“Frag it!” Sideswipe snarls, fingers jamming down on the tiny buttons, curving his frame to the left in an effort to make his on-screen avatar also turn to the left.
Bluestreak starts laughing like a mad mech, his optics flashing humor. “Not gonna help you,” he taunts in a sing-song as his on-screen avatar shoots ahead of Sideswipe and clears the finish line with seconds to spare. “Victory is mine.”
Sideswipe tosses the controller into the air, rolling his optics. “This game is rigged,” he mutters, thrusting himself to his pedes, unable to ignore the waves of smugness radiating through Bluestreak’s energy field.
“You’re just going to have to get used to losing,” Bluestreak retorts, snatching the controller out of mid-air before it can hit the ground and shatter into pieces. Like the last one. “Happens sometimes. We can’t all be the best. You can’t beat me in sharpshooting either. Or Circuit-su. Or—”
“All right. All right. I get it!” Sideswipe waves off the gunner, trying to pin down his annoyance. It’s really hard to stay mad at Bluestreak. “I still say this human tech is scrap. Give me an old-fashioned gladiator match or Lobbing any orn of the diun!”
Several long and loud beeping noises cut off Bluestreak before he can get another retort out.
“Quiet. Both of you,” Prowl says, his voice floating over to them from where he stands in front of the monitors.
Bluestreak makes a face at Sideswipe, better suited to younglings really and Sideswipe rolls his optics. Once he gets the hang of these controls, Bluestreak will be eating his words. Sideswipe just needs a little practice is all.
“Ratchet!”
Sideswipe’s helm whips toward the main monitor as a loud bellow calls for his brother’s mate. Mech, that’s a bellow Ratchet could be envious of.
“Ratchet is not in command at the moment, Agent Fowler,” Prowl replies as Sideswipe steps around the edge of the platform, getting a better view of the monitor. “I am quite certain that this information has already been relayed to you.”
On screen, Fowler’s eyes narrow. “You’re not the mech I spoke to before. What in God’s name is going on out there?”
–Uh, Sunny? Think you can let Ratchet crawl out from under you for a klik?– Sideswipe asks across a private comm, though he admits his pinging is very under-stated and hesitant.
Energy-starving Ratchet plus energy-battery Sunstreaker makes for a more volatile combination than usual. Not even Sideswipe wishes to get between them. He remembers, quite vividly, making that mistake vorns and vorns ago when they fostered Knock Out.
“I am Prowl, second-in-command to Prime and current leader of the Autobots. The mech you spoke to before, Jazz, is currently away on assignment. What can I do for you?”
Sideswipe shakes his helm, taking up a seat on a crate to watch the explosions. He’s got to hand it to Prowl. The tactician sure knows how to keep a cool processor.
Unlike the human. Who looks like he’s about to blow a fuse or a circuit or whatever it is that these squishy things run on.
An organic growl comes through the speakers. “My superiors aren’t going to like this, Prowl. I’m being kept in the dark about too much. How many of you are there now?”
–Sunny?–
Sideswipe winces as nothing short of snarl and a backhand comes across the private comm strong enough that he outwardly backpedals a pace. Okay then. Do not stir the resting Hatchet. Gotcha. Prowl’s on his own.
“I apologize, Agent Fowler. I will update you on our current status as soon as possible. However, I am under the impression that your call regards a matter of some urgency?”
“With Cons, it’s always urgent,” the human liaison mutters before glaring hotly through the screen. “And they’re busting into the same military research lab they hit last time.”
Sideswipe straightens, feeling his battle protocols rise to the fore. Action? He can get down with that.
“What are they after?” Prowl asks and Sideswipe knows that all the little cogs are already turning for the tactician. No doubt he’s plotted up a team and prepped a contact.
“I don’t even pretend to understand that scientific gobbledygook. It’s a power source. That’s what I know.” Fowler’s eyes narrow. “And the fact that you can’t let the Decepticons get their claws on it.”
Prowl inclines his helm. “Understood. We will take care of it, Agent Fowler.”
“You had better. Fowler, out.” The screen blanks out, Fowler’s face replaced by a map of the United States, which is quickly zooming in to a specific location. No doubt coordinates that Fowler had sent them.
Sideswipe scuffs a pede against the ground. “That squishy’s an aft.”
