Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As the world around him fades back into sharp relief, ATS booting to middle-power, Prowl takes a moment to note, with some satisfaction, that he’s not tied to a chair.

That’s the only comfort he has, however. The ache in his helm, the system warnings scrolling across his HUD (transformation cog not present, subspace offline, geonav offline, comms offline, a dozen lesser warnings that he dismisses as they appear), the familiar too-thin feeling of a detention center cot underneath him…

Prowl doesn’t need to online his optics to know he’s in a cell.

He keeps his optics shuttered, careful not to move as he reaches outward with the delicate sensors of his wings - not baffled, as it the mechs who have him either don’t know how powerful they are, or don’t care what he hears. He doesn’t pick up talking - doesn’t pick up any of the usual wall-sounds at all, not even the hum of electricity behind the panels, implying that the room itself is soundproofed - but the sounds of another mech are unmistakable in the quiet.

A large frame - the engine isn’t loud with stress or agitation, but it also comes through crisp and clear, implying something lighter-armored than a tank. Not Hound - the green mech’s throttle had been distinctive, and even if it hadn’t, the mech in the room with him masses the backstabber by at least two tons. There’s a partial wall between him and the other frame, not soundproofed - the low tones vibrate through from his left, the higher, less-penetrating ones come around it from underpede - either another prisoner, or, more likely, a guard.

He stays still, observing. The mech doesn’t move, much - hardly at all, beyond an occasional shift - but he has time. It’s not the first time he’s spent long joors on a berth in an Iaconi prison cell - memories of long raids, of hostage standoffs, where the only rest for sixty joors was in an unlocked cell, make his spark flicker with longing.

Finally, almost two joor later, the other mech gives a heavy vent - and then a groan, as he rises to his pedes. He’s not subtle - easy to track as he works his way to the front of the cell - but he doesn’t bang on the bars.

“Ye awake, mech?” His voice is soft - not hushed, but also not intended to jerk him awake if he is recharging - and paired with a dense, rural Altihexian accent. “Do ye need a medic?”

Prowl spares that a moment’s contemplation - face one guard, and see what he can find out, or have a medic called and possibly bring other guards with him - and slowly stirs. “I’m fine.” He flicks his wings as if shaking of exhaustion, and rolls until his pedes are hanging off the side of the berth and he’s mostly-seated before onlining his optics and touching his helm with only a touch of an exaggerated wince.

“Who hit me?”

The red mech - a heavily-built hauler of some kind, with a distinctive helm that matches the accent - on the other side of the bars gives him a sympathetic look. “Slag, Hound got ye good, huh? Sorry, mech.” He gestures over his shoulder at a door. “I kin call a medic, if ye need a chip. Don’ got any here fer ye.”

“It’s just sore. It will fade, I’m sure.” The red mech doesn’t give any sign that the name is an alias, doesn’t even falter on it, which implies nothing good - he has no memory of a Hound from his time in the Iaconi enforcers. If they’ve learned so much as to be bringing in enforcers from outside Iacon to handle the arrests… “And may I have your designation, sir?”

“Ironhide.” He waits for a moment, but the mech doesn’t offer an ID - Prowl can’t quite fight down the niggle of irritation at the breach in protocols, even if it should be the least of his concerns. Still, the red mech seems relatively good-natured, and Prowl has seen enough of what an angry enforcer can do in the last centivorn to not push the matter.

“May I ask why I’m being held?”

“Ah…” That seems to take Ironhide off guard - he leans back against the wall opposite the cell, gazing in at Prowl for a moment. “Sorry, mech, can’t help ye.”

That is enough to make his temper flicker.

“I have a right to know the charges upon which I am being held. You are required to inform me of said charges within three joors of my arrest, or to -”

“Oh. Ah…” Ironhide glances away at that. “Sorry, I thought ye’d figured it out already. Yer not under arrest, mech.”

That makes Prowl pause, a nervous twisting feeling growing in his spark. “Oh?”

“I think the technic’l term for it is ‘detained a’ th’ pleasure o’ th’ Prime.’ Ye’d hafta bring th’ legalities up with ‘Raj, or sommech - I’m not sure o’ th’ specifics.”

An icy chill works it’s way up his struts. Detention at the pleasure of the Prime - he served in Iacon, he doesn’t need anyone to tell him what it means. He’s not been arrested - he’s been vanished by the Prime’s Special Operations.

Meister won’t find him. Red Alert won’t see anything past him being dragged out of an alleyway - if they even leave that much for him to find. Bluestreak and Smokescreen… they’ll never hear from him again, as if he had left them without a trace.

He takes a moment to pray that they’ll be left alone - that his correspondence with Bluestreak won’t bring optics their way - before a sickening question twists in his tank: was he ever speaking to his brother at all?

He can’t ask it - can’t do anything that might bring them more attention. He takes a moment, runs more power through to the ATS, until the rising panic in his spark flattens into a dull hum, a background process that can be flattened and ignored. He can't afford to panic here.

Ironhide is watching him, a concerned look on his face. “You alright, mech?” His voice is… not unsympathetic. “I know it’s rough, but nothin’s gonna happ’n to ye fer now. An’ Prime’s a good mech - whate’re he wants ta see ye fer, I’m sure ye’ll be fine.”

“They didn’t tell you why I’ve been detained?” That’s a surprise, and almost certainly a lie - half of the utility of setting a guard is lost if they don’t know what the mech they’re guarding is accused of; there’s no way to probe for details of a crime if you don’t know what you’re looking for. But Ironhide just shakes his helm.

“Nah. I din’t ask. All I know is ye got tangled up in some kinda Ops investigation, an’ they toss’d ye down here while they sort’d it out.” He shrugs. “Ain’t like they’re gonna let ye go ‘cause I disagreed, ain’t like I’m gonna be any less careful with ye ‘cause they got ye here fer somethin’ small.”

“I see.” It’s enough to bring back a small flicker of hope. There is a chance - however tiny - that his connection to Meister has gone unremarked, that he really has been scooped up as part of something unrelated. “Did they say how long it might take?”

“A couple o’ orns, prolly.” Ironhide gives him a sympathetic look. “But yer a guest o’ th’ Prime, at th’ moment. Ye’ll be taken care o’.”

“A ‘guest’.” He presses doubt into the word. “I see.” The thought of spending orns in an empty cell, under the constant watch of the Prime’s secret operatives…

“Eh, technically, yer a guest. Can’t leave, but yer not gonna get slagged, either. I heard about how they treat mechs in Praxus -” and there’s a dark turn to his voice at that, “- but I don’ stand fer that sort o’ thing.”

“That’s a relief, I suppose.” He keeps his tone doubtful, letting it drip from the words. “I don’t suppose I’m going to be fueled, then?” His tanks aren’t low - they’re sitting at around sixty percent - but he’s played this game from the enforcer’s side long enough to know what to look for - what questions to ask, and what the different answers he gets will mean.

Fortunately, Ironhide’s response is an easy nod. “Yeah, sure. I kin grab you a cube - what d’ye take with it?” Generosity - a small kindness, not enough to threaten a skittish mech with implied reciprocity, but enough to build rapport. Ironhide will be, aware or not, the ‘good enforcer’ - leaving the other role open to whomever is set up as primary interrogator.

“Tungsten.” It’s not his usual preference - a bitter, gritty flavor that isn’t objectionable, but complements nothing - but it will keep him sharp, a reminder, with every fueling, that however reasonable he seems, Ironhide is and has to remain his enemy. “Or nickel, if you have it.”

“I think one o’ th’ guys might’a left some nickel around. Le’ me see.” He trails back off around the corner. It’s a blatant lie - whoever staged the cells before his capture will have left a few dozen different varieties of mineral shavings and fuel metals in a drawer, specifically so that Ironhide can offer him his second-choice pick.

The red mech returns, a moment later, with a large, vivid cube of energon. It’s not particularly high quality, but not slag, either - there’s no indication that it’s been diluted, or, in fact, tampered in any way. He passes it between the bars, and Prowl takes an unhesitant sip - there’s no reason to poison him, not here, and reluctance will only put a wall up between himself and his captor.

It’s bitter, but the energon tastes clean, and the overall effect isn’t objectionable. Ironhide watches, impassive, as he drains the cube and slides it back through the bars. “Thank you.”

“Eh, least yer polite.” Ironhide gives him a considering look. “Anythin’ else ye need? I’d grab some more ‘charge, if it was me - I’m sure Ops will want ta have another word with ye when they ‘kin. An’ ye can ask them wha’ yer here fer.”

“Alright.” He returns to the berth, settling on the edge of it.

“I’ll make sure yer awake ‘fore they get ye. Won’ let em grab ye sleepin’, mech.” It’s more reassurance than he was expecting, and he believes it - grabbing a recharging mech for an interrogation is a brutal tactic, though productive, and lying about it beforehand would only spoil whatever rapport Ironhide is expected to establish. Still, he waits until the mech has moved back around the corner before moving again.

He tries not to be obvious, but it’s impossible to be entirely subtle as he looks around the cell - it takes only half a breem for him to locate the first, most obvious camera, but even with his wings spread wide, it takes almost another breem for him to find the second and third, one secreted n the corner outside the cell, one hidden in the wall at the head of the room. Quick simulations through his ATS show a blind spot too wide to be incidental - it’s enough to betray the necessary existence of a fourth camera, but not it’s location within the room.

That established… he lays back on the berth, ‘settling in’. Dimming his optics, he begins to draw a more detailed map of the cell block - his cell, rangefinding measurements precisely made with an ultrasonic -

“Kin ye stop tha’?” Ironhide grumbles from the next room - sensors evidently much more carefully tuned across the spectrum than Prowl had expected, though hearing into the ultrasonic range isn’t uncommon, exactly. “Tha room’s fourty feet by thirty with ceilin’ clearance a’ fourty again, mech. Don’ set my audials ringin’.”

He cuts ultrasonics immediately - data already collected and confirmed - and carefully updates his map. “My apologies.”

“Na’ a problem.”

Fortunately, ultrasonic rangefinding is quick, and he’s managed to pull far more than just the dimensions of his own cell. It takes a while, perhaps two breems, to complete analysis of his feedback, but by the time he’s done, his ATS offers him a good idea of the shape of the entire room - a larger area, by the door, where Ironhide is sitting beside a console (almost certainly the feeds from the cameras), a second cell with dimensions identical to his own on the other side of the wall his berth is adjacent to - unoccupied, for the moment. He logs the map carefully, distances precise, on the off chance he should need it, and powers down into recharge.

The voice of a second mech, heralded by the soft scrape of the doors as Ironhide steps through them to stand in the hallway beyond, is enough to wake him, joors later - longer than he expected to be given to recharge, indicating that perhaps the interrogator they intended to use was off-site, or otherwise unavailable. He keeps his frame locked, optics carefully offline, and listens.

“I’m just here to pick him up, ‘hide. Not trying to start anything - I just want to ask him some questions.” It’s Hound - even muffled through the door, he sounds nervous speaking to Ironhide, as if the red mech might turn hostile.

“Nah, ye ain’. Look, give me a joor - I promised him I’d wake him up, first. Yer a reasonable mech, Hound, an’ I’ve always respected ye - don’ go tryin’ ta pull that slag yer Conjux does on me.” It’s obvious they have no idea how sensitive Praxian wings are - the soundproofing may be enough to quiet the hum of static in the walls, but it’s no match for two voices mere feet outside the door. And it’s clear they don’t know he can hear them - Ironhide has an Altihexian ‘cant, but it’s nothing like the strong, rural accent he’s been using. “I’ll have him ready for ye in a bit.”

“What do you think I’m going to do, ‘Hide?” The agent’s voice takes on just a touch of anger and cuts off, as the pair take their conversation to comms.

Ironhide wins, evidently - a klik later, he re-enters the room, without Hound. The outcome isn’t ideal - Prowl would have preferred to leave now with a less aggravated interrogator - but he remains still regardless, feigning recharge as Ironhide moves to the door of his cell.

The red mech pauses for another moment before tapping on the bars. Prowl flicks a wingtip, as if catching the noise for the first time, and lets out a soft grumble of his engines as he pushes himself up.

“Where - ah. Ironhide.” He shrugs the thermal sheeting off, makes a show of stretching his wings to full extension. “Good afternoon.”

“G’d afternoon.” The accent is back, flawlessly heavy. “Ops mech came by - they wan’ ta talk ta ye, in a bit. Told ‘em ye’d need a joor ta be ready.”

“Thank you.” He feigns just a hint of surprise, pushes just a little gratitude into his field, even though Ironhide is well outside it’s range. “May I ask what I should be expecting?”

Ironhide glances at him, considering. Prowl honestly doesn’t expect an answer - Ironhide shouldn’t answer, anticipation is one of the chief tools used by interrogators, and most wield it like a knife - but the red mech shrugs. “Eh, I wouldn’t let yerself get stressed, mech. They ain’ gon’ do much to ye - th’ mech they got’s more snarl than slagger, if ye catch my drift. ‘Specially on a primary ‘terrogation.”

He grins at the surprised look on Prowl’s face. “What, ye don’ think I gotta like ‘em just ‘cause Prime has me workin’ wit the fraggers? Give ‘em slag, mech. I don’ mind.”

Prowl lets the ATS play with that - weighing the odds. Either Ironhide is far more sympathetic than he appears, or Ironhide has a long-standing feud with Special Operations and is so unprofessional as to be willing to interfere in an investigation because of it, or, unlikely though it might appear, it’s an incredibly clever ploy, intentionally playing on his own knowledge of interrogation tactics to sacrifice an effective primary interrogation for a strong rapport with his jailer…

Or he’s lying to throw Prowl off-guard before he’s hauled off and tortured. Incongruous as it seems, this isn’t an enforcer interrogation - the rules his interrogator follows will be different, if there are any at all.

Still, rather than letting concern - or fear - show on his frame, he rises, stretching his back, then his wings, to full extension. There’s plenty of room for that, at least, though the cell is too small for much else.

“I’ll see what can be arranged.” He gives Ironhide a reserved smile, and the red mech grins back - his countenance, at least, seems genuine.

“Great.” Ironhide spins one finger in the air. “Turn ‘round, and step ta th’ back wall. Place yer hands behind yer back - ye know th’ drill, mech.”

He does, and he complies, sliding his arms into the position where they can most comfortably be cuffed for transport. Ironhide waits until he’s fully against the wall before unlocking the door - as soon as it’s open, the red mech is moving, one hand pressing between Prowl’s doorwings to hold him in place while the other expertly snaps each cuff around a wrist. It’s done quickly and expertly - Prowl wouldn’t attempt such a maneuver without another enforcer as backup, even on a seemingly-compliant prisoner, but he also rarely outmasses a prisoner as substantially as Ironhide does him. The moment the cuffs are secure, the weight is off his back, and Ironhide steps away to give him space to turn.

He tests the cuffs almost automatically - a quick, sharp, tug with his wrists - but settles the moment Ironhide’s gaze begins to harden with concern. “Apologies - it’s reflex.” Ironhide relaxes somewhat at that, but his gaze is still watchful as he guides Prowl out of the cell.

As he’s led down the hall, Prowl considers the red mech further - every action he takes is performed expertly, as if Ironhide had a great deal of experience managing prisoners. It's obvious that he, and the mechs actually choreographing his interrogation, intend to leverage rapport between him and Prowl - but it’s not clear what the actual expected outcome is of such a strong attempt.

The walk is a short one - Ironhide brings them to a halt beside a locked door, which clicks open to his codes, and ushers Prowl inside. The interrogation room is typical - clean, white lines, brightly but not harshly lit, with a handful of cameras providing obvious coverage and doubtless another handful hidden to capture the remaining angles for analysis. One wall - to his left - has a black panel running the length of it; not mirrorized, but impenetrable even as he flickers through various optical settings; they’ve wisely left the lights in the observation room behind it to prevent him from simply switching to a depolarizing filter and looking right through. In the center of the room is a table, wide and heavy enough to provide a physical barrier between himself and his interrogator; two chairs, neither bolted to the ground, but heavy enough not to skid with sudden movement.

Ironhide gestures him to the wall beside the door. “Here, turn ‘round.” Prowl complies easily, letting the larger mech first uncuff him before resecuring his hands in front of him, and follows as he’s led to the table, cuffs hooked to a loop on the flat surface as he sits and locked in place. It’s not particularly uncomfortable.

Ironhide steps back, giving him a last glance before leaving him to wait alone.

Chapter Text

It’s almost a joor before anything of note happens. Prowl spends the time keeping himself engaged - he works back through his encounter with Hound, then with Ironhide, establishing profiles on both mechs before setting them to compile in background processes and returning his attention to the room.

The light in the observation room remains off - not too frustrating; he has a rough idea of who will be there. Currently, two interrogators, the primary and a secondary, who will observe and feed the primary topics; a supervisor, who will make sure that whatever rules have been established for the interview are followed; a stenographer, who will record the interrogation and manage transcripts; and a psychologist, who will be observing his reactions and offering feedback to the primary interrogator. Plus any outside observers, and any mechs involved as props - not a small complement of mechs, but then, grabbing an enforcer off the street is not a small matter.

That checked, he turns his attention to the cuffs. They’re a model he’s familiar with - sturdy, reliable, and difficult to pick. Before Praxus, he would have been held by them easily - after the first ‘encounter’ where he was restrained with his own duty cuffs, he put in the effort to learn. It would be no more than a klik’s effort to have them open, but he leaves them closed - improperly-bound and fully-alert is far preferable to manacled and half-stasised, and it’s just as likely to be a test as a genuine attempt at restraint.

He’s just finished examining the cuffs when the door unlocks. Seven breems.

The green mech that steps through is very familiar - Hound. The flashier yellow-and-red frame that follows him is not - a heavily-modded racing frame, not quite to the point of reformat, but rebuilt in the style of an armored military scout. He moves fluidly, like a mech with training in blades, but he’s obviously young - not much older than Prowl, and far less self-assured.

He’s also bristling with feigned aggression, plating flared, optics artificially bright, sharpened dentae bared in an attempt at an intimidating grin. It might work, if Prowl met him down a dark alley late one night - but this is an interrogation, the red mech is a prop, and he knows how the game is played.

He remains silent as Hound trudges over to take his seat. The green mech looks in better repair - the weld mark on his leg is gone without a trace, and so is the limp.

He doesn’t say anything, however, shuffling through a few flimsies and stauchly ignoring Prowl’s gaze as the red mech settles into place behind him with a glare. After a klik, Prowl decides to take the initiative.

“I’m glad to see your leg is recovered.” He gestures down with the faintest hint of a smirk, and feels a flicker of satisfaction when the green mech glances up at him. “I must say, I wasn’t aware that Metallicato placed such an emphasis on trucheoning your unaware victim in the back of the helm. Seems to lack the… honor… so often associated with the training, but as I said, I’m no martial artist.”

That gets the faintest flicker of a grin from the red mech, one quickly schooled away - inexperienced, then, as well as young. Hound shuffles the last of the flimsies into order, and sets them aside.

“Fair enough. If I knew anything about Metallicato, I’m sure I’d agree with you.” The green mech leans back in his chair with the relaxed air of a mech in control of the room. “Prowl - first of Iacon, now of Praxus. I’m sure you know why you’re here.”

He suspects, but doesn’t know - and he’s handled too many interrogations to so easily incriminate himself.

“I am here, according to Ironhide, because I’ve been detained - ‘at the pleasure of the Prime’, I believe were his exact words.” He shrugs. “Or did you mean why I’m in Iacon? I was to attend my brother’s promotion - at Commander Ultra Magnus’ invitation.”

The red mech’s engine snarls at the disrespectful tone, and the non-answer, but Hound gestures him back with a reproachful word. “Hot Rod...” He returns his attention to Prowl with a carefully grim look, ready to move in for another attempt. “Prowl -”

“Really, Hound.” Prowl gestures to the bristling red mech. “We both know that I know how this game is played - we were probably trained by some of the same mechs. You bring in a thug who doesn’t need to play by the rules -”

He glances at Hot Rod, who’s bristled a little more sincerely at that. “- No offence intended, we used members of other units also. What are you, palace guard? Not military, at least -”

He trails off at the look of surprise on the red mech’s face - and grins at the fatal error: Hot Rod’s glance flickers, for just a moment, to Hound, seeking direction.

“Ah - never look at your handler; comms only, always. Don’t worry, you’ll learn.” With a dismissive flare of his wings he focuses back on Hound, who’s looking… not off-balance, his frame control is solid, face carefully blank, but that itself seems to be the other mech’s tell. “You bring in the ‘thug’, he rattles his cage a little, slams me up against the wall, you pull him off of me and kick him out of the room, and I find in my spark a sudden fondness for my savior.”

He gives an airy gesture - as airy as he can manage with his hands cuffed - at the three of them - Hot Rod, who’s doing his best to school his expression and failing, Hound, whose blank poise shows a long, hair-thin crack in the slight wideness of his optics, and himself, upright, defiant, amused.

“Was that how this was supposed to go?”

Hound gives him a long, measuring look before turning to Hot Rod. “You can go. Grab the two of us some energon on your way out.”

The red mech’s frame relaxes minutely as he heads for the door, darts outside - and returns, a moment later, with an already-prepared tray. Prowl waits until he’s set the energon down to reach out, using the full play of the cuffs to brush his hand. “It was nothing you did - your handler shouldn’t have set you in with a turbowolf.”

The touch, and the words, get him a single bright-opticked look of surprise before the gaze narrows with suspicion. Hot Rod leaves in a worse mood than he had entered in, plating drawing defensively tight.

Prowl takes the opportunity to push the attack - meeting Hound’s look with a shrug. “What? You shouldn’t have. Should have placed him to guard me, and had Ironhide as the dumb muscle - he’s a good mech, but he could pull it off, and he’d have leverage.” Well-built as Hot Rod is, he’s still only around a foot taller than Prowl, and not much larger for all his heavier armor - and there’s something to be said for the intimidation factor of hoisting a mech off his feet.

