Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were Minibots in the hallway. This was, per say, not that unusual. They were a close knit gang. Liked to stick together in groups, even when out of their shared quarters. Some would think that they got more then enough of each other, that they should have been using their free time to be with other Autobots. Some did too. But the social structure and workings of the Minibot group mentality would be something to analyse further later, not that he had not done so long ago when he first had to have dealings with Minibots. 

There were Minibots in the hallway. This was noteworthy because they were blocking the entirety of it, and they seemed to be standing in some kind of formation with their backs towards him. They had the four larger ones in the back and the next line had three, and so forth. All of them were standing with their pedes together and arms down along their side as if standing at attention.

Prowl had been reading over the report on the datapad he was on his way to give to the Prime, and he had not noticed the Minibots until they appeared in his sensor range, which had been shortened for inside use as per the Privacy Mandate. This was unfortunate, because if he had been paying attention to the hall instead of the datapad, he might have seen the position Sideswipe was in further down the hall and the roundest member of the Minibots coming rolling on their side in alarming speeds towards the formation. 

He did not, and thus was promptly caught in the sudden tangle of ‘bots that fell over as Cosmos impacted with the makeshift Bowling Pins.

Chapter Text

There was an Aerialbot flush to his back; a very warm Aerialbot, at that. This would not have been a problem if they were not so high up in the air. The ground, or anything else tangible, for that matter, had disappeared beyond his sensor range some time ago. His sensory panels were tense as could be in his attempt to not let them flutter to try and find ground/down/safety. It almost made him glad the fever-hot flier was holding him so tightly, the hot plating and vents almost burning his back kibble. The cold wind whipping on his plating was a huge contrast.

“Fireflight, you need to land,” he said firmly, but not unkindly. The flighty member of the Aerialbots often did poorly under reprimands, whether real or perceived.

“But the wind is so nice and cool up here~,” was the singsong answer. The flier swerved side to side, making Prowl’s pedes dangle and cold dread run down his spinal struts and up the back of his processor units. 

“Fireflight,” he said slowly, clearly, “ground bound mecha like me, prefer to have our wheels on solid ground. We do not do well in flight.” Or free fall.

“Mmmhm,” came the distracted reply. “Oh! What’s that?” Fireflight sharply changed direction and his grip on Prowl loosened.

“FIREFLIGHT!” Startled, the flier almost let go fully before tightening his grip again. Prowl's spark was racing even more inside its chamber. His sensors reared up and pinged his HUD with warnings of unknown altitudes and the lack of anywhere ground/down/safe.

Something touched his chevron. 

“Fireflight,” it was more of a struggle than it should have been to sound calm, “you need to set me down.” Then again, he was never meant to fly like this, or at all. He almost rathered it was one of the seekers. At least if they dropped him, it would not be by accident.

“But, shiny!” That was definitely a whine. 

“No, I need to get down, gently.” Did he sound desperate? Did it matter at this point?

Fireflight swerved from side to side again, as if he was shaking his head with the entirety of his airborne frame. Prowl tightened his hold on the arms around him. He could not decide if he would rather have his optics off or not. 

“Please, Fireflight,” he said, pleading now. He doubted Fireflight would remember later.

A new change in direction. Is that a mountain? Are they losing altitude? His sensors were screaming at him as the mountain top neared. Ground/down/safe. Warnings flashed across his HUD.

Warning: Slow Down

Warning: Slow Down

Warning: Crash Imminent

Warning: Crash Imminent

The mountain rises up as if to slap him in the faceplate.

Prowl does not squeak. 

He felt the drag trying to rip him from Fireflight’s grip as the jet slowed down. They did not crash, but as Fireflight landed, he kept going down. Prowl's sensors had time to ping him ground/solid/safe as his pedes touched the rock-covered ground of the mountain top before he was pinned flush on his front.

There is a flier on his back. 

There is something touching his chevron.

“m'Shiny,” Fireflight mumbles around the chevron in his mouth.

Prowl made a note to ensure Wheeljack made a not-so-reflective version of the new wax everyone had to use after their supply of Cybertronian Wax was depleted. Prowl got the short straw of trying it out himself after the incident yesterday had left him with scuff marks and paint transfers from all the Minibots involved. He had been a colourful sight to behold. Now, he was simply shiny.

He pings his would-be rescuers with his current coordinates and resigns himself to wait. It will be a long wait with all of the fliers out of commission, down with some virus only they seemed to contract. All the fliers had been quarantined to the flight hanger for the duration of the virus's incubation period.

He expected a report on how a fever-high Fireflight had managed to sneak out of the locked-down hanger. Apparently, fever highs turned this flier into some sort of Corvicon, even moreso than usual.

“You are so shiny~,” Fireflight sighs.

“Thank you, Fireflight.” 

At least he is no longer cold.

Chapter Text

There is someone in the vents. He doesn’t know whom or how many yet, but he is sure he is going to find out. 

Staring up at the vent above him, Prowl contemplates what to do. First thing first is to get sufficient information to hand over to the security director. The sooner the better, but the more accurate he can be, the more efficient the measures to take would be. He uses a few kliks to listen and extends his proximity sensors to try and penetrate the casing of the vent. He runs a fast analysis, and compiles his report.

::Prowl to Security Director Red Alert, this is Prowl.:: 

::Red Alert receiving, go on.:: The reply is immediate, as is expected from Red Alert. 

::There is someone in the vents.:: Prowls attach his short report too, and gets pinged back with the arrival confirmation.

::Heading?:: Red Alert asks even as Prowl gets another ping confirming the report has been opened and read.

