This is getting ridiculous.
Chromedome ran his hand over his faceplate. No. It's already ridiculous. Now it's getting absurd.
Prowl made a noncommittal noise as they walked. The wind blew through the streets, whipping up steel shavings and strips of rubber, howling through the grates and over the gaping vents of the pavement so that it was impossible to hear their own steps on the empty streets. They crossed at the corner, heading to the next tenement complex.
I hope you plan on breaking this up between shifts, Chromedome said. We're lucky all these rioters live near each other, but my pedes are about to fall off.
Prowl came to the tenement front entrance and keyed in the Enforcer override code, forcing entry. Up the short steps, a sign on the elevator read "Out of Order." His doorwings drooped, but he turned and started up the stairs.
It isn't luck, Prowl said.
Huh? Chromedome said. Aw geez, this lift's busted, too.
It isn't luck, Prowl said again. It was to be expected that most of the protesters would live close to each other.
Floor after floor, they slowly made their way up the tenement staircase. Occasionally they heard a curious mech open their door and look up after the two Enforcers on the stairs, but no one ever called out to them. Chromedome leaned too hard on the railing and found that the screws holding it together were too old, coming loose with a shower of mortar.
How you figure? he asked as he grimaced and edged closer to the wall.
A large protest requires communication to organize itself, Prowl said. But standard broadcast frequencies are monitored for dissident chatter. Protesters would have to find ways around being discovered.
So you think they used channel sweepers? Chromedome asked. Private network dongles? Randomizers?
A third of those mechs were empties, Prowl said. Some didn't even have faceplates left. If they were given any kind of equipment, they would have sold it for fuel or components.
Then…how'd they transmit? Chromedome asked.
You're thinking too much like an Enforcer, Prowl said. If you were an empty, how would you communicate?
…uh. I guess…I mean, all they have left is their vocal unit, if that.
Exactly. They told each other. In person.
They reached flight twenty. Prowl gave a small vent, then kept climbing.
My pedes're gonna slag by the time we're halfway through trying to find these rioters, Chromedome said.
For what it's worth, Prowl said, we're not visiting every protester. Just the ringleaders…the real agitators, if you will.
The ones holding signs?
Prowl shook his helm.
Signs are cheap and can be easily given out. Even the empties had signs. But in a protest like that, full of empties and mechs on the lowest social rung, the mechs with a complete chassis standing at the back, whipping up the rest, leading the chants…that's who we're looking for.
Would those be living in a tenement like this? Chromedome said. These are one room berth chambers.
I cross-referenced names with addresses. These are the ones that…
His voice trailed off as they came up to the top landing. The doors here were all shut, but one of them lay open, humming with misfiring circuits as the door struggled to close, jerking in short stuttering spurts. Prowl put his hand on the door and held it, then entered his code on the keypad. The door went silent and remained open.
What the hell…this is getting really weird, Chromedome said, peering in under Prowl's arm. None of them have been home, but this…
Prowl surveyed the room. The berth lay on one side, across from a washrack of nothing more than a spout from the ceiling and a sluice on the floor. Bits of junk lay on the floor, shards of cheap crystal and shattered glass, along with several acetate sheets of notes and a stylus smashed flat, ink splattered on the grate. A datapad cracked down the middle lay in the trashbin, bent open by the huge dent in the middle.
More dramatic was the energon splashed on the berth and the streaks of oil that stopped at the door.
Think the rioters had a falling out? Chromedome asked.
Possible, Prowl said, retrieving the datapad. Movements do have a way of devouring themselves. But look at the mark in the energon. Do you see recognize it?
Chromedome scanned the smear of energon on the berth and ran it against a database of common patterns.
It's just a partial, he said. I don't think it'll—
He stopped, staring at the result flashing on his HUD.
Prowl, I think this just went above our paygrade.
Not quite, Prowl said. But only because we are investigating a sigil, not this murder.
He put his hand out, hesitating a moment, and then wiped the partial mark from the berth.
The temple should learn not to brand their warbuilds so obviously, he said. It would make it easier to hide their dirty work.
