Chapter Text
Dear Bluestreak,
Congratulations on your promotion to Sergeant! I hope you know how proud I am of you - and how proud I’m sure Smokescreen is, as well. You have earned every inch of it through your courage and dedication, as a credit to Iacon and her Enforcers. I am sure we will see great things from you and your team in the vorns to come - I have never been more honored to call myself your brother.
I apologize for keeping it a secret from you, but Ultra Magnus requested I not mention it until your promotion was finalized - he has made arrangements for me to visit Iacon for your pennanting. I will arrive an orn beforehand, so I can assist you in preparations and sit vigil with you, and he has persuaded Barricade to give me a full orn of leave after to spend in the city.
I look forward to seeing you, and meeting your team. Ultra Magnus said he would give you leave time to collect me from the platform - I will be arriving on the GX73 out of Praxus at joor eighteen third breem.
Again, I am so proud of you, Bluestreak.
Prowl
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“Prowl?”
It takes a second to register his name through the sounds of the crowd - his name, in a voice that isn’t Bluestreak’s. He pings his brother’s comm as he turns, gets another ‘busy’ tone - and finds himself looking up at a heavily-framed green mech with enforcer livery.
The friendly smile the green mech gives him is enough to calm the sudden, paranoid spike in his spark - he’s not in Praxus, no one’s going to attack him on a crowded Iaconi platform. He flares his wings in greeting, trying to look, at least, approachable.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Name’s Hound. I work with your brother?” The green mech offers a hand, and Prowl takes it, shaking in the Iaconi custom. Hound’s field flashes against his at the touch - warm and friendly.
“Blue’s got caught up in something at the station - nothing too big, but he’ll be busy for the rest of the afternoon. I’m off on medical -” he gestures at his leg, and Prowl’s doorwings drop a little in surprise at the thick weld lines stitching the plating together, “so I offered to come pick you up.”
“Ah.” Prowl’s wings droop only a little, at that - it’s the nature of an enforcer’s function, but he had hoped to spend the afternoon with Bluestreak. At least it explains why his comms have gone unanswered. “We should head to the precinct, then - unless it’s a matter not for outside optics?”
Hound seems to hesitate at that, as if he’s not quite sure how to respond, but he recovers quickly, shaking his helm. “No, it should be fine. Blue said you wanted to meet the rest of the gang, anyways - I can introduce you to Sides and Sunny, at least.”
He follows Hound out into the street, but the green mech doesn’t transform. “Sorry, we’re going to have to walk - I can’t transform for at least another orn.” It’s not a problem - the central precinct isn’t far, located close to the heart of Iacon.
Hound leads him down an unfamiliar route. It’s not overly concerning - every officer has their own preferences for patrol patterns - but Prowl takes the chance to log the path carefully anyway, intrigued by the other officer’s preference for moving between buildings and down narrow side-streets. His own patrols tend towards areas with wide roads and long sightlines, where the ATS can use his doorwings to monitor for threats at all ranges - Hound’s preferences seem to tend towards the claustrophobic.
“Are you a martial artist?” he asks, absently.
“What?” Hound sounds startled by the question, glancing back with brightening optics.
“Your preference for side streets. You’re quite large, but a martial artist could make good use of the narrower pathways to keep enemies within reach.”
Hound looks at him for another moment, seemingly thrown. It’s not an uncommon reaction to the ATS. “Yeah, I am. Metallicato. How ‘bout you?”
“Ah.” It’s not a choice that would seem to be a good fit for the other mech’s frametype, but… “No, I never had the aptitude for it. I can fight -” he issues the quick transformation that turns his blunt fingertips into dangerous, reinforced claws and back, “- but unfortunately, doorwings make the sort of intensive training a martial art would require risky. As I was trained as a tactician, it was too hard to justify the potential for injury.”
“Too sensitive?” Hound asks, turning down another tight alley, and the world suddenly spins disorientingly around him.
Hound is beside him - but the sounds of him, the movement of air, the heat of an engine, are behind him, receding with every step he takes. His processor swims, trying to cope with the sudden, bizarre data, and he staggers, reaching out for the wall as he does, seeking some kind of purchase as Hound - as the image of Hound turns to him in concern.
“Are you alright?” it asks, but the voice is coming out wrong - all the other sounds are still behind him, and the voice is coming from it but too far back and high up to match the mouth -
He transforms his claws again, frightened, and tries to speak. “Sensors - something’s wrong -”
The image of Hound looks down at him again, and this time it’s mouth moves, but the voice is behind him - “Slag, ‘Raj was right to warn me about Praxians.” The image dissolves, and the green frame of Hound resolves in his peripheral vision of the alleyway behind him, and something heavy and metal slams into his helm and the spinning world around him goes suddenly black.