We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
He'd expected the drawn guns when he showed up at the gates. He'd expected the suspicion. He'd expected the energon cuffs and the deactivated weapons and the emptied subspace (the look on the 'bots' faces when they'd seen the amount of stuff that'd come out of his subspace had been priceless). He'd expected the short march under guard to the brig, then another, later, under more guards to a very small room. He'd expected getting restrained to the chair. He'd even expected the long wait while the Autobots figured out who'd come interrogate him first.
Expecting it hadn't made it any more interesting.
Honestly. They coulda left him one of his datapads or something.
If it was up to him - which it wasn't, and Ironhide knew it, but on the off chance anyone had asked his opinion, which they hadn't - then this was a really slagging stupid idea. Decepticons did not just waltz up to checkpoints - and the fact that the little glitch got that far in the first place was a whole different nest of scraplets that he was going to open all over someone's aft - and offer up themselves, all their worldly possessions, and the intel in their banks for free picking. Didn't happen. And if it did, then it was a trap.
He'd said as much when he took his orders. Had said as much to Prowl - had, in fact, taken it all the way to Prime, for all the good it had done him, and with a protest formally recorded on just how bad an idea he thought this was, he'd come back and... here he was. And there the slagging little 'Con was.
Ironhide glared at the monitor screen with its display of the interior of the interrogation room. Glared at the profusion of scrap spread out over the table, and where in the Pit had the little glitch been keeping all of it? Glared at the report on the datapad in his hand - according to said report, the 'Con might as well have tied a big anodized titanium mesh bow on himself, like a new vorn present wrapped up pretty and just waiting to explode.
If it was up to him, they'd have the slagger stripped, hacked, cracked, and the whole contents of his rusted processor turned over to tactical already. It wasn't, though. That wasn't the way the Prime did things and Ironhide, grumble though he might, was his Prime's mech.
Venting in exasperation, he left the observation room, stomping down the short corridor to the room where their uninvited 'Con was being held, and let his cannons spin up hot as he keyed the door to open. He towered over the seated mech, outmassed him by several times, and was, according to Prowl's own words, to 'make a lasting impression'. Fair enough. Ironhide could do that.
The door slid shut behind him, lock sealing. "Ain't nobody watchin'," Ironhide growled, which was truth as far as it went - the base AI was monitoring, but there was no physical set of optics watching the feed. "So yeh gonna tell meh what fraggin' game yer playin', or am Ah gonna beat it outta yah?"
Jazz, magnetized to the chair like he was, felt the stomp of a military-grade frame transmitted through the floor as much as heard it. The sound of weapons (big weapons to go with that heavy gait) charging and spinning up didn't exactly sound like fun coming his way, but, like everything he'd encountered since showing up on the Autobots' doorstep, it wasn't unexpected.
Given that the mech that came through the door was Ironhide, neither was the no-nonsense greeting.
Jazz had pulled every bit of info he'd had clearance for before he'd disappeared. That included spec ops' dossiers on Prime's followers, including the mech who was currently towering over him, filling the very small room with the crawling hum of a very annoyed EMF.
Ironhide: Autobot, loyal officer, weapons specialist, all around rough-and-ready slagger that no Decepticon with a scratch of self-preservation wanted to meet on the battlefield.
Or in a tiny interrogation room, either. Ironhide wasn't an interrogator, per se. He was, however, the kind of bot Jazz'd send in if he wanted a target shook up a bit.
Jazz kind of hoped that the Autobots' version of shaking up was a bit gentler than the Decepticon one. Not that it mattered. He'd thrown in his lot, after all. But still, he'd rather not get beat up for it, all considered.
Jazz tilted back his helm to try to keep optic contact, keeping his usual smart-aft tendencies firmly under wraps, keeping his field open and calm. "No game. I'm defecting. Nothing more, nothing less."
It was funny. For once he was telling the truth, and he was going to have a Pit of a time convincing anyone of it.
Ironhide vented derisively. "Sure," he drawled, letting the gutter sounds of the accent he'd spoken half his function drag the single word into a morass of scorn and disbelief. "Defectin'. An Ah'm a Prahm."
There was another chair - unoccupied and not magnetized to the floor - across the bare table from the 'Con. Ironhide kicked it back and settled into it, kept one cannon trained on his prisoner (the barrel alone was larger than the glitch's head and there was no possible way to miss when a single shot would take out the entire far wall), and flipped a datapad out with his free hand, thumbing it on. "Jazz," he read off, tone bored. "Decepticon saboteur. Previous record of spying, theft, violence, suspected hacking, suspected sabotage, and two suspected counts of murder. Known war record, one hundred fifty two confirmed counts o' data espionage, eighty two counts o' sabotage, thirty eight counts o' unlawful force in prisoner interrogation, hundred an' sixteen confirmed Autobot kills..." He tossed the datapad onto the table between them, fixing a hard glare on the prisoner, "...an' Ah'm guessin' we oughta multiply all o' those by a factor o' three. At least. That sound about right?"