Wait…so a temple warbuild came here and killed a mech? Chromedome said. That doesn't make sense. Warbuilds aren't allowed out unless a temple bot's holding their leash.
Prowl dragged an alcohol wipe across his hand, tossing the energon-stained rag into the trashbin. He waited a moment, looking quietly at Chromedome.
Chromedome studied the room again, taking in the signs of a violent struggle.
…you think a temple bot came and ordered this kill?
A senator was murdered, Prowl said. Ripped apart. I'm only surprised they're bothering to hide the reprisal.
Chromedome frowned as he puzzled out what Prowl meant. His optics widened.
All the rioters we can't find, he said. All the…
He looked around, motioning at the other doors. His question was obvious. Prowl pressed his lips tight, wondering if they should. And then he entered his keycode, demanding entry to each one.
Every room was empty. They found a few flecks of energon on one floor. Nothing else.
I would wager that most of these tenements are empty, Prowl said. The only ones who survived this purge were not here when the temple enforcement swept through.
They wouldn't even know it happened, Chromedome said. Wait—do you think the temple might come back?
For the ones they missed? Prowl tilted his helm. Possible. The stragglers would likely have known of the protest. The senate would see them as culpable. The temple would consider them just as blasphemous as the actual protesters.
We…we should… Chromedome looked down the center of the staircase. There had been a few opened doors, a few quiet murmurs. Nothing now. We can't just not warn them.
They won't come out, Prowl said. And I refuse to go door to door and risk being attacked…or risk being labeled a sympathizer and a heretic.
Chromedome winced. He didn't argue, but he didn't agree, either. He stood staring at Prowl, quietly demanding that they do something, anything.
Prowl looked at the energon again, the mark he'd wiped out, the only evidence of what had happened. The oil on the floor. The streaks that were now clearly fingertips scraping the walls. The violence that the temple had hidden.
Prowl left the door wide open. He warned Chromedome with a look.
We can do nothing else, he said, without jeopardizing ourselves.
Neither he nor Chromedome said anything as they descended. As they neared the first floor, doors opened above them again, the sound of mechs trying not to be heard as the tenants investigated what the Enforcers had been so interested in.
By the time Prowl and Chrome were halfway down the block, mechs were trickling out of the apartment complex. A few headed into other buildings, spreading the word. Most transformed onto the road and didn't return.
Now what? Chromedome asked. The rest of the hunt'll probably go like that.
I agree, Prowl said. First I need to explore the contents of this datapad.
Back to HQ?
…no, Prowl said. I think…I know a club up the road. We can access a private room there.
Chromedome raised an optic ridge. So you don't have to tell the supervisor?
I have previous information that leads me to believe some of the upper echelons of society may be involved in this sigil matter. I would rather evaluate this for myself first.
No, I get it, Chromedome said. Barricade's an aft anyway. If you found anything, he'd take all the credit. Or offer you to the temple himself.
Prowl didn't answer. They transformed, taking the underpass. By unspoken agreement, they remained in the shadow of the great highway, remaining out of the view of the city's cameras.
A club, huh? Chromedome forced himself to sound cheerful. Great. I could use a cube. Never figured you'd be one to visit a place like that.
Neither would I, Prowl said. But I know someone there. An informant.
An informant, huh? And you trust him?
As much as I can trust anyone, Prowl said.
"This is ridiculous. Insane."
From the screen in Jazz's room, Red Alert pressed his palm against his helm, optics shut, processing what Jazz had outlined.
"You can't take on the entire temple."
Jazz didn't pause in preparing his cube—a standard pull of energon, plus one of Wheeljack's mix of kerosene, nitrogen and quartz on top.
"Good thing I don't plan on taking 'em all on," Jazz muttered, dropping in two oil pills and a coolant tablet that frothed and turned the pink energon orange.
"No, you're just—" Red Alert cut himself off.
He stared at the two blasters on the bar—one with standard plasma bursts, the other modified to fire heavy rounds. Beside them lay an extra cannister to hold the rounds attached at the back, and Red Alert estimated the amount of shot inside.
