Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The Decepticons have been running. Prowl scowls as the reports continue to flood in. Every decacycle it seems another Decepticon base is abandoned, forces fleeing in a chaotic scattering. Some bases were programmed to self-destruct, while others just vanish by the time Autobot satellite scouts are in range. All that’s left is foreboding pieces of scrap and a few Decepticon corpses floating in space.
Something is wrong.
Even without the disturbing trends in the data, Prowl has an unusual sense of unease settling over his spark. His armour flattens to his frame, processors working into overdrive. The Praxian vents heavily. He needs reliable information, not the current rumours rippling through the holonets. Worrying still, not a single Spec Ops agent unfortunate to be stationed at these bases have resurfaced. Interlock is becoming desperate as well. Fourteen of her agents are missing in action, presumed killed. But by what? Something is slaughtering Decepticons too.
The only silver lining to Interlock’s frustration over the situation is that she is more likely to agree to the plan rapidly taking shape in Prowl’s processor. A plan so reckless he can hardly believe he’s considering it but…
Optimus Prime is also one of the missing.
Actually, the majority of the command staff are captured and presumed dead by this point. It’s just Interlock Head of Spec Ops, Red Alert Head of Security and himself. Prowl is currently commander of the Autobot Army. The thought makes him want to purge.
He shuts his optics tightly. How could it all go to slag so quickly?
Ratchet, Ironhide, Ultra Magnus and Optimus. Sunstreaker, Bluestreak and Mirage were their escorts.
Smokescreen is still not speaking to Prowl, blaming him for their younger brother’s disappearance. Prowl does not begrudge him. He misses Bluestreak’s presence keenly, but unable to even begin to unpack the prospect that his sibling has been killed under orders he gave. Sideswipe is no better, currently camped outside Prowl’s office. He hasn’t moved an inch for almost an orn now.
A double agent had leaked the co-ordinates of their shuttle and that was that. A blip of a distress signal before the shuttle had faded into bleakness of space. A small comfort that no debris had been retrieved, yet no mechs had been found either. Prowl and the Ark had been too far away and had arrived far too late. It had been foolish to have so many of the command staff on one shuttle, but they had so few ships left. They were losing the war. The Ark was their last stronghold, the fastest ship of their once proud fleet. Her speed was the only reason she was still intact. The Lost Light and Firespark were the only other Autobot vessels left. Elita One has a scattering of forces on Cybertron, but they have become disorganised and disconnected due to blocking of all communications. Soundwave and Shockwave had been industrious in the last few cycles.
A datapad crunches in Prowl’s servos. He looks down at glass covering his desk. No. There have been no threats, no demands, no public executions. They are still alive. Megaton would have proudly announced his victory if otherwise. They need data and they need it now.
“Prowl to Interlock,”
”I read you Prowl,”
“I have a plan, but you are not going to like it,”
“Are you completely slagged?” Interlock all but growls at Prowl from across the data hub table.
A pale blue hologram sits between them displaying the remains of another hastily abandoned Decepticon base.
“We need intelligence and Outpost 36C has only been deserted in the last couple of joors. It is within shuttle distance. The Outpost appears intact, with no lifesigns on board, it is an opportunity we cannot afford to pass up,” Prowl calmly repeats ignoring the furious growl of Interlock’s engine.
”Yes, I acknowledge that but why in the pit are you going? And alone? With no extraction team behind you? You expect me to go along with this suicide plan?” Interlock’s wings flair up in mounting anger. Her EM field flares across the table in an attempt to fully display her displeasure with Prowl. He carefully keeps his own door wings neutral.
The flier in front of him slams her servos into the table.
“Prowl you are now the Autobot Commander! Slaggit it all we cannot lose anyone else, who steps up if you get snuffed? Who else is there? And if you suggest Red Alert so help me Primus,” she sneers, amour plates rattling.
Prowl vents deeply, resisting the urge to rub his faceplates. His chronometer dutifully informs him that he’s in desperate need of recharge. Ignoring it, he selects a data centre in the holographic base in front of him.