Unless one of his earlier theories was correct, and Ironhide won’t work with Ops - which, given the slight twitch Hound gives at the suggestion, is beginning to look more and more likely.

It takes Hound a moment to speak, and his words, when he says them, are considered. “At least you were nice about it, I suppose.” He gives a flinty grin. “Hot Rod is very good at his job. I’m just relieved I don’t have to send the Prime back one of his bodyguards in pieces.”

That is surprising. The use of one of the Prime’s personal guards… indicates either a sustained interest in his case, or personal intervention by someone with the authority to request it - a short list, doubtless. It’s not something he can afford to dwell on - he feeds the information to his ATS and moves on.

“I will say… a fairly pedestrian attempt at intimidation. Did you expect it to work, or were you only interested in my reaction?” He gestures behind himself. “I will say, once you’ve been strung up over a smelter, everything else underwhelms. You could have at least invested in some atmosphere.”

Hound’s interest perks, and Prowl makes ready - the interrogator’s reaction to the slip of offered information will tell him plenty about the mech’s actual interest in him. Hound is obviously an expert - the ease with which he changed tack when Prowl called out his first attempt at guiding the interrogation is enough to give that away - but Prowl is no inexperienced thug.

“Is that how Meister persuaded you to work for him, then?” Only the fact that, despite his hopes, he was expecting it allows Prowl to keep his expression flat at that. “Dangled you over a smelting pit until you gave in and begged?”

It’s a classic technique - offer him an out, give him just enough rope to hang himself denouncing his co-conspirator. A weak mech - a coward - might panic, spin the offered lie, and talk just enough to walk himself into a trap he couldn’t walk out of.

Prowl does not consider himself a weak mech or a coward. He does not panic - he logs the acknowledgement that they have brought him here because of his work with Meister, and moves past it.

“I do not work for Meister.” He doesn’t bother with any further denial, with excuses or evasion - if they’ve gone this far, brought him to Iacon to draw the noose shut, they already have compelling evidence that he does.

And indeed, Hound slides a sheet of flimsy across the table to him. The image paints an undeniable picture - himself, standing besides Meister and Jasper, Rhodolite’s frame grey behind them, the whole scene washed out with the deep red glow of the crucibles - but not washed out enough to hide the glimmer of pink energon splashed across his frame.

He lifts the image, examines it carefully. It appears to have been taken from around thirty feet away - cannot have been taken from further, not even with a telephoto lens, with how the haze from the crucibles distorted vision. He would have noticed a surviving mech at that range - even distracted by Jasper, the snikt of a lens cycling shut for an exposure is distinctive, a sound he’s been primed to detect.

He glances up at Hound, leaning back a little as he pushes the flimsy back to the other mech. “Fair enough. You found a very quiet photographer.”

“When he wants to be.” Hound’s lips quirk, just a little, at that. “Who do you think was behind the blast doors - and your daring escape? We had business of our own with Rhodolite, but I think the two of you… intrigued… our agent.”

Prowl considers that for a moment. “Jasper had nothing to do with us, beyond our rescuing him. He knows nothing of value that you haven’t already learned by capturing me, and I will not trade information or action for his continued well-being.”

“I know.” Hound nods, at that. “Relax, mech - your kid is safe. Made it to Iacon fine - our agent made sure he got to someone who could give him a hand, and get him settled in. Jasper’s out of this entirely.”

Prowl believes it. If Hound lies about Jasper’s safety, and Prowl finds out, he will never comply, he will lock down his vents and fry his own processor before he gives them anything - he knows it, and Hound knows it, and that should be enough to keep him honest.

“Thank you.”

“So, you and Meister, assassins for hire, huh? Or do you have a more informal set-up?” Hound pauses. “We know you worked together on the Feldspar case - how many times have you had the subjects of your investigations offed, officer?”

“Just the once.” Hound looks disarmed by the easy response, and Prowl gives him just a hint of a smirk - he knows, and Hound knows, that he’s just cut off another line of aggressive questioning at the knees. It’s a bad position for the interrogator to have allowed himself to get into - he’s still asking the questions, Prowl’s still answering, but now Hound is off balance and Prowl is on his pedes. “Too often, and it might draw attention to me - but just the once, we made an exception. Meister was… determined, that Feldspar should see some justice done, and I found myself too short-handed to deny him the opportunity.”

Hound doesn’t react for a moment, optics flickering - a giveaway that, behind the observation window, multiple mechs have decided to offer feedback simultaneously. It’s not a surprise - he’s just handed them an interrogation’s worth of information in a single answer. He’s familiar enough with the effects of a sudden overload of data to take pleasure in watching how it scatters Hound’s focus, a crash in microcosm, spread between a half-dozen mechs.

Unlike a crash, however, it takes only a few seconds for Hound to rally - doubtless expediently ignoring the mechs behind the glass. It gives him another advantage - now, for a klik or two, he is dealing with the interrogator alone.

“Bring me a datapad.”

“No.” Hound leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with forced, casual defiance - a deliberate move to provoke him. And a wise choice - buying the green mech time, inviting an argument that will distract Prowl without letting him push his advantage. Prowl doesn’t let himself be goaded.

“Bring me a datapad.” Prowl lets his optics narrow accusingly - two can play at this game, and he learned among the best. “Unless our Prime’s agents are so, shall we say, so basically incompetent that they cannot even manage to secure a datapad enough to hand it to a prisoner? I’m not asking for net access, agent, I’m asking for a data transfer.”

He lets derision drip from his tone, insult clear - but Hound just chuckles. “Slag, mech - I can see why Barricade didn’t give a slag when we said you were quitting. I’d hate to have to work with that attitude, too.”

The intended provocation is obvious - hearing that his commander had cared so little for him would hurt to the spark, if Hound was talking about Ultra Magnus, about any decent commander. As it stands...

He grins with bared teeth. “Barricade is a despicable oathbreaker who has whored out the Praxian Enforcers to the bands of criminals and thugs destroying our city.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “If I am going to be executed for my crimes, I will at least see that he rusts for his.”

“Executed, huh?” Hound’s posture hasn’t changed an inch - his gaze is as steady and precise as a scalpel.

“I know what I’ve done, agent. I knew from the very beginning what the consequence for being caught would be. Bring me a datapad.”

Hound watches him for another moment, and Prowl meets his gaze unflinching. Hound breaks the stare first - and flicks a hand into subspace to slide a datapad across the table. “Have fun.”

Prowl takes the datapad with a sense of relief - whatever else, having it in hand means that the interrogation is effectively over. They will bring him back, probe more into his relationship with Meister, looking for anything they can use against the assassin - but not quickly. Instead, they’ll pour over every scrap of information he provides them, all the evidence he’s collected against Barricade and the Praxian Enforcers, every frame and every moment of this interrogation, looking for strategies to use against him, angles to press.

It won’t buy him much time - a cycle, two if he’s lucky, while they plan out a follow-up interrogation - but if he’s lucky, it will be enough, enough time for Ratchet or Red Alert or Meister to figure out that something has gone wrong and put themselves out of reach of Spec Ops.

It takes almost two breem to finish downloading the data. Not just because of the volume - though the connection to the datapad is slow enough to grate - but as he processes it, Prowl arranges it neatly, sorting it for ease of review in traditional enforcer style rather than his own ATS-optimized system.

There’s not even a hint of irritation on Hound’s face when he disconnects - nor a hint of suspicion he’s been drawing the download out. The interrogator’s face is calm, not impassive - and his field teeks just a touch of gratitude, hand brushing Prowl’s as he accepts back the datapad.

“What do you expect us to do with this?” It’s an earnest question, most likely - unproductive, except as part of developing a broader picture of him as a subject, and asked with a curious tone that seems unfeigned. Prowl leans back, again, regarding the interrogator - debating the merits of an honest answer.

“I am an enforcer.” He decides to give one. “I served with distinction in Iacon for more than a millennia. I received a commendation, like clockwork, for meritorious service, every single centivorn I worked in this city. I trained directly under Ultra Magnus - and I hope you don’t think he would overlook corruption in a subordinate.”

It’s all information they will have access to; his record in Iacon is public. Even his sealed records have, no doubt, been accessed - the Prime’s agents have that authority.

“Then I went to Praxus. I didn’t want to transfer, but they requested a tactician, and in the interests of strengthening Iacon’s bond with a fellow Torus state, I was selected. My enforcer programming was transferred to Praxus, and to Barricade as my commander, and I went.” He almost spits the word. “I’m sure you’re aware of how our coding works, Hound. I was loyal. My commander told me not to communicate with Ultra Magnus, and I obeyed. For orns, and vorns, until the coding wore so thin from neglect that it didn’t matter anymore. I want him to rust for that.”

“Your record in Praxus is… uninteresting.” Hound gives him another curious look. “You’ve got no reprimands for disobeying orders. Did you stay clean, or…”

“I stayed clean.” Prowl snarls it - and knows, with a detached sense, that he’s made a mistake, let himself push a button that the interrogator missed, but he’s angry and dead and he suddenly, desperately, wants someone to know what Praxus, what Iacon, did to him. “I stayed clean for a centivorn, more than a centivorn, while my own commander plotted against me! When thugs came to my door in the night!”

He surges to his pedes, knocking his chair back, furious at the accusation, at the thought that he wouldn’t have - slams his fists against the table as his engine snarls fury. “Until the cycle - the joor! - I had to choose between innocent mechs and my own honor, I was clean!”

Hound has leaned away from the force of his anger, optics going bright with alarm for a moment - as Prowl deflates, rage passing as quickly as it came, his gaze flickers to the door, his fingers flick in dismissal, sending off the guards no doubt readying themselves behind it. Suddenly it’s all Prowl can do to stand there, leaning on the table, exhausted, with a hollow feeling where his spark should be - all he can do to keep his face blank. He wants to keen.

“I believe you.” The last of his anger leaves him as Hound rises, as the green mech rounds the table - but the interrogator only sets his chair back upright, places a hand on his shoulder to lower him back down before returning to his own seat. His voice is sincere, and soft, and Prowl can’t tell if it’s humoring him or if the interrogator is actually sympathetic.

Hound pushes one of the energon cubes towards him. “Drink something.” It takes a moment for Prowl’s fingers to steady enough to lift it, but he manages without spilling any - it’s cool and sour and strong.

The interrogator watches him for another moment before rising, again - crossing to the door and waiting patiently for it to open. Giving him a moment ‘alone’ - except, of course, for every other mech watching him - as he leans out into the hallway to speak to the guard. There’s a minute’s quiet discussion - he could listen in, but he doesn’t care - before Hound returns, thermal blanket in hand.

“Slag yourself.” Prowl tries to put anger into the curse, but he’s too tired. He doesn’t resist as Hound tucks it over his wings, wraps it around his shoulders. The interrogator doesn’t even react.

“Keep drinking.”

He does - small sips, careful, as the green mech settles back down. Hound drinks from his own cube - flecked red with savory goethite - in deeper draughts, timed to finish at the same time he does. The interrogator doesn’t speak, or push Prowl to - and Prowl uses the chance to settle himself, settle his spark, as warmth and sensation slowly return and replace the numb hole in his chest.

By the time he drains the cube, he’s stable again.

“Thank you.” He sets it aside, shrugging his wings until the blanket loosens, resettles his plating back into a more casual posture.

“Not a problem, mech.” And they both know it - know he’s given away far more than he intended to, even if none of it will lead them to Meister. Know it’s a weapon they’ve been given against him - now the only question is how, and when. “I do believe you. For what that’s worth. And I think we’re done here for today.”

He withdraws the datapad from his subspace, lets the lights reflect, flickering, across the dark screen. “I’ll have my mechs take a look at this, Prowl. See what there is to be done. Prime has taken an… interest… in the affairs of Praxus, of late - he’ll hear about this. Beyond that, I make you no promises.”

It’s… better than he had hoped for, honestly - he’s never met Optimus Prime, never even seen him, but the mech is an old friend of Ultra Magnus’; there’s a chance, if he’s lucky, that Magnus will even be set to investigate further, if the Prime finds his evidence compelling. The thought of Ultra Magnus facing down Barricade - of Ultra Magnus bringing all of Praxus to heel - is enough to shake off the last staticky exhaustion.

“Again, thank you.” He pauses for a moment. “I don’t suppose I’ll be returned to my cell, now? I’m sure the camera coverage is more than adequate for our observers -” he gestures, for the first time acknowledging the dark strip of glass, “- to finish witnessing my breakdown from the comfort of my cot?”

“I’m sure it will be. Ironhide will be here in a few kliks.” Hound gives him a curious glance. “How many of the cameras did you find?”

Three, would be the honest answer. Four, counting hypotheticals. But the way Hound looks at him, the way he phrases the question… “Five.”

The interrogator huffs a laugh at that - dismissive - but there’s something subtly off about it. “There are only four cameras in that room.”

Prowl meets his gaze, and holds his mettle, voice light but firm - it’s petty, but he’ll take one last inch of victory before returning to his cell. “No, there aren’t. There are five.”

Hound sits for a moment, face blank, optics even, deadly still. Prowl meets his impassivity and matches it, steady as a knife - until Hound gives another chuckle, frame relaxing back down. “Slag, you are pretty good.” He huffs. “There are seven - you’re only supposed to be able to find three. Let me know if you can figure out the other two.”

That means there are either six - if Hound is trying to bait him out and test his honesty for their next interview - or nine - if the information from the cameras is more valuable than bait. Either way, it doesn’t matter - he will inform Hound that he’s found six, unless he genuinely finds more than that; the actual number is trivial compared to the back-and-forth it earns him.

He’s spared having to carry the conversation further, however, by a knock at the door. Ironhide enters a moment later, as Hound rises to his pedes.

“Hound.” The red mech gives the interrogator a nod. “Prowl.”

“He’s all yours, Ironhide.” Hound gestures to him. “Handing off - I’m done here.”

Ironhide brushes past him to unclip the cuffs from the table, a firm hand on Prowl’s shoulder half-lifting him to his pedes as Hound crosses to wait by the door. Ironhide holds him at arm's length, turns him, turns him again, optics carefully examining the whole of his frame before settling on his wrists with an irritated hum.

Prowl glances down - only suddenly aware of the scrapes in his paint where the cuffs rubbed against it during his bout of temper. He shakes his helm. “Nothing he did, Ironhide. I was… frustrated.”

The hum dials back - not gone, but eventually Ironhide seems satisfied that no physical harm has been done to him, and it fades entirely. “Handing off, Hound.” He gestures to the wall as Hound slips out the door, and Prowl complies as his hands are recuffed behind him.

They’re already moving down the hall before Ironhide speaks again.

“‘e din’ slag ye too bad, did ‘e, mech?” His voice is low and soft - not quite concerned, but sympathetic.

Prowl shakes his helm. “No, it was… a successful interrogation. Stressful. Nothing terribly interesting - he kept well within the limits of even an enforcer interrogation, and I’m sure he had the leeway to go further.” Successful on both fronts - for all Hound managed to get out of him, none of it will lead him to Meister, or Ratchet, or Wheeljack. Or Red Alert, though Prowl doubts he’s in any position to be threatened.

Ironhide gives a considering hum, at that. “Eh, Hound’s a good sort. Not many of them are, but he’s decent.”

“He’s skilled.” He’d been able to shake the interrogator, but the green mech hadn’t slipped unrecoverably at any point. Prowl has been involved in enough interrogations - typically as observer, but more than once as primary interrogator - to know what it looks like when an interrogation goes off-rails entirely, and he made no attempt to go easy on Hound. “Professional.”

“‘e’s all right.” Ironhide shrugs. “Not ‘is specialty. Used ta be a scout, durin’ th’ war - worked fer me, fer a good while. Was a shame, ta lose ‘im ta this slag.”

Prowl considers that, for a moment - Hound has the frame of a scout, perhaps, but it’s obvious that he’s not held back by his former career. “He’s made the shift well, then.” He pauses. “How about Hot Rod? He seemed… inexperienced?”

Ironhide seems genuinely surprised at that. “They had Roddy there?” He chuckles, and Prowl carefully files the nickname away in case he ever needs to needle the red-and-yellow racer. “‘e’s not a spy, mech, ‘e’s Primesguard! What’d they ‘ave ‘im doin’, mugging fer ye?”

At Prowl’s small smirk, he laughs again. “Slag, ‘e must’ve been terrible. I’ll ‘ave a chat with ‘im - ‘ope ye didn’ shred ‘im too bad?”

“He was trying.” Prowl shrugs. “Might even have done well, if I hadn’t known what it was.”

“Fair ‘nuff.” Ironhide unlocks the door to the cell room, gesturing him inside. “They fuel ye?”

Prowl nods, and Ironhide tromps past him to unlock the cell itself. “In ye get, then.” He gestures Prowl to the wall. This time, he doesn’t uncuff his hands right away - instead, there’s the odd, squirming sensation of another mech checking his subspace. “I know th’ medic says it’s offline, but I’ve been caught off by too many mechs wi’ an ‘offline subspace’ nah ta check. Sorry, mech.”

“Understandable.” After another moment, Ironhide’s fingers withdraw, and the cuffs unlock - Prowl waits until the cell door latches behind him to step away from the wall.

Ironhide nods to him from the other side of the bars. “Gimme a shout if ye need sommat.” Then he rounds the corner, and Prowl’s wings follow him back to his seat.

Prowl doesn’t wait to collapse back onto the cot. Even with the staticky exhaustion passed, he’s still tired, so tired his frame almost aches with it. He takes only a moment to unravel the blanket from his doorwings, flicking it free - it’s thicker than the one he was originally provided, and softer, and he lets the ATS debate if leaving it to him was an intentional reward for his compliance or an oversight during a hasty hand-off as he folds the thinner blanket to cover the berth pad. It’s not much more insulation, but it softens the firm foam into something a little more comfortable as he settles on top of it - and, tossing the warmer blanket to drape over himself, feeds power to the ATS until he can sink into deep and dreamless recharge.

Chapter Text

Prowl wakes up slowly, and more comfortably than he fell asleep - his frame is warm, aches soothed away as his tense cables relaxed, and the room around him is quiet. Ironhide’s engine is a faint rumble around the corner, but it doesn’t send up any immediate warnings to speed his boot - the red mech has, so far, been friendly enough, and he will have plenty of warning if Ironhide does decide to come after him.

He spends a moment laying still, not focusing on the room around him at all, as he begins to sort through the ATS’s conclusions from the night before. The computer has been running hard all night - more to keep him from being overwhelmed by stress than because he needed the processing power - but that’s given it time to produce a double-handful of analysis.

He examines the profiles it’s compiled on Ironhide, Hot Rod, and Hound first. Hot Rod’s is the least interesting - a Prime’sguard, which is notable, but a young one. Unlikely to be brought back as part of further interrogations, after how easily he spooked - and, on reflection, Prowl is almost certain that that was intentional, that Hound had been evaluating his reactions rather than intending to allow Hot Rod to harm him. Ironhide’s reaction to his scuffed wrists certainly backs that - the guard had been meticulous in checking him for injury, in a way that further backs Prowl’s growing belief that the red mech’s enmity for the SpecOps mechs he’s working with is entirely sincere.

It’s an odd realization, and confusing. Ironhide is obviously highly-ranked, perhaps even Prime’sguard himself - the ATS has dredged a half-dozen half-remembered image captures of the mech standing with or near the Prime at festivals and public speeches, although none of them are tagged with any sort of ident marker that would clarify his position. He certainly has some kind of authority - memory of the easy confidence with which he had argued with Hound when they were ‘out of audial’ makes that obvious; Hound, too, is highly-ranked, perhaps even a commander.

But the red mech’s friendliness - and Prowl can only call it friendliness, Ironhide has been far too kind for it to be mere professionalism - seems entirely sincere, and his distaste for SpecOps makes it seem increasingly unlikely that he’s simply playing the ‘good enforcer’. Hound’s own actions seem to negate that idea, too - the light touch he’d used during their interview doesn’t fit a mech playing the ‘bad enforcer’ of a pair. He’d been more than patient - lightly pushing, but never stooping to demand answers, attempting to guide the conversation, but letting Prowl take the lead when he had decided to go in a different direction. It’s the mark of an expert interrogator, at least during a primary interrogation - allow yourself to feel out the subject, to find out what they considered important, and position yourself for a more productive second and third interview.

Prowl has no intention of making any of the green mech’s interviews productive - but he’s also bitterly aware that, at some point, he will be outmaneuvered. The primary interview, handled properly, is easy - moving forwards, Hound will be more serious. Prowl can handle the green mech when he’s well-rested, fueled enough to keep his ATS running, uninjured - hurt, exhausted, hungry, he will eventually slip against an entire team of hidden, professional interrogators. It’s just a matter of how long he can buy before giving in.

For now, though, he has some degree of safety. He has information - useful information - that they seem to want, information he can give up with minimal risk to himself. Sacrificing his files on the Praxian enforcers was over-ambitious, perhaps, an impulsive decision - it would have been wiser to give it to them little-by-little, a steady stream of information to whet their appetites and distract them as they went, but…

He had wanted to shock them, to shake them out of the give-and-push rhythm of an interrogation that Hound was trying to build. It had worked, there. And more than that…

Insurance. No matter what happens to him, now, Barricade will pay for what he’s done. That thought ignites a warmth in his chest that makes his whole frame feel lighter - he won’t go unavenged.

He flicks through his files, trying to figure out where to direct their conversation today. His notes on the gang lords catch his optic - they were extensive before he met Meister, and his involvement with the assassin has only led him to fill them out, make them as comprehensive as possible to better-fuel his own calculations. The notes on Titanium, on Galena, on Schorl and Agate, he sets aside - their files are extensive enough, and they, themselves, powerful enough, that their files will be worthwhile as distractions on their own - but his general notes, those depicting the structure of the city and it’s players, will be a good starting ground, if he can lead Hound or whomever is handling his interrogation today to them.

