See? What did I tell you! Reviews bring inspiration, and inspiration brings chapters! 8D I gotta admit, this one was exhilarating to write. Exciting. Emotional. I'm super-duper proud that I got it done...and a little sad that it's finished. But you know what? You're going to love it. Unless you hate it. Actually, I imagine you might be doing a little of both by the end. In any event, I bet you'll be happy to have some questions answered and some emotions explored.
I was genuinely surprised and humbled and amazed by the turnout of reviewers for the last chapter. Oh my Godzilla, I did not think there were so many fans left waiting so patiently in the wings! I will have to keep that in mind next time I am even contemplating a hiatus! XD
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Also, I would like to thank Guest for being my 1500th reviewer! Yayyyyyyyyy Guest! Now let's root for 2000 reviews! What do ya say, everybody? Can we do it! 8D
My love to you all, named and unnamed reviewers!
Chapter 38
There were eight cells in Holdings.
Four dark cells lined the aisle on either side, closed off by thick metal bars running from top to bottom. Lighting was at its dimmest in this section of the building. The bulbs were small and dying, casting weakened yellow light in tiny halos around their anchors on the ceiling. Everywhere else, there was deep black shadow so thick that it laid like a blanket over every surface.
Somewhere beyond the range of sight, a continuous liquid drip chimed ominously.
Jazz took the first step into Holdings, landing in something soft and cool that squelched under his weight and gave a soft 'pop' before releasing a pocket of rancid air. Each step that followed sunk into the spongy surface of the floor, squelching and squishing with thick, wet sounds that filled the dark space. Jazz did not look down. He did not turn on the lights on his frames. He knew he did not want to find out what he was stepping on.
The air was heaviest in this section of the labs. Cloistering in a manner that was wholly foreign and alien. Warm, heavy air pressed in on all sides like the breath of a beast, its maw gaping open as it stretched to swallow its victims whole. Humidity was thick as well. Disconcertingly thick and powerful, clinging to every surface and dragging all moving bodies down with its wet weight. It was slimy and foetid, made worse by the horrible stench that carried with it on every weak shift of air.
"Methane," Prowl intoned in a carefully modulated voice, pressing his mouthplates close to Jazz's audio even though neither of them needed to whisper. Holdings simply exuded the feeling that they needed to be quiet, lest they disturb whatever was in there with them. "High levels of methane, hydrogen sulphide, and carbon dioxide – indicative of organic rot. Ionization is also in heavy saturation. Oxygen is being pumped in through the vents."
"It's like the magnesium chamber," Jazz murmured back, never taking his sights off the blackness ahead of him. "One little spark would probably blow this place sky high."
Prowl made a noise of agreement.
They passed between the first two cages and saw nothing in the depths of the shadow. Shadow crawled up the corners and saturated the air. There was no discernible movement in the small spaces to hint at a creature being held captive.
"The cages appear empty," Prowl noted cautiously, taking a single wary step toward the cell on his right. The aisle itself was moderately wide, large enough to accommodate a gurney rolling through. Drawing up to the bars, the tactician attempted to adjust the settings of his optics in order to utilize the low light more efficiently.
"They're not empty," Jazz pointed out grimly. "We're not alone in here."
Prowl made the mistake of glancing at his partner. It was only for a moment, but that was enough. Sudden movement shot out from his periphery like a crack of lightning, too fast for Prowl to evade. His wrist of his injured arm was snared in the grip of something leathery and thick, powerful enough to jerk him to his knees and drag him until his arm was fully wrung through the bars up to his shoulder.
Above the sound of his agonized shout, all chaos broke loose in the other cages. The captives came alive in flurries of movement, screaming loud and hard as they pounded on the floor and walls with their fists, shaking the bars of their cells. The cacophony of noise was shrill and horrifying. Most of it did not sound at all like noises a Cybertronian would normally make. The captives threw their bodies like battering rams into whatever surface they could damage. Vibrations from the wild activity shook loose layers of grime and rust flakes from the ceiling, causing a storm of dirt to rain down on them. Through falling debris, a flash of the misshapen figured in the cells could be seen every time one came close enough to their cage doors.
Jazz ignored the anarchy of the aisle. If the cages had held their prisoners for this long, they would hold a little longer. His main concern was Prowl. He dropped to his knees in the thick carpet of gooey debris that lined the floor, shuffling to Prowl's side to aid the writhing tactician.
"My arm!" he coughed harshly. "Something's- got it..."
The stress on the joints caused a low, grinding tremor to pass through the Autobot. He was heaving hard through his vents, harsh breaths that flung droplets of slime in all directions. The pale light of his optics flashed in panic as he felt his internal wiring begin to give away under the increasing pressure. Energon was spilling out again from his mutilated patch, leaking from a tear in one of his energon lines where twisted metal had cut through the polymer. The dull glow spread dimly across the floor, burning everything it came in contact with.
"Hold on!" Jazz commanded, hands flying in all directions as he tried to figure out what to do first. "Just – damn it, hold on, Prowler!"
Prowl's wide optics met Jazz's with a look of utter disbelief. Hold on? Hold on! Easy for him to say! It wasn't Jazz who was slowly being gutted as he internal wiring was ripped out along with one of his limbs. Prowl certainly did not appreciate playing tug-of-war with one of his frame parts laying on the line. Warnings flashed across his vision at the imminent separation of the arm. Lists of mounting damages spiralling out from the site scrolled down at high speed. The only way to minimize the damage was to voluntarily lose his arm. Cut function to the limb, disengage wiring, shut down energon flow, release locks-
"No! Do not release the locks on your arm!" Jazz howled above the scream of the captives. His hands clenched tight around the tactician's shoulder, causing Prowl to bellow with the added pressure. It hurt, Jazz knew it hurt, by he was doing it to counter the pressure of the thing that was attempting to rip the limb off.