Prowl shakes his helm. “His anger is justified. He has superiors to report to, and when we don’t update him, he is caught flat-footed and appears the fool. I would be angry, too.”
Sideswipe grinds his gears and folds his arms. “Could be grateful. I don’t see any other mechs around here volunteering to help rid them of their Decepticon infestation.”
“And in the process, we are causing damage to their world,” Prowl corrects, pausing to half-turn, giving Sideswipe a long look with a single optic. “This war isn’t theirs. I cannot blame their irritation.”
Trust Prowl to be so fragged logical.
Sideswipe ruffles his plating. “Are we going after those ‘Cons or what?”
The corner of Prowl’s mouthplate lifts up in his trademark, amused smirk. “I am assembling the team now. Speaking of which, Sun–”
“Naw,” Sideswipe drawls with the lazy insubordination that he knows Prowl has always loathed. “Our ray of merry sunshine is circuits deep in our surly medic and I don’t know about you, but I like my plating attached.”
“One could hardly tell with the way you throw yourself at any Decepticon,” Prowl remarks dryly. “Nevertheless, I concede your point.”
“Does that mean I get to go?” Bluestreak asks with an excited chirp, leaning around the console to give Prowl hopeful optics. “Jazz’s kept me cooped up here like the whole time. Well, except when he let me go after the thing in the tunnels. I hate tunnels.”
Sideswipe smothers a laugh. “Gee. I wonder why Jazz kept you here.” He waggles his optical ridges for good emphasis.
Bluestreak rolls his optics, flicking a doorwing in a manner Sideswipe knows good and well is an insult. Cheeky brat.
“I need you to pick up the children, Bluestreak,” Prowl says, their banter going completely over his helm. “I do not know which Decepticons will be present and I’d rather not test your reaction to Ricochet.”
Bluestreak frowns, doorwings suddenly hiked high and rigid behind him. “He’s been my mate longer than you’ve been with Mirage. I know what he’s like when he’s mimicking.”
“No, you don’t.” There’s something in Prowl’s tones that make Sideswipe’s audials open wider, as though he’s about to hear something especially interesting. “You’ve seen him when he leaves and when he returns. You’ve not seen him in action. And I plan to keep it that way.”
Bluestreak huffs, optics cycling down and dear Primus, Sideswipe knows that look. He takes another step back. Sunstreaker rips off plating when he’s annoyed. Bluestreak goes for the intakes, but it’s always when you least expect it. He’s a vindictive mech, though you wouldn’t guess it from his cheerful exterior.
And that look? Right there? Bodes well for no one. Bluestreak’s as stubborn as they come and that look is the one he gets right before Prowl makes him take someone down from a distance. That cold, calculating place he goes when he’s got to assassinate.
Sideswipe shudders.
He’s got no problem tearing a mech apart faceplate to faceplate. But it takes an especially cold spark to do it from a distance.
Prowl turns. Their optics meet. Two pairs of Praxian doorwings become utterly still.
And here Sideswipe is without any backup. It’s so sad when a father and son, to use human terms, argue.
“What are the Cons after this time?” Bulkhead demands as he comes barreling into the room with a thunderous pace that nearly makes Sideswipe leap into the air.
He actually has to dial down his combat subroutines. Primus! When Bluestreak and Prowl disagree, smart mechs know to run for the hills.
Bluestreak is the first to look away, but his lipplates are pressed together in a thin, sulking line.
“Fowler believes they are after a power source of some kind. Apparently, they have attempted to steal such before,” Prowl explains, turning as Bumblebee, Arcee, and Mirage also enter the ops center, the former two having returned from patrol with a screech of their tires.
Prowl reaches for the ground bridge control, activating it. “Sideswipe, you, too,” he says. “Keep collateral damage to a minimum. We have the advantage of numbers.”
“For now,” Sideswipe mutters, but he drops into alt-mode to join the rest of his team. He happens to enjoy his new form. It’s sleek and stylish.
Bulkhead slams two fists together, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. “It’s about time. They’re due some payback.”
“Mirage has command,” Prowl adds as they head toward the bridge as one unit. “I will be watching from the monitor.”
“Great,” Sideswipe hears Mirage murmur quietly. “What do I know of Earth?”