It won’t be as easy as demanding a datapad and uploading the files, today. Today, his interrogator will push, will refuse to be distracted - won’t let him take control of the discussion. He rates the chance that they’ll use physical force against him as low - due more to Ironhide’s attention than to any disinclination by the interrogator - but there’s a good possibility that they’ll draw the interview out far longer, trying to exhaust him. A decent chance that they’ll try something creative to disorient him - he’s well-acquainted with the enforcer playbook, but SpecOps will have far more options to deal with a resistant subject, and be far less shy about using them.

He pauses, for a moment, to calculate the likelihood that he will be subjected to either a technopath - low; the talent is rare, and they’ll be aware that he is trained to resist technopathic incursion - or a mid-level hack - more likely, but not high; his firewalls are well-designed, and his processor is uncomfortable for even welcome intrusions. Either is possible as part of a two-prong attack, using the intrusion to distract him while an interrogator questions him, or using questions to make him more vulnerable to the intrusion, but he rates that, too, as unlikely this early into the process; it is damnably hard to completely prevent a mech from snuffing their own spark, and Hound, at least, will know that if such a measure fails the first time, he will not give them a second chance.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s spent almost a joor working through the ATS backlog by the time Ironhide begins to move in the next room.

Prowl doubts the larger mech has spent any time in true recharge; more likely, he has autonomous systems that would have roused him from half-consciousness to battle-ready if a secondary observer had noticed Prowl waking up. It’s an uncomfortable way to recharge, but not uncommon among specialist guards - for the not-uncommon situations where the benefits of having one, continuous point-of-contact with the subject of an investigation are enough to justify the long recovery period for the mech in question. Ironhide will, at some point, have to repay the recharge-debt involved in spending an orn only half-sleeping, unable to sink into a deeper defrag - but for now, it gives him unparalleled flexibility to match Prowl’s, and Hound’s, schedule.

“You up?” calls the larger mech’s voice, and Prowl can hear the crackle of tight cables pulling taut as the larger mech stretches; a slight grunt as pistons pop back into alignment. “Prowl?”

“I am awake, yes.” Prowl makes a show of it - he’s still not certain where the fourth, or fifth, cameras are, so he onlines his optics with a flicker, as if only just coming out of recharge, and flares his doorwings in a wide stretch before shuffling to rise.

Ironhide has, by the time he’s sitting upright on the edge of the berth, trotted over to lean against the wall by the cell door. “Recharge well?” He asks with a nodded greeting as Prowl looks over to him.

“Yes, thank you.” It takes a moment to disentangle the blanket from his wings - he folds it, neatly, into a rectangle by the helm of his berth before rising to his pedes for a further stretch. “And you?”

“Eh, well enough. Getting too old fer this sort o’ thing, really - gonna make ‘em toss a berth down here for me, next time Ops ask me ta play guard.” Ironhide gives a soft grunt of annoyance as he rocks on his pedes. “Gonna need ta spend a whole orn in an oil bath, after this.”

“That’s fair.” Prowl gestures to the side. “There’s always the other cell.”

“Nah. I’ve kipped on enough cots fer a lifetime.” Ironhide gives him a considering look. “Speakin’ o’ - how’re ye holdin’ up? I thought ye Prax’ans were fragile, like Seekers wit tha wings - yer not gettin’ too badly banged up on tha cot, right?”

“It’s not unpleasant.” Given an orn, he’ll be sore, but for a few days? He’s recharged on worse. Still, if Ironhide is willing… he has nothing to trade the larger mech, but so far, Ironhide has seemed good-natured and concerned for his well-being. “If there was some way I could get an extra cushion for my wings, it would be appreciated.”

“Yeah, I kin do tha. What d’ye need, one o’ those wedge things?” It takes Prowl a moment to figure out what he means - the guard helpfully outlines the shape in the air. “Or just a regular pillow?”

“A pillow would be more than enough. Thank you.”

“Ain’ no problem, mech.” Ironhide gives a gentle shooing motion, and Prowl rises and steps to the back wall. “Anyway, I got orders ta bring ye down fer another interrogation. Same deal as las’ time.”

“Understood.” No attempts - no physical attempts - by Hound to collect him means that whatever argument Ironhide won is sticking - which, as the larger mech’s calm, confident hands recuff him, is a relief.

“Alright.” Ironhide re-opens the cell door, letting Prowl walk out in front of himself. “Ye know where yer goin’.”

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The lead-in is exactly the same - chairs, table, cuffed to the table, and left to sit. This time, however, there’s no suspense, no joor of waiting - within a breem of Ironhide leaving, a blue-and-yellow enforcer pushes open the door.

“Ah! Hello.” He gives a warm - and entirely unexpected - smile. “One moment - I’ll be with you in just a bit.” Then he darts out, the door clicking back shut behind him.

It’s nothing like Prowl was expecting - he had anticipated another encounter with Hound, or a grim-faced encounter with another, more senior interrogator, not a cheerful fellow enforcer. And the blue-and-yellow mech is oddly familiar - no one he worked with in Iacon, he has those faces and frames burned into primary memory, but familiar none-the-less. He sets his ATS to review archival memory as the mech bustles back through the door a klik later.

“Sorry about that!” The mech’s enthusiasm seems undimmed. “Sorry, sorry - my handler wanted to review some things in person, before I started. This is my first interrogation, and I think they’re a little worried about how it will go…”

That is astonishing - Prowl carefully hides his surprise at the blue mech’s words. Even more astonishing is the fact that he seems to be entirely sincere - it would be an interesting tack for an experienced interrogator to attempt, but the blue mech is either being honest, or an incredible liar. “Really?” It’s the only possible response he can think of.

“Well, you dumped that file on Hound yesterday - everyone’s kind of busy with that. And Bee mentioned that they wanted to interview you today, but he couldn’t figure out who to have do it - so I told him to let me, and eventually I talked him around.” The blue mech grins - and it’s only a touch, the slightest touch, predatory. “I’m really good at talking mechs around.”

“Oh?” He keeps his reply short. It’s a warning - and Prowl senses, to the spark of him, that it’s the only one he’s going to get.

“Yeah. Mechs tell me I’m disarming.” The mech gives a wide-armed shrug, and something in Prowl’s memory clicks, the ATS confirming mere moments later -

“You’re Nightbeat.”

“I’m -” That seems to have caught the other mech off-guard - he goes silent, optics widening in surprise, and this time, Prowl’s sure it’s genuine. “Huh. How’d you -”

He flinches, visibly, away from the observation window, sentence cutting off with a crackle - no doubt at the half-dozen voices telling him to cut the interview short and leave. It’s protocol, for an interrogator recognized unexpectedly by a suspect - withdraw the interrogator, arrange a replacement, determine the relationship - but Prowl is suddenly, desperately curious.

He raises his hand to the glass with a dismissive wave. “No - no, hold on - I’m intrigued. I’ll play along.” He wouldn’t allow an interrogator to remain in Nightbeat’s situation - but then, his suspects were far more able to contact the outside world and threaten their interrogator’s safety.

Never interrupt a suspect who wants to talk. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to keep Nightbeat in the room.

A moment later, Nightbeat straightens, muttering - to himself, to the voices in his comms - “Yeah, yeah, no, it’s fine - I didn’t expect, but - yeah, it’s cool. What’s he going to do?” He glances at Prowl for a moment, mouths ‘sorry’, and holds up a single finger for patience. “Seriously, no, it’s fine. He has a better memory than I expected, is all. Keep me in.”

Prowl settles back in his chair, steepling his fingers as best he can as he debates whether it’s a deliberate show for his benefit, or if Nightbeat really can’t comm without talking. Based on what he’s heard about the infamous investigator… it could be either.

Finally, Nightbeat seems to win whatever argument he’s having, and trots back to the table.

“Sorry about that! Sorry. Everybody’s got to have an opinion, feels like - this is surprisingly unpleasant, with everybody just talking in your head. I don’t know how Hound does it all the time.” He offers up another easy grin. “But hey! We know each other. How do you know me?”

“You know.” Prowl shrugs, but Nightbeat merely nods agreeably, and gestures for him to go on - wanting confirmation of his own suspicions, no doubt. “You worked on a few cases with my brother. He talked about you… extensively. In the highest regard.”

That seems to surprise Nighbeat a little - which, itself, surprises Prowl, though he doesn’t let it show. Smokescreen had never had a bad word to say about the investigator on the handful of occasions they were partnered - nothing but praise for the other mech’s talent for deduction, and amusement at the other mech’s eccentricities.

“You had left Iacon by the time I joined the force - they never would have let you in a room alone with me if we had worked together, I’m sure - but you were remembered fondly in Iacon.”

“That’s…” Nightbeat seems a little taken off guard, at that. “Wow. I thought… Well, I thought! Not the best with friends, I guess. Hey, it’s nice to know mechs were thinking of me.”

Nightbeat pauses, looking him up and down. “And you - you’re an enforcer, through and through! Last time I saw you - in person, I mean - was before you had your -” he taps his helm. “You know, that thing installed.”

“The ATS?” That is a surprise to Prowl. He has no memories of life before the computer - nothing more than a few shadowy flickers, and a bond with his brothers that he knows predates it but cannot remember anything of. It’s rare - vanishingly so - that he meets anyone willing to acknowledge it, to acknowledge that there was a youngling Prowl who doesn’t exist anymore because of it. “I’m sorry. If we did meet, it’s gone now.”

There’s no risk to giving that away - it’s common knowledge. Nightbeat waves it off, regardless. “Not a big deal - it was only a few times, holiday parties, things like that.”

“You didn’t tell them about that beforehand, of course.” He gestures at the observation window. “They wouldn’t have let you in here if you had.” It’s an astonishing oversight - or a clever lie. One that he can’t disprove - and if Nightbeat seemed any better of a liar, he’d be certain that was it.

“Is it that big a deal?” Nightbeat looks genuinely surprised at that. “I mean, it was just a couple parties - they knew about me and Smokey, and that didn’t stop them from bringing me in.”

“I’m not the only mech who can enter an interview biased, Nightbeat.”

“Oh.” It seems that that genuinely hasn’t occurred to the blue mech - he considers it for a moment before shrugging. “Eh, it’s probably fine. I’m not too worried about talking you around, anyways - really I’m just here to talk, period. That’s what I told Bee!”

“Really?” It makes absolutely no sense to allow Nightbeat within a hundred miles of an interrogation. Prowl, despite himself, is fascinated. He logs the new name - “Bee,” obviously a commander, possibly Nightbeat’s handler - almost as an afterthought.

“Well, I just pointed out to them that you know how the game is played.” Nightbeat shrugs, gesturing at him. “You and me, we both know exactly what you’re doing - you’re going to drag this interview out to a reasonable length, then find some excuse to give me a big pile of information so that Bee will end the session and buy your friend Meister another day to escape.”

“I see.” Nightbeat’s assumption is accurate, but Prowl has no intention of giving him that. “So having you ‘interrogate’ me…?”

“The rest of them seem really caught up on that last bit - the letting your friend escape bit.” Nightbeat says it with full confidence and an easy smile. “They’re very goal-oriented, which is admirable! But I just pointed out that even if you don’t tell me anything about Meister, you’ll talk to me and give me a big pile of information to stop asking questions.”

“So they might as well send you.” Get whatever they can from him - and, though he doubts Nightbeat realizes it, take away from what he can tell them in the future. Eventually, he will run out of things he’s willing to give them - that’s when these interrogations will turn truly unpleasant. Until then, as long as he can maintain the facade of a compliant prisoner, he and Meister are both relatively safe.

Nightbeat doesn’t seem to notice the dour tone to his words, however. “Exactly!” The blue mech offers him a bright smile. “So go ahead and uncuff yourself - thanks for being so polite about that, by the way - and let’s chat.”

Then he winces again, and physically leans back from the window - not just flinching this time, bending back as if blown by the force of the comms inflow. “Ow, ow - holy slag, everyone shut - ow ow ow ok I’m going to block everyone except Bee now -” His optics flicker dark for a second, and he straightens as they relight. “No, Bee, it’s fine - he could’ve just popped them, he’s not gonna - no, of course he’s not going to attack me, you saw his psych profile - one klik -”

Prowl flickers his optics coolly as Nightbeat refocuses on him. “You’re not going to attack me, right?”

“Of course not - as much as I’d rather not be executed, I accept the legitimacy of my detention. I’m not going to attempt to escape.”

“Executed? Huh - we’ll come back to that, maybe - see, he’s not going to try to kill me, Bee! Just let me - look, I’m handling it, just tell everyone else to shut up and let me handle it and I’ll let them back on comms.” He falls silent for a moment, then slumps in relief at whatever answer he gets. “Alright. Primus.”

Prowl leans across the table to take one of the energon cubes with his freshly uncuffed hands. “It takes some getting used to. If you begin performing interrogations on a regular basis, they’ll get more used to your style, and stop second-guessing your judgement so much.”

“Eh, I doubt I’d bother. Honestly, I only bothered with you because you’re so interesting.” Nightbeat waves his hand in the air dismissively, taking the other cube before kicking his chair back to balance on two legs, and swinging his pedes up onto the desk with a decidedly casual air. “Otherwise, it seems like an awful lot of work just to talk to somebody.”

“It takes a passion.” Prowl nods agreement. “Hound seems well-suited to it. But a fresh optic can be useful, I suppose.”

“Well, I’m the freshest set of optics in the business!” Nightbeat bobs his helm. “Anyways, so - your brother! Smokey! How is he? It’s been ages since I talked to anybody from my Iacon days.”

It’s not the tactic he would have chosen - but, fortunately, it’s an entirely benign line of questioning, one that fits well with what he’s seen of Nightbeat so far. He sips his energon before answering, mulling over the rich, dense texture. “You may well have spoken to Smokescreen more recently than I. I haven’t had any words with him in over a centivorn - not since the aqua regia incident.”

“Slag, that’s… a long time. Yeah, I saw him about five decavorns ago - he was in the city visiting your younger brother, but I had stopped by the precinct. Looks like he recovered well - he loves his work, for sure.” Nightbeat pauses for a moment. “Crystal City’s been good to him. Better than Praxus was to you, for sure.”

Prowl hesitates. “That… isn’t hard. You saw some of the information I provided Hound, I’m sure.” No doubt Nightbeat will have seen all of it, given an orn - a talent for deduction like his will be invaluable in compiling any actual case against Barricade, and in planning a response to Praxus’ corruption.

“You were being serious, then.” Nightbeat’s jovial expression vanishes, replaced by warm, concerned optics. “They neglected you so much your coding faded out?”

He’d prefer, to the spark of him, not to talk about it. Failing to form cohort… it’s almost as much of a glitch as his actual processor glitch, and just as deeply shameful. But… he pushes the shame aside. It doesn’t matter - he’ll sacrifice his pride, for whatever time it can buy him. Buy Meister. “Until it was all but gone, yes.”

Nightbeat doesn’t look reproachful. He hesitates, but there’s no judgement in his optics when he speaks. “I had the same problem.”

He says it so casually that it takes Prowl a moment to understand - that he can’t keep his gaze from shooting up, optics brightening with surprise. “What? I did. I - you know why I left Iacon, right?”

“I… no. It wasn’t spoken of. You left on good terms, however - I know that.” By the time he had joined the enforcers, Nightbeat had been gone several centivorns, but Prowl had never heard his name spoken with anything less than affection.

“Well, to be fair, I left after the second time someone tried bombing HQ to kill me.” He says it matter-of-factly, like it should be common knowledge. “Transferred to Vinvissisus Heights. I had been involved in an investigation that led us to some unfortunately high-ranking mechs - relax, Bee, I know it’s still confidential - and they tried to have me killed. Once they started getting desperate, putting other mechs in danger trying to get to me, me and Ultra Magnus decided it was best I disappear.”

It’s nothing like his own transfer - and Vinvissisus is a beautiful region, with a precinct he’s never heard any enforcer complain about - but Prowl can see how a quirky, hunted investigator might have a hard time fitting in. “You didn’t successfully form cohort when you transferred?”

“What? No!” Nightbeat shuffles his plating awkwardly. “Vinvissisus was great - I made a ton of friends there, fit me like a glove. Not very interesting - it’s a quiet little region, way too rural for my tastes - but it was never meant to be a permanent transfer. Ultra Magnus planned to keep me out of sight for a millennia or two, and then transfer me back to Iacon.”

“And now you work for the Prime.” Not as an enforcer - but something isn’t quite clicking; Nightbeat has managed to seemingly miss the point of his own story. “Your coding?”

“Oh, yeah. So I got transferred to Vinvissisus, and then, about, huh, four centivorns ago, some stuff went down in Iacon, and SpecOps needed all the mechs they could get on some real short notice. So when Ultra Magnus recommended me, and they offered me the posting, I said ‘frag it,’ and here I am!” He gestures grandly around the room. “But the thing is, when I left the enforcers for Ops - well, it wasn’t bad. Not as bad, anyways, I’m sure - but the mechs here didn’t really get what it meant to be an enforcer. I had my coding transferred to the Prime, with Special Operations as my cohort, but they didn’t have any sort of coding to reciprocate, so…”

He shrugs. “It was pretty bad for a while. We moved past it - they figured out what I needed from them, and we worked stuff out. Kind of mirrors your situation, really - your mechs had the coding, but didn’t care, and mine cared, but they didn’t have the coding. Took around three decavorn for anyone to figure out what was wrong, and why I was destabilizing so badly - maybe another decavorn to really fix it, once we knew.”

It’s intriguing - mechs leaving the enforcers permanently usually have their coding stripped and replaced with civilian code, and cases where enforcers fail to form cohort are rare - the coding bridges all but the strongest differences in personality, given enough time. It can’t make mecha into friends, of course - he’s seen enough tear-down fights between Cliffjumper and other enforcers in Iacon to know that - but even Cliffjumper works well on a team when there’s a mission on the line.

The strange, nostalgic longing that floods him at the memory of Cliffjumper’s temper is a stark reminder of how badly damaged he really is.

“So the mecha you work with here… Did they need to alter their code to balance yours?” He can’t imagine special operatives being eager to add foreign code, no matter how well-tested. “Or did you do something else?”

“Really, they just had to tweak their behavior a bit. Bring it in line with what I needed from other enforcers - the contact, the closeness.” Nightbeat waves a hand dismissively, as if he hadn’t just given Prowl everything he needed. If he expected to survive long enough to put the new knowledge to use, it would be a blessing. As it is…

A moment of silence hangs between them, stretching thin in the few moments before Nightbeat gives him an unreadable look. “I will say this - you’re a lot more stable than I was during the worst of it. How many mechs does Meister have working with him, that you’ve managed to replace the influence of a whole cohort?”

It’s an entirely token attempt - a quick, almost lazy shot across his bow. If he was very, very tired, and also either poisoned or drunk, it might have been enough to trip an answer out of him - as it is, he gives the investigator a languid smirk. “Meister and I work alone, Nightbeat.”

The blue-and-yellow mech just laughs, at that. “No, you don’t.” But he doesn’t push the line of questioning any further. Prowl would say it was deliberate, to avoid giving away how much they have figured out about Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Red Alert, but he’s beginning to honestly doubt that Nightbeat is capable of that much subterfuge. And it’s not like the assumption they have a team is an unreasonable one - especially if they know, or have guessed, how recently Prowl began assisting Meister. “Tell me about Praxus.”

“What about it?” It’s a question so vague as to be almost useless - except that, by it’s very banality, it will get him talking. Any sort of direction will keep him focused - an experienced interrogator would offer him nothing.

“I don’t know. The early days - post-transfer. You told Hound that Barricade wanted a tactician.” Nightbeat, not an experienced interrogator in the least, shrugs. “But you stayed clean, and he gave up on you - I’m assuming once he saw that you wouldn’t do what he wanted. What did he want you for?”

“All sorts of things. He never got the chance for most of it.” He pauses, pulling up the memories. “He asked me to generate methods of smuggling ‘objects’ in and out of the city. I obliged him - I saw no harm in it; I had done the same sort of work in Iacon, to help set traps for drugrunners and smugglers. But I never saw any sign that we were setting up raids or establishing chokepoints - and then he asked me for ways to smuggle mecha.”

“I asked questions.” He glances up to Nightbeat, who doesn’t look surprised. “I… was rebuffed. Reprimanded, and ordered to perform my function. I obeyed.”

“But…” Nighbeat isn’t particularly slow to prompt him, but it’s curious, gentle, not demanding.

“But I set traps. I knew where patrols would intersect - not just ours, but those outside the city proper; I knew which paths might lead mechs into the undercity and the dangers there. If we had been using the paths I generated to catch escaping criminals, it would have been no problem - they were dead-ended onto otherwise valid paths - but he was giving them to the gang lords.” Prowl doesn’t bother to hide his pleasure at the memory. “By the third or fourth captured ‘escapee’, they caught on, and… made him aware of his failure.”

The memory of Barricade - limping, one leg a mass of weld-lines and damage, protoform bruised and tender, wings low with residual pain… it shouldn’t be as sweet as it is; he shouldn’t enjoy the suffering of a fellow enforcer, even a corrupt one, like that. But… “He never asked me to work for him again, like that. Knew he couldn’t trust me - and knew that I didn’t trust him. But… even if he was corrupt, I thought I could do good for the city. I thought, if I followed orders…”

He hesitates to admit his own naiivete - but it doesn’t hurt anything, in the end. It doesn’t matter if Nightbeat and his observers think he’s a fool. “I thought they must have some hold on him - that if I could figure it out, break it, he would help me. There wasn’t. He enjoys it - the power, and the money, and having powerful mechs look to him for answers. He would throw me just enough to keep me distracted - a mech who had fallen from grace, or a criminal whose enemies paid better.”

“Why didn’t you go to Ultra Magnus?” There’s no judgement in Nightbeat’s voice - that’s the only reason he can stand to look the other mech in the optic.

“He -” His vocalizer crackles, just a bit, with static. “You know what it was, Nightbeat. Officer.”

“Yeah.” And he can hear, in the other enforcer’s voice, that Nightbeat does understand, doesn’t need to say it or hear it said to know the answer. He sent you away.