"Let go!" Prowl panted, writhing and kicking for purchase on the slick floor. "Let go! It's just an arm! I can get a new one!"
A cold chill of rage washed down Jazz's back. His optics flashed and he snarled something brutal and coarse in his native language.
"Ah am not letting go!" Jazz shouted, his grip tightening until all the tactician could see was black and white spots erupting across his vision. "You lose your arm in here and that's like signing your own death warrant. Ah'm making sure ya make good on that promise ya just made."
Prowl hacked up a rough noise that was a bad mixture between incredulous laugh and agonized shout.
Desperate to do something, Jazz dug the claws of one hand into the armour of Prowl's separating shoulder and arm, using his own hand as the bridge to keep the two connected. The force required to pierce the tactician's armour drilled Jazz's claws down and cracked them to the quick. He barely felt the injury to himself. Every joint from the tips of his fingers and through to his wrist burned as they were stretched and strained beyond their limit. Prowl's free hand flailed, latching on to Jazz's wrist as if clutching an anchor to life. Through that touch, Jazz sensed the immense pain that rocketed through his partner's frame.
"Ah know it hurts. Ah know. Just hold on – hold on, okay?" Jazz gritted out tensely. "It'll be over in an astrosecond."
He lurched crookedly to his knees, keeping the one hand anchored to Prowl's shoulder while he stretched his frame in the opposite direction. His free arm worked its way through the narrow space between the heavy adamantium bars. Straining, panting, he clawed blindly into the dark until he felt something catch on the tips of his fingers. Prowl jerked uncontrollably, legs kicking, frame bucking. Every movement banged against Jazz's frame, jolting him away from the focus he needed to free the tactician.
"Hold still!"
"I am trying!" Prowl groaned.
Jazz spat a curse, trying for a new tactic. He reached out for the rope holding his partner, looping it around his hand several times before bracing his weight and yanking back with all his strength. In the dim, slowed-down moments that followed, Jazz became aware of several things at once. First, the restraint around Prowl's arm was not quite the rope he thought it was. In fact, there was a distinctly fleshy quality to it. Secondly, the captive inside the cell was not quite as Cybertronian as he hoped it would be.
And lastly, Shockwave really was an artist of sorts – a really macabre, insane artist of nightmares.
With no time to think about the thing now pressed up against the bars of the cage, Jazz pulled free his damaged claws from Prowl's shoulder and used them to slash through the tentacle-like appendage pulled taut by his other hand. A piercing scream cut above the noise of everything else. A viscous wash of hot, discoloured fluid bathed Jazz's front. He felt the touch of an electric charge and realized that small electro-fillaments had been sheered away with the fleshy tentacle. Wires snapped and crackled weakly, giving off plumes of acrid black smoke.
Prowl lurched backwards as the pressure in his arm let up. He rolled to his front and heaved heavily, bracing himself on his knees without the strength to lift his head from the floor. He clutched at his dislocated arm, fists clenching and unclenching sporadically.
"Let meh see it," Jazz called breathlessly, rolling his partner over. "Ah can help. Ah'll weld it or something-"
"You can't," Prowl coughed roughly, shuddering under the saboteur's handling. He knew Jazz was trying to be careful, but every little touch burned through him as if someone were putting a live flame to raw neural circuits. He was so distracted by the pain that roared through every affected system that he could not concentrate long enough to shut down neural receptors in those areas. This was worse than getting shot in the first place. At least the plasma blast was a clean through-and-through. This felt like a cataclysmic full-systems meltdown.
"Right, right – no flames. No electrical currents." Jazz cursed a long, frustrated chain of words, scrapping his hands over his faceplate, dragging his stained claws over his head. The saturation of flammable gases was too high in the room; their weapons were not configured for the environment. It felt like only moments before that Jazz had been making his flippant remark about blowing the place sky high.
"Just...put it back," Prowl grunted, swallowing back the dirty energon that threatened to purge out. "Shove my arm back."
Jazz revved a wavering note, gathering his partner into his lap so that Prowl had something solid to lean on and brace his weight against. "It's gonna hurt."
"And you don't think it hurts right now?" Prowl hissed acidly.
"Just thought Ah'd warn ya. Also, mah medical skills might be a little rusty," Jazz warned, taking a deep drag of rancid air. "Here goes nothing." He grasped the injured arm between two hands and gave it a hard wrench inward, flinching as a terrible shriek erupted from the tactician. Prowl arched so hard that only his head and heels touched the ground. Static pitched out his vocal processor.
Jazz hung on for the sake of his friend. Forever felt like it passed before he sensed a change, feeling the tension begin to drain from Prowl's frame. Sharp white optics watched vigilantly as each writhing movement lessened, each expression was less emphatic than the last. Soon, Prowl laid braced in Jazz's lap as he panted and groaned quietly while riding out the last dregs of throbbing that lingered throughout his frame.
Jazz did not realize he was petting the side of Prowl's faceplate until the moment that the tactician's shaky hand grasped his and pressed it to the warm metal at the side of his head. A gesture of solidarity and thanks. Prowl's optics remained closed, unable to see the shift of expressions working their was across Jazz's features.
"It is quiet," the tactician suddenly noted, cracking his optics open.