Ironhide leaned forward across the table. "So why, exactly, do Ah even care that yer defectin'? Yeh drag yer sorry little aft in here an... what? All's forgiven?" Snorting, he settled back into his chair. "Funny, Ah don't see Megatron's spark in yer inventory list."
Jazz almost laughed but figured there was no sense in riling the mech any more than he had to. First, his numbers were off by way more than threefold. And second...why should he care? Oh, please....
He kept his vocalizer calm, reasonable even. "Well, if you want to talk numbers, I have some. Seven thousand and ninety-two, the number of next gen plasma cannons from Sul Praxa that Megatron is having smuggled right under your noses right now. Thirteen, the number of spec ops mechs the 'cons have over you as of today. Three, the number of moles you've got in this facility alone. One, the number of assassins that are already in place to take a shot at Prime when he heads to Crystal City next joor. Seven, the number of ways I could have entered this facility completely unnoticed and made my way wherever I'd wanted. And TWENTY-SEVEN, the number of security tweaks you really need to make RIGHT NOW to have any hope of keepin' mechs like me out of Iacon, and that's just what I noticed today."
He spread his fingers in the magcuffs. "Why should you care? Because I've got info your spec ops isn't in place to get, and you need it. You need more mechs like me." He shifted back in his chair, putting a touch of apology into his voice. "Not that you're gonna trust anything I say until someone's scrubbed through my helm. But hey, you asked."
Ironhide clicked his vocalizer off to keep it from making any of the sounds or utterances it might otherwise have, his vents only giving one aborted inward cycle before he cut them off as well. Numbers. He didn't do numbers, not the way the tacticians did, or the way the science mechs in and ex vented them with every system check. But troop numbers - that he could do. Troop numbers and placements and weapon stores, and the map the little glitch's words made in his head made him have to lock down several subroutines, before he put a fist through the table (or worse, through the prisoner).
New rank marks still felt like they were itching on his plating, even orns after they'd been put there, but one of the benefits of that rank was the ability to open a comm direct up the chain, without having to wait for authorization. ::Prime's trip - cancel it.:: He barely waited for Prowl's acknowledging mark - one glyph only, receipt of message, but from Prowl that was all a mech needed - before focusing back on their uninvited guest.
"Yeh ain't stirrin' enough higher ups t' get express treatment yet," he replied blandly, "and Ah'm guessin' that if all that's true then yer ol' buddies already know yer here." He tapped a knuckle on the table top, indicating not just the base but the room itself and the chair the spy was clamped to. Leaning back with a nonchalance born of long vorns of outbluffing would-be sharkticons over gambling tables during off cycles, he looked pointedly at the magcuffs on the other. "If Ah were yeh an' Ah really was aimin' t' switch sides, Ah'd be a mite concerned about what th' mechs Ah was turnin' tail on might do. How many moles was that? Three? How long d'yeh figure it'd take any of 'em t' get into this room?" He smiled. "Maybe we should find out. One of 'em takes a pot shot at yeh, maybe yer tellin' the truth."
Jazz could HEAR the warrior holding himself back, could hear it in the whine of clenched servos, of locked joints, of involuntary movement forcibly stilled.
Yeah, Jazz thought, if you like that, you're gonna really love this.
Jazz shrugged. "Sure, if you want to play it that way. I laid clues that I was heading to the Polyhex base, but not sure if they bought it. After all, made more sense to ME to come all the way here. Guarantee you, though, that every agent's gotten orders to terminate me. Some of 'em orders to terminate me regardless of their own cover. After all, like you mentioned, I'm a bad mech. Plenty of reasons any random Autobot'd feel obligated to take a shot at me."
Jazz considered. "How long? Probably a cycle. Fender's in transport maintenance, and since I didn't come in on a transport, he wouldn't have seen me yet. Icepick's out on recon, definitely not a problem yet." He made optic contact with Ironhide. He'd rather see the blow coming, all considered. "Firestorm, though, is probably waiting for you to leave. Probably working on getting herself assigned to guard duty, if she hasn't already."
Firestorm was good. In a stand-up fight, he was better. When she could open the door and shoot him point-blank with no chance for him to dodge, though, it was a little trickier.