“That wasn’t everything.” He feels the desperate need to explain - to make sure that the mechs behind the glass know, too. “I just… by the time I realized what was happening, I was so isolated. My brothers, Ultra Magnus - it felt like they were a million miles away, and…”

He trails off helplessly, but Nightbeat nods. “And how could you go to them? Because the code was telling you to turn to your cohort - but your cohort had turned their backs on you.”

“Yes.” Prowl half-whispers it.

“Yeah. I remember that. The isolation. It… I talked to a couple of psychs, after we realized what was happening to me. That’s what hits first, apparently.” Nightbeat is quiet for a long, long moment. “How long was it before you met Meister?”

It’s the question he was leading up to, the pull-back to the topic of the interrogation, neatly timed to strike at a moment of vulnerability - but Prowl can hear Nightbeat’s own question behind it, too: how long did you spend alone?

“More than a centivorn.” They already know that, without a doubt - he won’t risk getting more precise, but that much won’t hurt, and he can see from the flicker of surprise in Nightbeat’s optics that it answers the mech’s other question, too.

“I’m sorry.” The other enforcer reaches out and covers Prowl’s hand with his - before flinching back. “Ow - ow, one second - alright, no touching. Primus!”

“Don’t touch your subject without clearing it with your handler.” Prowl gives him a faint smile, relieved for the distraction. “They really did just toss you in here.”

“Eh, I insisted.” Nightbeat gives him a thoroughly chagrined smile back. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just one mech yelling at me.”

“You can mute everyone but your handler, if you’d prefer.” He shrugs, gesturing at the window - to the left, where, assuming the layout is the same as most enforcer setups, ‘Bee’ will be sitting. “That is, unless your handler instructs you otherwise. He should be relaying you any relevant information from the rest of them, anyways.”

“Really?” Nightbeat gives him a considering look at that, then turns to mouth the word at the window. Evidently whatever answer he gets back satisfies him - he gives Prowl a bold smile as he turns his focus back to him. “Ah, thanks!”

“Not a problem.” It’s charming, how willing Nightbeat is to cut himself off from his own allies in front of Prowl. Foolish, but charming. The blue mech resettles in his seat, taking a sip of his energon before refocusing on their interview.

“So anyways.” Nightbeat gives him another smile, and this time, his optics are sharp. “We’ve been here, what, a joor? Plenty of talking, if you ask me - although I’m happy to keep going, if you want! But I’ll admit, I’m really curious. What were you going to distract me with? I’m sure you had something really clever put together, and I was kind of excited to see what it was.”

Prowl considers the enforcer for a moment. Ideally, he should come out of this interview having given away as little as possible - should hold onto any really interesting bits of data until he absolutely has to give them up, to buy himself as much time as possible. But… Nightbeat is fascinating, and friendly, and if Hound and the rest of his team - the mysterious Bee? - think that Prowl will slip up with him, that Nightbeat can get something they can’t…

He wouldn’t mind another interview with Nightbeat.

“Do you have a secure datapad?” Prowl holds out his hand.

Nightbeat gives a pleased hum - one tinted with just a hint of relief - at that. “Of course!” He pulls the datapad out of his subspace, and hands it to Prowl with an elaborate flourish. “There you go.”

Prowl can’t stop his optics from widening, just slightly, at that - at the faint, victorious smile on Nightbeat’s lips, and the flicker of Hand across his palm, hidden, for that flash of movement, behind the datapad. ||Status?||

It’s Enforcer ‘cant - request for the status of a unit on a mission. Nothing that will help him - nothing that hints that Nightbeat is willing to help him, except that he bothered to hide it. Even that could be a trick - an attempt to prompt him into asking for a message sent, or some other concession that will give them a clue as to how to break him. He can’t afford to risk it - and he won’t place the other enforcer at risk, if it was sincere…

Prowl gives a slight nod, just enough to show that he’s received the message, as he jacks into the datapad. With the data already assembled, transfer goes quickly, and he doesn’t bother to drag it out - it takes only a breem to have the pad fully assembled. He hands the pad back to Nightbeat with another nod, this one more a show for their observers than any message, and as he draws back, he gives the corresponding flick of his own fingers, a gesture too minor to be noticed unless a mech was looking for it, designed for crowded bars and dangerous meetings - ||Yellow.|| A slight twist of his wrist, a drop of his palm to meet the table as he pulls back and away to sit again - ||Enforcer compromised. Unit - proceeding with caution.||

“That should be useful, if Prime’s agents are interested in Praxus more generally.” He gestures at the pad, keeping his movement fluid to distract from the code. “It has a general outline of the power players in Praxus. Most of the minor ones, and their interactions with the major ganglords - I will, of course, be happy to offer up information on them to get myself out of another interview later.”

It’s playing his hand far more openly than he’d prefer, but that, itself, will be a distraction to their observers. Nightbeat seems to recognize that - he flicks out another gesture as one hand rises to his helm to rub almost bashfully at an antennae.

“Fair enough. I’ll let Hound know, huh? If you’re gonna keep anything about Meister to the bitter end, or at least until someone tricks it out of you, I’m sure he’ll at least appreciate knowing what to ask after,” he says. ||Backup unavailable,|| say his fingers. ||Good luck.||

Nightbeat won’t be helping him - but he isn’t pretending to offer it, either; his handlers don’t know that they’re communicating. It’s a gesture that touches him far more than it should - a futile little show of solidarity from a fellow enforcer that makes his spark ache. He keeps his expression steady as he replies, not breaking the other mech’s gaze.

“Thank you.” He gives a slight smile, just enough to let Nightbeat know he’s understood. “I’m sure he will. Tell him - Titanium, Galena, Schorl, Agate. He’ll know what it means, or he’ll figure it out once he sees that.”

He hadn’t intended to offer so bluntly, but now that it’s out there, he might as well. Turning distractions into leverage… in some ways, it weakens him; there’s a good chance Hound won’t end an interview over new data that’s not truly novel - but it gives him something to bargain with, a tool to negotiate with if and when Hound decides that he wants that information. A full night’s sleep, or energon, or a visit to a medic, if it gets that far…

“Praxians.” Nightbeat nods. “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll let you know. One moment - d’you mind cuffing yourself again? Bee says that ‘hide’s on his way down, and I’ll be honest, I think I’m about to go get yelled at for the next couple of joor, so it would be a big help if we could make this next bit as easy as possible?”

Prowl doesn’t bother to hold back a real laugh at that. He feels… lighter. Despite the grim tone of their conversation, he feels less alone than he has since leaving Praxus - even after just a few joor of talking to another, sympathetic enforcer. “Certainly.” It doesn’t take more than a moment to flip the cuffs back over his own wrists.

A moment later, Ironhide knocks, pushing the door open only half a klik later. He does a double-take as he gets a look at who’s in the room.

“Nightbeat?” He hesitates, giving the smaller mech a concerned look. “I wasn’ aware they were lettin’ you out o’ yer office again, after wha’ ye got up ta las’ time. They havin’ ye do interrogations, now?”

“Just the one, I think. Maybe more? I doubt it. Handing off - like I was telling Prowl, I’ve got an appointment for a debrief with a whole roomful of mechs who are very upset with me.” He gestures at the window. “Could you come by 3-C in like four joor and put a shell through my helm if they’re still going?”

“I’ll see what I kin do.” Ironhide gives a chuckle as he moves over to Prowl - but this time, he doesn’t bother with the careful examination before acknowledging the handover. “Handin’ off, Nighbeat. Get outta here, kid.”

Nightbeat shoots them both a grin as he darts out the door, letting it swing shut behind him. Ironhide doesn’t say anything else as he gestures Prowl to the wall - and Prowl can tell that they’re both still keenly aware of their observers.

Ironhide doesn’t speak until they’re out in the hall.

“They let Nightbeat interrogate ye?” He sounds absolutely stunned. “I mean - Primus, kid’s a genius, bu’ I wouldn’ let ‘im talk ta a mech who’s claimin’ ta have been shorted on a full cube o’ engex, let ‘lone handle an interrogation.”

“He did well enough.” Prowl shrugs at Ironhide’s doubtful look. “It was an attempt to catch me off-guard; at that, he was successful. I’m sure he gained plenty of information just from observing me.”

“I guess.” Ironhide doesn’t sound confident in Prowl’s assessment. “How’re ye on fuel? I know ‘is handler said that ye’d get a cube, but I dun know how low ye were goin’ in.”

It only takes a moment to check - he’s not terminally low, but the ATS has been gutting power. “Seventy percent.”

“Slag, yeah, I’ll grab ye another cube.” Ironhide looks surprised. “They did give ye somethin’, right? I ain’ lettin’ em short ye without orders ta -”

“No, no - they gave me a cube.” Implicit in the red mech’s words is the suggestion that he will, when ordered, short him fuel - and it will, eventually, be ordered. Fuel deprivation is an effective tool that will force him to face an interrogator without his ATS. “I have a very high fuel consumption.”

“Fair ‘nuff. I’ll try an’ keep tha’ in mind - can’t give ye a cube ‘fore ye meet wit’ them, if Hound or whoever says no, but I’ll make sure ye got some after.” Ironhide hesitates for just a moment, reaching out - then he lets his hand, gently, rest on Prowl’s shoulders, a warm point of contact. “They wipe ye out, again?”

“Not particularly.” Prowl hesitates. “Why?”

“Well, if we both haf’ta be stuck in tha room together, I thought ye might be open ta playin’ a game o’ Tadek.” Ironhide grins. “Now, I know ye got some kind o’ computer fer strategizin’, but I’ll warn ye - I’m a grandmaster.”

It’s an obvious attempt to build rapport, to figure out the limitations of his ATS, to… something; there is some reason Ironhide is offering, and he should remain suspicious.

He doesn’t want to.

“Then I will take particular pride in crushing you.” That gets him a hearty laugh from the red mech, and a clap on the back as Ironhide leads him back to his cell.

Chapter Text

Jazz first catches sight of the noblemech out of the corner of his optic.

He hardly thinks anything of it - the mech is elegant, certainly, all sweeping, well-polished white and blue lines, but plenty of rich mechs come to Apophyllite’s. It’s not unusual to see such a clearly wealthy mech here, even if they usually pay little attention to the mechs performing on the street.

The blue mech, however, doesn’t ignore him. Instead, he waves a hand towards Jazz as if pointing him out, before finding a table. He takes his seat, and a red flight-frame that he had hardly noticed settles in besides him, optics skimming over Jazz for just a moment before she surveys the rest of the square. A frameguard - there’s no doubt about it, the tight way she holds her plating is too familiar to mistake - and as she leans in to whisper something to the blue mech, gold paint glints off her pauldrons.

A lord’s frameguard, the name of his house written in gilt lettering along her arms and the arch of her back. Looking for it, Jazz can see the gold on the noble, too - slight glittering lines on the ridges of his plating, coiling along the curve of his helm.

He keeps playing as they order their drinks, glancing at him - occasionally leaning in to speak in hushed tones that his sensors couldn’t possibly pick up. When the energon arrives, the frameguard checks it carefully before offering one elegant cube to her lord - who accepts it with graceful, delicate hands, gaze settling fully on Jazz as he takes a sip.

It’s disconcerting, to play with the attention of someone so powerful fully focused on him - but the lord does nothing to distract him. Jazz finds his focus slipping every time the mech shifts, his own optics returning, again and again, when the blue mech raises his hand to sip his drink or call a server.

Finally, he takes a break from playing to drink his own fuel, and the frameguard rises from her seat.

She approaches slowly, working her way through his other listeners carefully rather than pushing them aside - and she’s large, large enough to force her way through easily if that was her intent. It takes a klik for her to work her way up to him, and it’s only once she’s at the front of the crowd that she meets his optics.

She leans in, dropping a cred chip in his bucket, and her voice is soft as she speaks. “My lord intends to speak to you. Wrap this up - we cannot wait long.” Then she’s gone, moving away from him with the same calm grace before he can stammer a response.

It’s enough to catch his attention, for certain. He opens a commline as he takes another sip of his cube. ::Hey, Ratchet. You have a klik?::

::Busy - in the middle of an exam. What?:: Ratchet’s tone is terse but not upset - he’ll need to keep it brief, but an exam isn’t enough of a drain on the medic’s processors to worry about.

::Just had contact with a noblemech and his frameguard. A lord.:: He sends quick image captures of them - the two together, and a closer shot of the guard’s face. ::Anyone you know?::

::No idea.:: Ratchet takes a klik to reply, no doubt checking the images against his own extensive memories. ::I don’t recognize either of them - I can check my archival files, but it’ll take a joor. What did they want?::

::Guard says the noble wants to talk. Nothing else, yet - they’ve been watching me play.:: Jazz pauses, taking another look at where the guard is settling back into her seat, the noblemech leaning in to say something. ::I’m gonna wrap things here and give it a go. Not gonna leave with them - I’ll comm in four breem. Just wanted you ta have their faces.::

::Four breem.:: Ratchet keeps the line open a moment longer, as if he’s debating saying something, and then it winks out.

“Sorry, sorry, mechs.” Jazz drains his cube, tossing the empty glass into subspace with a flick of his hands as he straightens to address the small audience still lingering around him. “Gonna have to call it early for today - ‘fraid I’ve had some personal business come up. Nothing major - I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early!”

There’s some grumbling as mechs wander off, but not much - street performers work their own joors, and everymech knows it. It doesn’t take much else to wrap up - he bows, bows again, flirts with the last few members of the crowd as it breaks up, and tucks his harp back into its case.

Then he trots across the square, case in hand, to greet his watchers.

“My lord.” He sinks into a deep, graceful bow - as graceful as he can manage, anyways, his natural poise warring with a total lack of experience. “May I be of service?”

Jazz fights down the urge to grin at the look of amused surprise on the other mech’s face.

“Lord Mirage, of the House of Twisted Glass. My companion is Flashfire.” His voice is cultured, clear, but not particularly haughty as he introduces himself - it’s as normal a voice as Jazz has heard from a noble, although, admittedly, he’s only ever heard nobles in holodramas and on the news. “You’re an excellent performer - may I ask where you were educated?”

If Jazz gave a frag about the noble’s opinion of him, it would be embarrassing to admit, but - “I’m self-taught, my lord. Never had a day of classes in my function.”

To Mirage’s credit, he doesn’t so much as blink. “A natural talent, then? Impressive. You’ve done well for yourself, ah -”

“Jazz, my lord.” Mirage gives him a warm smile at that.

“Jazz. Of course.” The lord cocks his helm to the side, optics curious. “I was wondering - I’m only in town for an orn, but I find myself looking to host a bit of a… soiree, with a few of my Praxian friends. My own musicians, unfortunately, are needed for tower business all through next vorn - might you be open to such a contract?”

It’s an intriguing offer - not the first time he’s been hired for a private show, but he’s never been approached by anyone nearly as highly-ranked as a lord before. Most often he performs for common mechs - bar owners looking for a little live music, or workers holding parties for retiring team members. Even the occasional funeral, when the mourners can’t afford the temple musicians.

“I’m always looking for work, my lord.” He gives an easy smile - a flattered musician, nothing more. “What sort of songs were you thinking?”

“Oh, this and that.” Mirage waves a hand airily. “I’m still deciding the venue. In fact, I have an appointment in half a joor… Well. How does this sound - tonight, around joor twenty-eight, meet me at the Desert Rose for a late dinner, and we can discuss it further? Gypsum is an old friend of mine - she’ll be delighted to keep the place open a little late.”

It’s a very generous offer, with not even a contract signed - the Desert Rose is a fine dining establishment far, far out of the range of what even Meister would be able to regularly afford, specializing in exotic and delicate preparations of energon. Whatever the noble considers a “late dinner” will almost certainly be worth more than Jazz earns performing in a single week - the noble’s offer will be worth it for the entertainment value alone.

“That sounds nice. Should I bring my harp?” He raises the instrument case just slightly.

“Of course - I’ll need a full idea of how the music will sound before I even begin to design the room!” Mirage gives a pleased smile.

“Alright. Thank you for the opportunity, my lord - ma’am.” He ducks his helm to Flashfire for just a moment, and she gives him a polite but watchful smile. “I’ll leave you ta your appointment, then, sir. Gotta go take care of some business of my own.”

“Of course. Joor twenty-eight - just come right in, they’ll know to expect you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He slips out onto the highway at the first onramp, and comms Ratchet. ::I’m fine, Ratch. Got a neat new job I might need your help with, though - how much d’you know about nobles?::

::We’re not assassinating a member of the nobility, Jazz.:: Ratchet’s voice is firm, but there’s just a touch of panic to the words. ::Primus, they would burn Praxus down to find us - especially a lord. Are you -::

::I didn’t mean that sort of job, Ratch. He was looking for a musician.::

::Oh.:: Ratchet relaxes, the tension draining from his voice like water. ::Oh, thank Primus. Yeah, I know a bit. What, is he throwing a party?::

::A soiree, he called it.::

::So music. Maybe dancing. Soiree means the focus of the party is on a live performer, or several - he’s asking you to be a headliner.::

::Oh.:: It’s a surprise - he’s nowhere near the level of player that he would expect to be offered such a significant role. He had expected to be background music while mechs ate and talked, at most. ::So… We’re going ta meet up tonight, ta talk specifics, apparently. At the Desert Rose. Apparently Gypsum - I’m guessing the owner? - is a friend of his.::

::Huh. Well, he’s not skimping on you - should be a nice little distraction while Prowl’s out of town, at the very least. You get a name on this lord?::

::Lord Mirage. Of the House of Twisted Glass, if that means anything.:: Ratchet gives a soft hum as he searches, skimming through files as Jazz focuses on driving. ::His frameguard was Flashfire.::

::No one I’ve ever bumped shoulders with, but he’s certainly got the title - shows up in the Primal Account, and everything.:: Ratchet pauses. ::Jazz, he’s not a minor lord, either. Helm of his House - not that that means much, since everyone else in his line is dead, but he’s still got the title and resources of a high family.::

::Why are you looking up Lord Mirage, Ratchet?::

Red Alert’s entry to the conversation is as smooth and unprompted as ever, and Jazz swerves a little at the distraction before correcting himself. ::Hey, Red! Just met him - you know the mech?::

Red goes silent, very silent, for a long moment - so long that Jazz begins to doubt the connection. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet. ::What did he want, Jazz?::

It’s utterly uncharacteristic, and Jazz feels an itch of nervous worry begin to niggle at his spark. ::He just wanted me ta perform for him and some guests. Some kind of party, next orn. What, is he a creep?:: There are stories - always just stories - among performers about nobles who abuse their performers. The most likely ones - the ones that are believable - involve harassment, obsession, assault… the bizarre ones range out as far as ritual torture, forced reformatting, empurata and shadowplay. He’s never put much stock in them, but he’s never met a noble before, either.

But Red Alert, after a moment, makes a low tone of negation. ::Lord Mirage is fine, Meister. I’ve worked with him many times - he’s a polite and respectful mech, and a good team player. But he’s also the Prime’s helm of Special Operations.::

There’s silence on the line as both Jazz and Ratchet absorb that.

::What?:: Ratchet’s voice is almost a croak. ::What happened to Legend?::

::...We have bigger things to worry about, Ratchet. If Mirage is looking into you, Jazz - they’re on to you.:: There’s an urgent undertone to Red’s voice. ::Start maneuvering to lose a tail - someone will be on you. Don’t go to Ratchet’s, or your base.::

::Understood.:: The switch to mission-focus comes easily as he begins planning a route to evade an unseen pursuer, an exit from the highway followed by a slow-motion chase across Praxus’ winding surface streets. He scans the cars behind him, but none of them stand out - logs them, for comparison, once he’s spent enough time on the move to have theoretically lost his pursuit.

::They already have Prowl.::

::What?:: Jazz feels like the fuel has crystalized in his lines at the hacker’s brittle, confident tone. ::How do -::

:: He hasn’t commed.::

It’s said with the same stark certainty, but Jazz feels himself relax, just a fraction, as he recognizes Red Alert’s paranoia. ::Red… He dropped out of touch with his own brothers for over a centivorn. I’m pretty sure the next time we’re going ta hear from him is when he gets off the train with an apology on his glossa and a subspace full of tasteful Iaconi souvenirs that his brother picked out for him.::

::No -:: Red Alert’s reply is sharp with frustration, almost a hiss. ::No - I just checked, he hasn’t commed anyone since shortly after arriving in Iacon. Nothing - not to his brothers, his old coworkers, Magnus.::

There’s a brief pause as that sinks in, and Red Alert lets out an even softer growl. ::He never checked in at Noxer’s Blocks. I checked the precinct - Bluestreak is up for promotion, but it’ll be almost another vorn before the ceremony.::

::Someone set him up.:: Ratchet’s voice is grim.

::Mirage set him up.:: There’s something almost staticky in Red Alert’s tone at that. ::Special Operations. But… they should have brought me in - I’m always point of contact on this sort of investigation. They know - they have to know.::

::They don’t know, Red.:: Only static answers Ratchet, and he curses. ::Red? Slag -::

A fourth presence blooms into the comm - one that Jazz is less familiar with, though he recognizes the other mech immediately. Ratchet doesn’t waste time with greetings, however.

::Inferno! Red’s failsafes, now!::

::Already done, Ratchet. Give him a klik.:: Inferno has a deep bass voice, one that radiates stability - his excitable conjux’s anchor. ::Talk to him. He’s listening.::

::Red, they don’t know you’re helping us.:: Ratchet’s own tones are soothing - the warm, gentle ones he only uses for panicking mechs. ::If they did, Optimus would have recalled you to Iacon first, right? He knows you’re loyal, knows you’d trust him - and you’re the most dangerous one of us, so he’d secure you first.::

::He knows.:: Red Alert’s voice cracks through the static hiss, faint as anything. ::He would have had me investigate, otherwise. Would have brought me in.::

::He doesn’t know. He trusts you. He knows you trust him. He wouldn’t risk alerting you by securing a less-dangerous target first.::

Slowly, slowly, as Ratchet continues to whisper assurances, the static recedes from a deafening hiss to a faint background crackle. Jazz stays silent - as urgent, as desperate, as his need to know what’s happened to Prowl might be, keeping Red Alert from losing himself in a panic comes first.

