Orns of a Tactician 3
Jan. 15th, 2012 07:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silberstreifIt has been awhile, but I didn't forget this Journal. ^-^ I have just created a new master list, because I want to upload here a few more things.
But onto Chapter 3 - Demotion
Beta: Starfire201 & taralynden
Summary: His student in trouble, Prowl bargains for help.
To his right lay datapads neatly stacked; to his left was a data storage device, salvaged out of the deactivated body of an agent less than an orn ago. Mechs on both sides of the war had given their spark for it, just so it found its way on his desk.
And even though he knew that, Prowl could only look at the empty chair in front of his desk, which had been filled by Jazz until a few klicks ago.
The first of their meetings was awkward at best, a disaster at worst. In the three meetings afterwards a routine of a sort set in, that was shaped by icy politeness. Even Prowl didn't need to convert hundreds of facts into a statistic, in order to know that their cooperation was a farce. Their departments didn't get in each other's way; the agents received their tactical plans, yes, but that was only the absolute minimum. There was no exchange of ideas, no comparison of conjectures and opinions. Even when Prowl raised things Jazz had criticised without hesitation in the past, the saboteur kept quiet.
After four meetings Prowl could openly admit it to himself, that he missed the Jazz from before. The Jazz, who sometimes brought energon cubes to their conversations, who talked about funny situations, who treated him like any other mech.
Did their disagreement really change this much for Jazz? Prowl didn't understand it, even though he comprehended his moral critique in all its facets.
He tried to be friendly, putting a chair into his office and attempting to engage in small talk. His attempts failed. He couldn't manage to speak about any other topic besides work. He had no friends, didn't know anything about the newest rumours and was clueless about another of Jazz' interests, music.
At the third meeting he finally asked about the other agents. Partly, because he was really concerned about them and their mission to constitute information for him. Partly, because he wanted to show that every Autobot was important to him.
Jazz' answer was short:
"They do their work. We have no losses yet. Do you need specific information?"
No, thank you, he didn't.
At today's meeting he wanted to talk openly to Jazz. It failed the moment as the saboteur stormed into the office and presented the data storage together with the message that more operatives had died. This time not through Prowl's decision, but for the sake of information he had demanded.
Rarely had the tactician felt as helpless as the moment he saw the saboteur's withdrawn face. Again agents had died; again Prowl had been the trigger. Again had Jazz sacrificed his mechs on account of Prowl's tactical arguments.
All he could do was to accept the device with a quiet, sparkfelt "thank you". Jazz then turned and left the tactical office as if on the run.
All that remained was only the tiny data storage device, stolen out of the deepest areas of the Decepticons. It was round and grey, essentially utterly unremarkable. With trepidation he took it in hand, turned it, once, twice.
Were these data really worth the lost soldiers?
He connected the memory device with his tactical office computer. In front of him holograms of dataunits started to hover in the air, glyphs and graphics, maps and long text files traversed through the room. An organized analysis would take orns, maybe longer. Time, he didn't have.
But the work would distract him at least.
With growing dread, he realized that he was reading the confirmation of his worst fears. Hundreds of Decepticon soldiers were marching, nearly every seeker and triple changer was put into standby position, or had already been relocated to garrisons near Typhern. Far worse though were the hints of Shockwave's new weapon; its testing phase was near completion and the absolute certainty of victory could be read between the lines of the messages of high-ranking Decepticons.
His first projections portrayed the grim picture of a major offensive with no holds barred. The battle would outclass everything of the last few vorns. They would have to act quickly and massively, if they wanted to keep Typhern.
Swiftly he sent an encrypted message with the highest priority to every officer in Iacon and to Prime: Meeting, Urgency level One, at the end of this orn, compulsory attendance.
With this done, he turned to figures of their own troops and began to calculate requirements of the force the Autobots would need. The list was long, hundreds of names and lives he would send into battle.
Only a few breems into this work the internal comm signalled a message. "Red Alert to Senior Battle Tactician Prowl."
Distracted, he stopped his calculations. Red Alert never disturbed him for nothing. "Prowl here. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. But I for you. Smokescreen is playing Black Jack in the rec room as we speak."
For a moment Prowl had the irrational desire to disconnect from the internal communication system, to leave his office and to take all vacation that had accumulated over long vorns of war. Obviously nothing could go right this orn.
