Anniversary Bingo Challenge 2014 (all 7)
Title: Troubleshooters
Prompts used: Silence, tremble, outcast, hide-and-seek, chances are slim, damages, music,
Author: Rose0mary
T-Universe: Generation 1? (prewar)
Rating: Teens
Warnings: implied torture, offscrean illegal activities, some violence,
Characters: Prowl, Jazz
Summary: Prowl is just one of many tasked with fighting the evil that exists even during the Golden Age. Jazz enjoys the challenge of ptting himself against the best.
A lone, black and white Praxian walked down the stairs into the dank rathskeller bar, loosely holding his doorwings to his side. “Manganese shot.” He said, placing an energon credit on the perforated tabletop.
“Praxian,” the bartender leaned forward on the steel-meshed countertop,. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.” He stared down the smaller mech.
Doorwing panels didn’t budge. “I would like a cube infused with manganese.” his optics roving the badly lit room, where dozens of down-on-their-luck workers drank the high-grade they couldn’t afford. In fits and spurts, a few of the drunken patrons hidden in shadows stood up and ambled towards the single entrance/exit.
It was the lack of conversations from those staying behind that warned the newcomer.
He spun, reinforced paneling on his arms catching the sharp blades before they could slice through the minimal armor protecting the energon lines. Hands raised, fists formed, and three mechs went down with rattled helms, one missing his lower mandibles, and three more slumped down to the floor, staring at the small fist-sized holes in their chassis.
The bartender looked at the disabled - but not deactivated - mechs. “Enforcer!” he hissed, trembling.
“A shot of Manganese.” The Praxian enforcer repeated, ignoring the damages he just inflicted on his attackers.
Earlier:
“Probie.”
Prowl turned around. “Yes, captain?”
Captain Heatstorm looked harried. From what Prowl had heard since being transferred to this city-station, Heatstorm always looked harried. “There’s been a rise in the number of non-native frame type mecha being found dumped outside Whitechord’s chop shot.”
Chop Shop.
Prowl couldn’t disguise his innate reaction. Captain Heatstorm either didn’t notice, or didn’t know what the trembling quivers in the tensed doorwing panels meant. “Why is a black-market parts dealer allowed to keep his business open?” Prowl asked.
“He helps keeps the empty population under control - and informs us whenever a killer moves into town.”
The shudders in Prowl’s doorwings slowly made their way through his entire frame.
“I need you and FlintSteel to find out where the non-natives are being abducted.” Heatstorm shoved the datapad - along with gruesome images of dismembered frames, and fluid-splattered carcasses - towards the black probie, and his assigned partner.
A pale-blue mech, a local who’d happily jabbered into Prowl’s audio during his initial tour after being transferred from Praxis, didn’t look happy about being singled out or pulled from his usual partner, Streatwise.
“Whitechord doesn’t know anything about the strangers being dumped on his doorstep - we need the deactivations stopped.” Heatstorm gave the newbie a piercing stare. “Dismissed.”
Prowl stepped outside the Enforcer precinct, doorwings still twitching. His partner, Flintsteel, walked alongside, jumping at every shadow, at every strange noise. “I don’t like it.” Flintsteel hissed, twisting two hundred seventy degrees around when a loud crash reached their audios.
“Or orders are to find out who is abducting - and subsequently deactivating - travelers.” Prowl spoke tonelessly. “Our likes and dislikes about the job are not-important.”
“Not that - Whitechord’s chop shop gives me the creeps.” He angled his head towards a small group of vagabonds huddled under the nearby acid-shelter. “The assassin pretending to be an empty.”
Looking in that direction would be a huge-tip off to any professional tracker - but Prowl was a Praxian: he used the sensors in his wing panels to pinpoint the mech Flintsteel had noticed as they left to go on this errand.
Studying the contrasts between the supposed-assassin and the empties looking mournfully at those walking by, hoping for a spare cube, Prowl came to a different conclusion. “He’s not an assassin.”