Nevertheless, the spy takes the lead and the five of them drive into the ground bridge, appearing on the other side to chaos.
Subtle, the Decepticons are not. Rather than take the calm and careful approach, it appears they’ve decided to make no effort to conceal their actions.
The military complex is on fire, smoke billowing toward the clouds, the sound of sirens screeching through the air. Humans are yelling and firing their pathetic weaponry at the dozen of Vehicons in their midst. Insentient vehicles are upturned or lying in pieces.
Sideswipe flashes back into root mode, rocket launcher on his right shoulder humming to life. The sound of transformation echoes around him, his teammates emerging from alt mode, blasters at the ready.
The east-side of the military complex suddenly explodes outward, raining bits of debris over the battlefield. Knock Out and Breakdown emerge, the latter carrying something large and bulky.
–Take them down,– Prowl broadcasts over a wide-range comm.
Sideswipe smirks. He doesn’t have to be told twice.
He fires, aiming for one of the Vehicons and watching as it tumbles backward, helm over pedes, smoke rising from its chassis. Around him, the other Autobots begin to fire as well, blasters lighting up the already fire-bright night.
“Drop the power source, Breakdown!” Bulkhead snarls, pounding forward across the ground, eager as always to battle his nemesis.
Breakdown laughs, a grating sound.
Knock Out smirks, powering up his energon prod, and by Primus, Sideswipe doesn’t know if he’ll get used to seeing his brother’s youngling in Decepticon purple.
“Finders keepers,” Knock Out purrs. “Kind of like a certain new recruit of ours.”
Jet engines screech above them, a triad of Eradicons bearing down upon the Autobots, firing mercilessly. They scatter in five directions to avoid the barrage, but Bulkhead barrels forward, a battle cry spilling from his vocalizer.
“Frag it,” Mirage snarls, and rolls to his pedes, sprinting across the ground for Knock Out, pulling out a pair of energon daggers.
Sideswipe focuses his attention on the drones, Megatron’s cannon fodder. Beside him, Bumblebee is doing the same while Arcee takes a file from Mirage’s datapad.
Blasterfire from behind shocks them all.
Mirage goes down in a heap, flipping helm over pedes before skidding in the dirt, sparks spitting from a damaged leg.
Sideswipe whirls, just in time to see a blackish blur throw itself at him. He shouts, flailing, as a frame similar to his own, barrels into him. They hit the ground, Sideswipe’s helm smacking into an insentient vehicle, his vision fritzing. Inane laughter bubbles up from Sideswipe’s attacker.
“Lookie what I caught,” the Decepticon purrs as Sideswipe’s optics reboot. “An Autobot to call my own. Think Megatron’ll let me keep you?”
Sideswipe growls, jerking up a knee, but the Decepticon twists to avoid it.
“Now, now,” the ‘Con says with another out-of-sync laugh. “Play nice, Autobot.”
Sideswipe’s vision clears, the fuzzy image solidifying into a purple-lit visor and a faceplate smeared with a sneer. Decepticon ID protocols come up blank. Is it…?
“I don’t play nice,” Sideswipe snarls and his energon blade slides from his left arm. He whips it up and out, aiming for the ‘Con’s side.
His opponent throws himself away from Sideswipe’s blade, skittering across the ground on hands and pedes, no rhyme or reason to his attack. He laughs again, like a mech who’s truly lost all connections to his logic processors.
“You are the fun one,” the Con drawls, glossa sliding over his lips. “Maybe funner if I cut off a limb or three? What do you say?”
Sideswipe rolls to one side to face the Con, ventilations heaving, and processor still swimming from the initial impact. His gyros reel.
“I say you get over here and fight like a mech and not some scuttling organic,” Sideswipe growls, planting one pede on the ground to push himself up.
The Decepticon’s helm dips, lipplates peeling back in amusement. “But it looks like I broke you. Guess I have to finish the job.” He launches himself at Sideswipe, mini-blasters extending from his forearms, energy shots splitting the air.
Sideswipe rolls to avoid, twisting to slice his sword where the Decepticon should have landed. The blade whistles harmlessly over the Con’s head as he crouches yet again, better resembling some kind of leaping creature.
He laughs.
Anger roils inside of Sideswipe. He’s being toyed with.