"You can't go in guns blazing," Red Alert said. "And expect to just drive out."
"Can you get me a better route?" Jazz asked, looking over his shoulder at Red Alert. His visor flashed once in warning. "Than what I already got?"
"Your 'route' is just in the front and out the back," Red Alert said. "That place is a mess of hallways and shafts and—and warbuilds, and temple fanatics, and—"
"Red—"
"If you go in, you aren't coming out!" Red Alert snapped. "Please. Think about what you're doing. Two blasters and a death wish won't do anything. If it would, other mechs already would have tried."
"Maybe ain't no other mechs had someone could get them a route on the inside," Jazz said pointedly.
"Primus…" Red Alert vented out, all of his arguments crumbling against Jazz's determination. "You're going to get yourself killed."
Jazz half-shrugged.
"Been a dead mech walking for ages now. 'Sides, maybe I'll get lucky. Ain't like they're expecting me."
Red Alert tilted his helm, conceding the point.
"I'll…" Red Alert pressed his fist to his mouth, warring with himself. "I'll need some time. And your full specs."
"How much time?" Jazz asked. "I wanna get this over with."
"Your master gave you a deadline?"
"Nah," Jazz said and didn't elaborate.
"Huh." Red Alert's hand hovered over part of his workstation, and he gave Jazz a last hard look. "Don't run off until I message you again."
"Sure, sure." Jazz tipped his helm. "I'll be here."
Red Alert vanished. Jazz was left alone to finish his cube, staring out over the city's horizon. The towers stood at the far side, reaching up past Iacon's glow. There were the tall skyscrapers of the business district, the low dome of the senate, the temple slopes—
—the mech's helm shattered in a spray of sparks and greyed out in a row of greyed mechs, and the warbuild moved to the next protester on his knees—
Jazz gave his blasters another once-over, then tucked them into the holsters hidden in his hip panels. As they vanished, he ran his hand over the seams of his chassis, the way the white and black panels neatly fit together and hid the extra space. He'd never met a civilian mech with hidden holsters like this. The pieces were custom and expertly installed.
He'd known his master was a brilliant technician. More than brilliant. This kind of retrofit should have been impossible, even after the terrible damage done by the jets. Jazz had been rebuilt from the ashes of his former body, and somehow his spark hadn't rejected the new parts that he'd known how to use without training.
And his master had never seen fit to explain anything to him.
He sat down. Should he try to recharge? He couldn't sit still. He checked the news, flipped through the stations. The news bot read his script, describing the news of the day: the continuing search for the senator's assassins, a terrorist cell dismantled in the lower tenements, heretics in the underlayer of Tarn…
Target of Opportunity
Flipsides
Frame Class Redeco
Informational Class - Mark Twincast
Sparked to Iacon Depot 65
Privileged Class - State News Reader
Target of Opportunity
Loading data…
Groaning, Jazz snapped off the screen and went down to the first floor.
Lasers and lights flashed around the room, sparkling as Blaster's electronica made the walls shake. Firestar danced onstage while Moonracer ran drinks to the tables, bringing back orders to Wheeljack. Sideswipe and Sunstreak stopped an overenergized mech from climbing the stage, handing him off to DeadEnd who dragged him out the back door.
Jazz put his hand on the wall. Data flashed over every mech and bot in the audience, over his own mechs. There were names, frames, crimes and warnings, and the green and silver strobes flashed in time with the music, with the climbing beat of his spark keeping time with the beat of the song—
—the lights of Cybertron's roads sparkled as he fell from the sky on the corpse of a jet—
He had to get out of the club. Keeping one hand on the wall, he stumbled along the hall, jostling mechs in the dark. The tracklights did their job leading him to the front door.
Coming out on the street was a fresh vent of air. He stood for a moment, simply drawing in deep vents. The club whirled behind him, but the music was muted. Even better, there was no one outside, no one but the bouncer giving him a once over.
"You okay there?" Beachcomber asked. "You look like me coming off a rough cube."
"Not as bad as that," Jazz chuckled. "I can still see straight. Road ain't twisting around."
"Ain't seeing things that ain't there?" Beachcomber asked.
