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Wake up...
Wake up...
It's time to go home...
Don't you want to go home?
I do...
But you don't know where home is...
Do you?
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Iacon
It's the same reflux, every night. The same voice, whispering just on the edge of his hearing. Sometimes there's a touch on his plating, and sometimes there isn't. Mostly, though, it seems that the dream merely lingers right on the verge of wakefulness like an illness he can't shake. Fingers tighten on his, and he turns just a little to look over at the other presence at his side.
Green armor glints in the dim light, reflected in star shattered prisms by the rain falling just outside the wide plate-glass window. The frame next to him is utilitarian and boxy in both construction and design, but inwardly he could never bring himself to hate it.
Outwardly, however, certain societal conventions must be maintained, even if he does not like them. Hound has never once mentioned them, and he doesn't think the other mech has it in him to bring it up. Gentle and kind, warm and faithful, his ever present servant/partner is never far from his side, not even here.
On nights like these, when the flux seems to surface the most readily, he's even more grateful.
It's been sixteen vorns since the "incident."
"Incident" is the official report, but in reality they all know what it really was.
Assassination.
Internal espionage.
One can take their pick, but it amounts to the same thing. He is now the oldest heir to the clade fortune as well as the sole guardian of his family's estate and his one surviving sibling, Mystique. His other two siblings, Maestro and Quicksilver, are also gone. A turbo-fox hunt gone wrong for the first sibling, and the second of high-grade poisoning. Both are a common enough cause in the upper strata of Cybertron's finest citizens, but it is not something often talked about.
Still, on nights like these he finds himself unable to recharge. The window beckons to him, drawing him from the soft berth with its silken coverlets to peer outside at the rain-washed Iacon. It had taken a minute or two to untangle the digits of his servo from Hound's, but at least the other mech hadn't awoke when he moved. Gold optics narrow as they survey the lighted spires of the golden city.
Even in the darkness, Iacon shines like a beacon.
He has the nights at least to himself. As a member of the vaunted peerage of the Elite, he finds his days taken up by politics, business and intrigue. It's tiresome, irritating, and he does not understand how mechs can thrive on this sort of lifestyle. Maestro loved every second of it, and he would have been the apt heir instead of himself.
All he wants is to retire to his estate near the Rust Sea and hunt with his companion.
A faint sigh escapes his lateral vents as he shifts his weight and pushes away from the window. The acidity of the rain has heightened over the last few decaorns and he has a proposal he wants to put before the council in hopes that it might go to the Senate for a possible solution. It wouldn't hurt to get a jump-start on the day while he's got the chance.
The noble frowns as he brings up his display interface, pulling up a blinking icon as it displays an unopened message waiting on him.
Its' contents make the energon in his lines freeze to ice.
It's time, Mirage.
He doesn't feel the sudden lock of his systems or see the darkness that crowds in from the edge of his vision. The bolded words, their glyphs burn into his processor and ignites something warm and visceral like energon from a wounded turbo-fox. He doesn't register the screaming that is coming from his own vocalizer, or the hands that attempt to pry his own from the computer. Energy crackles around his frame, turning the console into a smoldering ruin in the process. He cannot hear the voice of his guardian, shouting out his designation in a tone that is filled with borderline panic.
Darkness snaps firmly over his consciousness, and after that there is only a blissful nothing left but the lingering whispers of a midnight ghost.
Do you know where home is?
I
don't.
-----------------------------------------------Praxus-----------------------------------------------------------
"What do you mean we don't have a lead?" Ice blue optics narrow as their gears oscillate to bring the iris down to a pinprick. The young Enforcer in front of him is fidgeting nervously with door-wings that dip down in obvious submission. There is a flurry of activity behind him, as monochromatic mechs and femmes flit here and there within the large central nervous system that is Praxium Prime, the elite headquarters for the Enforcers.
A soft click is heard as the young mech's vocalizer resets before speaking.
