Work Text:
Shockwave had assumed (and been correct in those assumptions) many things about the Autobots: they were exactly as miserable and petty as his memory banks had warned him they would be. The entirety of the Intelligence division was in a state of tumultuous disarray, no one was willing to work with a “younger” superior officer, and Lord Megatron was still missing.
LongArm had been a simple enough disguise to establish, the real bot having been long dead, his ship floating aimlessly in space when Shockwave found him. It hadn’t been a challenge to extract any data the bot had, nor to change his own plates to mimic the dull autobot colors. The face, unfortunately, would have to be manually created; too much damage from whatever attack had sent the bot to the Well of Allsparks. A few pieces of extra plating from the bot would have to suffice. He’d just have a limited range of expression. Something easily explained by a shipwreck. This wasn’t the first corpse he had worn, and he highly doubted it would be the last.
Sneaking into Academy, climbing the ranks of Prime, had been even more simple. He had information most Autobots weren’t privy to, and had less codes and programs holding him back. He made Prime in record time, almost half a century early by his calculations. Don’t say he didn’t do anything for the bots he took the lives of. (Despite the lack of actual life taking in this particular case) The bots there, of course, had started off cordial and polite, curious about their new peer, but his own work diligence and antisocial tendencies, not to mention the speed in which he progressed, hindered any connections that he could have benefited from. No matter, he could handle limited social contact, keep it to the bare minimum, apply himself just enough to keep suspicion down.
His records in Academy, and the several years worth of work in the archives earned the attention of the Cybertronian Intelligence Agency, exactly where he hoped to be, and he was content to take his hard earned second-in-command position. Now all he had to do was lie low, gather information, and keep his eye out for any signs of the Autobots locating Lord Megatron. This war would not end on his watch.
Oh, but how he cursed these blasted Autobots and their vain attempts at workplace harassment. He had expected resistance to his leadership, especially with the original head of the CIA stepping down so soon into LongArm’s time in the agency. It had been genuinely unexpected, the spy having planned on offlining the bot once his position had been more firmly secured. Apparently the old bot had wanted to retire early, and thought he left the barely functioning organization in perfectly capable servos. Which he, unfortunately, had, and while undercover, LongArm wasn’t about to let his own name be tarnished.
Equally as unfortunate was the strange, bitter resentment the Autobots that worked at the agency had towards anyone they deemed not worth their position. This resulted in a series of misfortunes that set back his work by megacycles, sometimes entire orbital cycles. Most members of the CIA had been doing this job for longer than the Decepticon army had been properly organized, and with age and complacency they had rusted into useless relics. He cursed his own assumptions that entering with a “Prime” status would make the passive Autobots comfortable with his position. A foolish lapse in judgment he would not be making again.
In the silence of his own office, the now acting commander of the CIA holds his helm in his servos, desperately craving bloodshed, carnage, a lengthy discussion, and a peaceful recharge. Alas, Autobots did not openly partake in spontaneous acts of justified violence, so he would have to find a different outlet for the static that almost dragged emotions to his processor. Taking a deep vent, the disguised bot looks down at the mess one more time.
His desk had been vandalized. If he had kept any compromising material in this desk he would have been worried, but he wasn’t a young bot, despite his disguise, nor was he a fool. Still, seeing the vulgarities and assumptions about how LongArm had gotten this position, mixed with whatever concoction of fluids and chemicals that had been poured and slathered in thick globs all over every datapad he had been sorting through, was enough to almost make him miss Starscream’s attempts at coups. At least those could (and usually would) end in a beating. Taking another deep vent, the Prime exits his office to start cleaning the mess that awaits him. Catching up on his department’s backlogged datapads would clearly have to wait.
Shockwave had little care or want for useless bots, and this trait carried over into his LongArm persona. Acting as a Prime, he worked almost strictly with morons who barely knew how to fire up their own processors. Once he realized that his team was going to be no help, he took the work for himself. More information for his own databanks only benefited his cause, or, at the very least, kept him entertained. Minor setbacks in the form of interpersonal sabotage (the bullying seemed to get worse when he ignored it, but it was barely anything worth his time, so he just cleaned any mess and moved on) were the only excitement in his time there. So, it came at a great surprise when not one, but two bots started showing up to his office for extra work.