Finally, Red Alert’s voice comes through clear, though far more reserved than before and still flickering with static. ::Inferno -::

::I’m already on it, Red.:: Inferno blips out of the call, off to take care of whatever security tasks will finish calming Red Alert down. The hacker’s glitch triggers much, much more rarely now, according to both himself and Ratchet - but Jazz has seen it enough times to know that the Inferno will spend the next several cycles mired in menial, rote security work, until Red once again feels secure enough in his secret moon-base to relax fully without his conjux watching over them.

::...I apologize, Ratchet. Jazz.:: Red’s tone is subdued. ::Thank you for acting quickly, Ratchet.::

::I have you, Red. You know that.:: Ratchet’s voice is still soothing as he prompts the hacker gently. ::But… Prowl? Mirage?::

::Someone - I have no doubt it was Special Operations - lured Prowl to Iacon. And now Mirage is targeting you…:: Red Alert hesitates. ::Lord Mirage is his actual title - helm of the House of Twisted Glass, technically, though only because he’s the last one left. He goes by Mirage within Special Operations, and Ligier outside of it - he’s been the commander of Special Operations for the Prime for the last four centuries, ever since I shot the previous SpecOps commander for trying to assassinate the Prime.::

That’s enough to make Jazz nearly swerve off the road in surprise. ::You what?::

::Look - it’s not important, it was decavorns before we met. My point is that ‘Lord Mirage’ isn’t a person anymore - it’s a cover story that Special Operations trots out when they need their commander to be able to move unseen!::

::Ah.:: Jazz hesitates. ::And there’s no chance this is a coincidence - that he’s holding a party ta catch someone else?::

::If he was, the musician would be an agent, too.:: Ratchet’s voice is almost frosted with worry. ::They’re going to pick you off when you go to meet him tonight. Slag. And without you, Red, we’d never have caught on in time.::

::No.:: Red Alert’s voice has the same cold surety. ::There would have been no way for you to know - I’ve spent the last four centivorns managing ‘Lord Mirage’s’ digital records myself. The cover is flawless.::

::So he won’t be expecting me ta know that he’s Ops. I can use that.:: Jazz pauses just long enough to open a file on the mech. ::What else -::

::Jazz, NO.:: Ratchet’s voice cracks across the comms like a wall of force, physically battering his audials. ::You can’t possibly be planning -::

Red Alert’s own protestations follow only a moment behind, but no less vehement - ::You need to get out of the city, both of you - you can’t meet with him!::

::You said he has Prowl. I ain’t leaving him.:: He turns off the highway, letting the cool yellow lights of the underpass flash overhelm as he sinks below the surface streets. ::Red, make arrangements ta get Ratch and Jackie outta the city, but I’m staying -::

::I’m not leaving, either.:: Ratchet gives a low growl. ::Wheeljack’s already on his way to the station. Red, he’ll need a ticket and an emergency - I want to preserve our advantage as long as possible, so we need an excuse for him to be on the move.::

::Ratch -:: Jazz’s protestation is cut off by a firm blat of static from the medic.

::I’m not leaving the clinic, Jazz. Don’t worry about me - there’s plenty of mechs, powerful mechs, who remember what they owe the medic who patched their slagged plating back together on the battlefield.:: Red Alert gives an anxious hum, at that, but he doesn’t contradict Ratchet. ::I’ve got favors I can call in, if they go after me. Mecha who will make even Special Operations think twice. But they’re not the sort of favors that carry.::

::There have been several hits to the false background I set up for Triage in the last orn. I didn’t think anything about it - every so often one of your patients gets curious, or the gangs decide to look into you - but it could be Ops.:: Red Alert hesitates. ::There’s a decent chance they don’t know who you are.::

::They won’t snipe me out through a window, not if they’re playing games with Jazz. I only need a klik - just long enough to -:: Ratchet pauses, too, as if considering something. ::Red, with me, please?::

The abruptness with which they vanish from the call is jarring - the sudden silence in his processor disorienting, without even a moment’s warning. Still, it’s not the first time they’ve done this, and he can’t begrudge them their privacy - they have millennia of history together, a lifetime compared to his scant two centivorns.

And Ratchet… it’s easy to forget how private he is, when compared to a mech like Red Alert. Red’s background is it’s own little mystery - the hacker has long since deleted any record of his actual origin, and even his service record is a patchwork of deleted data and still-sealed missions, but Red Alert reacts to any attempt to delve into his life before meeting Jazz with intense suspicion. Ratchet greets questions with a smile, a wave of his hands, and a wall of stoney, belligerent silence that makes it easy to forget how little Jazz knows about him.

Some things, of course, can’t be hidden. He knows Ratchet was CMO under Prime, a ranking officer - that some grudge between them drove Ratchet to leave Iacon, after the war. That Ratchet isn’t, technically, in hiding - but that he’d prefer, to his spark, that the Prime never, ever find out where he is. Unlike Red Alert, most of his record remains public - but Triage, an identity constructed wholesale from the hacker’s genius, has lived an unremarkable life, right up until moving to Praxus to open a clinic for the poor.

The chime of two new commlinks establishing after a moment more of silence is a relief.

::What’s the plan, then?::

It’s Ratchet who answers first. ::I’m remaining in Praxus. I’ll help you monitor the situation, and if possible - if necessary - I’ll do what I can to intervene on the ground.::

::I am… limited, in what I can do.:: Red’s voice is only a touch less assured. ::I can access SpecOps’ datanet, that much is simple. The problem is, whatever I view within the system is tagged - I can’t look for information about Prowl, or this investigation, without giving myself away.::

He pauses for a long moment, and his voice, when he continues, is steely with conviction. ::And that’s alright. I… Jazz, I leave myself in your hands. I will be able to pull data for you - whatever I can - but only once, before they lock me out of the system. As soon as they realize that I’m targeting them, they’ll pull the Ops network offline - I won’t be able to get anything else without a physical uplink, at that point.::

::And they’ll know you’re working with me.:: The weight of what Red Alert is offering sinks in - unlike Ratchet, Red is close to the Prime, considers him a friend, and the hacker has precious few of those. To risk that…

::Say the word, Meister, and I’ll get you whatever you need.::

::...Thank you, Red.:: He pauses - they’re waiting for him to plot the course, to tell them what he needs, and a warm gratitude floods his frame at the show of solidarity. ::I want to play Mirage’s game. He’s given us a point of contact, a time and place, and he’ll have the answers we need about Prowl.::

::You won’t win against him, Jazz!:: Red Alert sounds certain. ::He’ll tear you apart. This isn’t some gangland thug - he’s a master spy! That mech with him, the red one? She’s barely Ops. Her name is Road Rage - she’s a bounty hunter, when she’s not serving as ‘Lord Mirage’s’ frameguard. She’s killed better mechs than you, in worse places than a restaurant that they’ve had time to get ready for you!::

::I’ve killed plenty of mechs myself, Red.:: He keeps his voice confident, reassuring. ::I go there, and put cards on the table - we know who he is, and that’s not something they’ll be expecting. And then…::

There’s no plan - no good plan. Not for something like this - not with only a handful of joor before he has to meet with the spymaster. ::I’ll improvise. I’ll make it work - you know I can. If they wanted me dead, they could have put a bullet through my helm at any point, without ever revealing themselves, so they want to talk - I’ll go, hear them out, see what it is they want from me.::

He hesitates again. ::I’ll come back to you guys, you know I will. But I’m not going to be someone else who abandons Prowl - he deserves better than that.::

::You’re right. He does.:: A shuu of static rushes down the line as Ratchet sighs. ::Red, pull anything you can for me about Mirage, and this Road Rage. I’ll go over it, see what else I can get that might be useful.::

The hacker gives a ping of affirmation. ::I have my own files on them.:: On everyone, really, but none of them comment on that. ::I’ll look through my files on Ops, too - they’ll be working lean. No more than a team of four, I’d guess - they don’t have the mechpower for it.::

::Four’s doable.:: It’s a stretch - he’s killed more than four mechs before, but always with stealth and surprise on his side. His weakness is a fair fight. ::I’ve got a couple of stashes around the city that won’t lead back to anything. I’m going to go collect a couple of things, grab some extra ammo, and keep on the move. I’m still not picking up a trail, but I don’t know if I can say I’ve lost them.::

::Stay in touch.:: Red Alert breaks from the call first, then Ratchet - and Jazz feels the cold silence settle around him as he turns north for his first cache.

Chapter Text

::So, what’ve we got?::

Meister lays on a rooftop, matte plating blending seamlessly with the late evening shadows, peering down his scope through the upper-floor windows of the Desert Rose. It’s breem seven joor twenty-six, just over a joor before his meeting with Mirage - and in the darkened top floor of the restaurant, he can catch the occasional shadow of a mech moving, though wisely, both of the agents he knows are inside stay well back from the windows.

Red Alert reports first. ::There’s a comms blocker on the whole building.:: A file pings in Meister’s inbox, and he opens it - the schematics of the restaurant, with a thin red overlay covering almost the entire building. ::I paid a mech to approach it and give it a walk around - I lost contact around ten feet away everywhere but - look - there, near the entrance. They pulled it back as much as they could, got it away from the door. There should be a spot with clear air on the third floor right… here.::

Two corners are clear of the overlay - not large, but perhaps big enough if he needs to send a message out. ::Would they know about them?::

::Probably.:: Red Alert gives an indecisive hum. ::There’s not a lot they can do about it - comms blocker needs to be centrally located to work. It’s probably secured about ten feet off the floor on the second floor - on a table, or something - and offset just to the rear of the building.:: A red spot appears on the schematic. ::You might be able to dislodge it with sonics - they’re fairly delicate bits of machinery.::

::Try to turn into Meister relatively early, if you think you can pull it off.:: Ratchet’s voice is crisp, with the confidence that has carried Meister through so many missions. ::I’d rather the sonics be one transformation away than two, and it’s easier to hide.::

There’s a note of concurrence from Red. ::And Meister will be more intimidating. Remember - for all that he’s a talented agent, Mirage isn’t a fighter. He’s going to be easier to push around physically - right up until he decides you’re going to actually attack him.:: There’s a pause. ::Don’t bother trying to track him - focus everything on Road Rage, if it comes to that. You won’t be able to find him once he disappears - he can’t be tracked.::

::Hmm.:: It’s not promising - the fact that the spy isn’t a talented hand-to-hand fighter doesn’t mean much next to his invisibility, since there’s nothing to stop Mirage from pulling out a gun and shooting him unseen while he’s distracted by Road Rage. Still, Meister doesn’t intend to let this turn into a fight. ::How about optics?::

::Tricky.:: Red gives a crackle of frustration, at that. ::Desert Rose has cameras - not particularly well-secured cameras, at that - but Ops has already accessed them. I can piggyback on as well, but depending on who’s monitoring them, it may or may not be noticed.::

::They’d be able to tell it was you?:: Meister can’t hide his surprise at that - within their own systems, it would make sense for them to be able to track Red Alert, but the hacker’s work otherwise is usually flawless.

::Ha!:: And his laugh is derisive. ::No. But they’d be able to tell that a third group was accessing the feeds - and since you’re supposed to be here as an assassin who doesn’t know his cover’s been blown, it would be strange for you to have hacked the feeds, wouldn’t it?::

::Fair enough.:: It’s not ideal - but there are far less moving parts to the restaurant than most of his targets, and he doesn’t need to hide from the cameras, so it should be manageable.

::I can kill power to the building, if you need it. I have grid access.:: Red offers it almost apologetically. ::It won’t be much, but it should buy you an advantage, if you need it. Mirage has some very powerful sensors, but he needs to re-tune them when he vanishes, which will give you a little time - otherwise, he’s got optics, audials, primary sensors, and not much else. Road Rage has the standard aerial set-up - sensitive wings, like a Praxian - but your sigma should throw her if she can’t see you.::

::And meanwhile, I’ll have her on infrared. Take her out hard, then worry about Mirage.::

::Take her out fast.:: Red corrects him. ::Building permits to install a generator were applied for around a centivorn ago - assuming they were followed through with, you’ll likely have around a klik before the lights come back.::

::Got it.:: He turns his focus back to Ratchet. ::What have you got for me, Ratch?::

::I took a look at Red’s files. Not a lot that’s going to be really useful - the sensor arrays were the best of it.:: Ratchet pings him a second set of files as an afterthought, but it’s not terribly useful - he doesn’t have the training in medic’s ‘cant to understand half of it. ::Physically, they’re basically what you’d expect - Mirage is lightly-armored, lightly-framed. Push him out a window if you get the chance - it should be a satisfying thump. Road Rage is reinforced heavily - lots of armor on the leading edge. She’s got a wiring issue that makes her slam into things while she’s driving, apparently - destabilizes her when she transforms, so what the hell, push her out the window, too. She can’t fly in root.::

::Any useful weaknesses on her, Ratch? She’s like twice my size.::

::Masses you by almost four, actually. She’s surprisingly dense.:: Ratchet pauses to review the documents. ::She doesn’t fly with her wings - she’s got an amped-up antigrav generator, but it’s core, not a mod. They’re still her primary flight sensors, though - go for them and you won’t ground her, but it’ll hurt just like a Praxian’s doors.::

That’s very useful - as is the warning about her mass. Mass is momentum, and the difference between a charging mech being stopped by an obstacle and going right through it - and he’s seen first-hand how incapacitating damage to a Praxian’s doorwings can be.

::Great.:: Less information than he’d like, but… he can work with this. Has worked with less, back in the early days, before Red Alert’s camera’s and Ratchet’s steady voice in his audials. ::What do you two need from me if this all goes to rust?::

::I want recordings. I want to know what they think they’re getting by targeting the two of you, when Prime has ignored Praxus for so long.:: Ratchet speaks first, voice firm. ::You have audiologs with you, right?::

He does - a handful of the small sticks, each neatly sealed. They’re designed for exactly this sort of work - one time use recorders, limited power supplies, no broadcast capabilities - nothing to betray them to a sensor sweep after they run out of charge. ::Yeah.::

::How many?:: Red interjects.

::Six? A joor each.:: It’s a full pack - he’s only rarely needed them.

::Good. Set two of them in three breems, one more every breem after. You’re going to need to hide them as you move around - don’t worry about audio clarity, I’ll be able to composite the sound if we can get two of them back.:: Red Alert gives a frustrated hum. ::If they capture you, and suspect you have partners, there’s a decent chance they’ll look closely enough to find them - but if they think you’re working alone, they’ll focus on getting you back to Iacon. I’ve made a last-minute reservation for a mech named Kyanite tomorrow morning - Ratchet will be able to access the building to retrieve them.::

::Sounds good. You got anything you want from me, Red?::

There’s a moment of long hesitation. Then, and Red’s voice is very soft: ::Keep yourselves alive.::

::Red…:: Meister wants to reassure him, to promise that he won’t let anything happen to Prowl, to himself, but there’s no way he can promise it honestly. ::I will.::

::No - Jazz. Listen to me.:: There’s a hint of desperation to it, now. ::Listen - I have resources. There’s things I can use - leverage I can take advantage of, if it comes to it. I mean, most of it counts as ‘terroristic threats,’ legally speaking, but -::

::Red… no.:: His spark flickers with warmth at the hacker’s earnestness, but… ::Unless you get a recording back that says - explicitly - that they’re taking me back to Iacon so they can shoot me an’ Prowl in the helm… I don’t want you getting dragged down in this, and if you start making threats, they’ll never stop hunting you down. Get Ratch and Jackie safe, keep yourself and Inferno safe, and I’ll try to get me an’ Prowl out in one piece.::

I won’t let him do anything rash. The message - just a handful of words - pings his inbox from Ratchet, and Meister relaxes just a bit. Ratchet is as stable as the ground underpede, and Red Alert listens to him.

::Alright, Meister.:: Red Alert sounds more reluctant, but even he acquiesces after a moment more. ::But… If you get caught, I’m going to assume you’ve been compromised. So… if they ask you, if they’re going to hurt you, tell them whatever you need to, alright? Ratchet will be safe, and I’ll be where they can’t get me.::

Ratchet gives a soft hum of agreement.

::Red, Ratch…:: He doesn’t have the words, for his gratitude, or his apology.

::Get out alive, kid.:: Ratchet’s voice is steady as ever, but there’s something worn and exhausted behind it. ::Just… come back to me, okay? Get Prowl, but… come back to me.::

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A handful of mechs flow out of the building in the next joor - cooks and waiters finishing their cleaning, as far as he can tell, but there’s no way to be sure which, if any, are Ops agents in disguise. The Desert Rose has a uniform - pale, sandy gold, with pink accents the color of fuel - and, though a few of the mechs shift back to more ordinary palettes as they leave, there’s nothing to give any of them away as anything other than tired mechs coming off shift.

Nothing else changes about the building - the two frames on the upper floor seem to have settled into place out-of-sight.

It’s only two breems before his meeting when he triggers the last of the audiologs and begins to descend from the roof.

It’s not hard - he slips out of sight of the Rose as Meister, and reemerges on the other side of the stairwell as Jazz. Nothing as elaborate as his usual careful loops to disguise it - the building is nice, but thoroughly pedestrian, and all it had taken was a quick upward jab from a blind spot below the camera at the top of the stairs to buy him enough room to transform.

Jazz slips around the building, and dumps a handful of items - his scope, his rifle, a few other tools - behind a dumpster before scooping out his harp case. He wipes it down with the edge of a polishing cloth before tossing that, too. He takes a moment to slip the last of his weapons - a few daggers, a pistol, a set of lockpicks and a few bandages - into his secondary subspace, and then slips back down the alley and along behind the neighboring buildings to loop out onto the street several doors down.

::See you on the other side, guys.:: It’s the last thing he says as he approaches the building - he can’t risk hesitating before the comm blocker and giving away his knowledge of its presence. He gets two replies -

::Good luck.::

::Stay safe, kid.::

- in stereo before the other two mechs drop out of the comm entirely - he can’t afford to be distracted, here.

He walks up to the door with his helm ducked shyly - a street performer entirely out of his league.

The big mech that opens the door for him doesn’t look surprised to see him. It’s a tall, heavily-framed Kalissite - a hauler, perhaps - with a welcoming smile.

“Jazz?” Despite the heavy accent, his voice is unflinchingly polite - Jazz checks him against Red Alert’s file on the actual staff of the Rose, and is able to come up with a name in a few moments: Xiphos. He gives the guard a relieved smile.

“Yes, sir! Ah - Lord Mirage said you’d be expecting me.” He flusters a little, careful not to overdo it. “Ah - I’m sorry, sir. I’ve never eaten somewhere this fancy - I’m not really sure…”

“Quite alright, sir.” Xiphos gives him a kind look. “I understand that it can be overwhelming. My name is Xiphos, if you have any questions - but I believe Lord Mirage will have you taken care of. I’ll see you to him now - he’s arranged to have the third floor for his use.”

The doormech seems entirely genuine - he has the personable air of a professional server, a mech who makes his living off of the experience he provides. It doesn’t slip Meister’s notice, however, that he isn’t searched as he enters the restaurant, despite a brief subspace check being typical for such an upmarket establishment - there’s no way of knowing if it’s because of the late hour, or if Mirage has ordered that it be skipped to keep the restaurant’s civilian staff out of danger.

He’s led up two flights of stairs - comms fading out as he nears them - to an elegant set of enameled doors. Xiphos steps aside, gesturing him past as he pushes one open. “Right in here, sir. A server will be with your table momentarily.”

“Thank you.” Meister leans in to whisper it as he pushes past, and earns himself another small smile. As he does, he lets the first audiolog slip to the ground - shoves it with his toe until it’s hidden against the edge of the stairs.

The dining room is quiet. It’s not quite dimly-lit - there are sconces on the wall that cast enough light to banish the shadows - but not bright; light spills from the windows in a mix of blues and golds that pour up from the street below to flicker across the ceiling. There are only a handful of tables, spaced well apart, each covered in a woven mesh that glints in the light, with carefully-pruned crystal gardens set in the middle of each table - sunk into the surface, so as not to block the diner’s view of each other, but each one spiraling up in it’s own unique arrangement.

At the far end of the room, set back from the window, Mirage turns in his seat to look up at him with an easy smile - one that knowledge turns sinister.

“Ah, Jazz! A pleasure to see you again. Come, sit - I’ve already called for our first course. I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of ordering for us - it was easier for the staff, since we’re here so late.”

Jazz takes a good look at the spymaster - and his bounty-hunter companion - as he crosses the room, looping around the table to settle into the chair opposite Mirage. It puts him with his back to the window, but there’s no easy line for a sniper - not from a rooftop, anyways. There’s nowhere in the room that’s truly safe from an indoors perch, not surrounded by buildings and glass like they are.

“Of course not, Lieger.” Giving the game away so quickly is absolutely, one hundred percent worth it for the way it makes Road Rage reach for her gun, optics widening in shock - for the way Mirage freezes in his seat, whole frame going rigid with surprise. “Or do you still prefer Mirage when it’s business? I wasn’t sure.”

Slowly, slowly, Mirage’s frame relaxes - it takes visible effort for the spy to shake the surprise. After a moment, however, he lets out a soft chuckle, leaning back in his seat with a much more casual air - and, at a gesture, Road Rage settles back, too.

“You are good, then, Meister. Better than I was expecting. Tell me - how long did it take you to figure me out?” Mirage’s whole accent has shifted - from the poised, lilting accent of a noble, to a more proper Iaconi ‘cant, easy and relaxed. There’s still the accent of a Towers mech, but it’s subdued.

“Not very. Performer like me doesn’t get very many lords askin’ for a private show - I thought I’d see who was looking to hire me.” Meister gives a languid grin. “Imagine my surprise.”

Mirage gives him a narrow smile, at that. “You have some talented sources, then. I don’t suppose you’d share who’s been spreading my business around?” When Meister only smiles a little wider, the spy shrugs. “Not a concern, then. You will.”

“We’ll see.”

“We will. I suppose you’ve already figured out, then, why I’m here?” Mirage’s optics are bright and have all the canny focus of a gearfalcon - a predator, circling its prey. Prey Meister has no intention of being.

