Prowl did not stir when Ratchet finished up taking his measurements. Even with the influence of sedatives, since the Praxian had been admitted, Jazz had never seen him recharge so deeply. Taking care of his injuries, Jazz laid him back in the medberth. It was possible that Prowl had been lying or omitting information when he had told the Autobot saboteur what had happened that dark-cycle, but Jazz did not believe he had. The entire time Prowl had been speaking, he had been hooked up to that spark monitor and it served as an excellent lie detection. Jazz did not know if he had ever met a mech so capable of maintaining a disaffected mask but a mask was exactly what it was. Talking about Chromedome made Prowlâs spark race. He did not want to be afraid, Jazz thought. He did not want to be affected by the mech and the memories and the lack of them but he was, of course he was.
There was no question it had been a great stress and strain to carry the secret of his assault for three long vorns and to question over and over the extent of the violations he may have suffered. Perhaps this deep recharge was cathartic. Perhaps, the revelation and the knowledge that he was both believed and would have justice sought for him, was allowing him to truly rest at last. Though Jazz did not know Chromedome terribly well, he had been in the mechâs company more often than he might have liked due to his friendship with Chromedomeâs procreator in law, Blaster. He had never met a mech quite as arrogant and with so little justification for it. Cockiness, so long as it was earned, was not offputting to Jazz.
Operatives were often the cocky type and he was cocky in his own right. But if an operative could not back up their ego with skill and action, they were brought down to reality either by their teammates or the enemies. No one liked being humiliating in front of their colleagues, but better a little humiliation than torture or death; humiliation could be learned from. Death was final. Chromedome liked to be the centre of attention. He needed to be seen as the smartest mechanism in the room. When he and Jazz had been introduced, Chromedome had immediately categorized Jazz as an illiterate fool due to his accent. It had been a distinct pleasure to put him in his place, every time the opportunity came up. Though Jazz had never liked the mech, he had never imagined him to be a rapist. It troubled him what might have gone on on the base, under his olfactory ridge. Chromedome would never use his needles against another mechanism again, Jazz would see to that if he had to snap them off himself.
âIâll just run these scans against the prints on file,â Ratchet declared as Jazz followed him out of the medroom. The medic entered the encryption in the panel on Prowlâs door before walking down the hall to his office. Prowl was definitely safe in Ratchetâs care, his patients, Bot or Con, were always fiercely guarded. Even Barricade was well secured in the CR chamber on the floor below them.
Punch, Jazzâs originator, was the reason Ratchet had the needle prints of every mnemosurgeon on staff on file. If it had been within Oriâs power to due so, mnemosurgery would have been banned in the Autobot states but due to the niche service this science provided, it had never been in the cards. Having been raised by his originator, Jazz shared Punchâs suspicion of mnemosurgery, As a part of autopsies, Jazz could see the potential, but when he had deployed mnemosurgeons to investigate the processors of dead mechanisms, nothing of value had ever been pulled from the greyed. He had no use for their needles to be deployed on the living and had barred it for his troops. It remained experimental and it was steeped in the most evil history of the Institute. Jazz knew those experiments failed, frequently. Mnemosurgeons had messed with Oriâs processor so much, seeking to cure the glitch medics had already deemed incurable, and through their experiments, Counterpunch had been created. Now Ori had to live with that alter personality, looming always in the back of his processor. He had made use of it, in part because deploying Counterpunch on purpose seemed to reduce his spontaeous appearances, it still haunted Punch who could do nothing to regulate his alterâs actions when Counterpunch was in control of his frame.
âItâll take a klik for the program to analyze the prints,â Ratchet said. âDid Prowl tell you anything else about about Chromedome?â
âSaid he actually got canned for needling a suspect without a warrant,â Jazz explained. âOnly got caught âcause the suspect remembered. Flatfoot didnât wanna lose his mnemosurgery unit so covered it up.â
âItâs going to be a huge scandal,â Ratchet replied. âEvery investigation he was tied to will be called up for review. If Flatfoot really did put a hit out on Prowl using enforcers, when that gets out, the media and the public are going to be up in arms.â
âAinât gonna have anything faith in the enforcers, thatâs for sure,â Jazz said. The workstation chimed and Ratchet downloaded a copy of the results to his tablet.
