Part 41
Over-the-Edge: FUCKING TRAITORS CROSS-FACTIONISTS I FIND OUT WHO ANY OF YOU ARE IMA PUT YOU IN THE DAMN GROUND
Mech892352: CoN SYMpatHIZErs aRE ConS thEMSelVES! AUTObOT iN pAint Only!
BrightLight: We WARNED bots, we WARNED YOU All! There are CONS on this SURNET!
Zapwing!: Soon as find any of you sympathizing turn-coat traitor cowards, pow! Fraash! Kapaang!
Lube'nslide: y dont u go lift yr aft for megadope whil yr at it u piles of rust?
NumberOneFighter: I don't get it. I just don't get it. We go on the frontlines, we risk our lives—I've watched mechs got slagged beside me, straight up shot through the spark, and for what? For bots to go crossing cabling with the enemy?
Cusswords: I don't want to say that I told you so but I remember all the different times this came up in the cross-faction surnet and everyone there said they wouldn't actually do a 'con but then some of them were saying that it would be better if we and I quote "fuck cons instead of fight cons" and it's like I don't understand how everyone can forget all the atrocities all the verified warcrimes that the 'cons perpetrated—did you crossfactionalists forget Praxus? How am I supposed to fight side by side with someone who might shoot me to go cross cables with the enemy?
Hippie-Mech: I do not believe what I am seeing. Autobots and Decepticons lay down their guns and opened up to each other, met without killing each other, and that's somehow bad?
Mech892352: shut THE HeLl uP yoU'Re ONE oF the woRsT oF THE bUncH
BrightLight: were YOU one of those TRAITORS?!
Lube'nslide: i find u, ur 1 ded mech
Oasis: leave Hippie-Mech alone, you low-grade mass-produced cheap piece of tin t(-_-t)
Over-the-Edge: USE YOUR REAL DESIGNATION COWARD
Seal-Dive: NO REAL DESIGNATIONS! tHAT'S THE RULE!
HotStuff: NO REAL DESIGNATIONS OR I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOUR COMMANDING OFFICERS FIND OUT WHO ALL OF YOU ARE, ALL OF YOUR POSTS, AND ALL OF YOUR THREATS
Lube'nslide: Gud! then we can deal with all the traitors the rite way
On_Ice: you might be surprised what "traitors" you'd be fighting
Seal-Dive: You close-minded bots are the ones threatening your own side, crossing cables or not!
Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: you afts come after one cross-cabler, you'll catch all of us
[thread frozen – replies disabled]
Inferno put the datapad down on the table, then straightened and stood behind Red Alert's chair, using the security officer as a shield between himself and the entire command cadre. All of the officers were in attendance, except for Jazz still out on a mission, and all of them were staring at Inferno as if he were personally at fault.
"That's," he started, tapping his fingers on the back of the chair, "that's as far as it got before Red Alert froze the whole surnet this morning. No posts or uploads or comments since."
"Does anyone know you're HotStuff?" Ironhide asked.
"N-no, sir," Inferno said. "Just Red. And you all."
Red Alert squeezed his optics shut and let out a long vent, rubbing a spot on his helm covered with a neural patch. After a moment of Red Alert shifting in his seat, Inferno began speaking again.
"Red says, um, that he needed to squash the 'real designations' talk before anyone let theirs slip. That it'd cause even worse fights on the base." Inferno shifted awkwardly. "I already had an account, so I made the comment for him."
"Red' right," Ironhide said. "We were able to stop any fighting 'cause the bots just wanted to take it out on the mechs they saw in the satellite shots. But those prudes don't know who supports the 'con fuckers."
Perceptor winced.
"Cross-factionalists," Perceptor said. "I understand that the common term they use for themselves are those supporting a cross-faction relationship."
Ironhide snorted. "Prudes 'n 'con fuckers s'more accurate."
Optimus looked at Ironhide.
"Don't gimme the disappointment look, Prime." Ironhide rolled his optics. "I'm all for fuckin' for peace and all that, but don't 'spect me to use those fancy terms the sparklings got nowadays."