“Well, for someone in your position, commander, there’re only two things it could be, aren’t there?” Meister leans back, gesturing. “You either want a mech dead, or you’ve got a problem with all the dead mechs. Since I haven’t heard much from my partner in a few cycles, I have my suspicions about which it is.”

“Fair enough.” Mirage shrugs languidly. “Your partner is, for the moment, unharmed. Not particularly pleased with his current situation, but unharmed.”

“What do you want, then?” It’s a relief just to hear the spy say it - but Meister isn’t such a fool as to take his word for Prowl’s safety.

“My… commander… has expressed an interest in Praxus, lately. He asked me to bring him the vigilantes who have been working in the city. For a… conversation.”

“You don’t have a commander.” It’s the obvious lie, so he starts there. “You’re the helm of Special Operations - according to my sources, you don’t answer to anyone except the -” He cuts off as he realizes, vocalizer skipping out for just a moment. Anyone - but the Prime.

Mirage gives a victorious smirk, optics bright with smug satisfaction. “Anyone but the Prime, yes. He’d like a word.”

It’s - intriguing, intimidating. The Prime… Meister isn’t a particularly religious mech, but the Prime - the avatar of Primus’s will - is no one to lightly deny. He rises to his pedes to hide his discomfit - Road Rage goes perfectly still as he works his way around the table, and it’s obvious that the only things keeping her from shooting him are the spymaster’s orders.

He lets his plating shift and fold away as he moves up behind Mirage - to the spies’ credit, he doesn’t so much as flinch as not Jazz but Meister lays his hands over his shoulders, letting clawtips brush, light, but threatening, against his cables. “And if I have no interest in speaking ta your master, spy?”

“It wasn’t an invitation, Meister.” Mirage’s voice is cool but steady - there’s not even the slightest tremor of fear. “You should know - my conjux is sitting with Prowl right now. If he dies - if he so much as keens for me - the agent watching them will shoot Prowl in the spark before my conjux’s frame can grey.”

The spy gives a soft purr of victory when Meister can’t stop his claws from shifting, at that - the slight flex of his fingers enough to betray his surprise. “Sit down, Meister. Let’s talk.”

He hesitates for just another moment before sliding back around the table. As he does, he drops an audiolog, lets his pede kick it across the room, and as he does settles back into his chair loudly enough to hide the clatter - neither mech even flicks a wing in that direction, so it seems to have gone unnoticed. “Alright, then. Let’s talk.”

Mirage reaches out across the table - and taps one of the crystals seemingly at random. It lets out a rich chime, and there’s movement behind the kitchen door that makes Meister start.

“Relax - I do actually want to eat something, while we’re here. You’ll enjoy it, I think - I haven’t been to the Rose since I was a youngling, but Gypsum’s staff do fine work.” Mirage gives a small wave of his hand as a server approaches the table - another of the Desert Roses’ regular staff, a Gygaxian named Gridmap. He has a tray with four smaller plates on it - a delicate foamed dish, sprinkled with small silver orbs that look like solid mercury, with some kind of rust crisp on the side. “You pick, Meister.”

He chooses at random, and the waiter offers the tray so he can take the plate before serving Mirage and Road Rage. It’s obviously intended to reassure him against poison, and he weighs his options - snub the fuel, and be certain, but make his distrust plain, or risk it, confidently, and hope that if it is poisoned he can make it to one of the opening in the comms blocker before it knocks him out?

He takes advantage of the clatter of plates to kick another audiolog across the room, sliding under a table behind all three of the other mechs to be hidden by the mesh, and triggers his secondary microtransformations to bring online his sonics. He won’t risk a direct attack on Mirage - not with Prowl in the line of fire - but it’s not the spy who will be intercepting him if he tries to run for an opening.

The added draw of the array hits immediately - not substantial enough to pose a risk while idle, but there’s not much power left over for secondary processing while they’re active. Meister takes a moment to re-route several processes to primary as he watches Mirage take a bite of the fuel with easy, experienced grace - using the rust crisp to catch up some of the foam for a delicate bite.

He mirrors the motion confidently - it’s not easy to balance the little spheres of mercury as he does, but he manages to get a bite to his lips without spilling it, and is surprised at the sweetness. It’s good - like a pastry flattened out, with a rich, flakey layer beneath the foam.

By the time he looks up from a second bite, Mirage’s gaze is on him again, watching curiously. The spy cocks his helm when their optics meet. “Confident, I see. So sure I’m not going to poison you, or are you just prepared for that?”

Meister shrugs, not interested in giving anything else away. “So - you wanted to talk. Go for it - you have until I run out of foam.” He considers the plate for a moment. “Or crisp - whichever comes first.”

Mirage laughs. “You’re an impressive mech, you know. The work you did on Feldspar’s crew - expertly done, if a bit messier than I’d usually prefer. And that was intentional, I’m sure - you have a way of sending a message, Meister.”

“Thank you, I guess?” If the mech wasn’t currently trying to arrest him, he might even preen at the compliment. As it is… “You’re a smooth worker, yourself. How many of those messages from Prowl’s little brother were from you? Were any of them real?”

“All of them.” Mirage raises a hand. “You have my word - the only messages I had forged were from Ultra Magnus, and he isn’t aware of any of this.”

It’s a relief - and it explains how they found him, if Prowl, rather than he, was the first mech compromised. “How did you peg Prowl?”

“Oh - I knew who both of you were well before then. The Rhodolite assassination - the two of you worked well together, though I’ll confess I put my fingers on the scales a bit, there.” Mirage gives a small smile. “I had my own business with her, though I’ll admit you handled it much more… thrillingly… than I intended to. I thought it was only sporting I take care of the rest of the guards.”

“You’re the one who triggered the blast doors, then.” It clicks into place. “The door in the back, with the crucible blocking it - that was your exfil.”

“I’ll admit, I was surprised you found it so quickly - but I had faith that you’d continue to impress.” The spymaster takes another bite of the foam. “You needn’t worry, by the way - Jasper made it to Iacon just fine. None of my mechs touched him - I simply… directed him to a medic who could assist, and made sure he settled in. It seemed the least I could do to repay you for such a show.”

“Thank you.” It’s hard to give a slag about the minibot, right now - he had been charming, but hearing he’s safe is really only a comfort to the part of him that knows Prowl will care. “So you’re well acquainted with my work, then. What does the Prime want, that you’re here talking to me rather than putting a bullet through my helm from a quarter mile away?”

Mirage gives him a considering look, at that. “You know, Prowl has the same preoccupation with execution. What makes you think I want you dead, Meister?”

That presents an intriguing question. Meister keeps his answer light as he considers the asker’s intent. “I mean, mostly the piles of dead mechs, like I was saying earlier.” He leans in across the table, gesturing the other mech a little closer, and when Mirage leans in, he lets just a touch of condescension touch his tone. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, being an agent of the Prime, and all, but murder’s a crime, Mirage.”

That gets a choked-off sputter, the first half of a laugh, from the spy as he leans back - but Road Rage is less subtle. Her own laugh is half a bark - the first noise she’s made since he arrived.

“Sorry, sorry.” She waves off her commander’s stare with a half-hidden grin as she glances away.

Mirage, after another moment, gives a chuckle, and this time, it sounds genuine. “Fair enough, Meister. But I’ll be honest with you - I have a hard time caring about a few dead mobsters, when this whole city seems to be rusting to the ground.”

“No one from Iacon’s ever given a slag about Praxus before, mech. City’s been rusting a lot longer than I’ve been here.” There’s a flare of angry heat in his chest at that - at the way Mirage acts like they don’t both know how deep the corruption is sunk into the very spark of Praxus. “What’s got you looking now?”

“The Prime. Like I said, he’s taken an interest in Praxus.” Mirage settles back in his seat. “And the mechs who have decided to try to fix her alone.”

The spy pauses, gives him a moment to consider that before continuing.

“Let me be honest with you, Meister. Officially, my orders are to bring you, uninjured, back to Iacon.” Mirage’s lip curls at that. “Unofficially, how uninjured uninjured means has been left to my discretion. And I assure you - I have some very good medics.”

“So come with you, or you slag me and drag me back.” Meister lets out an amused purr, at that. “You have a lot of faith in your mech here, Mirage.”

“No, I have a lot of faith in you.” Mirage gives a sharkticon’s grin, and Meister can’t help the twinge of hidden fear at the predatory look. “As of right now, your partner is uninjured. That can change very quickly, Meister. Surrender, and you, and he, won’t be harmed - as of right now, I have no intention of doing anything except bringing you back to Iacon to speak to Optimus.”

“And after that?”

“He might release you. He might have you imprisoned.” Mirage shrugs. “He might have me shoot you in the back of the helm - I don’t know. Try to make a good impression.”

“And if I refuse…” He trails off suggestively.

“It would be a shame if my agent were to think something had happened to me. Unpreventable tragedy - he couldn’t possibly have known, and his orders were clear. Of course, I’ll have to deal with the Prime’s disappointment, but he understands that Ops is a difficult field. Mistakes happen.”

The threat makes his plating flare - but he forces himself to stay calm, relax back into the seat. “Seems unwise to be so blunt about that, when I could easily let him know as soon as you get me in the room with him. Is Prime going to be interested in knowing his agents aren’t playing by the rules?”

“Oh, if you come willingly it was an empty threat.” Mirage waves a hand airily. “Of course, he understands those, too.”

It’s… not a good situation. He could fight his way out - possibly even win - but Mirage seems, for all his flip attitude, entirely sincere in his threats against Prowl, and Meister has no intention of getting the enforcer killed. There’s a certain lure in surrendering - the thought of getting to confront the Prime himself over his failure to Praxus - which would be almost enough to tempt him over, if starting a fight with the Prime wouldn’t get him, and Prowl, executed.

There’s no good option, but Meister - Jazz, before him - haven’t made a life out of waiting for good options. Red, and Wheeljack, and Ratchet are where Mirage can’t reach them - and if it’s Prowl’s life or his, he knows which one he’s willing to gamble with, even if all he can do is buy them a little time.

He cuts a thin line in the back of his seat cushion with a claw, slides another audiolog into the dense gel. As he does, he triggers his microtransformation, feels his systems settle in relief as the drain on his energy fades, and gives Mirage an easy grin. “Well then. Let’s go to Iacon - I think I have a few things I’d like to tell your boss.”

Mirage gives him a smirk, at that - rises to his pedes to circle the table in mirror of Meister’s own steps. Meister doesn’t let himself flinch at the touch on his shoulders, the purring voice behind his audials.

“Don’t fight it - there’ll be a pinch.”

There is a pinch - a soft triple-prick against one of the cables at the base of his helm - and Meister has just enough time to be confused before a thousand volts of electricity surge through his systems, and there’s not even enough time for pain before the world goes white and then black as stasis slams over him.

Chapter Text

“Holy slag, you two are boring.”

Neither Prowl nor Ironhide bother to look up from their Tadek mat at the complaint, and after a moment, Hot Rod gives a frustrated huff. “C’mon, Prowl! Can’t you, like, grab him through the bars or something? Pull out a shiv? Do something!”

Ironhide gives a low chuckle, at that. “Thanks, kid.”

“Oh, come on, ‘hide, you’d be fine.” Hot Rod waves a dismissive hand. “I’d shoot him way before he could get through your plates - it’d be exciting!”

“So, in this hypothetical, what do I gain from attacking Ironhide?” Prowl pauses to slide one of his towers forwards. “Besides the obvious new holes in my armor?”

“I dunno, maybe an energon sweetie from medical if you’re gonna be such a sparkling about getting shot a few times - c’mon, aren’t you supposed to be a super-cool assassin? This is la-ame.”

Ironhide gives a fond chuckle as he shuffles two of his towers to the left, and takes three tiles off of Prowl’s tallest. “C’mon, kid. Give me two moves ta finish slaggin’ Prowl a’ this ‘n we’ll teach ya ta play.”

Prowl curses as he sees it, the narrow opening that will let Ironhide turn this success into a rout, and glances up at Ironhide. “8-17, then.” With him losing - badly. Ironhide, as it turns out, is very good at Tadek.

“Ugh. Why would I want to learn how to play your dumb board game?” Hot Rod groans again, melodramatically flopping in his chair. “Why am I even here, Ironhide? He’s not even doing anything!”

“Proper prisoner control protocol dictates that a second observer is needed if the primary guard needs to spend a long non-transitional period with an unrestrained prisoner.” Prowl gives the younger guard a small smirk. Hot Rod has been complaining intermittently for the last three joors - but it’s obvious that despite his words, he’s taking the posting seriously, attention never straying from Ironhide and Prowl. “Besides, as soon as you leave, I’m going to find a shiv and hold Ironhide hostage. It’d be a shame to miss it.”

“Argh!” Hot Rod tosses his hands in the air, engines snarling in mock-frustration as Ironhide clears and resets the board. He slides off his chair to the ground before scooting over to them and pulling out a datapad. “Fine! Fine! Teach me the stupid board game.”

Ironhide leans over to grab a cushion from beside himself, quietly hiding his grin from the red mech - but giving Prowl a knowing wink. “Finally. Been tryin’ ta get ye ta sit down long ‘nuff fer decavorns, mech - shoulda’ locked ye down ‘ere wit me vorns ago.

“I’m still not gonna play with you!” Hot Rod gives a teasing grin, too, and shoves Ironhide’s shoulder lightly. “Grandmaster. Pah! Did you even bother to tell Prowl before you decided to wipe the floor with him?”

“I’ve won eight out of twenty-five.” Prowl lets just a hint of offense fill his tone - for an amateur going up against someone at Ironhide’s level of play, it’s a very solid showing. “That’s almost a third of the games we’ve played!”

“‘O course I told ‘im - prolly wouldn’ even a’ gotten ‘im ta play, otherwise. ‘E’s pretty good, too. D’ya know ‘ow ta set up tha board, kid?” Ironhide shifts to the side so Hot Rod can reach it.

“Of course I do! I’m not uneducated - just ‘cause I’m not a freaky board game nerd like you -” The question seems to have actually hit a nerve with the younger mech, Prowl notes, with some interest - there’s a hint of hurt to his voice that doesn’t fit in with his earlier teasing.

Ironhide seems to realize it, too, laying a hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder. His voice is softer, and warm, when he speaks. “Wasn’ implyin’ that, kiddo.” When Hot Rod leans into the touch, Ironhide gives him a teasing smirk. “Sides, when ‘ave I e’re had a problem callin’ ye an idiot when I meant it?”

Hot Rod whacks him on the back of the helm with a frustrated, but much more at ease, growl before running his fingers across the board.

He sets it up in a traditional beginner’s array, not the more advanced forms of Tadek-ka that Ironhide and Prowl have been working with - the endless permutations of starting towers, sometimes symmetrical, sometimes disbalanced to one side or another, that give high-level play it’s depth of intrigue. Five rows of towers, three-deep, each with half a dozen tiles on it, and five more to add where the player choses - Prowl adds all five to one tower, giving him the opener commonly known as fleet-and-capital, while Hot Rod hesitates before adding two each to his outermost forward towers, and one to the centermost.

“Alright, so ye’ve got yer side set up, Roddy. Now, wit Prowl’s array, ye’re gonna want ta watch out fer -”

Prowl tunes out the older mech’s words as he begins to give Hot Rod pointers - it’s obvious that the younger guard is at least familiar with the basics of Tadek, and Ironhide is more focused on explaining the strategies that Hot Rod will need to actually stand a chance at winning. Not that it’s likely that he’ll have much luck with either of them in a serious match - Prowl is as skilled as one might hope for from a mech who doesn’t play competitively, and Ironhide an oppressive wall of skill and age-forged cunning - but this will hardly be the first time Prowl throws a match to let a less-experienced player get a handle on the game. Memories of teaching Bluestreak - who is terrible at it, the patience that lets him sit on a rooftop for joors or cycles lining up a shot doing nothing to keep him at the table for a strategy game - send a flush of nostalgia through his spark.

The beginning rounds are simple enough - Prowl sacrifices two of his vulnerable outer towers to build his own stacks, giving him two five-tile towers to frame his eight-tile, and mirroring Hot Rod’s field of play - and Prowl lets himself relax, tugging the blanket wrapped over his wings a little snugger as he does. It’s not cold in the cells, a pleasant cool, but the soft pressure on his wings is soothing. Being around Ironhide - and Hot Rod - is soothing. The older mech is steady, calming to be around, and has, so far, seemed fiercely protective of suspects in his custody - and despite his initial concerns after having so badly embarrassed the young mech in front of Hound, Hot Rod doesn’t seem to hold any grudges. When Ironhide had mentioned calling him in as a secondary guard, Prowl had been concerned, but the younger mech has been teasing, whiny, and overall, friendly - anything but hostile.

As they continue, one round blurring into the next, he falls into the easy cadence of - slowly - losing at Tadek. For all Hot Rod seems dismissive - and it’s obvious that he’s no strategist - the younger mech is intelligent enough to grasp quickly that he’s being allowed to win, and pushes that to its full potential, trying long-odds, bold plays that contrast entirely with Prowl’s own style. It’s a risky playstyle, one that would see him lose, consistently, to opponents of Ironhide’s, or even Prowl’s, caliber - but one that will serve him well in amateur play, against opponents too wary or inexperienced to take full advantage of the openings he leaves in his defenses. There’s a certain charm to it, too - Prowl, on a whim, leaves a gap in his own defense, and is delighted when Hot Rod shows the first sign of honest interest in their game as he sweeps through it and tears the line apart.

“Very good.” Hot Rod preens a bit under the praise, and Prowl gives him a warm smile, gesturing at the board. “Again?”

“Yeah, sure.” The younger mech gives a bit of an indignant huff of his vents, but he’s hiding a smile as he resets the board.

They’re well into their second game when Prowl feels Ironhide’s gaze settle on him again. “So, yer an assassin, huh?” His voice is carefully non-judgemental, but Hot Rod glances away from the board to reset his optics with surprise.

“Did Hound not tell you? Was I supposed to not tell you?”

Ironhide chuckles at that. “Nah, kid, yer all right. I din’ ask - usually don’, if I don’ got ta ta guard sommech.”

“Oh.” Hot Rod hesitates a moment, staring down at the board as if digesting that. “Hound told me that you’re part of some kind of neat team of vigilante assassins.”

“I… was, yes.” It’s nothing that both of the other mechs couldn’t confirm, easily - but something in him shies away from admitting it - some small part that doesn’t want to see the disappointment on Ironhide’s face, the nervousness from his first interview back in Hot Rod’s optics. “There was… a great deal of corruption, in Praxus. It seemed…”

Like the best way to make a difference? Like the only way? The words sound hollow as he thinks them - he doesn’t know what to say, how to explain…

But Ironhide, across from him, shrugs. “Had a friend came from that life, once. Was a killer fer the gangs, ‘fore ‘e joined th’ army. Hitmech.” He gestures to one of Hot Rod’s towers, and the younger mech shuffles it sideways, optics wide. “Good mech, in th’ end.”

“You know an assassin?” Hot Rod can barely keep his voice contained as Prowl slides his own tower forwards in response. “Why have you never told me about your cool assassin friend?That’s way better than the boring stories you usually tell us -”

“‘E’s dead, mechlin’. I’d rather nah think ‘bout ‘im, much.”

“Oh.” It’s almost surprising how much Hot Rod shrinks at Ironhide’s words - his plating flattens tight, and even through the bars Prowl can feel how shame floods across his field, optics brightening with horror. “I’m - I’m sorry, ‘Hide, I didn’t mean -”

“‘S alright, mechlin’. E’d’a liked ye, I think. Ye’d ‘ave gotten on well wit ‘im.” Ironhide’s voice is soft and fond as he reaches out to stroke the younger mech’s back. “Ain’t no ‘arm in remembrin’ now ‘n agin. Jus’ not th’ sort ‘o story I’d tell fer a lark.”

“My condolences for your loss.” It’s all Prowl can think to say - it doesn’t seem right, to disturb the quiet moment between them, but neither does it seem right to let Ironhide’s grief go unremarked.

“Thanks.” The red mech sits quiet, for a moment, just slowly petting Hot Rod’s plating until the younger mech relaxes under his touch, plating fluffing outwards again. “‘T was a long time ago.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The conversation lightens, after that - Ironhide asks a few probing questions, and Prowl promptly knows more than he could ever want to about Hot Rod’s friendships with his fellow Prime’sguard. They’re two more games of Tidek in, and halfway through a story about the incredibly delicate ongoing romance between Hot Rod and a pair of mechs named Springer and Arcee, when Ironhide glances up with the obvious, distracted air of a mech receiving a comm. Hot Rod trails off as he notices, too - there’s a moment’s quiet before Ironhide reaches out to fold up the Tidek mat.

“Hop t’yer station, kid.” He gives Hot Rod a nudge, and the younger mech scrambles to his pedes. “Sorry, Prowl - gotta look official fer business. Couple mechs comin’ down.”

“Ah.” Prowl rises from the floor as Ironhide hauls himself to his own pedes. “Another interview, I assume?” After the previous day’s interrogation, he’s not sure what to expect - it’s far later in the day, and he had half-expected that Hound had had other work come up and decided to skip a day rather than allow Nightbeat in with him again.

“Nah. Nah supposed ta talk ‘bout it, sorry.”

Nothing good, then - although Ironhide doesn’t seem agitated, which, after his warm demeanor all afternoon, gives Prowl some hope that it’s nothing too serious, either. Hot Rod looks a little antsier - though whether that’s to do with what’s coming or because of his own inexperience guarding prisoners is beyond Prowl’s ability to guess.

Either way, he checks his tanks - 80%; Ironhide has kept him well-fueled - and ups the bandwidth to his ATS. He has no intention of crashing in front of his captors.

There’s an awkward several kliks, the three of them positioning themselves in silence, before someone knocks at the door.

“Prisoner’s secure - come in.” Ironhide’s voice is a rumble, tinged with the faintest note of hostility. SpecOps, then - the only mechs Prowl has seen, thus far, to trigger the older mech’s almost instinctive dislike.

