Prowl was in some deep slag.
Not exactly how he would have phrased it, had he said anything. And he wouldn't have sympathetically slapped a commanding officer on the back while doing so, either. But that was what Ironhide had said and done, and to be perfectly honest with himself the head tactician likely couldn't find a more apt way to put it.
Prowl was in some deep slag.
Three joors in to the Prime's return to base, and there had been a complete security breach. He didn't yet have confirmation on whether the perpetrators had been Decepticon raiders or civilian commandos, but as of yet all signs pointed to an incredibly well-planned infiltration.
As many as four possible groups of unnamed, sensor-cloaked mechs had come up through the waste pipes, run through to two of the purposely scattered energon stores, and almost made it Oback out through the incinerators after cutting ignition lines by the time Autobot forces had arrived.
If signs of the breach hadn't been detected during a routine hall scan, he would be tempted to believe that it had been an inside job.
Red alert was in the process of a nervous breakdown, and with five recorded Autobot fatalities, seven Autobot casualties, nine enemy fatalities, and three enemies injured on his servos Ratchet wasn't too far behind a mental break as well.
Prime had quickly been escorted off-base to a secure facility until further notice, leaving Prowl in charge to deal with the fallout.
"Deep slag", indeed.
"With all due respect, may I say I do not envy your position, sir," one soldier commented.
Unwelcome as the comment may have been, he had been inclined to wearily agree. This would require he interrogate the three still-functioning enemy mechs for information relating to their intentions, as well as initiate a full-base inspection for planted devices and unauthorized monitoring equipment. Then he'd have to delegate the construction of a new comm code to one of the 'bots under Perceptor's command, which would doubtless instigate a vorn-long back and forth over details and redundant security measures. Wheeljack would take the opportunity to upgrade system functions and install preventative tech into the waste systems, which would doubtlessly combust at some point and leave First Aid to fuss over whomever was damaged in the process so that Ratchet could take five kliks to refuel and recharge in between disasters.
Red Alert would develop a secondary nervous glitch.
First, check with detained mechs to make sure there isn't a greater immediate threat on the way.
Send tactical to record any new variables introduced.
Warn construction bots of possible explosions. Send out a memo reminding of the importance of safety gear and the partnering system.
Make sure medical is as stocked as possible.
Ask Wheeljack about defensive tech before he forgets to seek proper authorization.
Have lower ranking mechs move waste receptacle openings and flammable materials further apart.
Have someone calm the mechs in Security.
Detail full report and contact the Prime as soon as conditions are secure.
Actually, perhaps first he should put emergency first responders on circulating break shifts so that they could rest up. They'd probably be very busy over the next while.
He already had the better part of the safety awareness memo filed on a private comm line by the time he left his office, which was exactly the same moment he received a ping from Ratchet that they were now down to six autobot casualties, two of the detainees had succumbed to injury and were on their way to temporary storage, and Weldwire had just been attacked by the remaining prisoner and was on his way back to medical on a stretcher.
::Fragger didn't follow security protocol,:: the CMO grumbled, ::So keep your concern to yourself.::
::And the remaining injured?:: he inquired, ignoring the bot's remark. The mech knew very well he had little sympathy to spare for mechs that maintained such preventable injuries.
::Stable,:: The medic huffed back. ::I'm ordering three joors light duty for the lot of them. Follow-up detail and maintenance checks are noted on their rosters. Five security responders and one unlucky maintainence 'bot.::
::Noted. Thank you, Ratchet.::
::Ratchet out.::
Prowl filed away all relevant information and continued on his way to the lower holding level of the base.
::Shiftshade, this is Acting Command Officer Prowl. Report.::
::Shiftshade here, sir. Weldwire got slagged pretty bad. Lost a servo and some chest plating, leaked out something awful. He's good now, but we had to stun the prisoner. He's a glitched mech. Haven't been able to get much out of him, but he's uncooperative and resistive to command.::
Oh, fantastic. The berserker battle-builds were practically useless for informative purposes. Openly violent ones less so.
::Is he still offline?::
::No, sir,:: replied the warden. ::He booted up a few kliks ago, and he's not happy to be here. We got the restraints on him and he ain't putting up a fight, but none of my mechs like the look of him.::
::Is he displaying threatening or aggressive postures?::
::No sir, he ain't even all that big. Nice build, too. But like I said, he's a glitched mech.::
The tactician vented slowly.