"The terms notwithstanding," Optimus allowed, "we need two key pieces of data. How many cross-factionalists do the Deceptions have, and can we keep our side from killing each other until this comes to fruition?"
In Jazz's seat, Mirage felt everyone's optics turn to him. It took every bit of noble bearing not to scrunch down and hide as the officers stared at him. Part of him wanted to say that Spec Ops wouldn't rest until they had created a list of sympathetic 'cons, but his survival instinct knew that Jazz would shoot his fingers off if he made impossible promises.
"We're working on that," Mirage said. "It'd be faster if Counterpunch were still transmitting, but without him, we're looking at outside of a week at the best."
"A whole week?" Ironhide asked. "We could have a body count by then."
"We're sorting comments," Mirage said. "We were already getting a database built, but...it takes time."
"All right," Ironhide said, rapping his knuckles on the table. "So we got a week of sitting on this mess 'fore we can even hope to do anything about it."
Red Alert made a strangled sound and grasped Inferno's hand. A moment passed as Inferno listened, then conveyed the message.
"Uh. Red says to please wake up Prowl and let him deal with it." Inferno shrugged that he didn't know what that meant, and Optimus gave him a little nod that they understood.
"Prowl seems like the best idea right now," Optimus agreed, nodding sympathetically as Red Alert slumped with relief in his chair. "Ratchet?"
The medical bot tilted his helm.
"It's a bit early, but I can clear him for light, non-physical duty. Just make sure he's got some good mechs on the side to enforce his orders."
"The muscle, as Jazz would say." Optimus nodded, then—with the question before them—glanced at Mirage with a raised optic ridge.
"No word." Mirage shook his helm once. "But that's good. If I don't get a final info-dump..."
It was not often spoken of, the mission protocols for if one of them was about to die. Mirage's tense posture, his tight vents and twitching finger on his datapad made a little more sense now—not the nerves of a newly promoted mech surrounded by brass, but a nervous second afraid of his friend's last message.
"Jazz's fine" Ironhide said, glancing at him. "Just trying to avoid the hard decisions in life, as usual. Probably afraid I'll make him acting second in command 'till Prowl's good again."
Mirage laughed once despite himself, behind his hand.
Ratchet lifted his helm slightly.
"Prowl just responded. Says he'll take the twins and start disciplinary procedures tomorrow."
"The twins?" Ironhide echoed. "I mean, sure, I can spare 'em, but they were part of that whole mess on the surnet. Reading it, at least. I don't even know what side they're on."
"Cross-faction," Mirage said automatically. "Sideswipe, anyway. Sunstreak not so much. He'll read it but..."
His voice trailed off as he realized that no one had expected him to actually know each mech off the top of his helm. Mirage almost asked what did they expect from trying to put together a database of which mech liked which stories, and he was suddenly struck by the fact that the others didn't quite understand intelligence work. They were used to information flying back and forth, but they were also used to having some semblance of privacy. Spec Ops knew that there was no such thing as real privacy, just information that had been buried deeper and needed more prying.
"They're fine," Mirage said, adjusting his answer. "They won't cause any trouble."
"They didn't hit anyone they weren't ordered to," Optimus reminded Ironhide.
Across from them, Ratchet made a soft sound of surprise. With widened optics, he looked up at Optimus.
"Ah, Prime? Prowl also wants to know if...if he can take Soundwave along."
All of them sat straight. Glanced around at each other. At Optimus. Then, at Mirage as he softly tapped his datapad.
"...why?" Perceptor asked.
"Consulting for...field practice," Ratchet said, echoing whatever Prowl was saying to him. "And to handle basic calculations for him, to ease his cortex load."
Red Alert hmm'ed once, nodding, resting his helm against Inferno's arm. Ratchet glanced at him, but there were no sparks under the patch.
"If Soundwave has adequate firewalls," Inferno translated. "Red says he'll wanna look first, verify Soundwave can't get anywhere in the Ark's main systems."
Optimus gave Red Alert a look.
"You trust Soundwave that much?" he asked.