”You and I both know there is no one else who can hack into the Decepticon database safely. If I go alone there will be less chance of discovery if any guards in stasis remain. Information on Optimus and the others could be stored on that mainframe. We could flush out more spies and find out why the Decepticons are running. Because they are running from something Interlock and we don’t know what it is,” Prowl flicks a doorwing. A familiar brush of displaced air makes him look up. Interlock mirrors his action, her own sensitive sensors picking up on the same disturbance.
She vents, pale blue and black plating settling ever so slightly.
”Sideswipe get in here,” Prowl grunts, annoyed at the interruption, however he too feels a slight amount of tension leave his frame. Actually, maybe he can use this to his advantage.
A great racket can be heard from above as Sideswipe removes himself from the ceiling ventilation. It’s a delicate process for him to get down and once again Prowl wonders how the frontliner can even fit into the vents in the first place. Sideswipe eventually extracts himself and stands awkwardly to the side of the hologram. His expression is serious, body language completely at odds with his usual demeanour. The loss of his brother has hit him hard.
”Sir please let me come with you,” Sideswipe blurts before Prowl or Interlock say anything. The Spec Ops head deflates further, helm coming to rest in one of her palms. Prowl dismisses the urge to reprimand the frontliner for his eavesdropping. Sideswipe’s field is flooded with anxiety and stress and it makes Prowl’s thoughts drift back towards his own brother. He wonders about Bluestreak’s status. What about Optimus? Are they injured? Do they have adequate rations?
There’s a click of silence in the conference room, the weight of the empty command chairs around them feel heavy.
“Sideswipe I will weld you to the floor in Ratchet’s absence,” Interlock sighs softly.
”Sunny’s alive! The others could be too. Come on! I’d have guttered if… if Sunny was dead. We know this and Megatron has been quiet, so he doesn’t have them yet either. We can confirm if the Decepticons even have them!” Sideswipe points to the hologram in front of him.
“For all we know they could just have had an engine malfunction and are drifting through space. The Lost Light is looking for them as we speak. Why in the pit should we risk anymore high ranking staff for a potentially inconsequential reward,” Interlock responds, calmer than she was previously.
”The data in that base has a 64% chance of revealing more spies within our ranks,” Prowl says. He motions for Sideswipe to sit down.
He continues “That information alone would be worth the risk,”.
”Send someone else,” Interlock snaps back.
Prowl grimaces ever so slightly, seeing the Spec Ops commander’s famous anger begin to simmer again. He understands her reservations. It is truly ludicrous what he’s suggesting but at this point, Prowl sees no other way forward. His TacNet has been stewing on the variables relentlessly since the crisis began. The odds of highest success rely on Prowl himself going on the data retrieval mission.
”What other Spec Ops agents are available then?” Prowl replies, internally wincing. That was a low blow. Beside him he can hear Sideswipe's engine hiccup. Interlock freezes, optics narrowing.
”I don’t want to argue anymore. We both know there is no one else that can confidently hack into Decepticon mainframes without risking their own processors. We finally have a chance to get to a Decepticon base before it’s been destroyed. This is a rare chance that we must take advantage of. I will take Sideswipe with me if that helps to reassure you Interlock,” Prowl lets the briefest slip of apologies teek through his EM field. If he’s offlined on this mission, Interlock will be placed in command.
The flier places her helm in both servos, a rare display of true distress. Her wings have dipped lower than Prowl has ever witnessed and she has pulled her EM field tight to her frame.
”This is not a suicide mission, Interlock,” Prowl says sternly.
”It slagging looks like it Prowl,” she says lifting her helm again. She glances towards Sideswipe, a ghost of smirk on her faceplate at his obvious discomfort of being in the middle of an intense dispute between commanding officers.
“What have you calculated to be your survival rate for this mission, including Sideswipe being with you?”
”Alone, 53% if I leave in the next joor. With Sideswipe's company 67%. If we don’t depart soon, I calculate a 23% drop of survival rate with each joor. The Decepticon bases seem to be destroyed within three to four orns of their abandonment,” Prowl brings up the statistics onto the data hub for Interlock to inspect. Outpost 36C has been left dark for two orns. They are running out of time for their window of opportunity.
”Optimus said our cutoff survival for Spec Ops has to be 70% or higher,” Interlock mutters. At that Prowl raises an optic ridge. They both know full well that standard is rarely adhered to.
