a casual gesture of a lazy yawn.

"I do believe you have unfinished business in the form of that gladiator." Prowl rumbled, his blue optics shifting from his set of cards to watch their little brother's reaction. His laser like gaze stating one of the first rules that Barricade had taught them: 'Unfinished Business is a threat'.

"He's coming to me." Bluestreak assured them with a self satisfied purr, clacking his claws together like a predator's beak, his silver tinted grey doorwings fluttering proudly.

Barricade's optics flickered, a rare, unsure, nano-click change, the blue hues of the light filaments that composed his optics flashing from ice to azure and back. "I trust your judgement on the situation." He finally said, Bluestreak's tense posture slowly unwinding as he purred at the trust his brother had just vocalised towards him, launching back into his passionate tirade.

Smokescreen shifted as Prowl threw down his cards, a perfect set trumping his own meagre half collected pair. He took losing to his brother with grace and a nod of his helm; the cards of his deck obviously favoured the Eldest of their Family.

"Thank you for the game brother." He muttered sweeping the palm of his servo across the table, merging the violet hued, ruby cyber-spider webbed cards into a perfect stack, before banishing them to his subspace, rolling his Cygarette with his glossa.

"As long as you are no longer vexed, Smokey," Prowl commented waved him off with a casual flick of his claws his doorwings giving a shallow weave to the right, a gentle sign of affection, accented by the use of the Gambler's youngling-hood nickname. "Recharge on your plan to repay Swindle with his sluggish punctuality." The powerful Praxian advised, rising from his chair, his brothers jerking to stand with him, with attentive flares of their doorwings. "Good Recharge to you both, my beloveds."

"Good Recharge brother." The bowed slightly, filing out the door, leaving their eldest brother to his business as they noticed the flashing inbox symbol on his terminal.

===Wheeljack===

"Jazz?" Optimus prompted, the saboteur having frozen when he locked gazes with the new Head of Engineering, who was staring back with an amused dancing flicker of his helm fins.

Wheeljack smiled behind his blast mask, a twisted smirk, scarred by explosions, that was contradicted by his now surprised, wide optics as Jazz finally got his vocaliser running.

"You!" the black and white saboteur nearly shrieked an accusing finger jabbing at him from across the table, the Third in Command's voice laced with horror and an underlying note of hysterics.

"Wheeljack?" Ratchet asked in confusion, the medic beside him the only one who didn't turn to stare back and forth between the Inventor and the Saboteur, like they were watching a fast paced tennis match. "Jazz… Wheeljack only got this position two orns ago, just after you left for that mission. How can you possibly know him?"

"He's in league with the Praxian Nobles." Jazz's vocaliser hissed with distressed static, his visor blinking in stress.

"Me?" he giggled in faux disbelief, his helm fins lighting up a pleased cobalt, "You must have me mixed up with somebot else… uh… Jazz isn't it? I'm from downtown Iacon."

"You work for your Nephew!" the black and white mech denied with an aggressive snarl, "You work for Barricade!"

"Who's Barricade?" Optimus interjected, his thunderous rumble stilling any action Jazz might have made towards him. A thrill of fear passed over Wheeljack, his processors, the best of his generation, until Prowl was sparked, working over time, calculations zipping and crossing along his tangible thought network. Protect the Family, protect your nephews with your spark, his processor whispered.

"The Mob Elder." Jazz hissed jaggedly, "he's the one who controls everything in the Hive and in his home city. The way Praxus is run, who owns a building there, who deals in the market, the Council of Praxus, everything. He's even stringing Megatron along with the temptation of having Praxus as his ally!"

"Optimus…" Jumpstart, the resident tactician, gestured worriedly to the Prime, "If Megatron gains Praxus…"

"It's game over." Ironhide interrupted, with a grievous frown, "I've seen their Enforcers in action. Each individual is as good as one of our seasoned troops."

"Ratchet." The chosen Prime rumbled, resting a servo on Jazz's shoulder strut, clear worry for the Polyhexian deepening his tone as he anchored his friend. "Take Jazz to the Medical Bay, we will continue this when he is in full working condition. Jumpstart, contact the Iaconian Council and get me a meeting with the Praxian Senators. I want to meet this Barricade faceplate to faceplate…"

"Prime!" Jazz implored jerking himself from the larger mech's grip, as Ratchet rose to accompany the injured saboteur back to the medical bay. "You can't! It's what he wants! You'll be playing right into his twisted servos!"

"It is a risk we have to take Jazz." The Matrix Barer sighed, with a soft pat to Jazz's arm as Ratchet gave the younger mech a shove in the direction of the doors. "I expect to have a full report on your encounter with Barricade in my Office later, once you have been repaired."