Red Alert closed his optics and vented out. A moment passed, and Inferno nodded for him.
"He was hooked up to Prowl for an extended amount of time," Inferno said. "Prowl had the best look possible in Soundwave's helm, and nothing gets past Prowl's cortex. Ratchet cleared Prowl, so...Prowl can have whoever he needs to help ease the strain. Even if that someone's Soundwave."
Ironhide winced. "Gonna play havoc, him standing in front'a all them prudes and 'con fuckers."
"Prowl says he has an idea."
"Prowl's idea...seems illogical."
Soundwave's voice strained with an audible whine. They stood on a high ridge overlooking the plateau around the Ark. It provided full visibility of several square miles below, which would soon fill with many of the mechs who had been caught fighting in the corridors and mess hall and wash racks. And it would allow every mech to see Prowl, as well as the taller, heavier Soundwave behind his shoulder.
Hands clasped behind his back, Prowl glanced at him from the corner of his optic. If anything, Prowl's chin lifted a little higher.
"'Seems' illogical?" he asked.
"Prowl's logic...superior," Soundwave said as if he were still getting used to the taste of that idea. "Equal to Soundwave's. Therefore...should make sense. But...cannot find that logic."
"Clarify—what do you find illogical?" Prowl asked mildly, already aware of Soundwave's confusion.
"Anti-cross-factionists already attacking cross-factionists," Soundwave said. "Presenting a known high-ranking officer of the enemy faction—"
"—defected officer—" Prowl said.
"Notwithstanding," Soundwave said, a small frown on his faceplate. "They will not care that I have defected. They will hate me and you by proxy. Therefore, your decision for my presence here...seems illogical."
Far from being annoyed at Soundwave's worry, Prowl's satisfaction rose a decimal point.
"It is your remaining 2.2% dissonance with civilian culture," Prowl said. "Perhaps warbuilds are accustomed to seeing heavy injuries on other mechs, but we are not. I asked Ratchet to purposefully leave unrepaired the most dramatic cosmetic injuries to your armor."
Prowl turned to better see Soundwave. Self-repair functions had already diminished the small dents and cracks, but the severe damage to the cassette carrier still lay bare—and Prowl was counting on that.
"How does your frame feel?" Prowl asked. "Pain? Stiffness?"
"Affirmative," Soundwave answered. "Though minimal. Ratchet's medical ability, superior."
"True," Prowl said, as if that was not the answer he'd been looking for. "But will that affect your ability to calculate formula? Would you...prefer...to rest?"
Soundwave looked at him. Without his concealing mask and visor, Soundwave's emotions lay bare to him in ways that Prowl would never have discovered under that carefully monotone voice. The gold optics reset once, twice, and his mouth pressed in a way that suggested confusion. The gleam along Soundwave's faceplate, Prowl decided, was a softer kind of shiny that he'd never noticed.
"This is beyond the requirement of regular duty," Prowl said. "I can permit you to continue to repair in private."
Soundwave's brow furrowed.
"Soundwave's presence, of benefit to Prowl's purpose here?"
"Yes."
Soundwave stood straight as if Prowl's suggestion was almost an insult.
"Pain, negligible in calculations," Soundwave said. "Soundwave, superior."
"Regardless," Prowl said. "I will begin streaming data for you to process. Alert me if it becomes painful."
Soundwave's confusion only grew as Prowl's electronic signature pinged for access. After having Prowl so deep that their thoughts had overlain each other, the polite request seemed superfluous. Soundwave allowed him in without a word, and the header information—timestamps, coordinates, routes and supply databases—made him blink.
"These are..." Soundwave looked at Prowl with wide optics. "Base functions. Ark functions."
Prowl looked at him. "Yes?"
"Prowl..." Soundwave faltered. "You..."
Prowl didn't move, waiting for either obedience or a question.
Soundwave stared at him for a long moment.