"Thank you. I will take care of it."
"Good." Without a further word Red Alert terminated the connection
Why couldn't Smokescreen just abandon his gambling? Prowl had prohibited it, had disciplined him and yet... A gambling addicted Junior Tactician was worthless. According to Autobot civil rights he should demote Smokescreen on suspicion alone. But they already had so few tacticians that every loss would tear a hole, that couldn't be filled any more. That was the only reason why he had been able to defend his student until now, but the excuses had had worn out. Red Alert's evidence on tape was enough for the sergeants, who thought the root of all evil in the Autobot army was to be found in the tactical offices, to force a demotion. And with his new data he knew where a freshly demoted tactician would be sent: Typhern.
Someone who played with lives wouldn't find mercy even in Optimus Prime's optics. But Prowl believed in Smokescreen, in his potential and that he would never risk other Autobots for a gamble. He had to do something.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Only a few metres away, around a corner, was the busy Corridor Twelve, one of three main arterial roads of Iacon. It connected apartment blocks Eight to Eleven with headquarters, the hospital and the workshop area with which many unofficial shops were affiliated.
Prowl seldom if ever left headquarters. It offered the Autobot High command everything it could need and was designed as an independent system, in order to serve as a last option of retreat. A possibility for which Prowl worked tirelessly to avoid. A welcomed side effect was that bots like Prowl, who were high-risk targets, received the best security possible.
Still, only half an orn after the emergency meeting with Prime and the other officers he stood here. At the edge of Iacon, in a narrow, twisting back alley of Corridor Twelve, that ended in front of a grey, blank door.
The tactician was all too aware, that this door was one of the few to be able to keep up with the security systems of his own office. He didn't doubt for an astrosecond, that he had been noticed a long time ago and was monitored since then. Perhaps even from the moment he had left headquarters on. He knocked.
Soundlessly the door glided open and he entered. Behind him the door closed instantly. The room reminded him vaguely of the rec room in headquarters. Several seating accommodations were spread seemingly haphazardly; however if analysed they formed cosy corners to talk and worked just as effectively as superb shields against enemy attacks. Doors led away, deeper into the secret department. At the moment the room was empty, except for one single person, who lay completely relaxed across an armchair.
"A rare guest," greeted the mech coolly.
That was true. Prowl was one of the few outsiders, who knew about the existence of this hideout, but he hadn't been here before. Normally only two kinds of mechs entered these facilities: Members of Special Operations and Decepticons, who were never seen again.
"Thank you, for letting me in, Jazz." It was an act of faith, a first step to his goal. This was Jazz's territory, just as the tactical offices were Prowl's.
The saboteur made a casual hand movement, as if to dismiss the issue. "Had to. If you dare to leave HQ, than it must be important."
His intonation left no doubt, that it better was important. Prowl hesitated. He could still go with his pride intact. For a moment his doorwings fluttered, then he pulled himself together.
"The importance is debatable," he confessed. Better be truthful, direct, than to enter mental games. "May I sit down next to you? I've brought energon cubes."
Jazz froze for a moment, then nodded. "Sure, it's all free."
Free, because the room had probably been cleared only klicks before he knocked.
He took the armchair at the right of the saboteur. When he took the cubes out, Jazz watched every single movement. Suddenly Prowl asked himself, if Jazz trusted him enough to drink unsampled energon that Prowl had provided.
"It's normal Energon, nothing special. I didn't know what you like."
"Normal is good." But Jazz didn't move to take his cube from the table. "So, what's so bad, that you don't even want to talk about in front of the others at the meeting?"
Prowl wished himself back into his own office. But he had to do this, for Smokescreen's sake. "I need a personal favour from you."
"From me?" The surprise was evident.
"Yes."
Jazz scrutinized him silently for a klick and moved smoothly into a normal posture on the armchair. "That's a first," he said dryly. "I hope you know me better than to ask for something illegal."
Prowl gave him an angry look. "I want a favour, not a contract kill."
"Just saying." Jazz leaned back. "What else could our chief tactician need so desperately, that he wants a favour from me?"
"Do you know my student, Smokescreen?"