Flintsteel stopped, shocked, then hurried after the mech. “He’s gottabe one - the visor and non-reflective paint are a dead giveaway.”
“What sane assassin hangs around an Enforcer Precinct?” Prowl retorted, drily. “He’s a entertainer, trying to work his way up to a professional stage - he’s practicing his trade.”
“After he kills you, you won’t have an opportunity to admit you were wrong.” Flintsteel vented. “Only assassins willingly hang around empties.”
And now:
Prowl got his requested cube of energon. Stepping over the prone bodies, Prowl sat down next to the wall. He calmly sipped the cube, waiting for conversations to pick up again.
Slowly, the locals did resume their discussions. One or two made a move towards the unresponsive mechs sprawled out on the floor, looked back towards the unwelcome intruder sat, watching the proceedings, slid back into their chosen seats.
Doorwings dipped down. He’d hoped he could pick up gossip relating to the murders without needing to question Whitechord or the black-market’s mechs neighbors. Prowl gripped his cube tighter preparing to toss the last remenents down and moving on to Flintsteel’s suggestion, when he walked it.
Prowl’s optics focused on the just-arrived mech. He watched avidly as the local - not an entertainer as Prowl had presumed - grabbed a cube and sauntered over.
“You’re a hard mech to track down, my friend.” The grey mech stated, slipping into a nearby seat.
“Wasn’t aware anyone needed to find me.”
The newcomer grinned. “Need to tell someone what’s happening here.”
“Local gossip doesn’t interest me.”
“Not gossip - got info on the group botnapping strangers for their fuel.”
That got Prowl’s attention. “I believe the Enforcers have a hot-line for anonymous informers - why haven’t you contacted them?”
“With Heatstorm protecting Whitechord? Not a chance.” The mech lay back in his chair. “M’ just glad someone with clout has noticed the problem and brought in a real inspector.”
Prowl glared. “If I find you’ve been involved in providing subjects for the black-market, you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
“Pit, I got friends who lost family to the illegal market - ain’t helping those who deal out death and misery.”
“Then we are agreed:” Prowl stopped lounging. “What info do you have?”
The mech - Jazz, Prowl was to learn later - straightened up. “Everything.”
While Jazz talked - and Prowl realized, six breems into the impromptu interview, that the mech did indeed know quite a lot - Prowl’s processor whirled, coming up with plans those still imprisoned in ShockFleet’s prison cells, and dismissing the half-formed plans as more information was brought to his attention.
Jazz had a rough idea on the number of guards - twelve - a rough sketch of the underground passageways - the outskirts already scouted out - when (and where) Shockfleet was going to be dumping his current group (Kaon) and abduct fresh unwary mecha, and the association with Whitechord and other - unknown - chop shops operating in the area.
When Jazz stopped talking forty-two breems had passed. “What’s the plan, Prowler?”
Doors flicked at the sound of his mangled designation (he briefly wondered how Jazz had known it, then dismissed it as not-important), Prowl looked at the blue-visored mech. “You’re not going on the mission.”
“You need me.” Jazz insisted. “Too many enforcers are on the take - I can provide back-up for the raiders.”
“I will not involve civilians in an Enforcer action.”
“Hate to break it to ya, Prowler, but I ain’t strictly a civilian.”
“Regardless, the chances of retrieving everyone - and not needing a medic at the end of this operation - are slim. I cannot, will not bring outsiders to harm.” Prowl’s door panels straightened and flared out.
“Then it’s a good thing I got the Prime’s authority to deal with ShockFleet and all associates.”
Prowl’s vents stopped momentarily. “Xeno Prime is aware of the particulars in this case?”
“Yep.” Jazz lowered his voice. “One of his staff was last seen in the area - he’s sparing no expense to wipe out this black-market nest.”
“Then, the odds of success just improved significantly. Call your team.” Prowl stood up.