“Coming in.” He doesn’t recognize the speaker’s voice through the wall - and, as the lock clicks open, he doesn’t recognize the elegant blue mech in the doorway, either. “Hello, Ironhide. Hot Rod.”

The figure nods a greeting to both of them - nods a greeting to him, with a polite, cultured-sounding “Prowl,” but Prowl doesn’t respond to it at all because he does recognize the smaller frame behind the blue mech, the familiar black-and-white plating lined in blue -

“Jazz.” He almost trips on the name - almost chokes on it, hardly manages to get the right word out, realizing at the last minute that there’s a chance, a chance, that they don’t already know -

“Prowler.” Meister’s optics are dim, but he seems uninjured - for what that’s worth; Prowl knows what sorts of damage a skilled mech can do without ever scratching a plate. His grin is tired, but seems real - a lopsided little smirk, as if he’s laughing at himself. “Thought I’d come pay you a visit - figured you’d be climbin’ the walls if you had ta deal with too many more like this slagger.”

He gestures with his helm at the blue mech as they move into the room, and Prowl feels a sudden surge of fear as he waits for the other mech to - to slap him quiet, or something - but the blue mech seems unperturbed. Ironhide gives an honest chuckle, which gets him a glare, but nothing more, from the blue mech.

As Jazz gets through the door, Prowl can see him better - his arms are secured behind his back, manacled properly, elbows and wrists, rather than the simpler cuffs the SpecOps agents seem content to use on him. He looks - not tired, exactly, but like his whole frame aches, his plating hanging just a hair more loosely than usual, and his optics a little dim. Despite that - and the large red mech behind him, holding him firmly by one shoulder - he seems in good spirits, giving Ironhide a cocky grin.

“Brought another one, ‘Raj?” Ironhide’s voice is a touch amused. “This one got a bit more of a mouth on ‘im, huh? Hope ‘e’s been as nice ta ye as Prowl was ta ya ‘jux.”

“Prowler!” Meister lets out a mocking gasp. “Were you bullying the spies without me? I’m hurt!”

This time, it’s Hot Rod who can’t stifle the snort of laughter. Even the red mech holding Meister’s shoulder looks a little amused - though she maintains a straight face, grip not loosening at all.

They let Meister shuffle until he’s in front of Prowl’s cell - his attendant never moves from his side, but “‘raj” stays on the far end of the room by the door with Ironhide. The pair start talking about - something - in hushed but fervent tones, but Prowl can’t bring himself to focus on it, not with Meister so close -

“Hey, Prowler.” Meister gives him another easy grin. “Sorry. Got caught. Wasn’t trying to, but they made some very convincing arguments vis-a-vis a gun ta your helm, an’ I figured it might be best ta come check up on you.”

“They didn’t hurt you -” Prowl can’t keep the concern out of his voice, but Jazz shakes his helm.

“Nah. Tagged me with something that hit like a tank, any an’ all past reformats aside, but I’m good - they let a medic get after me ‘fore they brought me ‘round.” He takes a moment to get a good look at Prowl. “How ‘bout you?”

He’s - he’s scared. Scared of what they’ll do to him, but far more afraid of what they’ll do to Meister - but he can’t tell the other mech that, can’t say it in front of so many enemies -

“I’m fine.” It’s not true at all - he feels like his chest is hollow, like his spark has crystalized into a thousand sharp shards inside him. “They haven’t hurt me yet.”

He needs to do - to do something, and he feeds the ATS all the bandwidth he can sustain to figure out what. He’s - he’s in a cell, and in a moment, they’ll take Meister away from him again - he doesn’t want to be alone again, not with Meister so close that they could touch - and there will be no chance to talk, to plan, there’s no way a group of Special Ops agents will ever be lax enough to give them time to escape, and -

- and they’re going to kill Meister, and he doesn’t want to be alone again.

It’s the only thing he can think of - the one thing he keeps looping back to, frantic, even as the ATS flattens his field and stifles him inside his own frame. He’s - he’s more valuable to them than Meister, something has kept them questioning him even though they must have already known where Meister was, and he’s committed fewer crimes, and Ironhide, at least, seems fond of him - they might kill Meister, and let him live, and he doesn’t want that.

But… an answer blooms out of the ATS. It’s a bad one, and selfish, and suddenly, he wants it so bad that his spark aches - needs it, like he’s never needed anything -

Maybe it will be enough for them to escape. Maybe he’ll find something to offer SpecOps that’s enough to keep them both alive - or maybe they’ll kill them both, but at least he won’t be alone.

It’s selfish - greedy. Maybe even cruel. He doesn’t care - he steels himself, and sets his frame, and meets Meister’s optics.

He raises one hand to grab the bars - holds it loosely at optic level for just a moment, lets his gaze flick to it just long enough that he can see that Meister, too, is looking at it, and slowly, deliberately, lets it slide down the bar until it’s resting at his side again.

Meister seems to have grasped his intent - but the red mech holding him has noticed, too. Prowl carefully avoids looking directly at her, watching until Ironhide’s suddenly raised voice distracts her before letting his hand flick out. ||Status?||

Meister, hands secured behind him, shutters his optic for just a moment - wait. He moves carefully, turning to face back towards the door as if interested in the argument going on around the corner, and as soon as he’s turned far enough that Prowl can see his hands, he gives a slight thumbs up - it’s obvious that any sign more complex will be beyond him from this position.

||Do you trust me?|| It’s not a hard sign, for what it is - two flicks of his fingers, nothing more. In enforcer ‘cant, it would be just one - the call-and-response of their existence.

||Yes.|| Meister signs it back without hesitation.

||Negation.|| He slashes his hand beside him - because he needs Meister to understand, to take this seriously - ||Do you trust me?||

||With my spark.|| Again, there’s nothing of hesitation in the gesture - just a brief moment while Meister picks a phrase brief and easy enough to manage.

It’s what he needs to hear - it’s not enough, this isn’t proper, but there’s no time for him to explain, not enough time before they are caught, and he can’t risk gesturing any more openly for fear the red mech behind Meister will spot the movement. ||Then open your chest and get to me.||

Meister looks confused, for a moment - and then there’s a touch of shocked realization, carefully hidden, and Meister’s optics widen just a touch, mouth dropping just a little open, and Prowl is filled with a deep and ravaging fear. It’s not enough - he’s not enough, not for Meister, and the other mech is going to reject him, too, even here -

But then Meister growls, “Yes,” loud enough for their captors to hear and look up from their argument, and before the red mech can stop him - before Ironhide can grab him - he’s twisting free, lithe as copper wire, and his spark chamber is irising open to meet Prowl’s in a nimbus of blue light.

It bursts on him like a supernova - sinks into his own spark, his own field, with the crash of electricity discharging, but there is no pain. No pain at all, as the world ignites in white light and thunder and something that is Meister - is Jazz - at the very core of him -

The light and roar and Jazz intensify as the world around them vanishes, until that’s all there is, and then everything slips away.

Chapter Text

The first thing that resolves back as the glow of merging fades is the ache in his shoulders. They’re twisted back - not so far as to be at an unreasonable angle for restraint, but far enough that the cables are pulled tight. Were he not so limber, it would be painful.

The second thing he recognizes is the touch - two hands bracing his shoulders, pressing him against the bars, even as he tries to pull back and end the merge -

The third thing he realizes is that, no, those aren’t his shoulders - the hand’s aren’t touching him - that’s Jazz’s frame, spark still superimposed across and within his own, the blue nimbuses of light synching into a single wave pattern as he stares down at them through Jazz’s optics. It’s thoroughly disorienting, for a moment - then Jazz’s processor swirls to awareness around him, and he can feel the separate consciousness assume control of its own frame as he returns to his.

His frame doesn’t ache - but his optics are still offline, and there are hands touching him, too, large and warm and safe. His fingers are sore - dented, at the tips - but he can’t tell why; the memories of the last few breems read corrupted, as if he had crashed, hard, while still encoding.

He considers that, for a moment. He has no crash log. He sends a query ping to Jazz.

>>Prowler?<<

>>Query: Crash log?<<

>>What?<< He get curious feedback, with the response - confusion, all around him, as if he was confused, but he isn’t. >>No, Prowler. I haven’ crashed. We bonded - do you remember?<<

Of course he does. >>Affirm.<< He hesitates. >>Memory files: incomplete. Query: contact ident?<<

>>What - who’s touching us? Dunno.<< Jazz sounds… utterly unperturbed, which is wrong. Jazz should be alarmed. Jazz should be angry at him.

>>Why?<< The confusion ripples again, confusingly. >>’m not mad at you, Prowler. Wouldn’t have merged with you, if I was. Why are we supposed to be alarmed?<<

>>Unregistered contact.<< He points it out with a dizzying little spin, pushing the sensation of touch over towards Jazz, and dodging the other question entirely. >>Query: contact ident?<<

>>Can’t be not-safe, Prowler. Got you right here.<< Something seems… off… about that argument, but Prowl can’t think of a way to articulate his confusion. Jazz’s priority trees are bare to him - but they don’t make sense, weaving underneath him as if in constant motion, disorienting him any time he tries to grab hold of one and follow it down.

He settles for pinging back to Jazz, taking refuge in the simplicity of it. >>Affirm.<<

>>Are you… alright, Prowler?<< Jazz’s voice sounds hesitant. >>I’m not getting more than pings off you - can you talk?<<

He could, maybe, but… but words aren’t coming to him. Ident pings are easier, and just as clear - why does Jazz want him to talk? >>Affirm.<<

>>Oh.<< Jazz hums thoughtfully at that. >>’s okay, Prowler. You don’t have ta, if you don’t want.<<

Prowl relaxes at that, pinging back another confirmation - it’s good that Jazz doesn’t want him to talk. He doesn’t want to talk - just wants to stay here, with Jazz, warm and loose and floating - but then something shifts, and the whole world between them sways wildly, and like a tide on the Rust Sea, Jazz begins to recede. Not entirely - but there’s a tightness to the bond, as if it stretches between them for a moment before rebounding, elastic.

“Bring him over ‘ere, ‘Raj. C’mon.”

He hates the voice that echoes down at him, as if through murky layers of oil - he snarls, furious, he’s afraid of the voice - but no, that, too, is Jazz, distant, now, but still echoing inside him. It takes a moment to remember how he - Prowl - feels about the voice, but when he does, he presses comfort towards the other half of his spark. Ironhide is - is safe. Isn’t going to hurt them - he trusts Ironhide.

Jazz considers that, for a moment - and then it’s as if he dives, like a Seeker, down and down through layers of memory, parsing, regarding. It takes only a moment, as Jazz examines Ironhide through Prowl’s experiences, Prowl’s optics - and then the fear and rage abate as Jazz concurs, carefully, with Prowl’s assessment.

Prowl is vaguely aware that his frame is moving - it seems unimportant, until his gyros shift, unexpectedly, and he’s flat on his back, wings almost squashed beneath himself for a moment before something is hastily shoved under them. Then Jazz is on top of him, on his chest, half-curled with both their spark chambers still open, and there’s only a moment to register how happy he is as they overlap again before the world whites out in a merge.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time he awakes, it’s to the murky scatter of voices across his doorwings - rippling chatter that doesn’t parse into any sort of coherent speech for a few long moments before he can reset the sensors and almost reflexively begin filtering the input.

“I need to get these scans, Ironhide.” The voice that resolves out of the backscatter is unfamiliar to both of them - it cuts through the merge, dragging one of their - Jazz’s? - attention to it. He - they? - let out a low growl - they don’t want another mech near, not now, not with Prowl’s spark exposed -

“Ye can’t go in there.” Better. Soothing. Trusted. Ironhide won’t let the voice get near them. Prowl is sure of it, and Jazz trusts Prowl, enough to stay quiet and calm atop him as the larger frames move just beyond the cell bars, each shift and step echoing as Prowl’s doorwings pick up the noises and fail to pair them, creating an odd parallaxing as the sound reaches them.

“You can’t just keep me out - their sparks could be destabilizing as we speak -” That’s ridiculous. Their sparks are - Prowl checks, uncertain, just for a moment, but it’s Jazz’s optics that open to examine the pulsing blue light strung between them - their sparks are fine. Strong, even. Steady.

“I can, an’ I will. Lemme tell you something, Ambulon. You remember hearin’ how Chromi an’ I got ‘junxed, right?” Ironhide isn’t using his fake accent. It’s Jazz, they think, that notices it first. It’s hard to tell.

“... Yes…” The mech - Ambulon - sounds confused.

“An’ ye’d say, as a medic, tha’ the middle of a slagging Quint’ camp is a pretty stressful place ta be merging, right?” That doesn’t make sense - but maybe if they knew about Chromi, it would. Prowl files away a note to ask, later - Jazz, a little more alert, files a counter-note not to let Ironhide know that they could hear him.

“Yes?”

“Let me tell you something, Ambulon. I’d’a kneecapped any unbonded mech came near us for a joor or more. Near about killed Magnus, when he came fer us - an’ you? Yer an awful lotta kneecap. Give me the scanner, I’ll do it - but that ‘sassin’s gonna kill ye if ye get too close.” There’s a moment’s pause. “Take care o’ Hot Rod, ‘right? I got this.”

That doesn’t make any sense - none of it does. No one could kill Magnus, he’s invincible - no one’s killing anyone, except - oh - Jazz maybe already has?

But no he hasn’t, his hands are still tied up, and the world is all fuzz and soft edges and light and there’s nothing that can hurt them as long as Ironhide’s there and they’re here and Hot Rod -

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The third time they emerge, the world makes sense. More sense, anyway - the dizzying confusion is gone. He knows what of the pair of them is him, and which parts are Jazz.

>>Prowler, you there?<<

Jazz’s voice is gentle, across the bond - not shouting for his attention, but teasing him awake.

>>Yes.<<

There’s a relieved laughter all around him. >>Words! Good. I think - I think we bonded. Fully, I mean - I think it’s stable.<< Jazz swirls around and inside him, and Prowl, suddenly, realizes that they’re still merged. >>It doesn’t hurt anymore, at least.<<

>>It hurt you?<< Prowl doesn’t have any memories of pain - horrid, swirling disorientation, yes, but no pain.

Jazz laughs again, and Prowl realizes that the sound isn’t just laughter but movement, the bell-like strum of Jazz’s spark against his own. >>It did. Just for a little while, but it doesn’t hurt now. Like I said, I think it’s finished.<<

>>Oh.<< He doesn’t know what to say to that, except >>I’m sorry.<<

>>It wasn’t too bad. Don’t worry about it, anyways. Worth it.<< Jazz hums softly. >>Just a little tired, now.<<

>>You should recharge.<< He doesn’t know how long they’ll have before Hound or Mirage or… someone… comes by. Maybe even the mysterious Bee. >>I’ll keep an optic out.<<

>>You sure? It’s not too bad.<< But Prowl can feel it - the dull ache of exhaustion against his spark, the incomplete tags of a failed defrag interrupted too soon. It’s a feeling he’s well-acquainted with.

>>Recharge, Jazz. I’ll be fine.<< He can feel Jazz’s presence in his processor begin to shift as the assassin begins to slide his chestplates shut - the way Jazz seems to recede, first as contact is lost between their sparks, then, again, as Jazz’s processors begin to slow down for recharge.

>>You’re calling me Jazz, now?<< It flickers across his processor before Jazz slips offline entirely - as if he’s only just noticed. >>I like it. It sounds good, comin’ from you.<<

Prowl feels a flush of warmth at that - Jazz is his, now, and Jazz likes the way he says his name… It’s almost enough to press back the guilt, as his own chestplates slide closed.

As Jazz sinks deeper into recharge, Prowl draws himself upward, towards consciousness - lets the last coiling shadows of merge-bound confusion slip away into the light of the cell as he onlines his optics to reassess.

It’s not the same cell - that becomes obvious as soon as his focus shifts outward; the berth is positioned differently. Someone - a large, heavy frame that is unmistakable Ironhide, sits just out of view - not hiding, but far enough back from him that Prowl would have to turn to see him.

Jass is pressed against his chest, curled atop his frame, and he’s small and warm and perfect in Prowl’s arms. He lets out a soft chirp, nuzzling a little closer as Prowl shifts under him, but doesn’t wake as he carefully slides him to one side so that he can prop himself up.

Try to prop himself up - there’s a dull ache in his doorwings, and the cushion beneath them is positioned in just such a way that it’s taking the worst of the pressure off without actually doing anything to correct the angle they’re at. Prowl can’t hold back a groan as he tries to pull-push himself upright, but with Jazz still half-covering him, there’s no way to get leverage.

He’s looking down at the soft, wonderful frame on top of him, weighing whether or not he’s willing to wake the smaller mech, when a warm hand touches his shoulder. Ironhide is smiling, when he looks up, a pleased look in his optics.

“Shh. Yer safe, both ‘a ye.” Ironhide’s touch is strong and soothing as he carefully helps Prowl rise, one hand moving to keep Jazz steady as the other braces his shoulders. “Any pain? Ambulon - our medic - said yer spark readin’s were good, but ye two near abouts deactivated yerselves, so ‘e wanted me ta check.”

“Nearly -” His own voice comes as a surprise to himself, after the merge. “Nearly deactivated ourselves?”

“Ye can’t stand up on yer own in a merge. Dumbaft. Ye almost collapsed outta it - woulda shredded yer own sparks if me ‘n ‘Raj hadn’a been able ta catch ye in time.” The thought makes his optics widen as Ironhide gets him upright, lifting Jazz until the assassin is curled beside him, helm in Prowl’s lap. He grabs one of the blankets - a warm, thick one - and covers Jazz’s frame, leaving just enough of his helm exposed so that Prowl can pet his audio horns. “‘s alright. No one ever taught ye much about mergin’, huh? Wouldna’ thought ta. Yer supposed ta have time wit’ a medic ta sort it all out before.”

“I wasn’t -” He doesn’t know how to explain it - the fear, the need. Doesn’t know if he should, but he continues anyways, voice quiet. “I didn’t want to lose him.”

“Well, I’m glad, ‘cause yer stuck wit’ him, now.” Ironhide gives a soft chuckle, though - teasing. “How’s he doin’? Was expectin’ ‘im ta come out o’ it first, ta be honest…”

“He’s just tired.” Not worryingly so - in the back of his processor, the part that still feels more like the smooth, inky thing that is Jazz, he’s aware that if he needed to, he could wake Jazz up - but Jazz feels safe, right now, and comfortable, and Prowl won’t take that away when he’s not sure when Jazz will be able to feel that way again.

“Tha’s fine, then - guess ‘e didn’ get much real ‘charge, since ‘Raj said he was in stasis fer th’ whole trip here. ‘S long as he ain’t in any kinda pain, ‘s alright.” Prowl hesitates at that.

“A little pain, earlier. He said it was gone, when he told me.”

“Pro’ly was more aware o’ ye two comin’ apart then ye were. We had ta move ye - th’ bond comes in peaks an’ valleys, so we waited ‘til after a peak ‘n did it quick. Ye’ve been under fer eighteen joor.” Ironhide gives him a fond look. “Took me ‘n Chromi jus six, but I figured I’d let ye get some ‘charge afore I let anymech know ye were up. My mate, Ratchet, an’ his ‘junx took almost seventy, though, so yer nae th’ longest I’ve heard ‘o by any means, even countin’ the nap.”

Prowl absolutely can’t keep a flicker of surprise off his face at the name - but as he dives into his own memory, desperately trying to dredge up any point he might have given the medic away, Jazz rouses in his processor and shoves a file at him. Not a long one - just a few flickers of remembered conversation, Ratchet waxing momentarily nostalgic about his old comrades.

“I didn’t know it could take that long.” It’s hardly the best recovery he’s ever managed, but Ironhide doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah, they’re both geniuses - lots of files ta swap, ‘n such. Ratch is a medic, ‘n I guess they always take long, got a lot ‘o firewalls ta get through - ‘e set em both up on an energon drip, ‘n we traded off shifts keepin’ an optic on ‘em.” Ironhide gives a fond smile. “Was ready ta strap ‘em together ‘n shove ‘em out an airlock by th’ end of th’ second cycle.”

“I can imagine.” He needs to move the conversation somewhere - anywhere - else, curious though he is about Ratchet’s life before Praxus - he notes the fragment of conversation for Jazz to review, and checks his own fuel levels. “May I have some energon? My fuel levels are at 16%.” He dials back the ATS - it’s not ideal, but he can’t afford the power drain at its current levels.

“Slag, mech, o’ course!” Ironhide gives a hum of surprise - the level is far lower than most mechs would allow themselves to get. Prowl’s low-fuel alerts are set intentionally low - 12% - to account for his higher than average drain - most mechs maintain at or above 40%, but the alerts are only an annoyance when he’s using the ATS heavily. “Yeah, ye’ll need, what, two cubes? Lemme just - what’s yer mate there at? Ye should be able ta pull his numbers, look fer it a bit -”

“68%.” It takes just a moment to find the reciprocating datafeed that supplies him with Jazz’s vitals - it’s identical to the one that updated him when the other mech had slaved his targeting systems over, though far more responsive. “To take me to full would be almost four cubes - I have larger-than-average tanks.”

“Four fer ye, an’ one fer ‘im, then.” Ironhide’s tone is decisive. “Give me a klik. Don’ move away from ‘im - ye’ve got another joor or two ‘fore ye’ll be able ta stand not touchin’ each other.”

The large mech rises slowly, as if he’s stiff - and it takes Prowl a moment to realize why. “You sat with us this whole time?”

“Yeah, o’ course. Weren’t gonna leave ye alone ta wake up…” Ironhide lets out a huff as he moves to the door, stretching as he goes. “M sorry it has ta be me keepin’ an optic on ye.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure ye had someone ye’d have rather.” His voice is only faintly muffled by the wall. “Were ye planning, before, or was this…” He trails off.

“No, this was… spur of the moment. I offered, he accepted.” Prowl pauses. “We aren’t… conjunxes.”