Behind him, the military compound gives off a strut-rattling shockwave, some kind of explosion from within. Sideswipe is thrown forward, onto his faceplate from the force of it.
“Well, that’s our cue.” Sideswipe’s fuzzy audials pick up Knock Out’s vocals above the din of roaring flames.
He turns his helm, watching as a ground bridge spirals into existence near Breakdown and Knock Out.
The former lumbers into the bridge, power source in servo, but not before offering the downed Bulkhead a jaunty salute. Knock Out aims a smirk at Arcee before executing a sharp whistle.
“Ricochet! Let’s go!”
Laughter answers Knock Out’s summons and Sideswipe catches sight of the aforementioned mech – that is Jazz after all – as he pelts across the battlefield to precede Knock Out back onto the Nemesis.
The medic gives the fallen Autobots a cheerful wave. What kind of frag explosive was that?
“We’ll be sure to tell the Big O you said hello,” Knock Out says in a parting shot and turns, running into the ground bridge.
Sideswipe pushes himself to his knees, gyros reeling ridiculously out of sync.
“Arcee!”
He looks up at Mirage’s shout.
The femme’s pushed herself into her alt-mode and is now barreling at top speed for the Decepticon’s ground bridge.
–Arcee! Stand down!– Prowl snaps across the open comm.
But it’s too late. She’s gone into the bridge, and it closes behind her.
Sideswipe shakes his helm, letting out an exhausted ex-vent. They just got their afts handed to them. So much for the advantage of numbers.
o0o0o
Orion stirs as the sound of what appears to be battle pierces his concentration. He cycles his optics and disengages his cable from the console, half-turning toward the closed door behind him. He dials up his audials.
Yes. He is not very accustomed to battle, but that is definitely the unmistakable noise of blasterfire. There are also several muffled shouts.
An Autobot incursion? Not that he could be of any help. He has little experience in handling weapons and his hand-to-hand skills remain abysmal, despite what lessons Megatron had given him vorns ago.
Still, he feels he shouldn’t ignore such noise. What if a mech needs his assistance?
Orion pauses his work and opens the door, stepping into the corridor. The guards that are usually stationed at the door across the hall from him are gone. No one is immediately visible, but the sounds of blaster-fire are definitely louder and coming from the curve in the hall to his left. This can’t be some kind of drill or practice session. The training rooms are two decks down.
Orion ventilates quietly and starts down the hallway, more shouting floating to his audials, easier to distinguish than before. He recognizes the nearly-identical vocal tones of Megatron’s soldier drones and the sound of an engine revving at high speed.
Two vehicons burst out of a side hall, weapons drawn.
“What’s going on?” Orion asks. “Is there an attack?”
One continues, the other pauses, waving a dismissing hand at Orion. “Return to your work, Orion. Lord Megatron commands it,” he says, before he continues after his companion, their weak energy fields frazzled.
Orion’s optics cycle down. He should obey. But he doesn’t.
He follows after the vehicons, to the sound of blasterfire getting closer, the noise of battle in the halls of the Nemesis. Why? Not even Optimus is quite sure. He feels there are answers here, answers he needs and no one else seems willing to give him.
The shouting ends. The scent of scorched circuits and discharged plasma floats to Optimus’ olfactory sensor. Something screeches against metal. An engine revs. And ahead of Optimus, the corridor flashes a brilliant blue-green.
He breaks into a jog, hurries around the corner, and nearly collides with Soundwave. The hallway is littered with the fallen frames of several vehicons, but there is no sign of whomever had attacked.
“Soundwave, I heard a commotion.” He moves to pass the communications mech, staring pointedly at the smoking frames in the hallway, the sight of which causes his tanks to churn.
The idea of a revolution had seemed so bright and hopeful to him. The realities of acquiring it, however, leave Orion feeling as though they are hardly any better off.
Soundwave, however, says nothing. He gives Orion a long, measuring look. Or at least Orion assumes so being as he can see nothing behind that inscrutable mask.
“What caused this?” Orion asks, gesturing to the energon splattered across the floor.
Static stretches across Soundwave’s visor. “Return to your work,” spills from Soundwave, a direct quotation of the earlier vehicon. “Lord Megatron’s orders.”
Soundwave turns on a pede, saying nothing more.