It was then that Jazz realized that the cacophony that had started the moment Prowl had been seized was no ended. His audios still rang with echoes of the violent uprising, and the heavy silence in its wake made the lingering echoes especially loud. Now the gazes of the trapped captives were on them in rapt fascination, their deformed frames pressed up against the barriers of their cages, hands wrapped around the bars. Jazz could not read these creatures like he could read a normal Cybertronian. What Shockwave had done to them had made them something other... something beyond what Jazz had been taught to understand. But he felt a wrenching in his spark as he met the stare of the creature that had grabbed Prowl. One arm was tucked to its chest, still oozing where Jazz had cut away the retractable appendage that extended from its lower arm. It was hunched, moving on too many legs, staring with too may optics, broken and defeated, clearly in a realm of misery and pain that the saboteur could never comprehend.
The closer it came to the aisle, the more Jazz could see of it. It was a patchwork of grafted organic material and rusted sections of metal. Blisters, ooze, and infectious puss bubbled from every seam between the organic and inorganic, each side violently rejecting the other. Metal warped, creaked, and groaned as it warred with the incompatible flesh it had been blended with. Spots of black necrosis spread extensively across the organic pieces, collapsed veins dark and twisted beneath sallow patchworks sewn together with copper thread that stained the flesh a grotesque mossy grey-green. Bits and pieces of it appeared to be liquifying, slowly disintegrating and sloughing off to reveal raw and rotting layers beneath. Tangles of wires and exposed nerves. Hydraulics and muscle tissue. One wrong move and a seam opened up, spilling forth a tide of discoloured brown-blue congealed goo, bringing with it the overpowering stench of death and decay.
The pitiable creature came to stop just before the end of its cage. It had four optics and three gelatinous things that could have been organic eyes at one time, but had since succumbed to the accelerated death process. Now they were drooping bags of cloudy puss. Most of its faceplate was slack, a patchwork of organic and inorganic. Black and brown melded together, coarse with ulcerated tumours that leaked foul smelling green fluid. Heavy mandibles made up the structure of the mouthplates. Its overall shape was vaguely arachnid.
It sunk to its knees to be even with Jazz.
"We thought... you were here to hurt us."
The words were awkward, nearly incomprehensible. The sounds were soggy, lazy and slow compared to the typical speed of Cybertronian speech. Whatever had been done to the creature had severely compromised the structure of its vocal processor.
Prowl coughed weakly, pushing to sit up higher against Jazz's chest to get a better look at the sad creature that, only moments before, had been attempting to divest him of an arm. Seeing the poor thing fully now, how defeated and broken it was, Prowl suddenly had nothing but pity for it. To hold a grudge against it would have been entirely empty.
"We are Autobots," he rasped. He forwent the complication of qualifying Jazz's position with the Autobots. As blurred as his perceptions were at the moment, Prowl did note that Jazz nodded his confirmation rather than deny it.
"I see that now." A deadened gaze fell to the red marking peeking through the grime coating Prowl's frame.
Prowl revved weakly, grimacing. "We came here at the bidding of a Neutral from Iacon. She said Neutrals were going missing from the Tyger Pax-Kaon border region. Can you confirm this?"
"Yes," replied the arachnid creature. "I was Decepticon once, but the others here – they are Neutral."
Jazz shifted carefully, mindful of Prowl's weight in his lap. "What were ya called as a Decepticon?"
"I don't know. I can't remember," was the quietly morose response. "I am called Blackarachnia here."
"Shockwave did this to you, didn't he?" Prowl asked needlessly.
"Yes," Blackarachnia breathed, withdrawing into herself out of shame. Mismatched arms wrapped tightly around her torso in a hug that could never give comfort. Barely visible beneath scarring was a faded Decepticon marking. "Shockwave... is that what the bot with the yellow optic is called?"
"Yes," Jazz confirmed.
"It's nice to finally know the designation of the bot who did this to me."
"Do ya know how he did it?" the saboteur asked. He had some guesses, though guesses were as far as he could get with all this mad scientist crazy slag.
An answer didn't come right away. It was mulled over carefully, painful memories surfacing and roiling together in careful contemplation. Finally, there came a deep breath and creaking words fell into the silence. "There is a species far from our galaxy called the Nebulons. They have created techno-organic technology. It is a blend of technology and organic structures. Shockwave... re-engineered it, I think. I don't know..."
"That's alright," Jazz assured before panic could set in. He could hear the wavering tone in the experiment's voice and knew she...it... the thing was moments away from breaking down. "Don't worry about it. We can research it later. What you just gave us is a good start."
Long-fingered hands wrapped cautiously around the bars of the cell door. Optics full of misery and burgeoning hope peered out at the pair in the aisle as if they were saviours.
"What can I call you?" she asked wearily.
"This is Prowl," Jazz said, gesturing to his partner. "Ah am Jazz."
"Jazz."
Silver glinted in the low light with a nod of confirmation. "Yes, Ah am called Jazz."
"I have heard of you. Everyone knows about you," Blackarachnia said slowly. "You're a killer."
Jazz flinched at the label. "Ah'm a lot of other things too."
"Maybe." A piece of rotted graft flesh slid off the side of her head, hitting the floor with a wet plop. Blackarachnia did not acknowledge that she was falling apart. "Are you here to help us?"
Her fellow captives took in a collective breath. They watched raptly for the answer.
"Ah don't know if we can help ya," Jazz admitted, tasting the bitterness those words left in his mouthplates. "Ah don't know if anybody can help ya now."
Blackarachnia shook her head, a very sad smile forming around her mandibles. "I didn't mean set us free. Not that kind of help. We're not looking to go back to what we were."
Jazz shuttered his optics, knowing exactly what was being asked of him. He probably should have seen it coming from the moment he saw the results of Shockwave's twisted ambitions.
