Six
The rain that day wasn't dangerous, but it left unsavoury dark smears on the Cybertronian glass, with that said, it wasn't technically glass as they didn't technically have sand. Heh, that had been a confusing conversation, poor Spike, Perceptor was persistent though.
The beads were heavy, sluggish and stained with soot from the horrors that had unfolded in Central less than 72 hours prior. He walked down the long and grimy corridor that led pass the communal lounge. Years back it'd been called the Rec Room, but not so much Rec took place there. Usually just binge intake of high-grade, which some would class as "Rec". Music blared from relatively passable speakers. Muffled chants that indicated a drinking game – he was well accustomed with that noise to know what was going. A smile tugged at his face plates, and as much as he wanted to pop his head in for just a sec, he knew he couldn't. Thanks to the blatant stupidity of the American leadership and the still unknown musings of Megatron, that attack on Central had really screwed him out of free time. He knew himself well enough to know that a foot inside that door would end with Prowl scooping him off the floor and hauling him back to their quarters. Reports to be hastily done under the annoying cloud of the Cybertronian equivalent of a hangover.
He stopped and cycled air through his vents in the most frustrated way he could muster.
He continued. The stack of data pads in his arms a glaring warning sign for any passer by to just keep going. He could, and usually did, sub-space them, but Jazz, head of Autobot Black Ops, walking along with an annoyed look and arms full of these slaggin' things, that was code for "fuck off".
Their quarters were empty, which he expected. Prowl was far more fastidious when it came to paper pushing, and would be at this moment, likely sitting behind a big desk pushing data pads around in between making multiple calls to Autobot and human alike. He tossed the pads on the table, activated the stereo and plonked himself down as Jeremy began to play.
Music like this was an absolute treasure. The entertainment industries, like so many, had taken an absolute hammering, and good quality was no longer affordable to produce. The average person no longer being able to really purchase it. It was considered a luxury. There was still plenty of boot-legging, of course. Even the concept of getting what you paid for had very little meaning now. Parting with huge amounts of money wouldn't exactly guarantee a good quality dub. The artists who'd died, their estates cracked down on such conduct. Those still living also went out of their way to ensure their creation was protected.
The legal headache these companies could cause, the financial destruction they'd unleash if a person was busted with anything under their label was so gigantic that he didn't even think Swindle would risk it.
In the privacy of his quarters, away from those who would judge for making light of such a situation, he allowed himself a smirk, but for only the slightest of seconds. He reached down and brushing aside a few of the pads he activated the computer. Several translucent screens popped up simultaneously.
Mindlessly picking up the first data pad, which contained the latest intel from his contacts, he began the ever so boring task of poking through screeds of what he realised would be useless rumours, cooked up or exaggerated by said contacts to keep a few creds coming their way. Prime was great, he didn't tend to police just how what kind of resources were bled from purse that was Black Ops. It was too important, especially now. Too many enemies where friends were supposed to be. The risk to Autobot security and technology was too great.
The cluster fuck in India had proved that.
So Prime, and a lot of the other department heads looked the other way. It was nice not to have to justify every little clandestine pay-out to some shady human or TraxynXzh.
The four hours Jazz dedicated to the boring parts of the job dragged along with a sluggishness he found indescribably grating, wishing he had popped into the lounge to see what all the hub-hub was about as he reached over and picked up his final data pad. Maybe they were still going, granted, with that said, a high fatality attack tended to be a major downer for everyone, at this point, either everyone was over energising to sorta forget, or it was just the twins holding a not so sneaky bout of their unique version of Fight Club.
Activating the pad gave and entering his security clearances, he found himself staring at the codes for some of the most frightening cagey elements of his job. There was also an alert sitting in the top left-hand corner.
"Great. Now what?"
He grumbled to a statement of unborn chicken voices.
A chuckle escaped his vocaliser as he listened to the background chant.
Alerts were never good. Especially in this programme. It was an indication someone had accessed intelligence files that were none of their Primus' damn business.
The access had had happened in the last 72 hours. A quick check of his internal chronometer and his optics darkened with a slight amount of rage behind them.