Sucker punches up underneath your spark casing were things you usually saw coming - just that split nano-klik of time to know this is going to slagging hurt before the world exploded into smelting pits full of pain. Shots direct to the spark, on the other hand, were generally accepted as the thing you didn't see coming and too fast to hurt - just there and gone, and you were going cold before you hit the ground.
Nothing, least of all filthy words in a glitch slagging 'Con's lying mouth, should both turn his spark cold AND hurt like the the depths of the Pits.
The crunch of the table edge underneath his fingers sounded dim and distant and the weight of it was nothing at all, as insubstantial as air. It flipped up and end over end in one heave, straight into the 'Con's face. Magnaclamped to the chair and the chair to the floor as he was, the table deflected before the 'Con did but not without enough impact to rock the little slagger back in his chair, head snapped back and away to try to protect his optic band.
Ironhide was on his feet with no memory of how he had gotten there. One pulse of field and codes disabled half of the magnetic clamps and a sweep of his foot toppled the suddenly mobile chair, clattering the 'Con down onto the floor, chair and all, with Ironhide's pede slamming down on his chestplates with several times the smaller mech's mass.
And stopped. He kept his optics focused and clear, kept his weapons hot, but forced himself to count backwards from two million, in base six, skipping prime numbers, until he could see something besides the urgent need to rip the lying 'Cons vocalizer out through his throat.
They were going to processor strip the little fragger, sooner or later. Sooner, maybe, if Ratchet could clear the time. If Prime authorized it. And in the meantime, Ironhide had been told, find out what, if anything, their uninvited guest would give up willingly.
He counted through a golden sequence sideways, in base three, and opened his comm, forwarding the recording of their 'guests' words verbatim to Prowl. By the time he handed over Firestorm's name he knew the shot wasn't fatal - he'd live, but he didn't have to be happy about it.
"Don't suppose," he rumbled, low and deep, "yeh'd care to back any of that up with proof?"
Jazz was expecting the hit. He expected quite a few of them, really. No way did he expect to be able to defect, after bein' in 'Con spec ops for more vorns than he cared to think about, without getting roughed up. He'd taken it into account when he'd made the decision. There were a lot of Autobots who had reason to take a shot at him, lethal or not: friends, lovers, teammates of 'Bots he'd killed or captured or tortured. Or mechs like Ironhide. Who just weren't gonna be happy knowing that they'd been taken in.
Jazz could've wished that the first interrogator would be someone not personally friends with one of the deep cover agents. Someone not likely to feel personally betrayed. Someone not likely to throw a table at him and make his spark casing creak with the weight of Primus on top of it.
But hey, he'd established already that the universe hated him. Why break up the streak?
He'd expected the hit, but it didn't keep his frame from trying to up combat routines when the table flew at him. The urge to dodge spun uselessly through his systems, weapons gone or deactivated and his limbs still cuffed to the chair. Not that he couldn't have been out of the cuffs in about six kliks, but he was being GOOD. He was letting this happen. Show of good faith, right? Let the 'Bots rough you up. It'll make 'em feel better.
Jazz hit the ground, the chair digging painfully into his backstrut, and Ironhide's weight didn't make it any better. For one klik, Jazz was afraid that the warrior wouldn't stop. Just keep leaning until Jazz's spark casing popped. But he didn't. He stopped.
Jazz reset his optics, his audials, everything that'd gotten rattled, and fought hard not to laugh. Laughing right now would not be a sound tactical move. "Sure. I'll tell you everything I know. But what'll you believe? Their cover stories? I know 'em all, but I coulda just researched those to set them up. Icepick came in from a Polyhexian unit that he said was decimated. We faked his credentials to put him in that unit after it'd been wiped out. He vouched for Firestorm when she came in as a Neutral. She vouched for Fender when he came in with the Altihex refugees. It's easier to get someone in than you'd like. War's too chaotic. Can't know every mech. 'Cons have the same problem."
He ventilated against the pain in his back, in his chest. "Can't prove to you I'm tellin' the truth. Not a word of it I couldn't be lyin' about, we both know that. And all of 'em are good agents. Not a speck on 'em that'll give 'em away. S'not like they keep their insignia in a drawer."
He would have shrugged but, yeah, 'Bot on his chest. "Could catch 'em reporting. Next one'll be Icepick, next decacycle. He drops his datachips at the furthest point of whatever patrol he's on. Someone watches for him and picks 'em up. Firestorm's rotation isn't until an orn from now. Fender's piggybacking encrypted updates through the main comm relays. Have an engineer start nosing around, see if Fender'll give himself away."