”Optimus isn’t here right now,”
Sideswipe fidgets nervously beside Prowl in the cramped cockpit. They have taken a modified transport shuttle. It’s a tight fit, only designed to ferry goods between orbital ships and the surface of planets but it's all they have left. The transport rattles ominously, small sub light engines pushed to the max. Wheeljack had modified the transport’s transponder to ping them as a harmless satellite, but any visual contact with Decepticons will immediately blow their cover. They have basic shields and two torpedoes that were hastily juryrigged into the shuttle. Prowl has never felt more exposed.
“Are we almost there?” he glances at Sideswipe for confirmation.
”Should make contact in a couple of clicks. I’m reading no life signs and minimal power coming from Outpost 36C,”
Prowl engages TacNet. Subroutines roar to life in his processors, scanning and compartmentalizing all incoming data, spitting out potential entry points and chances of success. He settles into the flow of information, focus tuning to a fine point. This mission will succeed.
Prowl double checks his inventory. Acid pellet rifle, sixty rounds, emergency neutraliser for his acid rifle, several litres of solvent, a clutch of concussion grenades, rations of energon and coolant for two decacycles, four packs of temp mesh plating, two hacking datahubs, field first aid kit and a back up communication kit. His sub space is packed, making Prowl feel like he has more mass than he actually does. Sideswipe gave a weak chuckle after Prowl finished his inspection.
”Slag Prowl, planning on moving out here?”
Prowl just stares back. He rummages around his sub space and hands Sideswipe one his hacking datahubs. The frontliner takes it gingerly.
”I really don’t know how or want to know how to use one of these,” he grimaces, turning the hub between his digits. Hacking was an unpleasant necessity in the war, though a lot of Autobots were still deeply uncomfortable with the practice. Despite centuries as a hardened soldier, Sideswipe was still regarded as young. Prowl sent a small wave of assurance through his field.
“As unpleasant as it is, you’ll need it to activate the Decepticon mainframe if I am incapacitated. You only have to use it on their system, not on any Decepticons themselves. I have pre programmed it to send a distress signal and any data downloaded onto the hub, worst case scenario there will be at least some data sent back to the fleet,” Prowl says, ignoring the defeated look on Sidewsipe’s faceplates.
”It’s a fail safe option that I don’t think we will need,” he adds even though TacNet spits at low odds of success. It had not felt good to lie to Interlock about their odds. By the time that had departed the Ark Outpost 36C had been deserted for three orns. If this base followed the patterns of the others it wouldn’t exist for another orn. They were cutting it very close.
“If you want to turn back, now is your last opportunity. I know you know that I fed Interlock false survival data,” Prowl let his doorwings drop slightly. His spark burned with the deception but it was the only way he knew how to convince Interlock to let them go. No doubt she’s conversed with Red Alert by now and there’s no way Prowl would have gotten away if the security mech had been present in the meeting.
“Why do you think I was spying on you in the first place?” Sideswipe remarks, servos gently guiding the shuttle on to their final approach.
”I think Interlock forgets that the only reason I didn’t join Spec Ops was to keep you online,”
At that Prowl does huff. He remembers keenly how much he had argued that he didn’t require a security detail. Only Bluestreak’s pestering had brought him around to the idea.
They dock silently, Sideswipe proving himself as an excellent pilot. The pair creep onto the abandoned space station designated as Outpost 36C. The station is running on its emergency power, dim lights casting ominous shadows in the docking hanger. It’s an eerie scene. A panicked evacuation had clearly taken place. Equipment was strewn all over the flight deck with workstations left mid task. Streaks of energon could be seen yet there were no corpses. The absence of greyed out frames was more disturbing than their presence.
Sideswipe glued himself to Prowl’s side, so close it felt like he was smothering the Praxian. Prowl allowed him into his personal space on this rare occasion, unable to completely hide his own unease. He flicked his doorwings absorbing as much sensor data as possible. No life signs. Unless this was an extremely elaborate trap (which he calculated at 29%) there were no other living Cybertronions on this base. Prowl spotted an intact console and quickly scanned through its contents.