Someone had hacked Autobot intel files five minutes after Superion landed a king-hit to that ghoulish green giant.
Ideal time to do it, he had to admit. His guys would be thoroughly occupied with more pressing issues than whether someone was poking about the system, which, really, was a complete disregard for the basics. He was going to have to have a sit down with his peeps and explain what the Black Ops meant, and its mission statement.
Fuck's sake.
"Alright, let's see if we can discover what you were gawkin' at, you giant rusted exhaust port".
It took the Autobot less time than he anticipated. The hacker wasn't sloppy pe se, perhaps they wanted him, or someone, to be aware they'd been in the system, perhaps it was a practice run, or a glitch?
No way this was the work of Soundwave or one of his charges, the access was too glaring, maybe they were in a hurry?
Probably human then.
The little fleshies panicked a lot when trying to get around Autobot security parameters. Red Alert was known to most humans in any sort of intelligence position, legal or otherwise, and for the most part they all knew Red Alert not as a paranoid-two-glitches-away-from-break-down mech, but rather a meticulous and highly security conscious individual whose system protections were extremely difficult to molest. It was a tell-tale sign of human access, they tried to work as quickly as possible. They didn't grasp the finer points of this job. Patience.
Only three files had been accessed by the hacker. An optic ridge rose, hidden by his visor.
"Okay then".
He put the pad down and reclined in the chair he realised was now becoming a little too uncomfortable.
Three files. Entered into the system 12th May 1986. Intel was deemed out of date by human standards, likely known to the then USSR security services, the individuals mentioned no longer active in their respective positions of authority. The information originally dated only by year, for human purposes, 1971.
"Why in the name of Vector Sigma's exhaust port would someone access intel that's almost 60 years out of date?"
Multiple reasons tossed their way throughout his CPU. Some kid trying to show off to his buddies, incapable of reaching the really good stuff, so just grabbed this archaic nonsense? Yet, that wouldn't make much sense, regardless of age, essentially all files relating to human intelligence were highly classified and under the sternest of their security protocols – this was, after all, information the human authorities had no idea they possessed. No matter how out of date, it would cause a significant diplomatic headache, especially in this climate.
Perhaps a legitimate hacker who just couldn't get the file they were after? Worried time was ticking down and they'd be pegged and tracked so just grabbed the first thing they saw? That was shoddy workmanship. Could be one of those idiotic anti-robot entities. They tended to be very hit and miss when it came to trying to access Autobot systems. Most of the time they only wanted to prove a point, look, how easy was it for us, a group of average humans working out of a garden shed, on a 486 hacking those metal monsters, anyone could get this intel and use it to build weapons against innocent people…
Didn't make much sense, no matter how many times he saw the argument trotted out. Mind you, the India cluster-fuck did tend add fuel to the fire of this hyperbole.
Sighing as only a Cybertronian could, he lent back in his chair, stretched his arms behind his back and stared at the ceiling, a grin spreading across his face.
"Do love a mystery!"
Said with a bit of a sing-song tone.
A shot of high-grade was in order, a few additives to get the engine humming a little smoother. This was going to take some digging. Sure, it probably wasn't the most pressing job on the list, but it had pipped his interest, and if anything, it was better than dealing with the absolute shit storm that had descended due to the Decepticon's recent monkeyshines.
Plus, any movement of this business up the food chain was going to require a bit more than just a few old dates.
He opened the files in question, finding them to be stock-standard personnel files, judging by their birth dates, and the human life span, these chaps were likely to all be pushing up the daises. Still, who were they that someone now, perhaps, had intentionally stolen copies of their files?
General William Louis Stephenson, Col. Jerry Frank Woods and Richard Eugene Matters the Third.
The files certainly weren't what one would call padded. Stephenson's was only three human pages long. It included his birthday and other salient details about his education, listed an ex-wife as his next of kin, no children were noted. The lists of his service sparse, what could be read of it anyway. An obviously very truncated file.
Jazz ran a check through his own sources and found the General had retired from the military in 1989 at the age of 71, with full honours and an impressive pension. He died in 1996 from prostate cancer that had spread to his spinal cord and brain.