"Will you do it?" Blackarachnia whispered, hands clenching desperately around the bars. "Please, Jazz."
"Do ya even know what you're asking?" Jazz croaked.
"Yes, I know exactly what I am asking. I'm asking for freedom from this," Blackarachnia insisted. "You can make it quick for us. None of us can stand to be like this anymore. We want the nightmare to end."
Having never lacked for words before, it was odd to suddenly find that Jazz had no words to say. Murder was not new to him. A list of nameless bots laid in his past where they had begged for death as freedom for a thousand punishments he inflicted on them. They were all meaningless kills that came in one moment and were gone the next, no more troublesome than a bump in the road.
This was the first time anyone had ever sat before him and humbly asked to be killed with mercy.
It didn't feel like something Jazz was capable of.
"Jazz," Prowl prompted quietly. "Jazz, look at me."
A trembling hand came to rest over Jazz's, prompting the saboteur to look down. Prowl matched his gaze with a steady stare. The Autobot rulebook was chalk full of adamant reasons why killing bots was a bad idea. There were dozens rules, laws, and injunctions all meant to preserve life in all its forms. Prowl could likely recite every word of every rule in perfect verbatim. He knew that the rules laid down for the Autobots were there for the sake of everyone. Rules were important, and to obey them was paramount to preserve order.
And he also knew there was room in the Autobot rulebook for mercy.
"You can do this," he said, easing up to sit on his own. "They need you to do this."
"Ah don't..." Silver vents sucked in a hard drag of air.
"You don't what?"
"Never mind. Ah'll do it," Jazz ceded heavily, shaking his head. "Ah guess... Ah have ta do it."
"I will give you privacy for it," Prowl assured, grunting as he got to his feet. Jazz quickly scrambled to help, letting the tactician rest against him until he was stable. Prowl ran the backs of his fingers down the side of Jazz's faceplate as a means of comfort for something he knew the saboteur was hurting for. "Come find me in the Administration section when you are done. I will be there waiting."
He limped a step away. Then another.
Tension snapped, prompting Jazz to catch Prowl around the arm. He leaned up and pressed his mouthplates to his partner's audio, breathing quiet words that none other in Holdings could hear. All optics were on them, even as Jazz stopped speaking and just stood there in the presence of the anchor he suddenly realized he depended on more than he realized. Pressing his mouthplates together, the saboteur leaned away and matched Prowl's gaze. The tactician's optics had hardened, his expression turning unreadable.
"I will be careful," Prowl assured, resuming his slow trek out of Holdings.
Jazz sighed, now cold in Prowl's absence despite the overwhelming presence of cloistering heat around him. He inspected his damaged claws. They would be no use to him in what he was about to do.
"Jazz?" Blackarachnia prompted.
"In a hurry, huh?" Jazz tried to joke, though his humour quickly evaporated. The programmed lock on the cell door felt like nothing under his touch. He heard the screech of rusty metal, and he could feel anticipation lacing the air. He felt each life in the room pressing in on all sides, weighing in on his senses like leaded weights. He could feel their misery and their pain and their sudden hope that it would be over soon. All of it made his head spin.
Blackarachnia stayed on her knees as she waited. Her optics slid closed, shoulders drooping. Jazz sensed that she was making her peace for the end.
He hesitated at her back. The shine of the blade on his dagger looked obscene in the dark. When he finally touched her, necrotic skin sloughed off from her shoulders and neck. It must have hurt terribly. It looked like it hurt terribly. Blackarachnia endured in silence. One of Jazz's hands came around to brace her head, cradling it counter to the force of the blade he was about to euthanize her with. With his other hand, he held his dagger and let the heel of his palm rest against the lukewarm slime of Blackarachnia's throat. They rested together like that for an extended period of time. Jazz could not recall a time when he had held someone so gently, especially in the moments before he killed them.
Beneath his hands, Blackarachnia lifted her chin.
It was the sign Jazz did not know he was waiting for. His grip on her tensed, hardened for all but a single passing of time, and then he felt warmth flood over his fingers. Like a tension wire being cut, the frame went lax. Death set in quickly. Jazz continued to hold her until the last of her fluids stopped flowing, heat rapidly escaping her lifeless frame. Instead of dropping her, he took to a knee and laid her in place. Death rites were not something Jazz was intimately familiar with, but he tried. He crossed her arms over her chest and made it look like she was only recharging...minus the wet, gaping slit deeply separating her head from her shoulders.
Thankfully, whatever Shockwave had done to his victims, he had not changed enough of their internal structure to make the killing blow more difficult that it had to be. The slice that severed all energy sources between the processor and frame was clean and straight; the ensuing energy surge from the attack would have been enough to fry her processor and extinguish her spark simultaneously. It had once been Jazz's preferred method of dispatching bots from behind. Quick and easy and with little fuss. Now, staring down at the results, it seemed too crude. Yet it was all he could offer in the ways of a quick and painless end.
He got up from the floor and trudged slowly to the next cell where he would euthanize the occupants there.
He glanced back at Blackarachnia.
She looked peaceful.
Prowl waited outside the door until he heard the sound of a frame being laid to the floor.
His spark gave a lurch that he felt roll like a tide through his frame. Leaning closer to the door he had left ajar, he listened carefully for the creak of rusty hinges and the slow, lonely shuffle of a lone bot making his way to his next appointment. In his mind's optic, Prowl could see Jazz making his way into the next cell and doing exactly what needed to be done. He could imagine with perfect clarity the closed off expression the saboteur wore like an incomplete mask, Only his optics were left exposed by the retracted visor No One had fractured.