There appeared to be several breaches in the lower decks. Structural integrity was failing and shields had all been but vaporised. All shuttles were missing and there were only three out of eleven escape pods left intact. The other eight had been corroded by some sort of weapon.
“What is that?” Sideswipe whispers, pointing to the damage done to the pods.
Rust and decay had eaten through the pods, not unsimilar to Prowl’s own acid pellets. Yet the contamination continued past the pods as if it was consuming the very station itself. A sickly orange and red spread like an infection across panels. The metal was simmering with heat from whatever chemical reaction was taking place. It made Prowl’s own plating clamp tightly to his frame.
It wasn’t Autobots who had attacked this base.
Prowl backed away, instinct telling him that any contact with the contamination would be very unpleasant. He takes a couple of stills of the strange substance and a basic surface level chemical scan. It was only a surface level readout compared to the complex scans Wheeljack and Perceptor could run, but it would have to do. Basic organic elements Prowl could recognise, but there were also more elaborate compounds present that he could make no sense of.
He backs away completely from the spiderweb of decay and locates the exit to the docking hanger. Sideswipe follows him, armour flattening and oddly quiet. Prowl quickens his pace determined to get their data and leave. They reach the command hub in record time, practically running through the battered corridors. Scorch marks and blaster fire litter the walls. Trails of energon were splattered across the room, like bodies had been dragged out. Several of the monitors were smashed, but that was of no consequence. As long as at least one terminal was undamaged and had power, they had access.
“Do you think whoever is attacking Decepticons could be on our side,” Sideswipe muttered, examining the dried out remains of an energon slick. Pieces of greyed out plating could be seen in the clotted mess of gore.
“I do not have enough data to make any conclusions,” Prowl says as connects his hub to the Decepticon mainframe. He’s grateful for the equipment, glad that he doesn’t have to directly connect to the system himself. This place has got his plating itching, he can’t wait to get back to the Ark to decontaminate. While the hub syncs he ponders the disintegrating escape pods. This is hardly Prowl’s first mission, yet the fear nagging his spark is surprising. He’s kept his EM glued to his frame so that Sideswipe can’t feel his growing distress. There is something seriously wrong about this situation.
“I am going to start, please keep watch,”
Sideswipe dutifully stands at Prowl’s back. Streams of data start to pour into the hub and Prowl begins a decryption sequence. The data is not as heavily encrypted as one might expect though there are several traps that Prowl takes apart. TacNet greedily drinks in the lines of code, sorting through each sequence with a ruthless ease. He forces more data through TacNet, inpatient. Heat builds in Prowl’s frame as he works. He vents heavily, drawing a glance from Sideswipe but continues. As much as Prowl wants to dig into the data immediately he refrains, focusing all of his attention on decryption and storing the data back into the hub. He takes large chunks of data all at once, rushing through the process. A small helmache begins to form, but Prowl ignores it. He processes through petabytes of data in a handful of breems, systems practically buzzing with the influx of new information. If any other mech had tried this they would have surely fried themselves. TecNet detects and disarms a couple more traps and suspicious subroutines.
Satisfied, he unspools from the data hub first, then disconnects the hub from the mainframe. A couple of breems have passed, but it feels like joors. Mental exhaustion pulls at Prowl’s frame. His doorwings sag for a moment.
Ratchet would happily scrap him for hauling that much data so quickly.
“Do not tell Ratchet I did that,” Prowl vents heavily, taking an energon cube from storage and downing it. Heat ripples off his frame, processor overclocked from the sheer volume of data. He hopes the data hub does not corrupt from the strain. The hub is at capacity and will have to be manually transported back to the Ark. There is too much data for the failsafe to be effective.
Sideswipe stares at him.
“You are already finished? Do you know where Sunny and Bluestreak are?”
“I only decrypted and sorted the data, I want to be off this base as soon as possible. We can examine it once on route to the Ark,” Prowl subspaces the data hub. He’s almost giddy with the volume of data they have just retrieved. The blooming ache in his helm was worth it.
Sideswipe looks like he’s about to argue but then the floor shakes beneath their pedes. An ominous warping sound erupts though the outpost. Prowl already has his rifle in hand in seconds. Sideswipe onlines his weapons, cannons spooling to life. The terminal blares a proximity warning. Something has emerged from the depths of space.