Jazz looked at him.
Beachcomber
M̵1̶0̵4̸0̴ ̷C̷h̷e̸n̸o̶w̸t̴h̴ ̸F̸r̶a̵m̴e̸ ̷C̸l̸a̷s̶s̸
Function: Light Terrain Scout Private Security
Employed at Iacon Club ≆22 - District ⊓
Sparked to Depot C-63
Civil Incidents: overenergized and disorderly, overenergized in public, use of illegal additives
Loading data…
"Not a damn thing," Jazz lied. "I just ain't about the noise right now."
"Happens to everyone sometimes," Beachcomber nodded sagely. "Blaster's music is something special, but the music out here…now that's just a pure miracle."
Jazz followed his handwave up at the stars above them, the rings of a planet so distant that it faded against the shimmer of a nebula. Cybertron burned with its own power, but out in the depths of the universe, the planet's light pollution paled against the light of the stars.
"S'good to get out and look up," Beachcomber said, smiling at the sky. "Soothes the spark, it does."
Jazz didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at the empty sidewalk.
"No one waiting to get in?" he asked uselessly.
"Let the last one in just a breem ago," Beachcomber said. "We're just under capacity. Seems like there's less folk out lately."
Jazz winced. Or there were just fewer mechs left at all. Orion's cargo bay had been completely filled. How many frames had Jazz stepped over?
"'Comber?" he started.
"Yeah?"
"If…let's just say, hypothetically, if you did something bad, and that made someone else do something bad…would their bad be your fault?"
Beachcomber gave him a look.
"Like how?"
Jazz's lips parted…and then he shook his helm once.
"Nah, ain't nothing. Never you min—"
"'Cause it's like playing a song," Beachcomber said over him. "You got an instrument you play. That means someone else joins the song with his own instrument. Or he's dancing over on the side. Either way, they're doing the dance, but you started the song."
Jazz turned his helm, quiet for a moment.
"Yeah…yeah, I guess so."
"But Jazz," Beachcomber said, turning to face him properly.
Jazz went still, surprised at his look.
Beachcomber's optics burned with something more than illegal energon. The other mech stared at him so intently that Jazz felt the weight of his gaze in his spark.
"Did you really start the song?" Beachcomber asked. "Or did you start dancing when someone else already set the beat?"
"I guess…I been following someone else's tune," Jazz said slowly. "And they been playing into a song bigger'n me."
Beachcomber patted his shoulder tire, squeezing once in reassurance.
"Plenty of missed notes and stumbled steps in this crazy song called life," Beachcomber said. "Don't take credit for more'n your share. You can't say how other mechs join the song."
Jazz didn't answer. But he stood outside with Beachcomber for a long while, waiting for Red Alert, watching meteors tumbling like glitter. So he spotted the headlights at the far end of the road as soon as they appeared, and after a few seconds, he made out the colors on the approaching frames.
Prowl? Jazz called out. Izzat you?
Jazz…I'm glad I caught you here. Do you have a private room we can use?
Uh, sure. My chambers'll do?
If...if that is not a problem? My partner is with me…
The nervous awkwardness in the Enforcer's voice made Jazz smile.
I promise not to fling myself at you, Jazz said, stepping back as Prowl drove close, transforming up onto the sidewalk. Even if it is hard holding myself back.
Prowl's returned smile was small, and Jazz's own look fell as he read Prowl's expression. The Enforcer was pleased to see him, but there was a shadow in his optics.
"What happened?" Jazz asked. "You look…"
"In private," Prowl said. "I'll explain everything. Ah, this is my partner, Chromedome."
Chromedome
Takara C-101 Frame Class
Enforcer—Mnemosurgery
Sparked to Institute for Higher Programming
Currently Stationed: Iacon Headquarters, Senate Attachment
Partner: Prowl (temp)
Clearance Level: Rho
Medical Addendum: Memory Access Addiction (medicated, at acceptable levels)
Loading data…
Their arrival provided all the distraction Jazz could have asked for as he gave Beachcomber a farewell nod. Welcoming Chromedome to the Neon Eclipse, Jazz opened the door and ushered them in, warning them about the noise, guiding them through the dark halls. He turned on the charm, nudging overenergized mechs out of the way, clearing a space for sensitive doorwings as they came out onto the dance hall. A quick ping had Moonracer playing interference, making a path for them through the crowd.