As the other Officers murmured among themselves at the disrespectful outburst when the saboteur was shown to the Medical Bay, Wheeljack allowed himself to grin, his helm fins brightly flashing a rainbow of silent glee, however, he sobered as he realised that Jazz could potentially turn Ratchet's processor against him.

Even as he wished Ironhide a good recharge, he stalked towards the Medical Bay and his Lab. It was time to bid his nephew's ex a little visit…

===Jazz===

Ratchet had left him fretting on a medical berth, various trinkets of medical equipment were hooked up to his lines, monitoring his now, above average spark-rate, processor input and output, with a great little device that would supply Jazz's frame with enough relaxants to dope himself stupid for cycles. The medic had long left the main Medical Bay for the fold away berth in his office so that he was always near, should an unexpected emergency occur.

As it was, Jazz couldn't relax, even with the Special Operations upgrades that were dulling the effects of the relaxants; his thought network was tripping over itself with agitation, presenting the Third in Command of the Autobots with a blisteringly annoying helm ache. However it couldn't distract him from the glaringly, damning fact that lay just on the other side of the Med Bay doors.

Wheeljack, the Crime Lord of Iacon, was Prime's new Head of Engineering.

"You know…" the chilling voice of a devil chuckled lightly as the Med Bay doors opened almost as if the saboteur's thoughts had summoned the Iaconian Mob Boss, the dark of the room lighting up a violent ruby as Wheeljack's colour indicators flared on, spotlighting Jazz's berth. "I was wondering if Prowl was going to kill you or not. It seems my nephew still thinks you're worth something alive…"

"That means I'm untouchable then." He growled back in defiance, his blue visor flashing bright, chasing away the bloody red, dissolving the crimson into a bruised purple as the Inventor considered him with a pinprick blue gaze. "You can't do anything to me until Prowl orders it."

"Hiding behind Barricade's… affections for you, will only enrage me further, Jazz." The scarred Praxian rumbled, advancing on the mech in the berth, the blast mask retreating to reveal a wicked, twisted smile as the saboteur's spark rate shot up on the meter, inching towards the alarm trigger as an energon blade, glowing pink in the darkness was pointed at the black and white mech's neck cabling, aimed from the foot of the berth. "He trusted you, he loved you, he let you into his inner circle where only his brother's and I reside, and yet you thanked him by leaving him at the Alter of Primus on the biggest, holiest orn of your lives. You hurt my family. My, my, Jazz, why wouldn't I want to deactivate you?"

"He never told me he was the Crime Lord of Praxus." The saboteur hissed, the spark rate monitor calming with his rage, programming slipping into the Special Operations coding, the possibilities of where that knife could end up, flashing through his processors with all the speed of a genius with a math problem to solve. "Our relationship was based on a lie! If it hadn't been for Smokescreen…"

"Wheeljack!" Ratchet's voice had the lights of the Medical Bay snapping on, to reveal the Chief Medical Officer looking groggy and a little grumpy, half leaning on his office's doorway as he rubbed at his optics, cutting off Jazz's mournful, anger filled monologue. "Please don't tell me you've blown off your servo again, or I swear I'm going to lock you in an empty storage room to save me the helm ache of treating you every orn."

Wheeljack's helm fins immediately flashed blue, his blast mask slamming closed as he crinkled his optics in what could have been a snarl of anger or his cover of a happy go lucky engineer. "Sorry Ratchet, I was just wishing Jazz a fast recovery before I headed to my own berth for the Recharge Cycle!" he exuberantly chirped making Jazz wince with the emotional whiplash.

An almost fond annoyance crossed Ratchet's faceplate as he made an exaggerated 'shoo' motion, threateningly waving a wrench in his other servo, "Get out of here, you sparkling, only you scientists want to make friends at unreasonable joors."

Giggling, Wheeljack trotted towards the doors as the wrench predictably flew through the air at his helm. "See you later Ratchet!"

"Playful idiot." The mostly white medic grumbled, turning to Jazz as the saboteur gave a quick shudder of his plating in apparent distress. "Just ignore him Jazz. He's excited to see a new mech. You'll get on with him in no time. Believe me Jazz, we've had the Special Operations check and double check his profile and history, he's not the mech you think he is."

"No," Jazz muttered sourly, his faceplate twisted in a grimace, realising that Prowl truly did have trusted optics and audios everywhere he wished it; almost as if his black and white ex-intended was ghosting his steps, pede step by pede step until he catapulted Jazz into the pit of madness.

Rolling his optics at the Engineer's exaggerated getaway, the CMO retreated back into his office, having successfully, and unknowingly, fended off the Iaconian Crime Lord with his surprise awakening, leaving Jazz to whisper to the dark shadows of the Medical Bay, "He's much worse…"