Col. Woods was still alive, his file slightly longer, and obviously this fellow had been involved in black ops. Red Alert had added footnotes, pointing out to any high ranked Autobot reading, that this fellow was dangerous to Autobot interests given his background as well as his political opinions in the 1980s. He'd been an advisor to the President during the Burger fiasco, and his ideas for the Autobots were far less charitable than building them a rocket to get them off Earth.
Red Alert had also kept close tabs on the colonel, even after he was left disabled from attempting to stop a bank robbery, his family placed him in a rather expensive nursing home in in 2007. He was apparently still alive, though would be pushing 100. His wife had passed away in 2017. His children and grandchildren were financially very well off. His great-grandchildren were going to have a pleasant life, collapse or not.
Matters, well, Jazz knew that man, unfortunately. He was a total scum bag of a politician. He was also not someone who was all too fond of Autobots, also now dead in the dirt. Died in '89, cardiac event. He was an obese man, at least when Jazz had dealings with him. The photo attached to this file showed the arsehole in his best years. He'd done service in Vietnam, but not on the front lines, and he was never given an official rank, at least not according to the records that glowed gently on the screen in front of him.
Jazz also had the uncomfortable displeasure of meeting his son, named the same only now the fourth. He had gone into law and politics, and like Woods, was a thorn in the collective Autobot side. He even managed to get a proposed law to a committee to determine that all humans who had "friendly" contact with Autobots be listed as enemy combatants. This bastard was still kicking around, still in politics and still causing them all manner of headaches.
Spike had come very close to punching him once.
Carly just tended to utter the foulest of profanities under her breath whilst the most beautiful and dainty smile graced her features. Jazz admired her greatly for that.
So, who were these three men? Why had someone stolen such dated information? There were a few lists of addresses dotted amongst the files, and a few other names mentioned, but only as surnames. There was nothing that really set them apart from any other humans on the scene at the time. There were plenty of other humans who were a far bigger nuisance, and a far bigger prize. Files that contained information that was considerably more valued, intel that could be sold. It didn't make any sense, but then, when humans were involved, sense tended to take a back seat.
The one thing that did stand out, only because it was the only thing common across all three documents, one simple word listed under their respective service records:
Riri.
In it's context it didn't seem to be a human's name. Maybe something you'd call a dog?
He ran it through his vast language database, but it didn't ping any alerts that could lend themselves to an acceptable explanation.
"Riri".
He spoke softly, wondering if he was pronouncing it correctly.
While there was absolutely nothing through the files that indicated a purpose, the most rational answer was likely this was the designation of some operation the three had been involved in. It involved a general, a black ops colonel and a politician, so chances are it had been nothing good.
Standing, he swiped his finger over a series of icons, closing the files. A few steps and he was in front of the grimy window staring out over the dimming landscape. It was closing in on 1700hrs. Before everything went to hell, this time of night, at this time of year, the view was spectacular. It was always something that would brighten his mood. He was no Hound, that was for sure, and he always considered himself a "city-mech", the bustling metropolises of Cybertron and Earth got his engine revving like nothing else. The exhilaration of cruising through such places, looking for a club to dance the night away. How could he not love that? But here, on this green gem floating so peacefully in this quaint little solar system, there was a charm to it. It settled the nerves. Eased the spark. The views this world had were always something that grabbed his attention, even if only for a nano-second. There was certainly an appreciation for the foreign concepts of an organic world when one came from a home of metal.
Prowl appreciated it, of course, but in the same way he appreciated a well cleaned chess set.
The music continued to play in the background, as it had the entire time he gave to his current task. Back in Black forced itself out of the speakers, a song he loved and had listened to a generous number of times, hard rock and a serene landscape always afforded him an easy path to pondering such answers. Yet, the sullen muck that lay before him out in the distance, it was truly depressing. Humans really were stupid creatures, but considering the state of his home city, it couldn't be argued they were any worse than the Cybertronians that had dragged their pathetic war down here.
The door opened.
"Was just thinkin' of you!"
Pivoting with a grace honed from vorns of his craft.
"I can hear that down the corridor".
"It's not a bad thing to hear".
"That, is extremely debatable".
"You up for the challenge, then?"