Agents Blurr and CliffJumper had been at the CIA for almost 3 times as long as LongArm had, (running on nearly a decade, according to Starscream’s earth calculations) and were both more than efficient workers, though he usually kept them out in the field. If he needs competence anywhere, it was out where information gathering was happening. It made his frame shudder to imagine the nightmare of a mess he’d have on his servos if anyone else in the agency were out doing their jobs right now. Extra work wasn’t something he had intended on giving the two, not wanting his only two competent bots to loathe their working conditions enough to saddle him with more tediousness.
Blurr's days at work had become stressful and exhausting (and he usually was full of endless streams of energy). Their unit had been assigned a new supervisor, someone fresh out of academy. That was all fine and dandy, an extra set of servos, as long as they knew how to sort, would always be a welcome edition in his optics. Agent Blurr didn't really care. As long as they did little to interfere with his work, he could handle it.
They were introduced to LongArm in a fairly unceremonious kind of way. It was just past the morning briefing, they all had their assignments updated or reassigned out when their leading supervisor stopped them, and lined them up outside of his office.
"Now, I know we didn't plan for this, but a fresh recruit from the academy has chosen the intelligence agency to spend the rest of his cycles. Show him the ropes, but don't forget he's an up and coming prime. I expect great things from you all. Come on out and introduce yourself, son. "
LongArm wasn't quite like what anyone expected. There had been plenty of whispers about the prime candidate that went missing shortly after his entrance into the program (and so soon after the disappearance of candidate Orion, many assumed the whole generation was cursed) he had resurfaced a handful of years ago, and graduated in record time, only after changing his department in his application. He looked sickly, like about drained of all energy, dull gray with only the slightest hint of cyan to indicate any life in his features. He was short, stout, with dark wheel tracks up his limbs.
Stepping in front of the intelligence and archival officers/agents, LongArm offers them all a respectful salute in greeting,
"Good morning. My name is LongArm, it's a pleasure to be here. I've heard wonderful things about the intelligence agency. I may be new but I'm eager to learn and quick on my pedes. I hope we learn to work together quickly.”
It was a polite enough introduction. LongArm’s voice, a soft, lilting noise, had an oddly calming effect on Blurr, made his processor halt for a fraction of a klick to intake it, more time than he offered any of his other superiors.
Blurr honestly couldn’t tell when he picked up that something was off with their newest Prime. LongArm was polite, dedicated to his job, and a diligent worker who didn’t complain about the late hours or the extra workload that came with his position. It didn’t take the most observant bot to notice how much more organized their sector was becoming, or how efficient the stubborn bot had made their jobs. He could easily see why their original boss chose him right out of academy, and hoped to only see more improvements when the young Prime had stepped up to fill that role sooner than intended.
The rest of his colleagues, however, were quite comfortable with the way things had been. They had been used to their habits, the little negligence that always slipped through their servos. New blood, new leadership, meant things would start to change, and he didn't know a single bot comfortable with change so, unfortunately, the bot that brought aggressive change with him was the newest target of their ire. He hadn’t felt it was his place to approach the Prime and check on him, or warn him, so the blue bot chose instead to observe and intervene if necessary.
Necessary, he feared, was starting to approach with rapid succession. LongArm had been dealing with the problem admirably, simply going about his business and giving the bullies no second thought. This only seemed to spur them on, and now they were moving to downright vandalism. After a particularly nasty attack, with vulgar words and accusations scratched into the surface of the Prime’s desk, Blurr decided it was time for action. He moved to step into the office, coming to a halt when he watched his Prime hold his helm in his hand and take a shaking breath. All at once, he could feel LongArm.