“Run!” Prowl orders.
The corridors are too small for their alt modes so they have to resort to sprinting. A strange tingling static fills the station. If Prowl were to guess it was potentially a sensor scan, but not like any known Decepticon or Autobot technology. It makes his plating crawl, a sensation of tiny digits digging into every seam of his armour. The pressure of it is almost painful on his doorwings. Beside him, Sideswipe covers his audials showing clear discomfort as well. Just as the static pressure becomes overwhelming, it ceases. For a click, all is silent apart from their own thundering pede falls.
Then a screech echos from below. The lower decks had hull breaches. Whatever attacked the station was back. TacNet spits out unhelpful probabilities about being horrendously outnumbered. The screeching sounds are getting louder and more numerous. Prowl pushes Sideswipe in front of him, doorwings flared wide to catch any movement from behind. He shoves the data hub into Sideswipe's servo.
”Prowl! Wait, why are you giving this to me?” Sideswipe pants grabbing the hub tightly.
”Get to the shuttle and start it up, I will destroy the corridor behind us, prepare for a sudden loss of pressure,”
“Prowl-“
“That’s an order Sideswipe!”
”Bu-“
”You are faster than me, get that data safe to the shuttle, I will follow behind. If I give you the signal, launch,” Prowl shoves Sideswipe forward before turning abruptly. He can pick out seven contacts closing in on them. No Cybertronian life signs, just blips of movement on his proximity suite. He hears Sideswipe pause.
”If you don’t get that data away, who is going to rescue Sunstreaker? Bluestreak? Optimus. Sideswipe for once in your life I need you to follow orders,” Prowl aims his rifle, a satisfying thrum in his servos as the weapon onlines.
“I’m not leaving without you, but I’ll go and secure the shuttle,” Sideswipe concedes, falling back into a sprint and Prowl settles into a solid position to cover his retreat. An eighth contact pings against Prowl’s sensor net. TacNet readjusts their dwindling odds.
A flicker of a shadow appears at the end of the corridor. Prowl locks his targeting system and fires without hesitation. A feral scream echoes when the shot rings true. The faint sound of acid making contact can be heard, yet whatever Prowl has hit is too far away to get an accurate visual on.
“Sideswipe, I have made contact with the enemy. Status?”
”I’m in the shuttle booting up the engines,”
“If I give you the order, you leave with that data. I will use one of the escape pods,”
Sideswipe makes a strained sort of noise at the other end of the com line but pings back his acknowledgement.
The escape pods are not far from Prowl’s position. If they are still intact, he thinks but does not voice that to Sideswipe. Contacts begin to swarm at the end of the corridor, six tightly together with a seventh lagging behind just on the edges of Prowl’s sensor range. He lets out another heavy vent, frame still horrendously overheated from the data download.
“Sideswipe, get the shuttle clear of the station, I am deploying grenades. Wait for me at the following coordinates for no more than five breems. If I do not make contact return the to Ark,”
The sound of claws scraping on metal echo. Prowl fires another shot into the darkness.
“Sir-“
”Sideswipe now!” Prowl barks digits tightening on his rifle. He can now make out faint flickers of sickly green optics reflecting in the dark. He backs away slowly trying to make out his assailants in the gloom. No Cybertronion lifesigns are being registered by his doorwings, with the exception of one unusual power source detected. Prowl counts the number of pede falls. TacNet spits back an estimate of twenty footfalls, calculating speed and potential time to contact. He ponders the high number of footfalls as he gathers two concussion grenades out of subspace.
Quadrupeds he realises while glaring at his chronometer. If Prowl wants to stay intact he needs to launch his grenades in a couple of clicks. An elongated snout crawls forward from the darkness. Prowl stops for a moment analysing the creature before him.
It is clearly organic, composed of muscle and tissue. It’s unsettlingly large for an organic with the top of its head clearing Prowl’s waist. Sharp dentae occupy its mouth. He crossreferences the creature’s description through his internal database. It matches no organic species that the Autobots have encountered.
A menacing growl ripples from its throat. More growls join in from behind it. Saliva drips from the creature's open maw.
“Prowl I’m cle-,”
Prowl throws the grenades.