It was in those optics that Prowl had seen a crack in the saboteur's mask. He had seen it the moment Blackarachnia had called Jazz a killer and he had not revelled in the title. Being a killer was only part of who Jazz was, and it was becoming a smaller part with every orn that passed. He was a killer no longer. The act that Jazz was performing now was no more an act of murder than it was the most profound act of compassion he had ever offered.
Of course, therein laid the crux of the issue.
Prowl could feel the conflict radiating from his partner. It buzzed along his senses like a peculiar external awareness, causing his mind to race, calculate, and reevaluate a thousand things he thought he knew. Jazz was struggling. Struggling in his own way to reconcile the juxtaposition of an act he had been performing for a thousand lifetimes with the empathy required to perform it now in mercy. Thus far, Jazz had only ever seen compassion in the light of weakness. Now he was being forced to experience the depth of strength it required to be merciful in the most difficult of circumstances.
It was the very reason why Prowl had left the room. This was something Jazz needed to do on his own in order to know that he had the strength to do it.
Through the ajar door, the sounds of a second body being laid to rest signalled to Prowl that he was not needed. He moved on without a sound. He did not dare vocalize his discomfort. He did not dare distract Jazz from his current task. That did not stop him from being sore from so many displaced functions. Blackarachnia may have only been trying to protect herself, but she certainly caused a fair amount of harm in the process. Now that he could concentrate, Prowl began the process of logging his damages and shutting down neural receptors in affected areas.
He was not so foolish to think his internal damages were of no consequence. Much of his internal wiring that was indirectly connected to the operation of his arm had been loosening or displaced during the incident. If something was not done before he and Jazz left this place, the journey through back through the wasteland was likely to be Prowl's death.
He set his battle computer to consider the options while he cast the rest of his mind to staying alert during his trip back through Experimentation and Examination. A second tour through proved that once had not been disturbing enough. Prowl endeavoured not to look through any of the windows this time around. He did not want to know if there were any other inanimate parts lying around that had suddenly become animated in his absence.
Upon passing from Examination, Experimentation, and Holdings into the less ominous sounding Administration, Maintenance, and Record Keeping sections, Prowl suffered an inordinate sense of absolute relief. Even the appearance of the corridors was less horror vid inspired and more...scholarly inspired. Not quite welcoming, but remarkably less foreboding. The aesthetics remained firmly in the clean cut clinical realm, though noteably without the presence of dirt or grime or evidence of organic contamination. Air circulation proved better in this section; not entirely managing to dispel the stink of rot, though it was lessened to a degree as to be manageable. Even the overpowering sense of foreboding that had seemed to weigh so heavily over everything seemed to dissipate within the businesslike atmosphere of this section of the compound.
Prowl did not allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of comfort.
His guard remained up and his attention was infallibly sharp. Jazz's whispered words repeated quietly in his mind and kept him primed for any sign of trouble. The need to do so became even more acute as he passed through Administration and noted that one of the monitors was active. Upon approaching the active screen, Prowl could see the dim image of Holdings; Jazz was moving down the aisle to the fourth cell where several captives were pressed against the cage doors. Dark fluid drenched Jazz's front, dripping down his every curve and contour, dribbling to the floor and pooling in his footsteps. Though the image was faint, Prowl could see Jazz's grim expression and the weight of his granite resolve.
Not to be distracted by the activities of his partner, Prowl focused on the fact that someone had been watching them from this room. Lingering heat from the nearby chair indicated that their voyeur had not left this room too long ago. A quick scan for heat signatures did not turn up any conclusive evidence, being that the environment was too warm to detect a Cybertronian's lukewarm signature. A scan for a spark signature was likewise useless.
"So this is the game you would like to play?" Prowl murmured, cocking his blaster in his good hand. "Very well, I will play."
He exited Administration and was careful to keep his back to the wall while passing through Maintenance. The middle section was no more ominous than the first, though equipped for the maintenance of the compound rather than its administration. Its set up was inordinately orderly, each room's purpose neatly titled on its door: cleaning supplies, energon storage, organic supplements, medical tools... the rooms went on. Windows supplied a basic idea of the insides, which Prowl perused with a wary sweep. A single inactive drone was present in the corner of each room, none of which matched the silhouette of the bot who had shot him. He could detect no movement from anywhere around him; he heard no doors opening at his back, no footsteps suddenly dogging him in the hall.
Prowl was made to feel like he was very much alone in this section of the compound. So alone in the quiet that he could hear his own spark thumping a steady rhythm against the inside of his sparkcase. Despite all feelings to the contrary, he kept his guard up and optics open for any sign of his quarry.
Beyond Maintenance was Record Keeping, a blunt presence at the end of the corridor that manifested as a heavy door lacking in both lock and bars on the windows. Instead, there was the all-too-familiar placement of a trident-like design that gave Prowl a chill down his back.
"So we meet again," he greeted the seal. "I should have known our last meeting would not be the final one."
He had to fight the urge to blast acid straight into the face of the design. Despite the satisfaction it would have given him to destroy the symbol for the cult that had taken so much away from him, it would have defeated the purpose of stealth. Prowl passed through the doors and left the sigil for Psi ex Machina behind him.
Record Keeping turned out to be the most impressive section of Shockwave's lair...or it would have been, were it full. Shelves lined the walls and stood in rows of perfect parallel symmetry. Each shelf had been obsessively scoured, removing all the hundreds, if not thousands, of data pads that once ate up space. Barren spaces on exposed walls where dust had yet to settle hinted the places where large diagrams would have hung. Several large standing hard drives took up space in the corners; the lights on them were dark and Prowl did not doubt that any information they contained was long removed by now.