"Praxian, intelligent, best friend of Tracks, a few disciplinary issues, good gambler?"
"Yes. The last point is a problem." Prowl grasped one energon cube and clutched it with both hands. It was bitter to talk about his own failure. "I tried to discourage him from gambling, unsuccessfully. Today he played Black Jack in the rec room and I can't ignore it any longer. There is too much evidence, too high a risk for addiction. If I can't find a solution fast, I have to suspend him from all his duties and demote him."
Jazz' visor got darker. "That would be his death sentence."
Prowl nodded sorrowfully. Praxians were envied for their doorwings, as much they were a disadvantage on the battlefield. They were excellent targets for all firearms and a few hits at them could put a Praxian into stasis, or even deactivate him through high energon loss. If he demoted Smokescreen in the next orns, he would send a relatively battle inexperienced Praxian directly to the front lines of Typhern.
"A death sentence in all but the name."
"And how exactly can I of all people help you?"
"Smokescreen is unfit to work further as a regular tactician." It hurt to say this about his own student. "But his file says he was considered for Spec Ops, before he became a tactician."
"You want to make him into a spy?", asked Jazz with incredulity.
"No." Smokescreen knew too many secrets to ever be spy. "I want to reassign him as the personal tactician of Spec Ops. He has the needed abilities as a tactician, further, his sociable behaviour, his inclination to take risks and his basic psychological knowledge fit with your department."
Even now Smokescreen took over half of the tactical planning for secret missions upon himself, though Prowl counter-checked every single draft. Beneath Jazz' leadership more eyes would watch his private episodes and would intervene if necessary. But above all Smokescreen's main reason for his gambling was the desire to prove his worth, just because he wasn't as good as Prowl or even the more inexperienced Trailbreaker in many areas.
Those were the positive consequences which induced him to take this drastic step. He could however see from the tense face of Jazz, that he thought about the other side of this deal, too:
"That's all good and fine, but you would lose your student." The spy leant forward, supported himself with one hand on the table, until he was face to face with Prowl. He only withstood with difficulty the desire to back away. "More still, Smokescreen would be within my authority and you wouldn't see a single Spec Ops mission from this moment on. You wouldn't know what I do, you couldn't control us..."
They wouldn't work together on small missions any more. With the loss of power and control came the unspoken risk, that there wouldn't be a single mech outside of Spec Ops to ensure that they kept the moral obligations of being Autobots. Of course, this was only the theory.
"Please, I know that I never saw anything you didn't want me to see."
A fleeting, bitter grin, then Jazz moved away from him. Prowl had the remote feeling that he had won something, but couldn't say what.
"And you would owe me a favour," added the saboteur as if Prowl had never said anything.
"Yes."
Jazz looked as if he had turned into a helicopter. "Smokescreen really means something to you."
"Of course. He is my student." And Prowl took care of his students.
Jazz shook his head, seemingly amused, although his words were far away from such an emotion: "You surprise me. Obviously you think sometimes beyond your loved statistics."
A banter to entice an emotional reaction out of Prowl and it didn't fail to have its desired effect. Too fresh was the vocalised insult a few orns ago. The doorwings raised aggressively, he answered sharply:
"I am not a sparkless drone, Jazz, whatever else you like to believe."
For the first time in their conversation Jazz broke optic contact. "I never believed that." Not an apology, but a step into a new direction. "If it had been Smokescreen instead of one of my agents, would the decision have stayed the same?"
"Yes. Personal emotions are never a factor in my tactical decisions." But afterwards he would probably have visited the party and would have gotten drunk until he reached oblivion, despite the looks, a missing invitation and all the rumours such an action would create.
It was quiet for a moment, then, slowly, Jazz smiled. "Send Smokescreen to me later. If his addiction to gambling isn't treatable, I'll find something else for him to do."
Relief flooded Prowl. He did it. Smokescreen was safe. "Thank you."
The agent stood, and shrugged indifferently. "A favour is a favour."
Of course. And in his business favours were the only currency that counted. A favour from the Senior Battle Tactician himself was probably too good to even think about a refusal. And that had been exactly the reason why Prowl had offered it. It was a single favour, but they both knew that this favour would save or destroy lives some orn in the future. He could only hope that Jazz would use it wisely.