::From CQ toward the main hanger.:: He answers anyway, even though he knows the question was likely rhetorical at that point. Red Alert would have seen it in the report just now.

::...:: There is a pause from Red Alert’s side of the comm.line and for some reason, Prowl finds he doesn’t like it.

::Likely came from a breach in the outer hull on that side of the ship.:: He deduces, overrun with a curious need to fill the silence.

::Prowl? Are you in your quarters?:: Red Alert asks with a suspicious slowness to their voice. 

::Affirmative.:: Prowl nods knowing that Red Alert can’t see it, a habit picked up from their many years on earth and having to interact with its inhabitants. 

::The system says you’re logged on in a work capacity. Why are you not in your office?:: The suspicious tone is still there, but Prowl can't for the life of him understand why it would be directed towards him.

::Because I am quarantined, due to the incident yesterday.:: He answers simply.

::It says here you are on medical leave.:: They must have pulled up the roaster, and seen the note besides Prowl’s designation, after finding him in the officer off-duty section.

::That was what Ratchet called it, yes.:: Prowl answers overbearingly, conveying his annoyance and inconvenience of the prospect.

::Then why are you logged on with your work profile? It says you are active. You working?:: Prowl can perfectly picture them scowling suspiciously with narrowed optics on the screen like the paranoid bot that they are.

::Yes. I am catching up on my paperwork. What does that have to do with the person in the vent?:: he asks, annoyance and frustration lacing his vocalizations.  

::Let us handle the supposed security breach. You are to log off the system, and take your mandatory day off to relax as Ratchet prescribed for your stress levels.:: Red Alert replies with a no nonsense voice and unshakable firmness.

::But I am not stressed! I just need to do my job! And there is someone in the vents!:: Prowl explaimce, surprised at his own outburst.

::That didn’t sound stressed at all.:: That utterance could have evaporated the ocean, laying the sunken Nemesis bare, it was so dry. ::Your job is to destress. Now let us On-Duty-Mechs do ours, and log off the work network. I will have to temporarily revoke your access, should you not comply.:: The dead seriousness in Red Alerts voice would have sent chills down a lesser mech back, if given the same threat. Or maybe just Prowl. Except he was a high ranking officer and could not be bullied!

::You can’t do that! I am the Third in Command!:: Prowl exclaimed in stunned outrage.

::Watch me. Red Alert out.:: 

::But the vent!!:

…

::Red Alert?::

…

::Hallo?:: 

But the comm.link remained disconnected. 

There are still people in the vent. He can hear the muffled tapping sound of someone trying to be quiet, but not succeeding. The tap-tap, tap-tap, distracting him from his work and making his plating itch. Like an ear worm, whatever that is.

::Red Alert?:: he tried.

>>>Prowl has been logged off the Autobot Forces Intranet

>>>Login rejected

>>>Login rejected

::RED ALERT!:: he yelled into the comm. standing up in frustration and outrage. How dare he log him off and keep him out!

But the comm. remained disconnected.

::Answere me!:: 

There is still someone in the vents. 

>>>Login rejected

>>>Too many attempts to login has failed; system locked

>>>System unavailable; the system is down or you do not have access to this system

With a roar, Prowl stands up gripping the edge of the desk and pulls. The metal screech and several of the bolts keeping it in place pops. The desk’s content slides across the top towards the wall and the previously neat stack of datapads tumbles off with a clater. Only a few screens crack. 

Over all, a rather unsatisfying spectacle. At least it won’t take too much to reupload the broken ones and the mess is fast to clean up due to its lacking size. The bolts get swiftly changed for fresh ones and the desk is once again secure, if a bit warped.

As he plugs in the fresh datapad to replace the ones that were sacrificed, he is yet again faced with the error screen. The system remains unavailable to him. 

It is with a groan that he falls back into his chair and stares at the offending vents. 

He really thought he could handle quarantine better. Now, he might have to own up to how dependent he has made himself on his job and the constant stream of tasks occupying his advanced processor. He can’t seem to idle anymore, if he ever could.

There is someone in the vents.

Prowl loosens the screws to the vent. 

Someone falls out of the vent and lands on the contraband they had with them. There is a sudden strong scent filling the quarters, and a bright colored liquid spreads across the floor. It is splattered everywhere. The berth, the desk, the walls, not even the ceiling was spared. 

Now, there is no longer anyone in the vents, but there is High Grade everywhere in Prowl’s quarters.

The small, white and blue Autobot squeaks when Prowl picks him up and fixes him with a mighty glare.

“What are you doing?” he practically snarls, again surprised by his lack of control.

“Uh, I’m-” the blue ‘bot stammers.

“Is that High Grade?” Prowl plows on.

“Um, Yes?” the blue optic band looks up at Prowl with uncertain innocens.

“What are you doing?” Prowl’s processor is working at full capacity, having had nothing else to do after getting denied his work.

“See, I was going to-”

“Where did you get it?” he doesn’t pause to give the hapless minibot time to answer, already moving on to the next question. 

“Ah, there was this-” the spluttering not quite stopping as the ‘bot struggles to keep up.

“How else is in on this?” Prowl can see the little Autobot tense at the question.

“It’s only me, sir?” the answer sounds more like a question.

“Where is He?” Prowl’s computer has reached its conclusion, and identified the most likely suspect to be the mastermind over the smuggling operation he has caught in his own base. With no help, thank you, Red Alert!

“Wh- who?” the uncertain, guilty stammering is back full force, desperately trying to feign innocence and simultaneously trying to not give away his mentor, terrified that he somehow failed.

“JAZZ!”