Prowl did not have long to consider the length of time needed for the amount meticulous record keeping necessary to have filled this room. It was not distraction that was to be his downfall this time, but a rookie mistake in failing to make sure no one was hiding behind the door.
The sound of a gun cocking just behind his head alerted him to that very grave mistake.
"Hello, Prowl."
At the baritone ring of the bot's voice, Prowl shuttered his optics and nodded confirmation.
"Hello, Kingpin."
A soft huff of air breezed through the other bot's vents. A nudge to the back of Prowl's head by the muzzle of a charged blaster prompted him to turn around and face First of Five, his eldest brother, and the only one of his cadre to have turned Decepticon.
"You don't look surprised to see me," Kingpin noted with a cocked optic ridge.
"That is because I am not," Prowl replied, forcing himself with every last ounce of mental power he had to remain as neutral as possible. He let his gaze casually travel Kingpin's frame, noting that very little had changed since they had last seen each other; Kingpin was an outwardly handsome mech of intriguing design, obviously enhanced by the Decepticon accents that augmented his frame for war. His paint was a shade darker than Prowl's, closer to coal-black rather than storm-grey. The visor Prowl had mistaken for Jazz's was retracted, exposing Kingpin's sharp alignment of four optics – immensely sensitive, particularly to movement. The light that glared from them appeared off-white greyish to Prowl without his ability to discern the colour red, though he had no doubt his brother's optics burned Decepticon red like hot coals.
Betrayal and disgust left a bitter sting in Prowl's spark to see that Kingpin still wore his indigo chevron.
Kingpin raised a foot without breaking optic contact, kicking away Prowl's blaster. It skidded beyond the tactician's periphery, making it useless to him. He was immensely glad for Jazz's whispered warning in Holdings or else he would not have been prepared in the least for this reckoning. At least now, even disarmed, his mind was reeling with battle plans rather than surprise.
"Do you mind telling me who ruined the surprise?" first of five enquired evenly, as if he were not holding a gun to the head of his former colleague and supposed brother.
"Jazz was the one who figured it out," Prowl announced, inclining his head with forced civility.
"How...astute of him," Kingpin replied carefully.
"I will tender his apologies to you for ruining the surprise of this reunion."
The Decepticon frowned. "I don't see how he might have come to his conclusions. Jazz is clever, but not so clever as to know a bot he has never met."
"Then you underestimate a bot who far exceeds most normal expectations," Prowl countered, wanting to be smug but resisting. The barrel of the charged blaster aimed at his head was excellent incentive to keep himself in check.
"Do explain," his brother invited frigidly - coldness that could only come from someone operating without an active emotional centre.
Prowl complied to the demand. "I can only guess at his thought processes, but my best assumption is that he recognized you from your footprints. That is the only reasoning I can think of."
"That still does not explain how Jazz might have deduced a bot he has never met before," Kingpin pointed out.
"This is true," Prowl agreed. "Allow me to explain. As much as I dislike to claim commonality with you, we share identical core programming – as do Smokescreen and Hunter." He wisely chose not to mention the fifth member of their group. "I imagine that if any of us were to turn off our emotional centres, we would revert back to that core programming, including the manner of our walking gait." Prowl canted his chin in the air by a fraction. "Jazz is rather familiar with my mannerisms when my emotional centre is off. He saw your tracks and they clearly were not Hunter's nor Smokescreen's, and they certainly could not have been mine. By reasonable deduction, you were the only one left. Of course," he intoned in mock thoughtfulness, "this is only my hypothesis. You will need to ask Jazz for his exact process."
"I trust that your hypothesis is correct," Kingpin replied. "I must commend you for how much you have managed to exceed my expectations. I never expected either of you to come this far."
"I live to exceed expectations," Prowl rejoined dryly.
"Funny. I always supposed the opposite," Kingpin countered dismissively. He jerked the barrel of his gun as a means of indicating a specific direction. "Come, I know you are stalling – waiting for your partner-," he sneered the term, "to come rescue you. Let us have some privacy for this reunion, shall we? I imagine there is a lot we need to catch up on."
Prowl was forced to turn and march at the point of a gun toward the back of the room. A heavy door awaited them in the dark, sliding open into a pressure chamber and then further leading into a subterranean tunnel. Their journey was silent, except for the occasional tap of metal on metal as Kingpin guided Prowl with the muzzle of his gun. They finally exited topside a decent distance from Shockwave's labs, standing on the other side of the shielded compound. Far enough away to discount Jazz's aid in the near future.
In a bid of self-consciousness, Prowl clasped his good hand over his damaged arm. He was exposed out here; little cover to run to and even fewer options for weapons if it came to a fight. He was already handicapped and could not depend on Jazz coming to his rescue – at least not right away. His best option was to keep talking. Chances were he would learn some very interesting things about his estranged brother.
"So you are Shockwave's accomplice," he said, meeting Kingpin's sharp gaze.
"Indeed," nodded the Decepticon. "I suppose that is rather obvious by now."
A brief silence followed the easy confirmation.
Prowl frowned. "Now it is I who cannot fathom how that connection came about. You were programmed as a tactician, not a scientist. I saw what Shockwave was doing in his labs – none of that should be of any interest to you."
"You are correct," Kingpin agreed, matching Prowl's watchful stare. "I have no interest in science – at least...I have no interest in the execution of it. The results, however, are fascinating." The corner of his mouthplates eased up a fraction. "Like you, my forte is still numbers and statistics, which is of great use to someone like Shockwave. He needed someone to handle the dryer side of his operations, and only the very best would do. Obviously an ex-Simfurite tactical officer was the most logical choice. I have always been interested in arresting power for myself, so it was a rather perfect arrangement."