Prowl bid him goodbye and was driving on Corridor Twelve klicks later. On the now empty table stood two energoncubes still untouched.
But onto Chapter 3 - Demotion
Beta: Starfire201 & taralynden
Summary: His student in trouble, Prowl bargains for help.
3. Demotion
To his right lay datapads neatly stacked; to his left was a data storage device, salvaged out of the deactivated body of an agent less than an orn ago. Mechs on both sides of the war had given their spark for it, just so it found its way on his desk.
And even though he knew that, Prowl could only look at the empty chair in front of his desk, which had been filled by Jazz until a few klicks ago.
The first of their meetings was awkward at best, a disaster at worst. In the three meetings afterwards a routine of a sort set in, that was shaped by icy politeness. Even Prowl didn't need to convert hundreds of facts into a statistic, in order to know that their cooperation was a farce. Their departments didn't get in each other's way; the agents received their tactical plans, yes, but that was only the absolute minimum. There was no exchange of ideas, no comparison of conjectures and opinions. Even when Prowl raised things Jazz had criticised without hesitation in the past, the saboteur kept quiet.
After four meetings Prowl could openly admit it to himself, that he missed the Jazz from before. The Jazz, who sometimes brought energon cubes to their conversations, who talked about funny situations, who treated him like any other mech.
Did their disagreement really change this much for Jazz? Prowl didn't understand it, even though he comprehended his moral critique in all its facets.
He tried to be friendly, putting a chair into his office and attempting to engage in small talk. His attempts failed. He couldn't manage to speak about any other topic besides work. He had no friends, didn't know anything about the newest rumours and was clueless about another of Jazz' interests, music.
At the third meeting he finally asked about the other agents. Partly, because he was really concerned about them and their mission to constitute information for him. Partly, because he wanted to show that every Autobot was important to him.
Jazz' answer was short:
"They do their work. We have no losses yet. Do you need specific information?"
No, thank you, he didn't.
At today's meeting he wanted to talk openly to Jazz. It failed the moment as the saboteur stormed into the office and presented the data storage together with the message that more operatives had died. This time not through Prowl's decision, but for the sake of information he had demanded.
Rarely had the tactician felt as helpless as the moment he saw the saboteur's withdrawn face. Again agents had died; again Prowl had been the trigger. Again had Jazz sacrificed his mechs on account of Prowl's tactical arguments.
All he could do was to accept the device with a quiet, sparkfelt "thank you". Jazz then turned and left the tactical office as if on the run.
All that remained was only the tiny data storage device, stolen out of the deepest areas of the Decepticons. It was round and grey, essentially utterly unremarkable. With trepidation he took it in hand, turned it, once, twice.
Were these data really worth the lost soldiers?
He connected the memory device with his tactical office computer. In front of him holograms of dataunits started to hover in the air, glyphs and graphics, maps and long text files traversed through the room. An organized analysis would take orns, maybe longer. Time, he didn't have.
But the work would distract him at least.
With growing dread, he realized that he was reading the confirmation of his worst fears. Hundreds of Decepticon soldiers were marching, nearly every seeker and triple changer was put into standby position, or had already been relocated to garrisons near Typhern. Far worse though were the hints of Shockwave's new weapon; its testing phase was near completion and the absolute certainty of victory could be read between the lines of the messages of high-ranking Decepticons.
His first projections portrayed the grim picture of a major offensive with no holds barred. The battle would outclass everything of the last few vorns. They would have to act quickly and massively, if they wanted to keep Typhern.
Swiftly he sent an encrypted message with the highest priority to every officer in Iacon and to Prime: Meeting, Urgency level One, at the end of this orn, compulsory attendance.
With this done, he turned to figures of their own troops and began to calculate requirements of the force the Autobots would need. The list was long, hundreds of names and lives he would send into battle.
Only a few breems into this work the internal comm signalled a message. "Red Alert to Senior Battle Tactician Prowl."
Distracted, he stopped his calculations. Red Alert never disturbed him for nothing. "Prowl here. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. But I for you. Smokescreen is playing Black Jack in the rec room as we speak."
For a moment Prowl had the irrational desire to disconnect from the internal communication system, to leave his office and to take all vacation that had accumulated over long vorns of war. Obviously nothing could go right this orn.