"Perhaps not tonight. I still have work that concerns me, but I did wish to keep our prior arrangement".
From sub-space he pulled two cubes of a particularly tasty energon form, it was laced with an element that didn't exist on Earth. The golden glow that the cubes emitted reflected off Jazz's plates and he smiled.
"Now, where'd you get that? Hope it wasn't from some clandestine stash, dear Prowl".
"Of course not! Ultra Magnus gifted it to me. He informed me that he had a supply that was nearing depletion so decided to share it with some of us who'd spent a little more time away from Cybertron".
"What a doll".
"Sarcasm notwithstanding, sit, enjoy".
The two sat, Prowl placed the cubes at their respective seating positions, and then motioned with an upturned hand for Jazz to take the first sip.
"Oh wow".
He looked up over the cube's edge to view his bonded.
"Smooth, so incredibly smooth".
Prowl took a sip.
"Very much so. The last time I had energon like this was before the destruction of Praxis".
His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as if he felt he could not discuss this matter with his mate.
Jazz cocked his head to the side.
"Praxis always did this the best".
He tipped the cube before taking another gentle but appreciative swig.
Jazz chuckled a moment, placed the cube down without letting go, and glanced up at Prowl.
"Feel a tad guilty, I mean, when was the last time anyone around here got a sip like this?"
"Such feelings are, and I know you'll be annoyed to hear me say it, illogical. Magnus' gifted me these cubes, and I decided to share it with you. He has given cubes to others, and Optimus, I'm aware, is saving his for Elita's next visit. Plus, it's not as if you can divide them up into even drops for every Autobot on base. Also, if you feel guilt over one cube, what of the othe…"
"Prowler, Prowler, I didn't mean nothing serious by it, heh, just reflecting on the way things have gone over the last 20 years and how its' some pretty good luck to end up enjoying such a fine fuel with my lover".
There was an insidiously cheeky wink behind the visor. Prowl narrowed his optics in response. Jazz threw his head back and laughed with intentionally overt enthusiasm.
The rest of the cube drinking was spent in a pleasantly comfortable silence.
Carly had once asked Jazz about that. She was a clever little cookie, as the saying went. She was the first of their human friends to realise the we-all-come-off-a-factory-line was a giant load of shit, and that no, some of those mechs weren't just "good friends". The silence, she asked, how do they put up with it? Spike couldn't stand silences, and he'd always been good at ruining the moment because he couldn't tolerate nothing being said. She relayed to a few Autobots, all of whom were heavily amused, that after a passionate kiss under the moonlight, the silence between them something she was relishing as they stared into each other's eyes, was broken by Spike asking what fabric softener she used because her jumper was "super smushy but not scratchy".
Well, Carly, babe, when you've been with someone for millions of years, there's not all that much you need to say.
"I gotta show you something".
Jazz placed the empty cube gently on the table as he stood, motioning to the computer.
"It's work related".
The saboteur added in sing-song, which he knew would gain Prowl's attention, and he needed to get it before the tactician lost himself in his own tasks.
Jazz plonked himself down in front of the system and brought it back up.
"What am I looking at? You can't honestly think daily stats on Ratchet's wrench usage is of concern to me?"
"No, not that, this…"
Jazz clicked where the previous alert had been opened.
"Huh".
Craning his head around, he faced Prowl, an almost look of confusion etched on his features.
"It's not there anymore".
"What's that?"
"We got hacked. Someone took three files from our data banks on humans of interest, but they were dated in the 70s".
"So even by our standards, and theirs, at the time of our awakening, they were obsolete".
"Yeah, so why bother hacking them? And why bother setting some likely complicated programme to erase access after I've already seen what they got?"
"Incompetence?"
Prowl said intentionally deadpan.
"Prowl, this whole thing is really sus. It's like they wanted me to know I've seen them in the system. That they wanted me to see what they took, which I can easily re-access. But why? It's all so dated, and the humans involved in those files are either dead or close enough to it that they pose us no real headache".
The other said nothing for a moment.
"It ain't exactly logical".
"No, not at all".
"You know I love a good mystery, right?"
"Very much so, Jazz, very much so".