Half the reason Blurr was such a good intelligence agent was because of how delicate his control of his field was; he could usually pick up acute feelings of others, and could hide his so well you’d barely notice he was there. LongArm Prime’s field was…strange. Held so close to his frame it was almost inside of himself, and everything felt fuzzy. If he tried too hard to read him, it gave him an intense processor ache. Then he’d feel it…something watching him, like a predator waiting for him to slip up and fall into its den. The little jittery shock it sent up his frame was more thrilling than the speedster cared to admit. So to feel him, to suddenly feel the violent, twisting rage barely contained by that processor-ache inducing static, was like releasing a breath Blurr hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He had felt bots like this before, bots whose processors were so tainted by the war that their emotions were locked so far back into their coding that they were impossible to find. To think the first thing he felt from his Prime was this anger. Then it was gone, dropped like the useless datapads he openly sneered at, followed by a sort of muted, fuzzy form of resignation. Then he cleaned his office and did his job like it was another day.
From that moment on, Blurr solemnly vowed to make his Prime’s job as easy as possible: he ran faster, spoke quicker, nipped useless conversations out of the way before they even made it to LongArm’s department. He wouldn’t let these…these…useless protoforms chase away the one bot that seemed to actually care about making the Intelligence Agency run. Deciding 2 processors were better than one, Blurr drafted CliffJumper, who was more than willing to lend a servo to his cause, already keeping other bots away from LongArm’s office after that incident. Together, they pooled their collective knowledge together for what they feared would be their hardest challenge yet. Keeping their boss from resigning. He and Blurr had replaced the desk while their Prime had gone for one of his long walks during lunch. While he hadn’t thanked them directly, they both noticed the small box of sweet energon cubes on their desks. They both started picking up extra datapads, and if their coworkers called them suck ups, they ignored them.
CliffJumper, being in charge of communications, kept his optics focused on their staff. If anyone sent something that would bother their new prime, he'd ideally get to it first. Blurr, being the speediest field agent around, would try and find things about the job that LongArm disliked or struggled with. It helped that Blurr's EMfield was so sensitive, he could pick up the politely reclusive bot's feelings if he was focusing hard enough. Like a strange game of hide-and-seek. He knew what it felt like, what to look for, now he just had to keep out of the Prime's knowing sight.
It took only 3 days for Blurr to run into his first (of what appeared to be many) hurdles in their plan. Arguably the largest one if you asked him. LongArm didn't seem to like anything. Sure, the Prime's field would tease with the briefest, subtle strokes of pride or the vicious stab of victorious glee, but that was only related to projects that turned out to be too challenging for any other department to handle. It only made Blurr admire him more. He was clearly dedicated to this job, took great pride in the work they did for Cybertron.
And then there was the fire. One of the archivists set it as a mean prank, wanting to catch LongArm off guard and scare him. It ended with the prime trapped in for nearly the whole day while they waited for a proper rescue team.
Blurr had been sent home early that day, LongArm all but pleading with him to enjoy his day off. Anyone who was paying attention could tell that their new Prime was trying to keep Blurr and CliffJumper around, trying to keep as much weight off of their servos as he could. The blue racer had never met a Prime more self-sacrificing. It made him feel bad, leaving all of this to the younger bot. These thoughts haunted him all night as he prepared for his recharge.
LongArm stared at note, scratched onto the destroyed datapad propped up against the locked door. "The Key is somewhere in the Archives. Can you find it?"
Games, at this time of night? Surely they meant to keep him here until the maintenance bots checked in the morning. He was impressed really, seeing the lengths these old rust buckets were willing to go to just to inconvenience him. He didn't know how much more of this he could handle. He had no intention of damaging his hard earned reputation, but surely this would be grounds for disciplinary actions? he doubted any of these old cogs had ever faced consequences in the work place and he would relish in every gloriously mundane second of it. But first, to get out of this blasted store room.
The archives at the main Intelligence headquarters was a nightmare, and a project Shockwave had been slowly chipping away at during his few hours of free time after his shifts. He didn't mind having the time to wind down, to simply sift through old information, seeing how history remembered the things he and the Decepticons had experienced. He was quite lucky to find how much remained unaltered, probably due to the unorganized state this building had been in since its inception.