::I'm approximately five kliks from your location.::
::Acknowledged. Good luck, sir. Shiftshade out.::
The line clicked shut, and Prowl allowed his doorwings to flex slightly under the stress. This joor just seemed to keep getting longer, didn't it?
It wasn't often Jazz onlined with his chassis sore and his servos chained above his head and wasn't happy about it.
It wasn't often he didn't remember how he went offline either, but it seemed like that was becoming a normal thing now too.
Which usually would have earned an amused smirk, but his wrist joints were wearing down and the constant online-offline pattern was starting to piss him off.
He tapped the back of his helm against the wall behind him, somewhat half-aware of the sharp burst of static that came with the contact.
Fzxtt-fzxtt-fzxtt.
Boring.
If he wasn't so pleased to be functioning, he'd be despairing of the total inactivity that came with it.
Actually, as the survival programs were settling down, his remaining limbs were starting to twitch and jitter. He needed action, something to react to. There were downsides to be a quick-thinking mech, and the base coding that kept him alive in a fight was certainly doing nothing to keep him sane now.
Somebot had told him- a long while ago, he couldn't quite remember when- that some mecha could sit and keep themselves amused for joors on end, and he was not one of those mecha.
It hadn't really been an issue until now.
War didn't leave a lot of openings for R'n'R.
What would he do after the war?
If there was a Him and an After War.
He'd need a function that didn't interfere with his base coding. Something fast-paced, where he could meet new mecha and learn on the go.
Something with music.
He had always loved music. He still sang sometimes, quietly, to himself. Little clips of old-Cybertron pop music, bars of instrumental melodies and whatever he couldn't remember the words for.
Vos always had some of the best music, back before it's fall. He had been a much younger mech when the Seekers had joined the war.
He hummed a fragment of a popular Vosnian club tune as it came to him, and he filled in the gaps in his memory with whatever felt nice. Part of him didn't want to accidentally sing too loudly in case somebot heard and came to check on the prisoner, and the another figured that if he was alarming anybody then at least he'd get something better to do.
Besides, the vibrations were soothing to his fizzling receptors.
It didn't last.
Soon enough he was bored again, rebellious processors refusing to latch on to a single line of thought long enough to pass the time until-
Until what? Until he was examined, questioned, terminated and used for spare parts?
Yeah, that was worth the fragging wait.
You'd think if they were planning on terminating him they'd at least have the curtesy to do it in a timely manner.
It was rude, really.
He vented harshly.
Damned Autobots. Damned war. Damned slagging Primes and their games .
And right at that moment as if listening for his cue, a fragging Messenger of Primus Himself stepped into optical range.
Holy slag, mech.
The tactician had not been expecting the mech in front of him. He was not prepared for a mid-sized, mangled frame of once-was slick and glossy white and grey paint. A mercenary type, maybe. A pit fighter build at the very least. This mech looked more like a bouncer than a berserker. By the dim glow of his yellow optics behind the visor, it was amazing he even had enough energon in his systems to prove a threat. It was difficult to believe that this was a mecha who had joined a team of well-known raiders across the barren landscape to ransack a high-profile military base.
The set of shackles holding the mech's servos to the ceiling seemed almost close to overkill.
And yet...
Prowl could almost sense the air of something dangerous around the mecha, and that was enough to kelp himself on his guard.
It was something in those yellow optics.
The dim honeyed visor in question was looking up expectantly as he was considered, sizing the newcomer in turn.
Prowl frowned, raising his note tablet in his arms. He didn't like this mech, and the sooner he had what he needed was the sooner he could carry on with his work.
"Designation?"
The smaller mech continued to stare, a blank expression on a plain face.
His frown deepened.
"Unknown intruder, state your designation."
Nothing.
Resistive tactics. Prowl hated resistive tactics. They were tiresome, and only really served to slow the process.
"Unknown intruder. You are in Autobot custody. You are being charged with organized and premeditated grand theft, and are responsible for an unknown number of Autobot casualties. You are not in a posi-"
"Ah're ya almost done?," came the unexpected interruption. "'Cause I ain't got a clue what the frag y're sayin'."
The 'bot was cute when he was angry. Well. 'Cute'. Maybe the word was closer to 'ridiculously fragging hot'. First thing Jazz knew about the mech, and was that he was ridiculously fragging hot when he was angry.
When he had walked in, jazz hadn't recognized the enforcer-regulation markings, but damn if they weren't fine on a frame like that. All wide, powerful, hips doorwings and chest plates, all in white and shiny black lining.
Praxian.