"Thank you. I will take care of it."
"Good." Without a further word Red Alert terminated the connection
Why couldn't Smokescreen just abandon his gambling? Prowl had prohibited it, had disciplined him and yet... A gambling addicted Junior Tactician was worthless. According to Autobot civil rights he should demote Smokescreen on suspicion alone. But they already had so few tacticians that every loss would tear a hole, that couldn't be filled any more. That was the only reason why he had been able to defend his student until now, but the excuses had had worn out. Red Alert's evidence on tape was enough for the sergeants, who thought the root of all evil in the Autobot army was to be found in the tactical offices, to force a demotion. And with his new data he knew where a freshly demoted tactician would be sent: Typhern.
Someone who played with lives wouldn't find mercy even in Optimus Prime's optics. But Prowl believed in Smokescreen, in his potential and that he would never risk other Autobots for a gamble. He had to do something.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Only a few metres away, around a corner, was the busy Corridor Twelve, one of three main arterial roads of Iacon. It connected apartment blocks Eight to Eleven with headquarters, the hospital and the workshop area with which many unofficial shops were affiliated.
Prowl seldom if ever left headquarters. It offered the Autobot High command everything it could need and was designed as an independent system, in order to serve as a last option of retreat. A possibility for which Prowl worked tirelessly to avoid. A welcomed side effect was that bots like Prowl, who were high-risk targets, received the best security possible.
Still, only half an orn after the emergency meeting with Prime and the other officers he stood here. At the edge of Iacon, in a narrow, twisting back alley of Corridor Twelve, that ended in front of a grey, blank door.
The tactician was all too aware, that this door was one of the few to be able to keep up with the security systems of his own office. He didn't doubt for an astrosecond, that he had been noticed a long time ago and was monitored since then. Perhaps even from the moment he had left headquarters on. He knocked.
Soundlessly the door glided open and he entered. Behind him the door closed instantly. The room reminded him vaguely of the rec room in headquarters. Several seating accommodations were spread seemingly haphazardly; however if analysed they formed cosy corners to talk and worked just as effectively as superb shields against enemy attacks. Doors led away, deeper into the secret department. At the moment the room was empty, except for one single person, who lay completely relaxed across an armchair.
"A rare guest," greeted the mech coolly.
That was true. Prowl was one of the few outsiders, who knew about the existence of this hideout, but he hadn't been here before. Normally only two kinds of mechs entered these facilities: Members of Special Operations and Decepticons, who were never seen again.
"Thank you, for letting me in, Jazz." It was an act of faith, a first step to his goal. This was Jazz's territory, just as the tactical offices were Prowl's.
The saboteur made a casual hand movement, as if to dismiss the issue. "Had to. If you dare to leave HQ, than it must be important."
His intonation left no doubt, that it better was important. Prowl hesitated. He could still go with his pride intact. For a moment his doorwings fluttered, then he pulled himself together.
"The importance is debatable," he confessed. Better be truthful, direct, than to enter mental games. "May I sit down next to you? I've brought energon cubes."
Jazz froze for a moment, then nodded. "Sure, it's all free."
Free, because the room had probably been cleared only klicks before he knocked.
He took the armchair at the right of the saboteur. When he took the cubes out, Jazz watched every single movement. Suddenly Prowl asked himself, if Jazz trusted him enough to drink unsampled energon that Prowl had provided.
"It's normal Energon, nothing special. I didn't know what you like."
"Normal is good." But Jazz didn't move to take his cube from the table. "So, what's so bad, that you don't even want to talk about in front of the others at the meeting?"
Prowl wished himself back into his own office. But he had to do this, for Smokescreen's sake. "I need a personal favour from you."
"From me?" The surprise was evident.
"Yes."
Jazz scrutinized him silently for a klick and moved smoothly into a normal posture on the armchair. "That's a first," he said dryly. "I hope you know me better than to ask for something illegal."
Prowl gave him an angry look. "I want a favour, not a contract kill."
"Just saying." Jazz leaned back. "What else could our chief tactician need so desperately, that he wants a favour from me?"
"Do you know my student, Smokescreen?"
"Praxian, intelligent, best friend of Tracks, a few disciplinary issues, good gambler?"