"There was nothing, sir. We checked the footage, the timestamps. We've scanned for any sort of marks, leavings... anything. " Dark fingers clutch at the data-pad, violet optics cycling upwards to the taller Praxian.
"No message, nothing was taken. "
The elder of the two slams a servo down on the desk, gripping the edge in an effort NOT to throw it.
"Nobles don't just disappear, Silverstreak. There HAS to be a trail."
He vents harshly, trying to expel as much heat in his frame as he can before his tac-net decides to lock up from the sheer improbability of the case before him. A single noble, a shining needle in a gilded haystack has gone missing.
Mirage, of the Mysterio Clade.
If it were anyone else, this would simply be a case of jilted lovers, a hunting accident maybe even a noble-artisan switch again. However, all the signs have pointed to other reasons, things of a sinister and darker nature that he'd care to admit. He is a logical creature, not prone to fits of fantasy or the occult. But there is a little part of him that wonders if that entire family isn't cursed somehow. He shakes that thought off with an irritable sweep of his helm, crimson chevron glinting in the harsh artificial light.
Curses are for those with weak processors.
He only deals in facts.
Silverstreak edges in front of him, the gunmetal grey face pinched in nervousness and maybe just a little fear. The mech before him isn't exactly terrifying, but it's well known that the Captain does not tolerate half-afted jobs or slack in the workplace.
You either pull your weight, or you transfer out of Praxus.
End of story.
"Dismissed."
The word is not even out of his vocalizer before the junior Enforcer is already gone, door-wings hitched up in an effort to put more distance between him and the cyber-lion's den that is the captain's office. The elder mech grunts softly as his servo detaches from the table's edge. Three screens come up from their recessed positions from within his desk and bring the current case up in front of him on the user displays.
He reaches up with an ivory hand to rub at the spot nestled in the middle of his chevronic cradle to try to stave off the processor ache before it worsens. The rotating three dimensional display of the noble with his intricately built chassis and glyphs silently hums in front of him as if taunting him with its inscrutability. His designation is highlighted off to the side, along with flow chart of family members.
The other databanks include the members of household. Everything from the designation and function of the Guardian down to the lowest of the household servants. They tried to find this Hound, but even the searches for him have turned up nothing. There is no cred-trail, nothing that would tie him to a mech on the run.
It's as if the both of them simply ceased to be one dark cycle.
He allows his helm to rest in the palm of one hand as he shuts down the console. The screens withdraw back into the desk with a soft hum and seal over as soon as they're safely nestled. The flit of silhouettes back and forth in front of the frosted door of his office is at odds to the almost clinical stillness within.
Praxium Prime is the spark-center of the city itself, and from her lines come the patrols that outsource to every other city-state on Cybertron itself. While every Enforcer may not be a Praxian, they are taught here at the Academy. The lessons he's learned are as stark as his chromatic nanite pattern.
Everything happens for a reason, and every reason is logical.
He's still trying to figure out this puzzle, even as a dark servo puts a tumbler full of mid-grade in front of him. His helm lifts with a grunt, and he peers up into a set of optics that mirror his own.
"Smokescreen."
The head of the Profile and Psychological Operations department merely smiles at him, a lopsided and crooked thing designed to reassure the unwary. He is likewise attired in the same chromatic scheme, though the placement of checked black and white is different from his frame-brother.
"You're looking as disgruntled as usual," he drawls, his accent an unrecognizable thing of Not-Praxian.
The elder of the two snorts, taking the tumbler and drinking deep from it. The mid-grade lingers on his glossa and perks up the fuel levels that he didn't even know where lowering. He must have been using more processing power than he realized.
"Any particular reason for this visit, Smokescreen?"
Psy-Ops doesn't come calling unless there's a reason.