Ticked off at him.
Damn. Fine as frag and he couldn't touch.
The mech was chattering off something at him, but slag if he knew what he was saying.
Maybe he should just wait it out, keep listening until tall, steel, and grumpy figured out he hadn't had his audials repaired yet. Did he even know they were scrapped? Probably not.
Primus, if they had a bad comm network. Details like that were important information for a bot in his position.
But nope, his fickle mind rejected the prospect of further inactivity over the temptation of potential action and he was talking before he noticed his mouth was moving.
"... Ah ain't got a clue what the frag y're sayin'."
He was expecting disbelief, distrust, violence. Every mech knew that Autobots were softer than 'Cons, but only a fool would go so far as to claim that they were pacifists. Nowadays, every mech had their own dirty little secrets, and he wasn't in much of a position to be naive. He didn't know what kind of 'bot he was dealing with.
Instead of lashing out, however, the Autobot simply typed something out on his noteboard and held it up for him to see.
"Have you not been repaired?"
Huh. Rational. Annoyed, but nothing he couldn't work with.
Thank the Primes.
"Ah'm functioning. Although Ah assume Ah'm not exactly yer highest priority ah' the mo."
He grinned upwards.
"It seems yer not the best host, eitha."
The pad was taken away, and then returned quickly. Fast typist. Probably spent time filing documents in... Well, a scientist wouldn't be down with him unless they had something nasty planned. A medic would be down first as well, but he'd already fudged that one, hadn't he? Head of security might stop by. Or central command. He'd guess Inquisitor or Psychologist, but those functions required expert social skills and a friendly act this guy wasn't putting on. Maybe Logistics, then.
"It is socially expected for a guest to knock and introduce themselves before entering the host's facilities. By logical sequence, you are more a bad guest than I a bad host. What is your designation?"
Ah, so he was central command.
"Ladies first."
Ah, there was a tic. Likely wasn't used to back talk. Commanding officer, then. Fairly high in the ranks, but none too patient with new recruits. Enforcer type obviously, but likely didn't see a reason to repaint when his previous function was terminated. Expects those around him to be up to date on recent events, either nostalgic or very very practical in the use of resources. Probably the latter, Jazz decided. Scuffs on the black paint of his pedes. Not careless, but not the symptom of an overly sentimental piece of work.
Tap tap tap on the screen.
"My designation is Prowl."
Prowl. Old designation, picked for undercover and patrol. Probably quiet, patient. He'd bet the mech liked a challenge, thought well under pressure of the moment. If he had credits to gamble...
Sounds like we've got a Tactical officer in our servos.
That was perfect.
"Ah'm Jazz," he returned pleasantly, nodding his head. The movement pulled on his arms, and he held in a groan at a metal chink that wedged itself between his plates. Frag, his arms were going to pop off at some point.
"How can Ah help you, mah mech?"
Prowl's struts tightened. That offer hadn't been the offer of a genuinely cooperative mech. This 'Jazz', if it was indeed his designation, wasn't a scared mech looking for an easy out. He was smart, and smart meant that Prowl would have to be very careful with what information he received.
Fortunately, he was also arrogant. Only time and work would tell how much of that was earned and how much was empty.
A thrill of pleased static charged through his processor despite himself. He would deny it, even to himself, but deep down it was.. Something close to enjoyable, to have a criminal to pick apart.
If the fact at hand wasn't that he had good mechs dead to account for, maybe he'd take the time to feel something about it.
But this was wartime, he was on the job, and they had lost time numbers and fuel that could have gone to fighting for the cause.
Now was the time to be harsh and calculating, not amused.
He erased his previous note, and began a new one. This would be moving much faster if the prisoner could actually hear him, but he wasn't about to send in another medic to deal with the issue until he was sure there wouldn't be another incident.
First things first, he had to ensure the safety of the mechs under his watch.
"You could start by telling me whether or not you have compromised my base."
Jazz's grin widened. Shredded and burned from the chassis down, covered in pink and blue and smiling like the the Unmaker Himself, Prowl was finally starting to realize his guard's tentative regard towards what Shiftshade had called a 'Glitched Mech'.
"Ah'd say it's more a matter of what an' where, Prowler mah mech."
Prowl's comm pinged rapidly.
::Sir, we've got a problem on the main deck.::
::There's been an explosion on the main deck, sir!::
::Requesting orders, sir!::
Jazz looked to Prowl's comm panel knowingly.
"Ah see you have some work tah get to."