“Prowl... Smokey,” Jazz sighed, relieved when he found his rookie and the enforcer safe in Prowl’s treatment room.
“What happened?” Prowl asked. Smokescreen stretched out his doorwings, instinctively shielding his originator from an invisible threat.
“Trepan... he tired Wild Rider to assassinate Barricade, caught Ratchet off guard,” the saboteur explained. “Worried for a bit there he mighta come for Prowl first.”
“Trepan’s head of mnemosugery,” Smokescreen said.
“The plot goes entirely too deep,” Prowl said. “Is Ratchet alright?”
“Wild Rider knocked’m out but he’s got a hard helm,” Jazz reassured him.
“And Barricade?” The enforcer asked.
“Alive,” the Polyhexian replied. “Don’t know if Ratchet found anythin’ in his surgery. I got confirmation he was investigatin’ Flatfoot from his originator. Who ‘m damn sure is Praxian spec ops. He likes poison ‘n transportin’ himself from one place to the next in a blink.”
“He could have been part of the Omni program,” Prowl said.
“What program?” Jazz asked.
“It was a secret government program Crosscut sponsored,” the Praxian explained. “My understanding was that it was mostly a failure as few of the recipients of the mod were able to operate it. The rest were set to collapse after a nanolik’s use. The energy train was too intense. Crosscut met at the estate with one of the recipients when Smokescreen was just a newling. Crosscut left the meeting very frustrated. The next mega-cycle the program was cancelled amid accusations of misconduct.”
“Mech’s still standing,” the saboteur said. “Don’t know if he’d admit to bein’ in that program. Don’t think he would much care ‘bout me knowin’ either. Don’t think he’s much afraid o’ Autobtos. Or maybe anyone. I need to talk to Ori. He might have an idea how to handle’m.”
The question now was if Jazz was going to find Counterpunch or Punch when he got to his originator’s home. When Punch was deployed, it was his alter Counterpunch who took to the streets. After he returned, it always took a little time for Punch to regain control. Sometimes, Jazz and Ricochet could help pull him out faster, but the faster the shift, the harder it was and the more disorienting. He did not call his twin, not wanting to burden him when he was already in such a rough spot. Jazz would need to warn Ricochet that his lover’s originator was in town, so he was not surprised when he went to see Barricade again. If and when that encounter was to happen, Jazz would want to be there for support and protection. He thought he had made a good enough impression to at least convince Camshaft to talk before he got stabby. Maybe having Punch along for that would also be good, or would that make the Praxian operative more likely to turn violent.
“Ori?” Jazz called out as he entered his procreators’ habsuite. Something sweet was baking in the oven. Both Ori and Geni were bakers, but based on the smell, he was sure it was cinnabar cookies, one of his originator’s recipes.
“Hello Love,” Punch replied from the living room. “Middle of the cycle, funny time for ya to pay me a call.”
“I know how ya feel ‘bout comms,” he said. “There’s a situation at the base. We got a guest. Cry Red... the poison, was it standard issue to Praxian ops?”
“No,” Punch replied. “That was the trick o’ just one op... a real ghost. He’d appear, disappear. Like Mirage was different in a way, until he disappeared for decavorns. Figured ‘m for dead, that’s the business but one mega-cycle, weapons dealer was found dead with red bleedin’ from ever orifice. Haven’t heard o’ his work in a long time.”
“‘M thinkin’ he disappeared to raise a bitlet,” Jazz said. “His creation’s in a CR chamber at the base. One o’ the enforcers in that shooting ya probably heard ‘bout.”
“How do ya know it’s ‘m?” Ori asked.
“‘Cause a traitor tried to kill his creation and he made the mech cry red to loosen his glossa,” the saboteur explained. “Gave’m an antidote so I got a designation, maybe the ring leader in this fraggin’ mess. Trepan.”
“I never did like ‘m,” Punch said. “An antidote? Never knew there was one but never found one o’ his kills before the target was good and dead.”
“Prowl,” Jazz said. “Enforcer at the centre o’ this scrap said he might o’ been part o’ somethin’ called the Omni project.”
“Oh I heard o’ that,” the spy replied. “Dozens o’ ops from ‘round Cybertron tried to steal the blueprints. Far as I know, they were destroyed when the mess went wrong. Considerin’ what happened wit the others, seems crazy the mech would still use the thing but... it’s nice to have a good trick in the subspace in case o’ emergencies.”