Orion frowns, staring at Soundwave’s departing frame, even as more drones burst onto the scene, servant-class this time as opposed to warriors. They do not speak, not that they are capable, and start to attend to the fallen soldiers.
He watches for a long moment, debating, before starting forward to help. He had not been able to help in the altercation, but he can at least do this much. He cannot be so squeamish in the face of the realities of war. And if Megatron thinks Orion so weak that he tries to keep him from so much as witnessing battle, then Orion intends to prove the Decepticon leader wrong. One step at a time.
o0o0o
“Can you even tell me what purpose that futile insubordination served?” Prowl demands, his vocals sharp but constrained, refusing to be raised above an acceptable volume.
Arcee’s mouthplate sets in a stubborn line. “I was attempting to locate Optimus. Isn’t that what we’ve all been doing?”
Prowl’s optics cycle down. “Which is the purpose of Jazz’s presence on the Nemesis. Your adolescent decision to throw yourself into the spark of danger has not helped us at all. Has it?”
Her helm tilts, optics dancing away from Prowl. “No.”
“You had to have known it wouldn’t have helped,” Sideswipe says, only to wince as Perceptor continues to weld his frame. “So what was the point?”
Prowl stares at the femme, who seems to grow more stubborn by the moment.
“We want Optimus back. Megatron knows that,” Arcee retorts, straightening her shoulders though First Aid’s been poking at her knee joint for the past breem. “If we don’t even make an attempt to look for him, won’t he think something’s up?”
“And if I thought, for a single astrosecond, that you had been thinking so logically at the time, you would not need a reprimand,” Prowl says, and forces himself to ventilate, as he knows he must be visibly seething.
Arcee’s energy field snaps with rebelliousness but she turns her helm away with a sharp jerk. “It’s been two weeks! Who knows what the frag Megatron’s doing to him up there? We’re taking too long.”
“She’s got a point,” Sideswipe drawls, looking up at Prowl with a shrug of his uninjured shoulder. “We don’t have a clue what Megatron’s doing with Prime and the longer he’s with the Decepticons, the longer he’s in danger.”
Prowl’s lipplates press together, his doorwings hiked behind him. “And if we take these uncalculated, unplanned risks and worsen matters, what then?”
If any of them have an answer for him, he doesn’t get to hear it. The main console beeps, signaling an incoming communication. Prowl turns toward it, unsurprised when Agent Fowler’s face appears on screen, lines of stress etched into his features.
“What happened out there?” Fowler demands and he’s hunched forward, as though leaning on a piece of furniture, his eyes dark and furious. “Reports indicate at least a dozen wounded and now the heat’s on me to provide some explanation!”
Prowl twitches. The accusation is implicit and the sensation of failure trickles down his backstrut in a disquieting chill. “I apologize. I am unused to working with a foreign government. It will not happen again.”
“That’s not the kind of excuse my superiors want to hear,” Fowler all but snarls. “You bots better get your act together or the Pentagon will shut all of us down!”
The human doesn’t bother with a dismissal or a polite goodbye. He cuts off the transmission, leaving static on the line.
“Why did you apologize to that human?” Mirage asks, his vocals breaking the ensuing silence and dripping with disdain.
Prowl turns toward the others, and by proxy, his mate. “Maintaining a good relationship with the humans is crucial at the moment.”
–And Fowler’s right,– Bumblebee transmits to them all. –We should have focused on evacuating the base.–
Mirage makes a scornful noise. “And not worry about stopping the Decepticons? If you ask me, even more of those precious humans are going to die if we let Megatron get his way.”
“You wouldn’t talk like that if it was an Autobot that had been killed,” Bulkhead growls, optics narrowing.
“It’s all moot anyway!” Arcee snaps, waving a hand sharply through the air. “The Cons got what they wanted. We didn’t accomplish anything but draining our supplies for all of these repairs!”
The sound of an engine cuts through the rising tension. All optics turn toward the entrance tunnel where headlights appear in the dim before Bluestreak comes into view. Prowl bites back an ex-vent of exasperation. This is a rather poor time to bring the children into their base but he can hardly send them right back out. Records indicate that the femme can be quite stubborn.