"Yes. The last point is a problem." Prowl grasped one energon cube and clutched it with both hands. It was bitter to talk about his own failure. "I tried to discourage him from gambling, unsuccessfully. Today he played Black Jack in the rec room and I can't ignore it any longer. There is too much evidence, too high a risk for addiction. If I can't find a solution fast, I have to suspend him from all his duties and demote him."
Jazz' visor got darker. "That would be his death sentence."
Prowl nodded sorrowfully. Praxians were envied for their doorwings, as much they were a disadvantage on the battlefield. They were excellent targets for all firearms and a few hits at them could put a Praxian into stasis, or even deactivate him through high energon loss. If he demoted Smokescreen in the next orns, he would send a relatively battle inexperienced Praxian directly to the front lines of Typhern.
"A death sentence in all but the name."
"And how exactly can I of all people help you?"
"Smokescreen is unfit to work further as a regular tactician." It hurt to say this about his own student. "But his file says he was considered for Spec Ops, before he became a tactician."
"You want to make him into a spy?", asked Jazz with incredulity.
"No." Smokescreen knew too many secrets to ever be spy. "I want to reassign him as the personal tactician of Spec Ops. He has the needed abilities as a tactician, further, his sociable behaviour, his inclination to take risks and his basic psychological knowledge fit with your department."
Even now Smokescreen took over half of the tactical planning for secret missions upon himself, though Prowl counter-checked every single draft. Beneath Jazz' leadership more eyes would watch his private episodes and would intervene if necessary. But above all Smokescreen's main reason for his gambling was the desire to prove his worth, just because he wasn't as good as Prowl or even the more inexperienced Trailbreaker in many areas.
Those were the positive consequences which induced him to take this drastic step. He could however see from the tense face of Jazz, that he thought about the other side of this deal, too:
"That's all good and fine, but you would lose your student." The spy leant forward, supported himself with one hand on the table, until he was face to face with Prowl. He only withstood with difficulty the desire to back away. "More still, Smokescreen would be within my authority and you wouldn't see a single Spec Ops mission from this moment on. You wouldn't know what I do, you couldn't control us..."
They wouldn't work together on small missions any more. With the loss of power and control came the unspoken risk, that there wouldn't be a single mech outside of Spec Ops to ensure that they kept the moral obligations of being Autobots. Of course, this was only the theory.
"Please, I know that I never saw anything you didn't want me to see."
A fleeting, bitter grin, then Jazz moved away from him. Prowl had the remote feeling that he had won something, but couldn't say what.
"And you would owe me a favour," added the saboteur as if Prowl had never said anything.
"Yes."
Jazz looked as if he had turned into a helicopter. "Smokescreen really means something to you."
"Of course. He is my student." And Prowl took care of his students.
Jazz shook his head, seemingly amused, although his words were far away from such an emotion: "You surprise me. Obviously you think sometimes beyond your loved statistics."
A banter to entice an emotional reaction out of Prowl and it didn't fail to have its desired effect. Too fresh was the vocalised insult a few orns ago. The doorwings raised aggressively, he answered sharply:
"I am not a sparkless drone, Jazz, whatever else you like to believe."
For the first time in their conversation Jazz broke optic contact. "I never believed that." Not an apology, but a step into a new direction. "If it had been Smokescreen instead of one of my agents, would the decision have stayed the same?"
"Yes. Personal emotions are never a factor in my tactical decisions." But afterwards he would probably have visited the party and would have gotten drunk until he reached oblivion, despite the looks, a missing invitation and all the rumours such an action would create.
It was quiet for a moment, then, slowly, Jazz smiled. "Send Smokescreen to me later. If his addiction to gambling isn't treatable, I'll find something else for him to do."
Relief flooded Prowl. He did it. Smokescreen was safe. "Thank you."
The agent stood, and shrugged indifferently. "A favour is a favour."
Of course. And in his business favours were the only currency that counted. A favour from the Senior Battle Tactician himself was probably too good to even think about a refusal. And that had been exactly the reason why Prowl had offered it. It was a single favour, but they both knew that this favour would save or destroy lives some orn in the future. He could only hope that Jazz would use it wisely.
Prowl bid him goodbye and was driving on Corridor Twelve klicks later. On the now empty table stood two energoncubes still untouched.