Prowl onlines upside down, gyros spinning nauseatingly. He quickly offlines his optics to reduce the urge to purge. The world around him is fuzzy and muffled in a way that experience has taught Prowl is the result of being too close to an explosion. He feels half deaf. He decides to wait before onlining his doorwings, allowing the delicate sensors a couple of breams to reset. Thank Primus he had half a click to turn down his sensors before launching the grenades.
Error pings assault his HUD as more systems reboot. He aches down to his protoform, however Prowl is not too terribly damaged. A couple of panels on his thighs are dented and there are several small wounds with energon lines broken. These are relatively minor, hopefully his self repair will deal with the worst of it. He makes a motion to retrieve his rifle from subspace when white hot pain rips through him. He can’t close his right fist without a flash of intense agony. That level of pain can only indicate a broken strut somewhere along his lower arm. Belated damage pings confirm his suspicions. There’s a fracture in the strut just above his wrist. He disregards his earlier assumption about getting off lightly. He tries to com Sideswipe but only receives feedback for his efforts.
His whole frame shifts unexpectedly and it takes Prowl a moment to realise he’s been carried. He onlines his optics while activating his inbuilt weapon systems at the same time. There’s a squawk of what Prowl can only describe as surprise as he’s unceremoniously dropped.
The Praxian lands with a thud and bites back a scream as falls onto his damaged right arm. He raises his left to fire at whatever was hauling him only for the shot to be pushed into the ceiling above.
There’s yelling. Not in Cybertonion, but there’s a semblance of a language being shouted. Prowl stills and cranes his head to look up. Another mech is staring back at him. He sends an ID ping but no response comes. No faction tags are being broadcasted either. The mech backs away, servos up in a universal ‘Not a threat’ signal. Prowl takes a moment weighing his odds. 34% chance this a random neutral looking to loot the Deception base. 66% that this mech is a Decepticon agent sent to destroy the base. He readjusts his aim.
The strange mech garbles something in a language unknown to Prowl. They shake their servos before pointing down the corridor. Prowl abruptly realises they are several decks lower than he was previously. Had he fallen through the floor? They would be near the hull breaches down here. Fed up with being half blind, Prowl takes the risk of onlining his doorwings. They are surprisingly undamaged. Relief floods him. As much as they are a powerful advantage, the sensitivity of his doorwings make them a crippling disadvantage too. It’s one of the main reasons most Praxians become snipers and mid-range fighters. He counts four contacts two floors above them.
Prowl scrutinises the mech before him. Black and white paint job with heavy plating on their chest. Robust digitigrade legs clearly made for swift manoeuvring. They have a blue visor covering their faceplate with two audial fins on both sides of their helm. No faction decals are visible on the unusual frame. The mech points down the corridor again in a much more urgent manner. Their EM field must be practically glued to their frame as Prowl tries to reach out with his own to gauge a reaction. He gets barely a flicker of anything except a strange power signal.
Prowl’s doorwings spring up with reconcognition. This mech was the unusual power source he detected earlier. Perhaps he wasn’t looking at another Cybertronion at all.
”Identify yourself,” Prowl says in standard.
The mech tilts their head but no effort is made to reply.
Prowl decides they can try this again later. He disengages his weapon system slowly, throwing his left hand up mirroring the mech’s “Not a Threat” signal. The mech’s audial fins lift up in what Prowl can only assume is excitement. His servo is unexpectedly grabbed as he’s pulled to his pedes. Prowl startles but has no time to free his servo as the mech drags him down the corridor. He hisses in pain as his right arm is jarred. The other mech glances over but keeps up the pace.
Prowl tries his com again. A crackle of feedback makes his helm throb. He scours through his damage logs. His com system is so damaged it didn’t even register that it was offline. Prowl can only hope Sideswipe followed orders and is on route back to the Ark. The Praxian attempts to free his servo but his new companion has a tight grip. It irks Prowl that he cannot access his weapons like this. TacNet reasons 14% that that is the reason why the stranger has claimed his uninjured servo. Slightly peeved, he rechecks the positions of their pursuers. Still two decks above but closing in. He wonders if this mech knows what those creatures were.
Have they encountered the organics before?