Later:
Prowl stood guard over the shackled ShockFleet as the enforcers, reinforced by Jazz’s team, shut down the Black-Market shop, retrieving the still-living victims. Flintsteel, Zipline, Windsurf, Reflex, and dozens of others swarmed Whitechord’s chop shop once Flintsteel received the welcome news that Shockfleet had been arrested.
The limping store-owenr was lead out, Whitechord protesting the manacles, even as Windsurf found damning evidence that the shop owner removed still-beating pumps from those under his hacksaw servos.
Follwing the trail of dripping energon, Flintsteal was the unfortunate one who found Xeno’s missing staff member.
“You won’t get my parts!” Screaming, a young red-and-white mech jumped out of hiding, holding a sharpened skewer to Flintsteel’s neck. While Zipline and Redflex raised their stun guns to track the mech holding Flintsteel hostage, the crazed mech kept moving towards the back-exit. “You can’t keep me here!”
“RED!”
Flintsteel winched as the skewer pressed deeper into his throat.
“Red!” Jazz shoved his way between the two enforcers. “He’s after Whitechord, red, not you.”
“Jazz?” The two-toned mech wimpered.
Jazz nodded.
Red released his prisoner. “You came back?” Flintsteel scrambled for safety, away from the processor-damaged mech.
“Red, I promised to never leave a friend behind - ‘m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”
Red sunk to his knees. “My brother?”
Jazz knelt next to Whitechord’s last prisoner. “Inferno got away safe - he’s the one who contacted me. You’re safe now, Red Alert”
“Never be safe again,” Red Alert muttered, leaning into the embrace Jazz was offering.
After the two raiding parties regrouped:
As they approached the Enforcer Station, loud tunes began playing. Prowl frowned. He thought the lyrics obnoxious and in bad taste. He looked to his right when something on that side moved unexpectedly.
The movement was caused by Jazz - and he was moving to the beat. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing - don’t you dance?”
“Not until after the job is done.”
“We’re almost finished - that’s cause enough to celebrate.” Jazz resumed a more sedate saunter as Prowl and the others led their prisoners to the holding cells.
“Prowl! Have you arrested Whitechord? Release him at once!” Heatstorm did not appear pleased. “And who are the others staggering through my station?” He glared at the nondescript grey mech standing at Prowl’s side
“I have evidence that Whitechord is in league with ShockFleet; together they were abducting and torturing younglings, and selling their parts on the black-market.” Prowl tossed four datapads with said evidence on the captain’s desk. “You’ll find everything is in order.”
Heatstorm didn’t touch the evidence. “Regulations state all search warrents, all arrests, - especially raids - need to go through the chief enforcer - Why was I not informed of this beforehand?”
“Cause you’re under arrest too.” Jazz picked up the bottom datapad. “This one details how you helped Whitechord set up his operations - and contains copies of correspondence linking you to ShockFleet’s botnapping activities.”
“That evidence was obtained illegally.” Heatstorm stated flatly. “No judge would authorize someone searching an Enforcer captain’s personal stuff.”
“Didn’t need to sweet-talk a judge.” Jazz shrugged nonchalantly. “Got Xeno to authorize the search.”
Heatstorm opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. Opened it again. “Why would Prime care what happens to the lower casts in the smaller districts?”
“Cause he believes all mechs are precious. That each life is a gift from Primus.”
“Fine - do what you came to do.” Heatstorm let himself be handcuffed. “But don’t you forget, outcast, you’ve stepped on too many peds, this time.”
Prowl stepped aside as the large teal mech called Grumbler escorted the Enforcer Captain to the cells.
“Okay, now the job’s done.” Jazz announced, turning his music off. “Thanks for the assist, Prowl.”
The Praxian shook his head. “Next time, just call before turning my world upside down.”
“No promises, Prowl - I’m a prime troubleshooter.” Jazz turned his music back on and danced as he left for his next assignment.