"I do recall your love for power," Prowl commented tightly. Admittedly, everyone had been ambitious in their precinct; it had been part of their programming to strive for efficiency, to strive to be the best. Every officer coveted the idea of being recognized for their efforts and rewarded with a promotion. Kingpin though...he had always been a little more ambitious than the others. A tad more ruthless to get to the top.
"It was likely to my advantage that we shared certain... shall we say 'ideological affiliations'?"
"Psi ex Machina," Prowl spat venomously, his whole frame bristling.
"I see you remember them," Kingpin observed neutrally.
"I was in no trouble of forgetting them," Prowl replied heatedly. "You dare become one of them? After what they did? Knowing everything they have done? That is low, even for you!"
An optic ridge arched. "You still hold that foolish grudge against them?"
"There are no words to encompass my loathing for the organization and all those who associate with it." There was no mistaking who the loathing was meant for in that moment.
Kingpin leaned back on his heels, reassessing fourth of five. "You speak in an extremely emotionally charged manner. I find that odd. Do your emotions still get the better of you? If you had agreed to join them in the first place, you emotions would no longer be a problem. They would have fixed you. That accident-."
"It was no accident and you know it!"
Kingpin relented with a shake of his head. "No one had to die, Prowl. If your emotions had not gotten in the way..." He left the possibility hanging in the air like aerosolized poison.
Prowl clenched the fist of his good hand until the metal screeched. "No matter the promises they made, they were lies. No one can simply delete emotion once it is learned."
"Are you so sure about that?" Those four ruby optics blinked slowly, one at a time in order to always have one optic on Prowl. "You saw what extraordinary things Shockwave is capable of; he is capable of much more. So much more. I have never encountered his equal in ability before. He is the epitome of the Machina."
"You are blind, Kingpin. He is the epitome of madness."
"If this is madness, so be it."
Prowl withdrew, optics narrowing. Suspicion lanced through him, followed by the taint of horror.
"You let him do it to you, didn't you?" he breathed. "You let Shockwave take away your emotions."
Kingpin nodded slowly, purposefully. "I let him, and I do not regret it. The world has never been so clear to me as it is now. I am as free as the orn I was brought online."
"Are you as ignorant as you were on that orn as well?" Prowl spat. "True strength does not lie in ridding ourselves of that which weakens us. It rests in embracing that which frightens us, being the master of it. I know that now." Inexplicably, a flash of Jazz's faceplate appeared in his mind as he spoke.
"You sound every bit the self-righteous Autobot that you think you are," Kingpin sighed. "What logic is this? Embracing that which weakens you? There is no strength afforded by emotion. We are machines, Prowl. We are meant for greater things than meaningless emotion. There is power in a world where we are all our own masters; we rule our sparks, not the other way around. Psi ex Machina can give you what you have always wanted – Shockwave can give you freedom. He can give you power. You never have to feel again. Join us and you will want for nothing."
Prowl shuttered his optics tight. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't tempted."
A hand was extended to him. "Then come with me. I can take you to Shockwave. You, Prowl, would be an amazing asset to us."
"I said I was tempted - I did not indicate I was completely stupid. I will have to decline your offer," Prowl replied, slapping the offered hand away. "My emotions and I are comfortable where we are. Unlike you, I have not forgotten the difference between right and wrong. I will not abandon who I am for the sake of power."
Before Kingpin had the chance to shoot him in the head, Prowl dove forward, using his head to ram his brother in the throat and throw him backwards. They toppled over one another clumsily. Several plasma blasts went off, one of them searing past Prowl's cheek and blinding him from the brightness. A second shot landed its mark in his side, burning the armour straight through from the potency of such a close-range attack. Prowl howled, investing the sudden pain into the fervour of his attack. He stood no chance against Kingpin, who was still fresh and undamaged, but at least he could give Jazz more time to prepare or do whatever it was he was doing before Kingpin had a chance to go after him.
The world around them whirled over and over as they rolled together. From the blurred periphery, Prowl saw a figure approaching. Rust-coloured. Perhaps Jazz covered in the experiments' fluids. But the bot was approaching from the wrong direction. Closer still, the bot was too big to be Jazz. A scout's frame, large and rugged. He was running full tilt, arms waving. Something was being shouted.
Suddenly Prowl was swept up into the newcomer's arms, being yanked away from the fight. He struggled still, despite the scream that started up in his head as his pressure sensor grid objected violently to the pressures it was being subjected to. Lists scrolled down his vision announcing the thousands of things that were going wrong in that astrosecond. Prowl ignored them as he continued to kick, claw, punch, and writhe – doing whatever he could to fight this new attacker.
"Fine! Fine! Be that way!" crowed the newcomer.
Prowl was jarred violently when his frame was thrust to the ground so hard he bounced. His vision blinked out for an agonizing astrosecond, fizzling back to full function to give Prowl the uninhibited sight of Kingpin thrashing across the snow-dusted ground with none other than Hunter laying into him with violent intention. Hands around their eldest brother's throat, Hunter proceeded to throttle Kingpin by smashing his head into the ground and punctuating each attack with a declaration.
"You. Stupid. Fragging. Piece. Of. Scum!"
As far as declarations went, it wasn't the most inventive. Prowl had to give Hunter points for delivery, though. He especially had to award points for timing. Very good timing.