âItâs a perfect match,â Ratchet declared, an aura of heaviness hanging over him.
âDonât meet witâm alone,â Jazz warned him. âWhen ya call âm in to suspendâm, ya gotta have someone mean to make sure he donât try scrap... Probably Ironhide.â
âThereâs going to have to be an investigation,â Ratchet said. âThereâs going to be a fight over who has jurisdiction.â
âMaybe, maybe not,â Jazz replied. ââM gonna have have a chat wit Flatfoot. He just might sing all âbout Chromedomeâs scrap if he thinks itâll saveâm. It wonât. But he donât gotta know that.â
Jazz would not be giving Flatfoot any deals. In autopsy, a Decepticon brand had been uncovered on Nightstalkerâs frame, hidden by a piece of kibble. A search of Garboilâs habsuite had found a depleted communicube that had last connected with Kaon. This was not just a criminal matter, this was a matter of treason and Jazz had no doubt that Flatfoot was at minimum complicit due to his personal dealings with the two enforcers. Mirage and Hound had found no evidence in Barricadeâs habsuite of a link to the Decepticons but based on his work history, he might just have been smarter than Garboil or Nightstalker combined. He did have a history of insubordination and some excessive use of force complaints. It bore further reading and further digging. There was no mystery as to why Nightstalker and Garboil would agree to do a hit on Prowl for Flatfoot; the Praefectus had gotten away with raping multiple mechanism on his patrol and Garboil, Mirage had discovered, was being accused of blackmail and taking bribes, and they had gotten away with it as long as they had thanks to Flatfoot. Just what Flatfoot had on Barricade that had brought him into the Praefectusâ fold remained a mystery.
Flatfoot had been through a few rounds of questioning already. He had been complaining, Jazz knew, about being detained without charges. Unfortunately for him, he was being held under the anti-terrorism statutes and he could be held without charges for half a vorn without seeing a judge, not that Jazz intended for it to take that long. From what the interrogators had passed on, the Praefectus was already starting to crack. The comm between him and Barricade could not be explained away. He had tried, of course, but the call had gone through over a pair of disposable commlinks and had not been logged with the precinct at all. That was damning enough but even more damning was the fact he had forged all three would be hitmechsâ time cards, showing them as assigned to districts on the other side of the city from where the attack had been staged. These edits had been written after Prowl had written the schedule and had saved it on Jazzâs datastick. A search of his workstation had found Nightstalkerâs records had been edited after the fact over a number of dark-cycles. At least one lined up for the dark-cycle of the victimâs complaint. It was time for Jazz to blow up the other Polyhexianâs half-baked defences.
He gave the barest of nods to the Praefectusâ attorney. Jazz knew the rules, just as he knew when there were no rules. Flatfoot was arrogant, or he would not have been so willing to sit down with Jazz and Jazz was going to use that to his full advantage. Flatfoot was from Southern Polyhex while Jazz was from Northern Polyhex. Even prior to Straxusâ crackdown on the Northern tribes, there had been prejudice against the tribes from their more âcivilizedâ neighbours. Not every Southerner was prejudice but from Flatfootâs history, Jazz was willing to bet the Praefectus was and he was going to use that to his full advantage. Jazz plopped himself into the chair across the table from the pair and casually flicked the screen of the datapad in his servo.
âImma cut straight to dah point,â Jazz said, playing up his accent to itâs most âuncouthâ form. He watched Flatfoot bristle and new his estimate of the mech had been on point. âYa ân me both know yâre storyâs ainât just weak, itâs so dumb aft the lowest level drone wouldnât be dumb ânough to by it.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about,â Flatfoot growled and Jazz just smirked.