Then he began filtering through the data, processing supply requests, updating troop locations and fuel needs, reprioritizing the handful of notes that had slipped between the cracks and forwarding them back to Prowl. And he used Prowl's preferred formulas to do so, even if Venn's Standardized Constant and the Bernoulli Modified Quantex were inferior to Haytham's Anti-Euclidean Parabolic Fields.
It was what Prowl wanted. And there was a satisfaction in giving Prowl what he wanted.
Soundwave's cortex shunted aside his worries over Megatron assaulting the base to make room for the new calculations.
Across the base, Ratchet's datapad pinged an update on Soundwave's health, measuring less pressure in his joints and less stress in his cortex. This, followed swiftly by a ping regarding Prowl's health, measuring less processing demand even while Prowl accepted a hefty weight of base functions from Red Alert.
And in the officer's meeting, Ratchet didn't need the last ping to alert him to Red Alert's change in status. The small red mech audibly vented and relaxed for the first time in days as he no longer took on the vast entirety of the base's functioning. Red Alert leaned back in his seat, helm resting on Inferno's arm, and went straight into a recharge cycle.
Inferno reset his optics and looked down. "Uh—"
"Let him sleep," Ratchet whispered, warning the others in the meeting from raising their voices. "First time he's been able to since the blast."
Uh, yessir, Inferno said. But do you really want me to just leave him like this?
Hell no, Ratchet said. Take him back to his berth. Just for recharge, he added, giving Inferno a look.
Inferno felt his faceplate warm but didn't dare defend his noble intentions to Ratchet.
Of course, sir. Um...do I just...?
Won't be the first time you've carried him, Ratchet said.
Inferno hesitated, then took a deep vent and gathered Red Alert up in his arms. No one commented as he carried him out of the hall, but he did hear Ironhide's murmur just before the doors closed.
"Fuckin' finally. Bot's too small to hang onto all'a that worrying."
On the dry, dusty expanse of desert just outside of the Ark, dozens of mechs stood in neat lines at parade rest. None of the autobots were restrained. That they weren't in the brig was good news, but none of them missedthe way Sunstreak and Sideswipe held their firearms, unholstered if aimed at the ground.
"You are all here," Prowl called down to the assembled mechs below, and his voice reverberated across the cliffside, "for the infractions of insubordination, intimidation, assault, battery, refusal to obey direct orders, and dereliction of duty."
With every charge, the Autobots winced, lowered their helms, or simply grit their denta at the sheer unfairness of it. Their thoughts were obvious. The mechs literally crossing cables with Decepticons weren't outside with them. Why weren't the Con-fuckers getting their own punishment, too?
Prowl took a step closer to the edge of the plateau, and a collective vent swept through the assembled mechs.
Soundwave stood behind Prowl—he wasn't masked or wearing his visor, but they all recognized one of the highest ranking Decepticon officers of the enemy army.
And Soundwave was broken.
Well, not completely broken. During Prowl's predictable listing of their collective offenses and the damage done to the base, the longer they studied Soundwave, the more they saw how he had been pieced back together—his clear polymer cracked and coated with medical sealant, his wires taped up so that they wouldn't short out. His spark case no longer lay exposed under the cassette case, but the thick welding scars were recognizable to any mech. The patches on his energon cables at his throat and hips, colored red for the heaviest thickness possible, alerted even the most casual onlooker that those cords had been severed—each of them a life-threatening wound. Taken together, the injuries were almost too catastrophic to be believed.
Internal communications flew between the autobots—instant photographs at high resolution and from different angles, scanning Soundwave for weaknesses as if they were on the battlefield searching for vulnerable points. They all collectively observed, analyzed, tabulated, and assessed, creating a picture of the damage, how the damage must have exploded into him, and—there were thinner, less dramatic tells of injury on Prowl now that they looked—how Soundwave's frame had shielded their second in command from some of the blast.
Warpath: Yowza! Mechs, that is one messed up mech! It was a bomb, right? Boom—right in their faceplates!
Cliffjumper: NOT MESSED UP ENOUGH! I DON'T CARE WHAT HE DID! WHY THE PIT IS THAT PILE OF SLAG UP THERE WITH PROWL?