Prompts used: Silence, tremble, outcast, hide-and-seek, chances are slim, damages, music,
Author: Rose0mary
T-Universe: Generation 1? (prewar)
Rating: Teens
Warnings: implied torture, offscrean illegal activities, some violence,
Characters: Prowl, Jazz
Summary: Prowl is just one of many tasked with fighting the evil that exists even during the Golden Age. Jazz enjoys the challenge of ptting himself against the best.
A lone, black and white Praxian walked down the stairs into the dank rathskeller bar, loosely holding his doorwings to his side. “Manganese shot.” He said, placing an energon credit on the perforated tabletop.
“Praxian,” the bartender leaned forward on the steel-meshed countertop,. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.” He stared down the smaller mech.
Doorwing panels didn’t budge. “I would like a cube infused with manganese.” his optics roving the badly lit room, where dozens of down-on-their-luck workers drank the high-grade they couldn’t afford. In fits and spurts, a few of the drunken patrons hidden in shadows stood up and ambled towards the single entrance/exit.
It was the lack of conversations from those staying behind that warned the newcomer.
He spun, reinforced paneling on his arms catching the sharp blades before they could slice through the minimal armor protecting the energon lines. Hands raised, fists formed, and three mechs went down with rattled helms, one missing his lower mandibles, and three more slumped down to the floor, staring at the small fist-sized holes in their chassis.
The bartender looked at the disabled - but not deactivated - mechs. “Enforcer!” he hissed, trembling.
“A shot of Manganese.” The Praxian enforcer repeated, ignoring the damages he just inflicted on his attackers.
Earlier:
“Probie.”
Prowl turned around. “Yes, captain?”
Captain Heatstorm looked harried. From what Prowl had heard since being transferred to this city-station, Heatstorm always looked harried. “There’s been a rise in the number of non-native frame type mecha being found dumped outside Whitechord’s chop shot.”
Chop Shop.
Prowl couldn’t disguise his innate reaction. Captain Heatstorm either didn’t notice, or didn’t know what the trembling quivers in the tensed doorwing panels meant. “Why is a black-market parts dealer allowed to keep his business open?” Prowl asked.
“He helps keeps the empty population under control - and informs us whenever a killer moves into town.”
The shudders in Prowl’s doorwings slowly made their way through his entire frame.
“I need you and FlintSteel to find out where the non-natives are being abducted.” Heatstorm shoved the datapad - along with gruesome images of dismembered frames, and fluid-splattered carcasses - towards the black probie, and his assigned partner.
A pale-blue mech, a local who’d happily jabbered into Prowl’s audio during his initial tour after being transferred from Praxis, didn’t look happy about being singled out or pulled from his usual partner, Streatwise.
“Whitechord doesn’t know anything about the strangers being dumped on his doorstep - we need the deactivations stopped.” Heatstorm gave the newbie a piercing stare. “Dismissed.”
Prowl stepped outside the Enforcer precinct, doorwings still twitching. His partner, Flintsteel, walked alongside, jumping at every shadow, at every strange noise. “I don’t like it.” Flintsteel hissed, twisting two hundred seventy degrees around when a loud crash reached their audios.
“Or orders are to find out who is abducting - and subsequently deactivating - travelers.” Prowl spoke tonelessly. “Our likes and dislikes about the job are not-important.”
“Not that - Whitechord’s chop shop gives me the creeps.” He angled his head towards a small group of vagabonds huddled under the nearby acid-shelter. “The assassin pretending to be an empty.”
Looking in that direction would be a huge-tip off to any professional tracker - but Prowl was a Praxian: he used the sensors in his wing panels to pinpoint the mech Flintsteel had noticed as they left to go on this errand.
Studying the contrasts between the supposed-assassin and the empties looking mournfully at those walking by, hoping for a spare cube, Prowl came to a different conclusion. “He’s not an assassin.”