Jazz slipped his hand into Prowl's, guiding him through the flashing lights, bringing him into the elevator and pulling him close.
Chromedome came in after them, pressing the only button. He faced the door and put his hands behind his back, watching the ride up. He glanced over his shoulder at Prowl, who leaned heavily against Jazz with closed optics.
"So he's that kind of informant," Chromedome chuckled.
Prowl grumbled, standing straight.
"It's not…"
Jazz put a hand on Prowl's face and stood up on his pede tips, pressing a kiss.
"All right, it is like that," Prowl sighed, putting his hand on Jazz's waist. "But it started professionally."
"No judgment," Chromedome said. "Not after this shift."
"'This shift'?" Jazz asked, looking from Chromedome up to Prowl. "Did something happen?"
A bleak, short laugh escaped Prowl.
"You could say that."
Chromedome let Prowl do the talking. He listened with half an audio, adding only an occasional sentence now and then. He didn't need the explanation about the tenement murder, and he already had Prowl's information about the purple sigil.
Studying Jazz was more interesting, if disappointing. Some striking colors, a fancy visor...there was nothing special here. What had Prowl seen in Jazz that made him look at the smaller bot like that?
Prowl was not the most emotional mech. In fact, Chromedome would have called Prowl a stuck-up aft and thought he was being charitable. Which made the little scene on the couch all the more interesting.
It wasn't a couch, of course. It was a berth—just a small half-berth with some cushion boxing and a couple arms, a welded backing with some colored foam. It would have looked like a piece of a slag if the lights hadn't been so low.
He figured the rest of the club was like that. Shadows, dim track lights, dazzling lasers and some theatrical smoke went a long way to give the venue some needed glitz. And the shadows were very well applied. Up here in what was supposed to be a VIP lounge, the darkness hid the dents in the bar and the chips in the glasses. The foam flooring muffled their steps well enough, but he could see the edge of an oil stain by the track light.
If they turned on the lights properly, Chromedome thought that they'd reveal Jazz's room for a rusted-out cheap overload rack. Jazz was an entertainer, after all. He was certainly entertaining Prowl even with Chromedome as an audience.
Prowl sat wearily on the berth, resting on his knees. He had one arm around Jazz, who'd settled close against his side, his pedes trailing along the berth like a little tinfoil coquette. The low, husky whisper of his breath was a masterful touch, Chromedome thought.
"You feeling steady?" Jazz murmured. "If I'd known you was coming, I'd have given Blaster a break."
"I'm functional," Prowl reassured him. "And it is sufficient background noise. I needed a safe place to examine this data pad."
"For that sigil you looking for?" Jazz asked.
"Perhaps," Prowl said. "The mech who vanished tried to hide this."
"And you're trying to find out where they took him," Jazz said.
"The temple killed him." Prowl shook his helm. "Further investigation would only lead to our own disappearance."
"S'no point in looking," Chromedome said, turning his back on the window and leaning against the bar. "Wherever they went, no one's going to find them again."
Jazz flinched. He looked between Prowl and Chromedome, who started to suspect that this kind of talk was too morbid for a little song-and-dance toy.
Prowl didn't notice the look. He'd already turned on the datapad, connecting into a side port and scrolling through the icons. After a moment, the screen displayed programming code flowing by.
As Prowl become all business, Jazz slipped out from under his arm and went to stand by the window, hugging himself as if cold. Chromedome noticed that he'd run so much coolant that his vents were frosty.
"No one knows we came here," Chromedome said. "If that's what you're worried about."
Jazz gave him a wan smile.
"Close enough," he said. "Ain't no one likes a surprise visit from the Enforcers…present company excluded, of course."
Chromedome tilted his helm. "You get a lot of visits from Enforcers?"