“Don’t suppose ya ever met face to face?” The younger mech asked.
“No,” Punch said. “I wasn’t even sure he was Praxian. The way he moved, I figured ‘m for that or Velocitranian.”
“How much o’ a problem do ya think he can give Downshift?” Jazz asked.
“Enough,” Ori replied. He gestured to the oven. “Maybe we ought to bring a piece offerin’.”
“Ya wanna bring cookies to a Praxian assassin?” The saboteur asked.
“If his bitty’s in a CR chamber in enemy territory, he’s gonna be on edge,” Punch explained. “Somethin’ sweet might take the edge off.”
When they stepped into the medbay, Jazz had not expected to see Camshaft in the emergency bay. He was speaking with Ratchet, his arms crossed to his chassis. The medic held a coolant pack against the back of his helm. Downshift leaned against the wall, by the door, keeping out of the way of everyone but still keeping an optic on the situation. Ratchet waved off First Aid; his expression was grave. It was not good news for Barricade then. The Praxian operative did not fall to his knees or even flinch. Whatever he was feeling or thinking, he was keeping it inside. He turned his helm as Jazz approached. When he saw who was with Jazz, he cocked his helm to the side. Punch may not have gotten a good look at the Praxian, but Jazz thought the assassin had gotten a good look at Punch... or Counterpunch, or even both. He flicked a doorwing at them. From working with Smokescreen, Jazz knew that it was an invitation to approach. Though in Camshaft’s case, it was not a particularly polite one.
“Have you found the mnemosurgeon?” He asked.
“No,” Jazz said. “We’ll confirm but my best guess, is he’s in Con territory by now.”
“All the better,” Camshaft replied.
“Oh?” The saboteur asked.
“Autobots take prisoners,” the Praxian replied. “I do not.”
“Found needle scars?” Jazz asked Ratchet.
“Yes,” the medic replied. “The placement was designed to be inconspicuous. They matched Trepan’s prints.”
“What the frag does all o’ this slag have to do with the New Institute?” The Polyhexian asked.
“Gonna have to have a real good look at there work,” Punch declared.
“Can ya repair the damage?” Jazz asked. “Prowl won’t want his death on his conscience, knowin’ he’s innocent in this.”
“What I was explaining when you walked in...” Ratchet spotted the container in Punch’s servos. “Cinnabar?”
“That’s right,” the spy said. He opened the lid and offered it to Ratchet. He took a cookie. Punch offered it to Camshaft next. “Peace offerin’. From one ori to another.”
“Mm,” Camshaft hummed but he took a cookie. “Thank you.”
“I need a graft,” the Iaconian explained. “Wiring for the power cable needs to be a precise match to allow integration and proper power supply.”
“I’m not a match,” the Praxian said.
“Already checked?” Jazz asked.
“I make a point of knowing things,” Camshaft replied. “He inherited his progenitor’s wire type. And that particularly useless cogsucker is long dead.”
“That’s unfortunate...?” The saboteur asked.
“He tried to stab me in the back so I slit his throat,” the assassin explained. Punch nodded with approval.
“I was rebooting the database before I run another search for a potential match,” Ratchet explained. “Before First Aid made me sit.”
“You were light helmed,” his intern said.
“I was not,” the medic countered. “I said I was seeing double because I was seeing double. That’s why I rebooted the database. It was matching Barricade to himself.”
“Well let’s run it again,” First Aid replied. “It’s not matching Barricade’s to himself... it’s matching him to Prowl.”
“Prowl?” Jazz gasped. He looked to Camshaft and watched the mech shake his helm, but not in denial. The Praxian took a bite from the cookie he was holding. “Ya don’t look surprised.”
“Like I said,” Camshaft replied, “he was a particularly useless cogsucker.”
“What about me?” Smokescreen spoke up from the hallway. “Origin would do it for sure but Ratchet might not want to risk it since he’s still healing from the shorts.”
“A slightly less optimal match but within the desirable range,” the intern declared. “Hoist and Fix It are more than capable of performing the surgery while Ratchet sits this one out... Since he’s concussed.”
“I guess you’re mine now,” the Praxian declared.
“Sorry?” The young rookie asked.
“Your origin is my creation’s half-brother,” Camshaft explained. “Anything tied to him, however remote, is mine... affectionately.”
“You can’t be a worse grandcreator than Crosscut,” Smokescreen declared. The elder Praxian scoffed.
“Now that is a particularly low bar,” he declared.