âHereâs the thing âbout workstations,â he explained. âThey track all dah scrap ya get up to. So I know ya gone back into the schedules ân âtweakedâ the schedules oâ a few choice enforcers. Nightstalker, though, yeah thatâs been yer pet project. Every time he raped someone on shift, ya went back ân switch crap up, played it like heâd be on a different beat. Too bad ya werenât smart to scrub the history.â
âCut the scrap, I got no time for it,â Jazz said. âYâre personal workstationâs rigged up special so only ya can work it. Yâre a lazy one. If yaâd been writinâ the schedules for every enforcer, no one woulda figured to sniff âbout it. But ya had Enforcer Prowl doinâ it for ya, ân that mech donât forget slag, ya outta known that. I got a copy oâ the schedule he wrote the dark-cycle oâ the attack ân I got a copy oâ the edit ya did after Enforcer Barricade commed ya on that disposable commlink. Itâs a bit sus. Then, so are yer financials.â
âHow dare you!â Flatfoot snapped.
âI know yer salary,â Jazz said. ââN I know yer expenses. I know one plus one equals two. Yer numbers donât match. Yer mechs been taken bribes from shady mecha, ân taken protection shanix too. Got a few complaints. They did all the dirty work but yer the one thatâs been makinâ bank ân livinâ it up good.â
âI have done no such thing,â Flatfoot argued but he was clearly shaken.
âYa know the surveillance grid covers every corner oâ Iacon, donât ya?â Jazz asked. âYa outta. Itâs Enforcing 101. Those ghost dataslugs ainât so untraceable. I got record oâ every deposit ân withdrawal. Ya did it as the same location every time. Bank oâ Iacon on Sixth.â
âSixteeth!â Flatfoot snapped and then paled. He knew exactly what he had done.
âIâd like a moment with my client,â the lawyer asked.
âThey blackmailed me!â Flatfoot exclaimed.
âThey got a bit oâ extra booze shanix but yâre the one livinâ like a prince in the Heights,â Jazz said. âWe both know ya was the processor behind the con. Garboil ân Nightstalker werenât smart ânough to come up wit it themselves... except... Nightstalker was smart ânough to sweeten his end oâ the deal. Ya buried every rape complaint âcause ya knew he would throw ya to the Sharkticons the nanoklik Internal Affairs broughtâm in for a chat. âN that wasnât it either. Ya kept âm on that one beat, when theyâre âsposed to cycle every quartex, cause he didnât wanna change huntinâ grounds. Ya didnât even change his duty-shift. Ya know what that makes ya? Accessory to rape, but not for the first time.â
âI donât know what youâre talking about!â Flatfoot cried.
âChromedome,â Jazz said. âOr he was called Tumbler back then. Ya knew ya had to cover it up or yer pet mnemosurgery unit would be dissolved.â
âI didnât know he attacked Prowl!â Flatfoot exclaimed.
âStop talking,â his lawyer hissed. Jazz cocked his helm and smiled again.
âI wasnât talkinâ bout Prowl,â Jazz replied. âI was talkinâ bout the suspects ân witnesses he was needlinâ without a warrant or consent. Put quite a dent to pay the last one off. Thatâs why ya putâm in the New Institute. It got rid oâ yer problem, ân bought his silence.â
âI...â Flatfoot stammered.
âMy client has nothing else to say,â the lawyer insisted.
âBut ya couldnât buy off Prowl,â Jazz said. âYa werenât even stupid ânough to try. But ya knew he wasnât happy wit the way ya handled Tumbler. He was gettinâ more comfortable in his position, in his place. He wasnât pretendinâ to respect ya even a lil anymore. So ya had to get rid oâm before he spoke up.â
âIt was the Cons!â Flatfoot exclaimed. âI had to. I had to do what they wanted. Nightstalker...â
âFor Primusâ sake shut up,â his lawyer groaned as he palmed his own face.
âOh, ya been talkinâ to the Cons?â Jazz purred and he smiled to the foolâs exasperated attorney. âThat makes things different. Ya see, the thing âbout collaborators? They ainât entitled to lawyers under the Traitorâs Act. Detention is the least oâ yer worries now, Mech. Treason? Yeah, we got spark containment for that if the Tribunalâs sweet on ya. Execution if they wanna make an example. âN a mech like ya? Oh âm thinkinâ theyâre gonna wanna rake ya straight through the Smelter.â