"Not many," Jazz said. "We pay our taxes on time, tithe when the temple sends its collection car. Last few shifts have been a little scary is all."
"How'd Prowl meet you?" Chromedome asked too casually. "Most informants get caught at something, turn over what they know to get off."
Jazz's smile turned as cool as his vents, and he looked at Chromedome with a focus that seemed to stare into Chromedome's spark.
"Good thing I'm on the up and up," Jazz said. "Prowl visited my mechanic, got a reference to visit me. Been giving him info ever since."
"Is information all you give him?" Chromedome asked.
"Who knows?" Jazz said, refusing to rile up. "We just starting being a thing. I don't cross cables 'till I know someone's clean."
"You're an entertainer bot in a night club," Chromedome said. "Prowl's the one who has to be careful."
"I'd say I've passed his inspection," Jazz said, and his smile turned into an icy grin. "He knows I'm good—no glitches, no corruption…and no addictions."
Chromedome narrowed his optics. There was too much weight in those words to be accidental. But it was impossible—no one knew about his mnemosurgical addiction except the Enforcers, and only the officers at that.
"You…"
"Gotta be careful of us entertainer bots," Jazz said. "We know how to read our audience."
"I—"
Chromedome didn't finish. A loud crash came from Prowl's direction as he quickly turned down the datapad volume. The screen now played a chaotic scene that didn't make sense from their angle. When Chromedome went to his side, the scene was still unclear.
Smoke billowed past the camera, with flames in the center and pixelated corruption. Mechs moved by, much larger than the mech holding the camera, and then someone behind the camera-mech scooped him up above the chaos, scolding him in a hollow voice.
"Frenzy, low proximity inadvisable. Recording will commence at a safer height."
"It's not my fault, boss. I'm not the one who should be—"
"Assertion, correct. However, no other cassettes available. Continue."
As the recording steadied, the scene cleared up. They were in a familiar underlayer arena with a grayed out frame in the center, broken in half, pouring black smoke and burning oil. Through the shadows and shimmering heat mirage, the other gladiator slowly came into view, stepping out of the darkness. His mace dripped energon and scorches lined his armor, a sign of how close he'd been to his opponent's explosive death.
"Thus," said the gun-gray mech, motioning one hand toward the flames, "to all traitors."
Calm and composed, his voice carried and calmed the audience scattered by the sudden fire burst. They stopped, halted by the command in his tone. And then they came closer, drawn back toward him as he continued to speak.
"Look at how he burns. This is how a traitor dies, on his knees, broken and in pieces. And he was a traitor, make no mistake. He served the temple and the senate, and they are no friends to Cybertron."
The gladiator now regarded the mechs around him, deigning to look at them. The smoke wavered, half-concealing the purple sigil on his front.
"The senate has betrayed us to the tyranny of the temple. Heretics, they call us. Blasphemers. They say we will burn in their smelting pools at Kaon."
Now the gladiator raised his fist, shouting to the whole arena.
"I say they shall burn like traitors!"
Scattered cheers, taken by surprise.
"We are not their machines. We will not be their slaves." He motioned at his neck, revealing a scar at the base near his shoulder. "I say chains will only ever lay on willing throats—who will join me in casting off their shackles?"
Louder cheers this time.
"We will reveal their lies for what they are! We shall take back the lie they call our freedom! Who shall join me in the fight? Who shall join me as a Decepticon?"
Deafening cheers.
"Take my mark," the gladiator said, lowering his voice again. "Hide yourself. Give them the service they demand. Until the time that we can take back our planet and our freedom and—together—stand openly in triumph…over deceitful traitors."
And he brought his pede crashing down on the dead mech's helm.
The video froze on a final image of the gladiator with one pede up on his victim, surrounded in shadows and flame colored smoke.
"That…was a lot of mechs," Chromedome said softly.
"A movement," Prowl agreed. "He controlled that crowd like a master."
He turned the datapad to Jazz. "Do you recognize him?"