Gears: DoN't mAttER what HE dId! hE's stilL souNDWavE! I doN't cARe HOW FuCkeD up he GoT
Lightspeed: I WARNED you all and THERE IT IS! A CON at our HIGHEST LEVEL OF COMMAND!
Sunstreak: I don't get how he's still alive. I've seen those kind of wrecks on the frontlines. No mech walks away from half of that. And he's still going. I can't believe they didn't bleed out.
Powerglide: gotta be a con i mean conjob 'course its a con how culd he hav dun anything if he wuz that wrecked how is he even standin?
Bluestreak: I mean I won't lie I want to put a round through his sparkcase right now but look at the way the injuries line up. He took so much damage and Prowl's left side is all ganked up—that could've been Prowl and no way he could have taken all of that and lived. How did they even get Ratchet to sign off on giving Prowl light duties when he's that structurally compromised? I'll bet Sunstreak and Sideswipe aren't there to watch us, they're there to catch them in case they fall off the ledge.
Cliffjumper: IF THE CON FALLS, IT'LL SAVE US ALL THE EFFORT
Above them, Prowl monitored their expressions, the tightening of their frames as they held themselves at stiff attention. This was the most dangerous moment. If he could just bring them safely through this, he anticipated nothing but clear sailing through the rest of the day.
"Their reactions?" he asked softly.
Sunstreak tilted his helm, rotating his shoulder once to loosen up.
"Fucking steaming," Sunstreak murmured, missing how Prowl gave him a sidelong look. "They want to shoot Soundwave, half of 'em think you've been compromised, and all of 'em can't believe you're both still alive."
"Will they do anything?" Prowl asked.
Sunstreak checked the group communication going on. Technically he hadn't been invited to this one, but there had been an "anti con group" link for weeks, and no one had kicked him out even when they saw him standing up there.
"Just complaining right now," he said. "But it's mostly hoping Soundwave falls off the ledge. They're too wrapped up in how broken he is."
Prowl nodded once. As he had hoped they would be. Sunstreak's tired explanation spoke to the vast gulf between the civilian bots and the bots sparked for war. Even though Sunstreak was no Decepticon, the grounder was perhaps in a unique place between the factions. The twins had seen more than their share of combat. Their only surprise was how Prowl and Soundwave were still alive.
Prowl was reminded of how Soundwave said he would never have attempted to surrender to the twins. He didn't think either of them would have listened to two words before simply gunning down Soundwave.
Fragile, Prowl thought. The way Sideswipe reset his optics slowly, wincing faintly in the glare of the bright sun and ignoring how the condensation off his coils hissed along his armor. How Sunstreak held his rifle along his arm, finger off the trigger, ready to simply raise the barrel and fire on command, bored with being at the very edge of firing on his comrades.
Autobots are fragile, he thought. In more ways than one. And warbuilds are resilient in more ways than one.
He glanced at Soundwave, who stood with optics half-shut, quietly processing base functions.
"Power down to a light recharge cycle," Prowl ordered. "Continue handling Ark needs as a background process."
Soundwave turned slightly to face him. "...power down?"
"Yes."
Soundwave hesitated. Bit his lip and glanced at the crowd in front of them.
"You're safe," Prowl said. "They won't hurt you. And I will be here."
"Prowl, will be safe?"
"Of course."
Prowl did not repeat his command. He didn't have to. After a moment, and with one more look at Prowl's confident demeanor, Soundwave closed his optics and let his frame lock into position. Soft, regular vents followed, along with a ping confirming that his processor was still managing Ark functions to give Prowl and Red Alert a break. Prowl couldn't help but notice how Soundwave's faceplate relaxed slightly, smoothing out and gleaming in the sun.
When he looked back over his autobots, he didn't need Sunstreak to translate for him. They had all noticed. And Prowl stood a little straighter.
Yes, The former third-in-command of the entire decepticon force was very, very shiny.
And very much under Prowl's command.
With a deep sense of satisfaction, Prowl began speaking to his soldiers again.
"We will begin with military training exercises..."
TBC...