He tilted his head up to meet Ironhide's optics, and Primus was that the coldest blue he'd ever seen. "And like you said, could let one of 'em take a shot at me. Kinda like it if you didn't let 'em kill me, though."
Smooth, regular ventilations, in, out, in. This... this was not Ironhide's job. The little would-be signia-switching slagger wasn't doing what he ought - there was no bluffing, no bluster, no threats, no demands. None of the usual 'Con games.
It was strange enough Ironhide was starting to wonder, with a cold sinking feeling in his lines, if it wasn't real.
Firestorm... slaggit, he'd trained the femme himself, suggested her to the position she was in, had been gearing up to start grooming her for command level. If - IF - she was a 'Con mole...
Three moles. Seven blatant security breaches. One Assassin.
Full Stop. Ironhide ruthlessly suppressed systems, wrestling them down, and kept venting until he could straighten, remove his foot, and reach down to hook the little 'Con by the collar strut, hauling him upright in one smooth motion.
He dumped the 'Con back onto the legs of the chair, flash clamping it down again. The table was retrieved and put back in front of him. Another flash pulse loosened one of the 'Con's arms, which he grabbed and slammed down onto the table before the little glitch could twitch.
Ironhide dug a datapad out of his subspace, slapping it onto the table beside the 'Con's hand. "An' what makes yeh think yer so-called moles haven't already changed their patterns thanks t' yeh bein' here? Yeh'll have t' do better'n that." He tapped the pad, releasing the 'Con's arm. "Hard data. How you got in. Where the other security holes are. Route those cannons are takin', ballistic setup of th' attack on Prahm. Any other quantifiable slag yeh got in yer worthless rusted out scrap. Start uploading."
Grabbing his own discarded chair, Ironhide slammed it back down on the other side of the table and dropped himself heavily into it.
Jazz could HEAR the tension in the room shift. Slowly. Like Cybertron's own struts settling. Like the hum of Ironhide's systems, reverberating in an aggressive hum down his leg and translating to Jazz's own armor, down to his internals, frag Ironhide was a big slagger. It was only emphasized when Ironhide picked up him and the chair one-handed as casually as Jazz would have picked up a cube.
Jazz let himself be mechhandled where Ironhide wanted him, looked down at the datapad and thought, Finally. We're getting somewhere.
He kept his voice steady, vorns of being a Decepticon, a GOOD Decepticon, making it inconceivable to show weakness, even to a mech who could crush him with one hand. ESPECIALLY to a mech who could crush him with one hand. It was too early in this game to be showing fear. There was a lot of intimidation and threats and mechs with grudges to nurse to deal with before this was through.
Jazz obediently popped a line out of his wrist, plugging it into the datapad. "Whatever you want." He checked the 'pad, visor flickering as he started the upload. "Giving you that...and index of the rest. Full dump'll take more than this 'pad's got memory." He added in a bit of Apologetic to his Perfectly Cooperative voice. "Kinda ripped as much as I could out of the 'con mainframe kernel on my way out. Not that everything there's gonna be useful, but I'm no tactician."
Ironhide grunted, a burst of sound without meaning in language or glyph, his own EMF locked down tight. He couldn't afford to give the glitch anything else to work with and worse, he couldn't afford to let himself dwell on it at all, or the supposedly ex-'Con would be nothing but energon and spare parts smashed against the wall.
Threat level. Prime. Full stop.
He shoved everything except the protocols and necessary measures for security down and out of his conscious tiers; later, there would be time later to find out truths, and even then there would be proper procedures and regulations for dealing with them. Time later, in private, to work through a well of bitter feelings.
Time now to do his slagging job.
He scooped the datapad up, skimmed the visual readout to verify what had been uploaded - he wouldn't plug back into it without a thorough virus scrub, and neither would anyone else - and tucked it back away. Standing, he pressed his hands to the table, leaning down over the little 'Con's upturned gaze. "There's a live guard on the monitors for this room," he growled, low. "An' another one outside th' door. Neither of them are, or will be, Firestorm." He met the optics behind the visor band, unflickering. "Ah expect yeh got enough self preservation t' scream yer fraggin' head off if anybody tries silencin' yeh. Ah also expect-" a brief pulse unclamped two of the chair legs from the floor, "that yer a resourceful little fragger an' yeh can manage until somebody gets th' slaggin' door open. An' if yeh do anything else, Ah expect Ah'll be back here and we'll pick up where we left off earlier."
He straightened. "Yer cooperation," he snarled, louder, "is appreciated. Sit yer aft tight - they'll be in t' clean yeh out soon enough." Turning on his heel, he marched out, comm crackling to life as he began locking down the guard rotation and laying into security.