He's rewarded with a lazy smile, though it doesn't quite touch the mech's optics. Dark fingers interlace, and he leans forward to meet the other's gaze squarely. They're almost identical in height and format, but beyond that the similarities end. Smokescreen reaches to one side, pulling out the container of mid-grade he'd use to fill the tumbler and fills one for himself. He allows himself a slow pull of his drink before he speaks. "We've concluded the analysis of the staff," the profiler drawled with a faint look of irritation. "Nothing out of the ordinary for service bots or pleasure models."
The Enforcer watches him attentively, one hand still curled around his own glass as the other mech continues. "No one saw anything. No one heard anything. All the scans and detailed code-checks came back clear. We even researched the time-loops on the security feed. One moment he's there..."
"And the next they're both gone," the eldest finishes with an quiet tone.
He sighs, bringing his free servo up to rub between the points of his chevron again and casts his optics upwards in a look of long suffering.
"Primus above, Smokescreen. I don't buy into this metaphysical slag. Something had to happen. Two mechs don't JUST disappear. There has to be a trail, a message... " His servo gestures, fingers flaring in emphasis.
The other Praxian shakes his helm, polishing off the glass. He goes to speak, but both pause as there's a sudden flurry of motion outside the office. Enforcers are racing back and forth, and some are yelling shouts out to the other as they dart for the opposite end of the hallway. The sudden activity is compounded by the sirens that suddenly whoop through the halls, their lights flashing in panic-mode. He is already up and heading for the door when it flings open, and Silverstreak appears in front of him with vents heaving.
He glances at the younger mech expectantly, optics searching the panicked face. The words don't even make it out of his vocalizer before the junior Enforcer speaks..
"Captain Prowl, sir... there's been another incident."
His door-wings hitch up violently, half aware of his frame-brother behind him rising as well.
"Location?"
There is the slightest moment of hesitation before the other answers.
"It's... it's Polyhex, sir," he stammers quietly and catches his breath to continue. His optics rove up to Prowl's face, their irises narrowed down to tiny pin pricks.
"Someone's assassinated Senator Ratbat."
--------------------------------------PolyHex-------------------------------------------------------------------
One Orn Prior
"Don't you ever recharge, or take a break?"
The solemn mech looked up as a voice cut into his concentration. Boxy, utilitarian and highly intelligent, he was the best at what he did. Blue fingers paused over the console as he considered his employer.
"Conditional is optimal. Break not required," was the stilted reply.
The other mech inclined his helm, crimson optics narrowed on the seated individual.
"No, I suppose you wouldn't... would you."
He didn't care much for the visor and mask combo that the other mech donned. He knew that some mechs needed it as they didn't have a proper faceplate, or that there was some horrendous accident that rendered them too ugly to be seen by the public optic. These possibilities had been considered, and yet he still felt as if the mech were eyeing him secretly behind those barriers.
Of course, it could simply be his own inner paranoia popping up after the notice he received not two orns ago.
As a fuel auditor for Polyhex, it was his job to make sure that enough there is enough in the city-state for both consumption AND commerce. Mechs needed fuel, needed to buy fuel and needed to sell fuel. That's where he came in.
The profits and the supply came through with him as the conduit. There wasn't a business in Polyhex that he didn't know about, had a servo in, or was somehow controlling. Everything from the meanest street stall, to the most posh salon, to the supposedly illegal underground fight-ring has his stamp of approval or denial.
That's where a mech like his assistant came in. Silent, nonjudgmental and completely interested in his own gains, he quite liked him. Still, the senator had this niggling feeling that he was being watched closely from behind that crimson visor. There were times he had to fight the fidget that came, berating himself for being unnerved by a mere inferior.
Soundwave had been recommended to him by a friend, Databurst. Where the young carrier mech had hailed from, he had no idea. He had been everything that 'Burst had promised. Discreet, intelligent and diligent; everything that was needed to help run the corporation that was his Senator-ship. He needed someone of this caliber, since the situation he now found himself was in far more dire straits than his previous venture.
If he did not show the appropriate numbers to the meeting in two orns then a possibility existed that he MAY just lose his chair in the upcoming elections. Considering how much he'd bribed just to GET here.
