Matched

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

19 Jan scenario interrogation
PG
IDW-G1
Sixshot, Jazz, Prowl
no warnings
for tf_speedwriting

 

Sixshot lay immobile, letting his sensor array feed him information. No sense onlining obvious systems until  he had gathered all he’d could like this.  Under him, so he was in gravity, and on his back, the cool metal of a berth, the berth’s superefficient heat sinks sapping the excess heat of his autorepair. His systems fed him all his limbs, all intact.  Damaged, but functional. That was no surprise. 

He could sense another mech, maybe two, in the room with him. Because it was a room, a small, self-contained space, reeking of recycled air, no breeze, no natural sound. 

Something sat heavily on his systems, a pressure against his shoulder, like a hard ball somehow jammed into the joint, and a tight cable around that. 

A jammer.  Really.  Interesting. 

A few other restraints pinned him down…for as long as they would hold.  Sixshot wouldn’t bet too much on them.

Right.  Lying here was getting him nowhere.  He let his optics online, slowly, slower than usual, letting whoever was witnessing think that the massive mech that was Sixshot took nearly an eternity to warm up to functional status. He listened. 

Steps approached, and he saw a dim line of blue light above him. Autobot. Of course.  Could be worse.  Jhiaxus again.  The Reapers.  They wouldn’t let go of him, this time.  But Autobots? He could handle Autobots.

“You’re awake.”

“Observant.”  His voice came out a bit crackly.

“Sixshot, right?”

“Maybe.” 

The blue line narrowed. “Don’t play games with me.”

“Same courtesy.”  Sixshot lacked the personnel protocols another mech might have. His job was to kill. Knowing who or what he killed was irrelevant at this point. There was a time when he’d cared. A time when it had mattered, or he’d thought it did.  Not anymore.  Now, he just killed because that was really all he could do. 

The mech stepped back, considering.  Sixshot could read the tight line of the mouthplates well enough.  “Jazz,” he said, finally.

Sixshot shrugged. “You guessed right earlier.”  He did a quick scan of the room from his position. “Allowed to sit up.” He tugged against the bindings, as though they could actually hold him.

Jazz turned to someone behind him, somehow out of range of Sixshot’s optics.  He nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped back as Sixshot moved to sit up.  Sixshot tested the bonds. Yes.  Already strained.  His overpowered servos would shred them.  When the moment was right. And right now…it was not.

Jazz circled around him as Sixshot carefully swung his legs over the side of  the berth.  He tried to move as though they hurt, but it was so long since Sixshot had felt much actual pain that he was improvising—badly—from memory.

“I wouldn’t try anything, if I were you,” Jazz said, quietly.

You’re not me, Sixshot thought, wryly.  He merely rested his red optics on the silver face, neutral. “Noted.”

Jazz seemed to ease a bit. “We have some routine questions for you,” he began.

And I have some routine answers for you, Sixshot thought, realizing that that was…borrowing Banzaitron in a way.  He said nothing. 

Jazz waited an extra beat, then, “Purpose of your mission.”

Sixshot smirked behind his damaged mask. “The usual.”

“A bit more specific.”

Sixshot tilted his head. “Destroy. Everything.” Specific enough?

A hesitation.  Yes, he thought, the usual questions aren’t really going to work here.  Who sent him? What were his orders?  If the Autobots didn’t already know that, well…they should just give up the war.

Jazz heaved, frustrated, skipping through the questions.  “Where did you resupply?”

“A base.”

“A bit more specific.” Impatient.

This again? “A Decepticon base.”  He waited. “With an armory.”  Who knew all this time verbally sparring (and losing) with Banzaitron did some good?

More frustration on the thinned mouth. “Location of this Decepticon base. With an armory.”  The blue visor flashed like a blade.

“Location of this Autobot base.”

Jazz leaned in. Seated, Sixshot was roughly at the Autobot’s optic level.  “I said,” he said, slowly, in that pitch of voice that told Sixshot he was being condescending and though Sixshot was very, very stupid. “this isn’t a game.”

“I heard you.”  Sixshot’s amusement faded into a hard glare, defiant.  What could the Autobots do to him, anyway? Kill him? Not likely.  If the Reapers couldn’t…?  He shrugged. “No real incentive to cooperate.”

“Incentive?” Jazz repeated. “Is that what you want?” His voice got dangerous, quiet.  Sixshot felt a flicker of something like interest in his cortex.

“Why not.”

The smaller mech moved, almost faster than Sixshot could track, and he felt a hot white pain slicing across his elbow joint.  “Avoidance of pain,” Jazz said, quietly. As if it were simple.

Sixshot gave a warning growl. “All you got.”

“Is it?” Jazz asked. Jazz moved deliberately to the side, rounding the berth’s edge, moving out of Sixshot’s periphery.  He knew just where the vertical stabilizers over Sixshot’s shoulders impeded his vision, as well, and stopped there, a voice seeming to come around a flat panel of white armor.  “Do you know how many mechs you’ve even killed, Sixshot?”

Sixshot shrugged. “Rough stats.”  He had the files…somewhere.  Banzaitron always handed him the stats after a mission, as though he had some use for it, like a scrapbook or something.

The Autobot moved again, behind Sixshot.  “Do you have any idea what kind of filthy slag you are?”

Some idea.  It didn’t matter.  “Not really something I track.” 

A bang behind him, Jazz trying to startle him by slamming against the berth.  Huh. Autobots had never been briefed by Banzaitron.  The mech who thought throwing a blade at you was a legitimate way of seeing if you were paying attention. 

He should…probably have warned Sinnertwin about that, last time.

Sixshot didn’t flinch. 

“You’ve killed a bunch of friends of mine.” 

Sixshot allowed himself a turn of the head, just barely catching the Autobot’s form in his periphery.  “Any ‘con could say the same of any ‘bot.” 

Jazz swung around back to face him.  “And what?  You’re just…better at it than anyone else?”

“More efficient.”  ‘Better’ implied a moral judgment and…Sixshot’s mind hadn’t worked that way before the Dead Universe. 

“Jazz.”  A quiet voice, from the far side of the room, another glint of blue, two glints, as the owner stepped forward. “Let me handle this one.”

“Prowl,” Jazz said, optics locked on SIxshot’s, his hands balled dangerously, “I got this.”

“No. He has you.”  The other Autobot approached, his face as blank and neutral as Sixshot’s own, only without a mask to do the job for it.  Prowl approached, his optics studying Sixshot’s face intently, as though he could read everything from the set of Sixshot’s battlemask.

“Prowl,” Jazz said, stepping between them.

“No.  You are too much alike.”  And Sixshot saw the comment slice across Jazz like an insult, shoulders tensing. 

“And you?”  Jazz challenged.

“Me?” Prowl said. “I have weapons he does not.”

And I, Sixshot thought, have weapons neither of you have seen.

 

 

 

 

Comments

[wicked3659.livejournal.com]

And in case you didn't get my flail in IM: This is amazing! Your Sixshot is simply wonderful but your Jazz and Prowl sent shivers down my spine.

*massive amounts of flailing and guuuuuh!!*

What would happen if I dared you to post it to PJ? >:3

[chibirisuchan.livejournal.com]

Yikes! This battle is going to be epic. Does it have a part 2 brewing...? :D

[cmdrtekk.livejournal.com]

Awesome. All three characters well done. This totally draws the reader in making them cheer for Sixshot and support him in outwitting both Jazz and Prowl. I want to see him outwit Prowl.

Thanks for sharing.