Flintsteel stopped, shocked, then hurried after the mech. “He’s gottabe one - the visor and non-reflective paint are a dead giveaway.”
“What sane assassin hangs around an Enforcer Precinct?” Prowl retorted, drily. “He’s a entertainer, trying to work his way up to a professional stage - he’s practicing his trade.”
“After he kills you, you won’t have an opportunity to admit you were wrong.” Flintsteel vented. “Only assassins willingly hang around empties.”
And now:
Prowl got his requested cube of energon. Stepping over the prone bodies, Prowl sat down next to the wall. He calmly sipped the cube, waiting for conversations to pick up again.
Slowly, the locals did resume their discussions. One or two made a move towards the unresponsive mechs sprawled out on the floor, looked back towards the unwelcome intruder sat, watching the proceedings, slid back into their chosen seats.
Doorwings dipped down. He’d hoped he could pick up gossip relating to the murders without needing to question Whitechord or the black-market’s mechs neighbors. Prowl gripped his cube tighter preparing to toss the last remenents down and moving on to Flintsteel’s suggestion, when he walked it.
Prowl’s optics focused on the just-arrived mech. He watched avidly as the local - not an entertainer as Prowl had presumed - grabbed a cube and sauntered over.
“You’re a hard mech to track down, my friend.” The grey mech stated, slipping into a nearby seat.
“Wasn’t aware anyone needed to find me.”
The newcomer grinned. “Need to tell someone what’s happening here.”
“Local gossip doesn’t interest me.”
“Not gossip - got info on the group botnapping strangers for their fuel.”
That got Prowl’s attention. “I believe the Enforcers have a hot-line for anonymous informers - why haven’t you contacted them?”
“With Heatstorm protecting Whitechord? Not a chance.” The mech lay back in his chair. “M’ just glad someone with clout has noticed the problem and brought in a real inspector.”
Prowl glared. “If I find you’ve been involved in providing subjects for the black-market, you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
“Pit, I got friends who lost family to the illegal market - ain’t helping those who deal out death and misery.”
“Then we are agreed:” Prowl stopped lounging. “What info do you have?”
The mech - Jazz, Prowl was to learn later - straightened up. “Everything.”
While Jazz talked - and Prowl realized, six breems into the impromptu interview, that the mech did indeed know quite a lot - Prowl’s processor whirled, coming up with plans those still imprisoned in ShockFleet’s prison cells, and dismissing the half-formed plans as more information was brought to his attention.
Jazz had a rough idea on the number of guards - twelve - a rough sketch of the underground passageways - the outskirts already scouted out - when (and where) Shockfleet was going to be dumping his current group (Kaon) and abduct fresh unwary mecha, and the association with Whitechord and other - unknown - chop shops operating in the area.
When Jazz stopped talking forty-two breems had passed. “What’s the plan, Prowler?”
Doors flicked at the sound of his mangled designation (he briefly wondered how Jazz had known it, then dismissed it as not-important), Prowl looked at the blue-visored mech. “You’re not going on the mission.”
“You need me.” Jazz insisted. “Too many enforcers are on the take - I can provide back-up for the raiders.”
“I will not involve civilians in an Enforcer action.”
“Hate to break it to ya, Prowler, but I ain’t strictly a civilian.”
“Regardless, the chances of retrieving everyone - and not needing a medic at the end of this operation - are slim. I cannot, will not bring outsiders to harm.” Prowl’s door panels straightened and flared out.
“Then it’s a good thing I got the Prime’s authority to deal with ShockFleet and all associates.”
Prowl’s vents stopped momentarily. “Xeno Prime is aware of the particulars in this case?”
“Yep.” Jazz lowered his voice. “One of his staff was last seen in the area - he’s sparing no expense to wipe out this black-market nest.”
“Then, the odds of success just improved significantly. Call your team.” Prowl stood up.