And sure enough, she is the first to come into view, all but throwing herself out of the passenger seat and throwing her hands into the air. “What’s going on? Was there a battle? What did I miss? Did you find Optimus? Come on, Bulk. Spill the beans.”
Prowl’s twitching begins anew.
Rafael and Jack exit at a slower pace, closing the doors politely so that Bluestreak can emerge from his alt-mode. He does not look at Prowl, the cant of his doorwings suggesting an ongoing sulk.
“Was there a battle?” Jack asks.
“Any sign of Optimus?” Rafael adds, reaching up to adjust his glasses.
“Unfortunately, we were not able to locate Optimus,” Perceptor answers when no one else leaps to break the silence.
“But there was a battle,” Jack presses.
Prowl turns back toward the main console, the tension in the command center bombarding his sensory panels. How did Optimus do this, he wonders. Balance both the organics and the stubborn, reckless members of his team? For three stellar cycles even, while under-supplied, vastly outnumbered, and cut off from Cybertron.
This is why Prowl will never be Prime. It is a job he does not want and like Jazz and Ratchet, he wants nothing more than to hand complete command back to Optimus. Tactical planning is where Prowl exceeds, not in corralling personnel.
“Yes, Jack, we had a run-in with the Decepticons,” Arcee says, a note of fatigue to her vocals but it seems she saves her vitriol for conversation with her fellow Autobots as it’s not present in her conversation with the human.
Jack makes a sound of contemplation and in the reflection of the monitor, Prowl can see the oldest human give a surveying glance around the room. “If I had to guess, it didn’t go so well.”
“No way!” Miko gasps. “You lost!”
Bulkhead’s engine rumbles, slamming his hand into his palm. “We practically handed them that power source!”
“Power source? For what?” Jack frowns.
Rafael looses a startled sound. “Is it the same thing they were trying to take before? When they were trying to build another space bridge?”
“Yes,” Arcee answers. “Which means it’s only a matter of time before Megatron starts trying to raise another army.”
Disappointment settles through the command center like a heavy cloud of exhaust.
“More Zombie-cons?” Miko exclaims.
“Wait a minute,” Jack says, one hand on his chin. “This could be a good thing.”
Sideswipe jerks to his pedes, looking down at the human with an incredulous expression that rivals Prowl’s own. “How in Primus’ name is this a good thing?”
“Well… don’t we need a space bridge?” Jack says.
Prowl goes utterly still, hands freezing on the control board. Of course. Why hadn’t he considered it before? How had he missed this? Being on this organic planet must be frying his circuits.
“Yeah, but how does the Cons having one going to help us–” Bluestreak cuts off, apparently coming to the same conclusion Prowl already had. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? Because if you are, you’re crazier than Brainstorm.”
“Who’s Brainstorm?” Miko asks.
“But not entirely implausible,” Perceptor says with a thoughtful hum. “You claimed it yourself, Prowl. We have the advantage of numbers.”
He turns back toward the Autobots, who are now as one staring back at him with expectant looks. “Jack is right. We have great need to get to Cybertron and since we lack the equipment to create one of our own, it is logical to try and seize the Decepticons’ instead.”
Sideswipe scoffs. “Oh, yeah. That’s easy. Let me just pull out a map and we can just trot on over to their bridge.” He throws out his arms, optics flaring. “Oh, wait. We don’t know where it is.”
“We will find it,” Prowl says firmly, shooting Sideswipe a warning look. There may be centuries between the last time Sideswipe was under his command, but both of the twins are very aware of the benefits of obeying him. It’s always been in their better interest.
If he has to remind them again, he will. Prowl could use the exercise.
Sideswipe clamps his lipplates shut and folds his arms.
Behind Prowl, the console beeps and he turns, optics scanning the screens. One of their automatic scanning programs have detected something, some kind of signal within the solar system and approaching fast.
Autobot and Decepticon.
What the frag?
“How?” Bulkhead demands on the distant edge of Prowl’s attention. “That’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack!”
“Then we’d better get started,” Arcee says, dragging herself to her pedes even though she still needs some welding on one leg.
“Searching will have to wait,” Prowl says, loud enough to be heard by them all as his fingers flew across the keyboard, bringing up schematics, trajectories, trying to find buried messages in the garbled communications picked up by this near-useless Earth tech.
“We have incoming.”
Pandora's Box 