M̷̷̷̸̸̷̸̸̴̶̵̶̴̴̷e̷̵̶̵̶̴̷̴̵̷̵̵̶̸̵g̷̷̸̷̷̷̸̷̴̵̶̷̴̵̷a̴̶̴̸̷̷̷̶̴̷̵̸̸̷̸t̸̴̴̶̷̶̸̷̶̷̸̷̸̵̶r̷̸̷̷̴̴̴̶̷̸̶̶̸̷̸o̶̴̷̷̴̷̸̷̵̸̵̸̷̵̷n̸̴̵̶̵̴̴̶̷̶̴̶̷̷̸
Warbuild Frame - Unknown Class
G̵̵̸̴̵̶̵l̸̸̴̵̵̴̸a̶̸̵̵̷̸̶d̸̴̶̶̸̷̶i̸̷̸̶̶̷̴a̷̷̴̷̵̴̵t̵̵̸̶̶̵̶o̵̴̶̴̶̷̵r̶̸̷̷̷̸̵
Sparked T̵̶̸̸̵̶̶a̴̴̶̸̴̷̶r̵̸̷̴̴̵̸n̴̷̵̴̴̴̴
Civil Incidents: ̴̵̶̶̴̸̶̶̴̷̶̶̵̶̸E̵̴̴̶̶̶̴̶̶̴̵̸̸̶̴s̵̷̷̵̸̴̶̶̶̶̷̵̸̷̴c̵̴̵̵̴̵̵̸̶̵̴̸̷̷̸a̶̵̷̷̸̴̵̴̷̴̸̵̵̵̶p̵̸̸̵̶̵̴̷̶̷̵̶̷̸̷e̷̷̵̴̶̶̶̸̷̶̸̸̶̸̴
Loading data…
"He's huge," Jazz said softly. "Is that what all warbuilds are like?"
"No," Chromedome said. "That's pretty unusual. You'd think he'd pop up in the database, but I'm not getting anything but glitches."
Jazz frowned, but he didn't say anything.
"This is insane," Prowl murmured. "I have a clear view of him, I should be able to access his information in the database…instead it is corrupted."
"Inside job?" Chromedome asked. "Could they be in the Enforcers?"
"It's possible," Prowl said. "We have to assume it's possible. I will send what I have to the Senate and bypass our superiors. I just wish…"
Prowl fell silent. Jazz sat beside him, covering his hand with his own.
"'Wish' what?"
"I have no leads now," Prowl said. "The temple has likely murdered anyone I might have questioned, and the rest will have scattered. I have no identities of the mechs in this arena. I can send word to the Kaon Enforcer headquarters, but if they have been compromised…"
Prowl heaved a long, deep vent.
"I have no names," Prowl said. "Mm. Except Decepticon. At least there is that."
Jazz hesitated, turning his helm. He seemed to consider something for a moment. And then he turned and pressed a kiss to Prowl's cheek.
"…I think I got something might help with that," Jazz said.
"What?" Prowl asked.
"You were looking for that purple mark, right?" Jazz wrapped up a file and sent it along Prowl's frequency. "I spotted one near the temple. Someone called him Motormaster."
Prowl sat straight. "How did you…?"
"Met a few friends up at the steps," Jazz said. "They were waiting for a job or something. Saw that one there, spotted the sigil. Thought of you, so I snapped a pic."
Chromedome frowned. Convenient. So convenient. He considered demanding a session of mnemotics right then and there—surface level, sure, but he wanted to know what was going on in that good-time-bot's cortex.
But Prowl was pleased, rewarding Jazz with a kiss, giving him assurances and promises of returning after his shift. Chromedome found it so distasteful. Lots of Enforcers had little pleasure toys on the side, and at least Prowl didn't turn it into some weird powerplay like the others did. Still. He was happy when they finally left, calling in reinforcements and heading toward the warehouse berthslot of Motormaster.
Jazz stared out the window just long enough to watch Chromedome and Prowl drive out of sight. He vented a sigh of relief. Neither of them had scanned him for weapons. The picture of Motormaster was stripped of any EXIF data. And Red Alert had just come through for him, transmitting a map of the temple.
I'll be here when you come back, Jazz silently promised to Prowl.
Maestro had a song to play.