Later:
Prowl stood guard over the shackled ShockFleet as the enforcers, reinforced by Jazz’s team, shut down the Black-Market shop, retrieving the still-living victims. Flintsteel, Zipline, Windsurf, Reflex, and dozens of others swarmed Whitechord’s chop shop once Flintsteel received the welcome news that Shockfleet had been arrested.
The limping store-owenr was lead out, Whitechord protesting the manacles, even as Windsurf found damning evidence that the shop owner removed still-beating pumps from those under his hacksaw servos.
Follwing the trail of dripping energon, Flintsteal was the unfortunate one who found Xeno’s missing staff member.
“You won’t get my parts!” Screaming, a young red-and-white mech jumped out of hiding, holding a sharpened skewer to Flintsteel’s neck. While Zipline and Redflex raised their stun guns to track the mech holding Flintsteel hostage, the crazed mech kept moving towards the back-exit. “You can’t keep me here!”
“RED!”
Flintsteel winched as the skewer pressed deeper into his throat.
“Red!” Jazz shoved his way between the two enforcers. “He’s after Whitechord, red, not you.”
“Jazz?” The two-toned mech wimpered.
Jazz nodded.
Red released his prisoner. “You came back?” Flintsteel scrambled for safety, away from the processor-damaged mech.
“Red, I promised to never leave a friend behind - ‘m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”
Red sunk to his knees. “My brother?”
Jazz knelt next to Whitechord’s last prisoner. “Inferno got away safe - he’s the one who contacted me. You’re safe now, Red Alert”
“Never be safe again,” Red Alert muttered, leaning into the embrace Jazz was offering.
After the two raiding parties regrouped:
As they approached the Enforcer Station, loud tunes began playing. Prowl frowned. He thought the lyrics obnoxious and in bad taste. He looked to his right when something on that side moved unexpectedly.
The movement was caused by Jazz - and he was moving to the beat. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing - don’t you dance?”
“Not until after the job is done.”
“We’re almost finished - that’s cause enough to celebrate.” Jazz resumed a more sedate saunter as Prowl and the others led their prisoners to the holding cells.
“Prowl! Have you arrested Whitechord? Release him at once!” Heatstorm did not appear pleased. “And who are the others staggering through my station?” He glared at the nondescript grey mech standing at Prowl’s side
“I have evidence that Whitechord is in league with ShockFleet; together they were abducting and torturing younglings, and selling their parts on the black-market.” Prowl tossed four datapads with said evidence on the captain’s desk. “You’ll find everything is in order.”
Heatstorm didn’t touch the evidence. “Regulations state all search warrents, all arrests, - especially raids - need to go through the chief enforcer - Why was I not informed of this beforehand?”
“Cause you’re under arrest too.” Jazz picked up the bottom datapad. “This one details how you helped Whitechord set up his operations - and contains copies of correspondence linking you to ShockFleet’s botnapping activities.”
“That evidence was obtained illegally.” Heatstorm stated flatly. “No judge would authorize someone searching an Enforcer captain’s personal stuff.”
“Didn’t need to sweet-talk a judge.” Jazz shrugged nonchalantly. “Got Xeno to authorize the search.”
Heatstorm opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. Opened it again. “Why would Prime care what happens to the lower casts in the smaller districts?”
“Cause he believes all mechs are precious. That each life is a gift from Primus.”
“Fine - do what you came to do.” Heatstorm let himself be handcuffed. “But don’t you forget, outcast, you’ve stepped on too many peds, this time.”
Prowl stepped aside as the large teal mech called Grumbler escorted the Enforcer Captain to the cells.
“Okay, now the job’s done.” Jazz announced, turning his music off. “Thanks for the assist, Prowl.”
The Praxian shook his head. “Next time, just call before turning my world upside down.”
“No promises, Prowl - I’m a prime troubleshooter.” Jazz turned his music back on and danced as he left for his next assignment.