That was completely out of the question.
It was Soundwave's job to monitor both incoming and outgoing funds. Outwardly, he appeared to be a simple accountant but in reality, it was he, and not Ratbat that handled the cash flow down to the nearest deci-shanix.
"Are you going to the match?"
There was no need to ask which match it was, as it was the talk of Polyhex. The famed Megatronus was making his appearance at the Apigex Stadium to fight against resident champion, Compactor.
Servos paused on the console as the carrier-mech regarded the Senator with thoughtful silence. He let it linger before inclining his helm to Ratbat.
"Had considered. Uncertain."
He turned at that, the soft chain metal of his cloak scraping the floor gently.
"Take the night off, Soundwave. Paid. I'll even throw in extra for concessions," he volunteered, waving one hand expansively. "After all, it's the only time he's coming to Polyhex on THIS circuit and may not be back if Compactor wipes the floor with him."
His grin was sharp, with light denta against a darker durametal face.
The senator was rewarded with a pregnant pause as he waited for the other mech's answer. Surely a gift this expensive wouldn't be turned down?
After all, everyone had their price.
"...Proposal, accepted. Funds, not necessary-" came the prim reply, vocalizer echoing with that odd sub harmonic tone that the other mech occasionally found eerie at the best of times, and downright freakish at the worst.
"Of course not. I pay you well, after all." He shrugged as he turned away from the carrier-mech again, fingertips tapping along the edge of the expensive crystallite chair imported from Praxus.
It had been a gift from a Lord-Marshal of Praxus, a treasured friend and Enex-addict.
He allowed himself one graceful flop into it, ignoring the warning chime of the chair's stress buffers. Polyhex was spread out before him, lovely in her seedy and easily-bought glory. She had risen from one of the darkest pits of the Cybertronian sublevel to this shining epitome of glory, greed and shanix.
Anything that could be sold was sold, anything that could be bought was haggled to nearly deactivation before being sold.
He could even say he loved this city, almost as much as he loved himself.
Visored mechs and femmes wandered here and there, some frames shining with the dual nano-chromites of the upper class and others with dull plating and grayed seams from working in the darkest parts of the tunnels that laced under Cyberton. Stubby sensor-horns could be seen here and there on different helms, while sleeker- almost antennae styled horns adorned the upper-caste frames.
The hiss-click of the service door opening brought him out of his self-styled introspection, and he turned his helm to eye the incoming individual. He had expected one of his pleasure-models to be making her usual rounds, but this was something completely different.
Wide, guileless blue optics regarded him curiously- set in an equally round face. Short, stubby sensor horns adorned the rounded helm with tips rounding into a slight curve. Her frame was short and stocky, but surprisingly attractive. It was easy to regard her as either a half-grown femmelet, or even a stocky mechling.
He had to admit, he was not exactly partial to the spectrum of yellow-gold that some seemed to prefer, but that color looked good on her. She mirrored nearly the exact color of mid-afternoon, counterpoint with soft silver and black protoform teasingly shifting in and out of sight as she moved.
He idly wondered if she'd visited the renowned artist Sunstreaker at some point to get a nanite-job like that.
One hand held a tray with a fluted glass that sat atop it. Effervescent bubbles popped gently from the frothy energon within. Her helm turned briefly to peer at the visored mech, those enticing little sensor horns vibrating softly as they captured sounds and lower harmonic frequencies. One blue hand came up to brush her shoulder, rubbing along a plate seam before indicating the Senator with a polite gesture. Her helm bobbed up and down in a nod, her voice soft and low with the buzz that came from Lower-Pit 'Hex.
Finally, she turned his way with a bright smile that stretched across her faceplates with enticing naivety. Her voice was bubbly, matching her nanite scheme and outward demeanor. His helm tilted as she practically bounced towards him, pausing just far away enough that he could not touch her.
One hand held the tray while the other placed itself on the dip of her hip-plating as she introduced herself.
"Hi! I'm Bumblebee."