Kingpin snarled violently, optics flashing. He lashed out with the sharpened blades that extended from the sides of his lower arm. Sparks flew in the cold air as Hunter took the full force of it. Deep gouges appeared across his chest. The scout spat his own acidic retort, the words lost in the sounds of battle as he re-engaged his brother. He was bigger than Kingpin, stronger, and viscerally intent on wreaking as much damage as he could manage. But there was a fatal flaw in the sudden attack based on rage alone, and Hunter should have known that; he wasn't using his head. Prowl could see it with painful clarity, and he knew Kingpin could too.
"Hunter, get out of there!" Prowl bellowed. "Stop! You have to stop!"
Kingpin cast him a sidelong glance that lasted too long, time slowing for the exchange. The look in the Decepticon's optics was knowing, sly... lethal. His arm raised, and Prowl could see that first of five still had his compact plasma blaster clutched in his fist.
Before Prowl had that chance to scream, a single shot rang out in the crisp air.
Hunter jerked back, blue optics wide. His chin dropped to stare down at the blackened hole that had appeared in his lower abdomen. One of his energon reserves was clearly punctured, evidenced by the sudden violent tide of energon spilling down his front and soaking into the snow.
"You have got to be kidding me!" Hunter exclaimed.
"I will deal with you later," Kingpin replied, kicking the squirming remains of second of five away, jerking to his feet. He regarded Prowl with narrowed optics. "That was unexpected, don't you think?"
Prowl had no words for the other bot. A thousand things wanted to fly from his mouthplates at once, but not a single word escaped. He was shaking, enraged, and so agonizingly impotent to do anything. There was no point in running when the blaster was pointed at his head again.
"Shall we try this a second time?"
"Oh no ya don't!" crowed a furiously and gloriously familiar accented voice.
A piercing whistle cut through the air, followed by Kingpin's scream as a dagger embedded itself through his right set of optics. He tumbled backwards, hands clutching his faceplates as energon bloomed in every direction.
Prowl felt unimaginable relief to suddenly be tripped over by a silver bot running too fast to stop in time. Jazz hit the ground and was up again an astrosecond later. White optics shone bright like panicked beacons. Silver hands clutched at the sides of Prowl's head and was turning him in every direction to check for fatal wounds.
"Are ya okay? Ah heard the shot on mah way over. Did he get ya? Are ya hurt?"
"Hunter," Prowl grunted, jerking his head toward his downed brother. "He shot Hunter. You stopped him before he could get me."
Jazz's mouthplates hardened, spying fresh damages wherever he looked. "Certainly looks like he got ya."
"We fought before Hunter came."
"At least ya put up a fight," Jazz sighed. "Didn't Ah tell ya ta be careful? Isn't that what you're always telling meh? Be careful! Be careful! The one time Ah ask ya ta be careful, ya go off an' almost get yourself killed. See? This is why Ah've always worked alone. Partners just go off and get themselves killed without meh lookin' out for them!"
Discovering Prowl missing must have really shaken Jazz, because his accent was turning thicker with every word he spoke. It was more pronounced than Prowl had ever heard it before. If it got any thicker, he would be rambling in pure Kev and Prowl would have no clue what was being said. Not to mention the hands that held Prowl were shaking. Shaking so badly from fear and so many other things.
Prowl attempted to shoo Jazz away with his good hand. "Jazz, I-"
"Your time would be better off looking out for yourself," intoned a voice, just as Prowl and Jazz realized Kingpin was not as down as they thought. A plasma shot went off. Jazz reacted automatically, flinging his last blade blindly. Someone screeched loudly. There was a whirl of rust-coloured paint before Prowl and Jazz were bowled over by an impossibly heavy weight.
In the aftermath, Hunter laid on top of them. A new hole opened up in the center of his chest, the strobe effect of his exposed beating spark lighting the wound up garishly.
Prowl was scrambling, both physically and mentally. "Hunter? Hunter! Don't you die on me! Don't you dare die on me!"
Jazz shrugged out from under the scout's weight, spying Kingpin's unmoving frame. His blade had found purchase in the center of the Decepticon's forehead. The look he had died with was one of surprise. Not to waste his daggers, Jazz took them each back with an ungentle yank and tucked them away into their sheaths. He gave the frame a mean kick. The processor was destroyed with no hope of extracting useful information, but he deemed the sacrifice worth it. This sort of killing didn't bother him at all.
"Kingpin is dead," the saboteur announced.
"Good. I n-never did like him anyways," Hunter gasped weakly, shaking uncontrollably. Too much energon had leaked out through his ruptured tank. An exposed spark was just adding fuel to the fire.
Prowl was shuddering, gasping for air through his suddenly too-small vents, trying everything he could think of to stem the leakage, cover Hunter's spark. He just lost one brother. He was not about to lose another!
Jazz crouched neared Hunter's head, staring down at the scout to gauge him. "Ah thought ya were the Decepticon. Thought you were the one who betrayed us."
"I should b-be insulted," Hunter rasped, almost wry if not for the oncoming darkness looming in his optics. "I-I'm not. B-bots I contacted in K-Kaon...double-crossed..."
"Stop!" Prowl commanded. "Stop talking right now. Conserve your energy!"
Jazz cast the tactician a pitying look before turning back to Hunter. "How did ya find us?"
The corners of Hunter's mouthplates turned up into a sparkbreaking smile. There was pride and love and sadness in those wavering blue optics. "Prowl h-had faith... in me. A t-true brother. H-he knew... I would try to -to follow. Made sure I c-could always find you..."
He opened his fist, letting a tiny tracker fall to the snow. It was the very same tracker Jazz had given Prowl what seemed like a very long time ago.
Hunter chuckled brokenly at Jazz's stunned expression, the soft noise trailing off as the light of his optics faded and he stopped moving all together.