In his hours of respite, he must have grown a touch careless. Someone on his crew must have noticed his regular visits to this part of the building and laid a little trap out for him. Scanning the room, Shockwave took note of the cameras and where they were aimed. He'd probably not catch them there, the security in this older part of the building left much to be desired. That was something he could use to his advantage. Slowly beginning to gather some of the datapads he had been restoring, planning a trap of his own, noticing the sparks from the pads in his servos a second too late.
Okay so maybe Blurr was thinking too hard about this. He was agitated, unable to stay laid out on his berth. Something in his spark kept dragging work into his processor. Was LongArm still there? How much work was backed up? How long had it been building? He wasn't sure there was a day where he beat the Prime to work. And he was Blurr. There was no other bot that could beat him in terms of speed. What time was LongArm recharging? Had he ever seen the bot eat?
Before he could really stop himself, the speedster was out of bed, slamming back a cube of energon and zipping out the door. He just had to make sure. Just get close enough to feel his Prime's field and make sure he wasn't still at work.
The run to work had never felt so long. He didn't know why he was so worried, he was more of a loner at work, only chatting with CliffJumper because of their shared distaste of their lazy coworkers. He'd never worried about a coworker before, but LongArm was…different. He wasn't imposing, he let Blurr finish speaking without interruption, he seldom needed the blue bot to repeat himself, he took his skills seriously. He listened to input Blurr and CliffJumper offered him, and clearly cared more about this job than any of them. Blurr wanted to do everything he could to help him keep that feeling. (A/N: Shockwave doesn't care that much about this job, he's just a vain bastard that can't do a bad job so he throws himself into it lol)
The closer Blurr got to the Cybertronian Intelligence Agency, the further out he stretched his field, making himself nauseous with how many other feelings he picked up. This was foolish but the anxiety twisting in his core urged him further. He'd just made it to the entrance when he finally found that carefully hidden field. And nearly collapsed from the rage he felt. It sucked the air from his vents, made his knees quake. He'd never felt anger to this degree. What happened to make LongArm so angry? He couldn't imagine what kind of face the usually passive bot would be wearing like this. He's only snapped from his stupor when he notices the smoke rising out of a window towards the back of the building…their archives. LongArm's field drops in an instant, sending Blurr barreling into action.
Blurr was in the building in a blink, shocked by the thick cloud of smoke that greeted him barely a second in. Something old must have caught a spark, the old records? Darting through the halls, he's grateful he had the foresight to drink the extra energon, his HUD popping up with requests to pull from his back up tanks. He'd need it if he had to rescue an unconscious LongArm. he kept the worry of the bot's death out of his processor as best he could. Grabbing three fire extinguishers on his way, Blurr kicked open every door he had to, searching for the source of the flame, stretching field out as far as possible to keep as close an eye on LongArm as he could.
The smoke got thicker the further back he made it, practically confirming the source being the old archives. Unfortunately, it seeming LongArm was also back there. The door was closed, smoke seeping through the cracks. Someone had tried to break down the door from the inside, several small holes punctured in the metal. Panic crept up Blurr's throat as he tries and fails to open the door. Locked? Who locked the archives? Did someone lock LongArm in here? Two swift kicks to the door, to the spots that had already been damaged, and Blurr manages to make a big enough hole for him to force the lock.
Smoke comes pouring out, engulfing him. Trying to clamp his intake shut, he's sure he inhales too much smoke, his optics watering, his circuits halting for a second at the intensity of it all. All of that makes him see…something. He's sure it's a trick of the mind, the smoke and flames, mixing with a light from somewhere further in the room twisting in his panicked mind to make him see something that wasn't there. But sweet primus was is terrifying. A big hulking shadow, tall antlers scraping against the wall as it twits to focus one bright red optic on him. He would have passed out if he hadn't heard the voice.
"A-Agent Blurr?" LongArm slowly emerged from the smoke, leaning heavily on the wall to his left, his right arm stretched to its limit to wrap protectively around a large sum of datapads. "Agent Blurr what are you-" he's cut off by a series of coughs.
Rushing forward, Blurr presses his body up against LongArm's left side, helping to hold the younger bot up. "I found you." he finds himself thinking as he guides his prime out, sending out a distress ping to CliffJumper.