“Like Pit ye ain’t - unless ye mean ta tell me ye had LEDs installed special.” Ironhide barks a laugh as he comes around the corner. “Which, I mean, let me know if ye pull’d sommat like tha’ off, ‘cause Primus knows I kin always use a laugh a’ Ops expense - bu’ I’ve seen ‘nuff bondings ta know what one looks like.”

“No, I mean…” He hesitates, not wanting to admit it, but Ironhide is… is more senior, more experienced, and Prowl needs advice. “We aren’t… involved. We hadn’t - we’re not even courting, let alone planning the rites - but I couldn’t let them take him -”

“Oh.” Ironhide has an honestly astonished expression as he returns, a half-dozen cubes stacked in one arm, and fiddles with the lock. “Well. Tha’s a bit odd, sure. So ye jus’ - went fer it?”

“The ATS recommended it.” He can’t meet the larger mech’s optics.

“Ah.” Ironhide is silent, for a moment - settles back into his seat, and tucks an open cube into Prowl’s hand. “Drink tha’.”

Prowl obeys with hardly a thought, and the rush of energy is a relief - so close to dry, several minor subsystems had cascaded offline to reserve power for the ATS, and he feels immeasurably better as they come back online. Ironhide takes the cube from him as he drains it, and offers him another. “Tha’ too.”

He’s done with the second cube before he even begins to register the taste - a warm, dense med-grade, served sour. The third cube, he sips, giving his energy levels a moment to normalize as he restores power to the ATS.

“So, ye pro’lly shouldna have done tha’, but done’s done. Two o’ ye will ha’ ta make wha’ ye can o’ it.” Ironhide shrugs. “I’ve seen worse pairs than th’ two o’ ye - way ‘e went ta ye, I assumed ye’d been court-mates fer vorn, a’ least. An’ ye can’t hate ‘im, if ye were tha’ desperate ta keep ‘im close…”

“He’s my…” He trails off. Best friend? Cohort? Partner? None of them really seem… adequate, to describe how much Jazz means to him. “I don’t want him to die.”

“Die?” Ironhide’s voice goes soft. “What’re ye talking about?”

“I have… something that Special Operations wants. I’m not sure what - they wouldn’t have bothered interrogating me if they already knew where Jazz was, otherwise, though.” He hesitates. “Jazz… He’s an assassin, he was much more involved than I, and for much longer. But they can’t have him executed if he’s bonded to me, not without killing me, too.”

“You think yer gonna be executed?” Ironhide gives a low rumble, though his voice stays just as soft.

“Him, at least. We’re murderers - Hound has direct evidence of at least one incident we were both involved in.” Words echo in his memory, but he’s not sure where from. “Murder is a crime, Ironhide.”

“I’m gon’ rivet ‘raj’s aft ta a wall an’ hang towels from ‘im.” The rumble that greets his words is nothing compared to the snarl in Ironhide’s voice. It’s a deep and furious sound - one that makes him flinch back away from the larger mech instinctively, but Ironhide reaches out to touch his shoulder with a gentle hand. “I’m na’ mad at ye, mech. Gonna slag ‘raj fer this. No one’s executin' either a’ ye, mech.”

It’s… not what he was expecting Ironhide to say - he had expected the same vague handwaving he had gotten from Hound, and then Nightbeat, not a confident dismissal of the very idea. “I knew when I began working with Jazz that it was the most likely outcome - I had just expected to go down fighting.” In a rain of bullets, possibly fired by his own former cohort - not vanished into the night for a quiet execution. But Ironhide shakes his helm.

“Nah. I know Prime - if ‘e was plannin’ ta have ye executed, he’d not ‘ave approved me ta be yer guard, fer one. Ops kin do their own dirty work, an’ Rager’s more than tough enough ta keep an optic on two locked-up mechs.” He chuffs. “Wouldn’a let ‘em break Roddy’s spark like tha’, either - kid gets attached too easy. Not sure why ‘raj wouldn’ jus’ tell ye, though - an’ slag, ye bonded o’er that? Prime’s gonna be fragged.”

Prowl hesitates. “It would… make sense not to tell me. I wouldn’t tell me, if I thought it would give me leverage in an interrogation.”

“Yeah, well…” There’s a moment where Ironhide trails off, looking distant as he replies to a comm, and then a vicious grin spreads across his face.. “Oh, good. Mech’s here I gotta talk to, Prowl - stick wit’ yer bonded, give ‘im tha’ -” - he gestures to the cube - “- if ‘e wakes up. I’ll be back in a breem.”

He rises, and Prowl can follow his pedesteps easily as he crosses to the door and steps outside - leaving Prowl, for the first time since his capture, alone in the room. Prowl doesn’t hesitate to turn his doorwings up to full, making a show of shifting on the berth besides Jazz to free as much surface as possible to listen through the wall.

“Mirage, ye dense slagger.” Ironhide’s voice is a low hiss.

“Ironhide.” The blue mech’s voice is similarly hostile.

“Ye din’ bother ta tell either ‘a those mechs ye weren’ planning ta kill them?” There’s a snarl on the end of Ironhide’s words, and through the wall, Prowl can feel his engine rumble.

“I’m not planning anything.” Mirage’s own voice is cultured, carefully flattened until anything but the acerbic hate is gone from it - it reminds Prowl strikingly of his own behavior when the ATS is turned up, his emotions flattening into purely performative expressions. “I leave that to my Prime, Ironhide -”

“Shut th’ slag up. Ye coulda told ‘em tha much -”

“Not honestly - Optimus has made no such decision, yet.” There’s a moment's pause. “None that he’s expressed to me.”

“Ye need Optimus ta’ come an’ tell ye he ain’t havin’ a mech executed ta figure it out?” Ironhide growls. “Ye liked slaggin’ wit’ em, more like. An’ now we ‘ave a pair o’ bonded mechs in there tha’ was thinkin’ they were gonna be shot -”

“You think I enjoy that? Optimus hasn’t made the decision to spare them, yet - a decision that, in light of their crimes, Ironhide, is no one else’s to make! I wasn’t going to - to lie to them in the Prime’s name!” Mirage’s voice takes on a hint of desperate defensiveness.

“Ye lie about everythin’ else -”

“Not about my Prime!” And this time, there’s a snarl to it - real anger. “Not about - about my Prime’s will! He was clear in his orders - he wants to talk to them, and I’m not going to - to bias them to him like that!”

“Ye think Optimus is gon’ have a pair o’ mechs like tha’ shot?” Ironhide’s engines rumble again through the walls.

“No!” Mirage’s reply is louder, too, more heated, the mask of poise flaking at the edges. “But he might - he could, and it’s his right as Prime to do it! I’m not going to speak for him in that -”

“He’d ha’ clarified for ye -”

“He might have - if I could even talk to him! It’s been almost an orn since he’s spoken to me, Ironhide - so what do you want me to do? Lie on his behalf, and then go to Optimus and tell him ‘Oh, by the way, I told the assassin you wanted to talk to you wouldn’t kill him, so please don’t.’?” Mirage’s voice is furious, now, but Ironhide doesn’t let him continue.

“Yes, ye stupid noble slagger, ye should, because yer ‘is slaggin’ helm of Special Operations!” The thud of something slamming into the wall between Prowl and the arguing mechs is enough to make Prowl jolt, and Jazz twitch in his arms. “’E trusts ye ta make tha’ decision fer ‘im, or ‘e wouldn’a named ye!”

There’s silence, for a moment, stretching out as Jazz continues to stir, but Prowl only pets his shoulders gently and strains his wings for any hint of noise. It’s Ironhide who speaks first, and his voice is soft, so soft it hardly registers -

“Wha’ - slag, ‘raj. ‘M sorry.” Quiet again, for just a klik, and the faint sound of movement. “Ye know I ain’t gonna hurt ye…”

There’s a quiet, hiccuppy sob, and more movement - the pair in the hallway are quiet for a breem, doubtless talking over comms. After another klik, Ironhide vents a sigh.

“Look, ‘raj - I’ll sort this out. I’m gettin’ along well enough wit’ Prowl, a’ least - should be able ta smooth things over.” Ironhide’s voice is the same warm tone he’s used with Prowl, steady and coaxing. “But ye should… ye need ta talk ta Prime, mech. Jus’ go down there, tell ‘im ye need ta talk.”

“He’s in meetings until joor twenty.” Mirage’s voice is quiet, hesitant. “I can’t -”

Ironhide’s voice is a warm rumble, almost a chuckle. “Ye can, mech. Ye think I wait until Optimus’ calendar is free ta bother ‘im?”

“You’re his Amica -”

“Yer his helm of Special Ops, ‘raj. Ye’ve got th’ same rank ta pull as me. An’ Optimus hates th’ meetings - ‘e’s never gonna complain yer interrupting, an’ the senators can suck yer exhaust, ‘cause ye rank ‘em.” Ironhide’s voice is encouraging. “Jus’ tell ‘em ye have urgen’ business fer th’ Prime’s optics only, an’ ta clear off - Optimus’ll back ye if any ‘o them give ye slag.”

He pauses for a moment. “If yer worried about ‘im… tell ‘im I sent ye, if ‘e gets mad. ‘E won’, but ye kin tell ‘im.”

“You’re sure?” Mirage’s voice comes through after a moment, thin and almost needy, and Ironhide gives a huff.

“Look - I’ll come down too. Gimme a breem, I need Roddy here ta keep an optic on these two, but we’ll go get this cleared up.”

“Alright.” There’s a shift of frames, and then Ironhide is moving to the door, stepping through.
“Ye din’ hear any ‘o that, right?” Ironhide’s voice is calm again, composed, the accent back seamlessly..

“Any of what?” lies Prowl, carefully keeping his face blank. Beside him, Jazz gives a little wuffle.

“Ah - nothin’. Had a quick word wit’ ‘Raj. Ain’ no one’s gonna be executin' ye, Prowl. Or yer ‘junx.” Ironhide doesn’t move to reenter the cell - instead he leans heavily on the wall, dragging a cube of his own out of subspace to sip. “Gonna have ta go take care o’ some business in a breem, though. Hot Rod’s on ‘is way back - don’ let yer ‘junx give ‘im too much slag, alright?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t want to scare him off.” His smile gets a laugh from Ironhide, and a grin as he rises to his pedes, carefully sliding out from under Jazz to rise to his pedes and stretch. “There aren’t enough decent Tidek players in the world.”

“Good. List’n - I’m gonna tell Prime ta give ye a cycle a’fore he talks ta ye - give ye an’ yer ‘junx a bit o’ time ta work things out between ye.” Ironhide gestures between them. “Dunno how long it’ll take me ta get back, but yer gonna want ta spend most’a tha’ time merged. Don’ try ta fight it - ye need ta keep resyncin’ yer sparks ‘til they stop destabilizin’. Jus’ - don’ worry ‘bout anythin’ else, right? Ain’ nothin’s gonna make a load o’ difference fer ye if yer sparks fade out, ‘right?”

That… fits with what he knows about bonding, from the enforcers - freshly bonded pairs can’t be separated, and enforcers who bond are entitled to a full vorn off - but he’s never bothered to learn the mechanics of it. “Jazz thought we were stable. It’s why we ended the merge.”

“Eh, yer stable fer th’ moment. Ye’ll drift back outta alignment over time. Gotta keep refreshing ‘til yer sparks decide they’re better off in the new frequency - after tha’ ye kin go a couple decavorns wit’out th’ merge, if ye decide ye’d rather.” Ironhide chuckles at that. “Ye won’t.”

There’s a tapping at the door, then. “C’mon in, kid.” There’s a soft sound as Hot Rod - his racer engines distinctive - pushes it open.

“Reporting for duty, sir.”

“Lookin’ good, kid. All patched up?” The sound of a helm nodding, a faint scrape. “Great. Keep an’ optic on th’ pair o’ them. Don’ open th’ door without another guard, even in an emergency - no offense, kid, but th’ last thing we need is one’a them fakin’ an injury so’s they kin jump ye - an’ give Ambulon a shout if they need somethin’.”

“Understood, sir.” There’s something skittish in Hot Rod’s short, formal replies - as if something has set the younger mech on edge. Prowl doesn’t know quite what until Ironhide leaves, and Hot Rod trots over to the front of the cell to lean against the wall where he can see them.

Hot Rod looks… anxious. His gaze flicks nervously from Prowl to Jazz and back, and his grip on his gun is tighter than before - there’s none of the easy, teasing glint of a grin on his lips. That’s not what catches Prowl’s optic half as much as the network of fresh welds across his chest, however.

“What happened?” He can’t keep the surprise out of his voice entirely, stepping forward to the bars to get a better view of the damage - a thick, wide seam, as if somemech had gotten their fingers under the edge of the plate and pulled so hard it had cracked - “Hot Rod, are you alright?”

“What? Yeah, I mean - yeah, I’m fine.” The younger guard flinches a little as he speaks, however. “You happened. Or - I mean, Ironhide said you might not remember, but… yeah.”

“... I attacked you?” It’s completely out of character for him, and he has no memory of it, but… “I’m sorry, I really don’t remember. What happened?”

Hot Rod seems a little relieved by that - he hesitates for just a moment, but the grip on his rifle loosens, just a little, and he leans back against the wall. “Ironhide said you didn’t mean to - I guess it’s just something mechs do, when they’re bonding? But, well - you and Jazz had just started to merge, and you started to fall over, and Ironhide tore open the door and grabbed you and I went for Jazz.”

He gestures, and Prowl has to lean all the way up against the bars to see it - but it becomes instantly obvious why they’ve been moved to the corner cell. Ironhide - apparently - must have literally torn the door off its hinges to get to him - it hangs in a twist of metal bars and ruined steel, the very frame warped inward from the force.

“Anyways, apparently bonding mechs can tell if the mechs around them are bonded? So you tried to attack me to stop me from stealing Jazz. Which, you know, I wouldn’t have!” Hot Rod sounds a little defensive at that. “But yeah, you got me… pretty good. Mirage managed to get in between us and let me get away before I dropped Jazz, so it’s alright, I guess.”

“Oh.” He’s heard of such things - there are exemptions in the laws surrounding assaults for mechs not in their right processors, and bonding-related violence is one of them - but never experienced it. Of course, he’s never spent much time around bonded mecha - few enforcers choose to bond, and until meeting Jazz, he rarely spent time around non-enforcers. “I am very sorry, Hot Rod. I didn’t mean to harm you. It was… disorienting - I could hardly tell whether I was myself or Jazz, for much of it.”

Hot Rod seems almost surprised by his apology. He looks, bright-opticked, up at Prowl for another moment before sliding to the ground with a huff. “‘S alright. I’m just lucky you didn’t pull out any cool assassin tricks, like knives in your wrists! It was actually kind of unimpressive - I thought you’d be a way better fighter!”

The young guard doesn’t seem unimpressed - Prowl can tell that he’s affecting a cool demeanor, but the attack has obviously shaken him. Still, there’s no sense in wounding his pride by implying fear - instead, Prowl slides down to the floor with him, tugging the blanket back over his wings as he goes.

“I was trained as an enforcer - I fight like one. Jazz knows all the tricks.” As he speaks, he can feel a half-dozen ideas that aren’t his float through his meta - a grab that could drag the younger guard in range for a gouge, a short blast of sonics that he doesn’t have to disable the smaller mech - and dismisses them in favor of a little praise to sooth Hot Rod’s ego. “I’m glad you were fast enough to get away without any more serious damage.”

Hot Rod perks up a little more at that. “Oh, I would have been fine! I’ve fought way bigger mechs thank you. I just… didn’t want to hurt you, is all!”

“Thank you for that, also.” Prowl hesitates. He reaches out to probe Jazz’s consciousness gently - the assassin is still fully in recharge, and despite being a light sleeper, isn’t showing any signs of waking anytime soon. “We were halfway through our game, when Jazz arrived - I don’t suppose Ironhide left the Tidek mat somewhere?”

“Oh, yeah!” Hot Rod scrambles to his pedes, looking relieved to have something to distract him. “Yeah, one sec - he tucked it over here -”

He returns a moment later with the board, spreading it out between them, and all at once, it’s like something’s released, some pressure vented, and Hot Rod gives him an easy grin as he pushes a tower forward in a doomed rush -

And Jazz is with him, warm and safe and sleeping just behind him, and it feels, for the first time in cycles, like the world is steady underpede.

Chapter Text

>>Hey, Prowler.<<

Jazz’s voice sings down the bond to him as the smaller mech rouses back to consciousness, still tangled in the blankets of the berth, and Prowl hums comfort back. >>Good morning, Jazz.<<

The assassin doesn’t stir until he’s responded - seems to latch onto the calmness in his voice before betraying his wakefulness. As soon as Prowl replies, he’s moving, stretching against the blankets and pushing himself upright. “Hey, Prowler,” he repeats, for the cameras, and Hot Rod - pinging a quick query as he does. Prowl obligingly pushes him his file on the younger guard - he can feel it as Jazz examines it, briefly, before rising to his pedes.

“Good morning, Jazz.”

“Yeah, good morning!” Hot Rod, wisely, hops to his pedes as Jazz approaches. His frame is relaxed, but the action is wisely wary - getting caught on the ground, even by two enemies with limited reach, would put him in a very dangerous position. Prowl rises, too, turning to smile at Jazz as he approaches. “Glad to see you up and awake!”

Jazz blinks owlishly at him, but there’s a twist of amusement at Hot Rod’s enthusiasm that snakes down the bond. Prowl echoes it back, and Jazz grins. “Oh, hey, it’s you! You’re looking good!” He gestures at the red mech’s chest. “Sorry ‘bout all that, mech! Wasn’t really thinking straight.”

Hot Rod resets his optics in surprise as Prowl glances over, curious. “What?”

“You know, the whole -” Jazz mimes breaking something between his hands. “- jumpin’ you thing. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Hot Rod cycles his optics again, then gives a laugh. “Wow, you two really did get confused, huh? Prowl’s the one who attacked me, not you.”

“What? Prowl - no, Prowler thinks you’re great. It was definitely me.” There’s a moment where memories flicker through Prowl’s meta, as if he’s accessing them down a cable - but no, it’s Jazz pulling them up for him, offering them over, and he’s right. There’s a flicker of sensation, his own hands bound, and white-hot fury peaking, and reaching out to grab Prowl’s hands and use them, instead - and then he’s back in his own frame, thoroughly disoriented. “Wasn’t thinking straight, or I wouldn’t have done it, though.”

“Oh.” Hot Rod looks - less comfortable, with that idea, and Prowl can’t blame him; given the choice between himself or Jazz, he’d much rather fight himself. That gets an echoey chuckle down the bond from Jazz - who seems, frustratingly, to have figured it out faster than he has. “Well… No worries. I wasn’t in any real danger, anyways. Like I said, I didn’t want to hurt Prowl.”

“Thanks fer that, too, then.” Jazz gives him another easy smile before stepping forwards and… and wrapping his arms around Prowl’s waist, burying his face between his doorwings. Prowl can’t help but stiffen with surprise before relaxing into the touch - it’s not unpleasant, but far more forwards than he would have expected from Jazz. “Try shovin’ that six-tile tower forwards a couple squares.”

“Wha -” Hot Rod looks down at the Tidek mat for a moment - it takes him only a klik to see the move Prowl has been hoping he would miss, and shove his piece forwards with a frustrated snort. “Is everyone except me a secret board game champion?”

That gets him another laugh. “Nah, mech - I’ve no idea what you’re even playing. Prowler was just hopin’ real loud you’d miss that.” He unwraps his arms from Prowl’s waist, but doesn’t move away, letting one of them slip to run gently over the base of his doorwing. Prowl flicks it lightly, but Jazz doesn’t seem to mind, fingers dancing away teasingly. “Any o’ that fuel for me, Prowler? I know you got pretty low -”

“Ironhide left you a cube, yes.” He hesitates for a moment. “Hot Rod, would you mind if Jazz and I had a moment of…” privacy isn’t the word for a cell with seven cameras, but... “A moment alone?”

>>Nine cameras, Prowler.<< The other six illuminate in his meta, Jazz highlighting them and their fields of view as Hot Rod gives an embarrassed chuckle.

“Oh, um - yeah. I’ll just - grab this, then. Ironhide said - well.” He glances away, optics bright, unwilling to meet Prowl’s gaze. “You know about the cameras, so just…”

“We’ll be discrete.” That gets a snort of laughter from Jazz, and a panicked look from Hot Rod, who almost scrambles to scoop the mat into his arms before practically fleeing around the corner.

“Have fun - goodbye!” He can hear the audible thump as Hot Rod tumbles into a chair, and a faint, almost panicky whine from his engines.

>>Aw, you’re a meanie, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice through the bond is teasing, amused - he answers Prowl’s confusion with a laugh. >>“We’ll be discrete?” You make it sound like you’d bend me over the berth, otherwise.<<

>>Oh.<< It takes another moment for Prowl to figure out what that means. >>Oh - no. Nothing so… I’m sorry.<<

>>Only teasing, my mech.<< Jazz reaches out again to take his hand, guiding him back to the berth. He settles down beside Prowl, once he’s seated, curling to tuck himself under Prowl’s arm and beneath his wing, and Prowl can’t help a satisfied purr at the closeness of it. He tugs one of the blankets a little more around them, and if his hand lingers against Jazz’s back a little longer than it should, Jazz doesn’t complain. >>’s alright. I heard… some of what you and Ironhide were talking about, while I was napping - you mind filling me in?<<

Prowl takes a moment to tidy the files before offering them - and sharing them down the bond is a strange sensation, the packet slipping effortlessly and instantaneously into Jazz’s meta from his. He tags Ironhide’s warning about merging again and the guard’s conversation with Mirage as priority, and sorts the rest of it hastily into secondary- and tertiary-access files, and is met with the odd sensation of accessing a file without viewing it as Jazz begins to sift through them.

>>Huh. Interesting.<< There’s a touch of relief as he finishes the file between Ironhide and Mirage, and also a slip of… something else that Prowl struggles to name, an emotion that seems purely Jazz.

>>What is?<< He doesn’t push within the bond - doesn’t want Jazz to feel any more intruded on - and Jazz just offers him a thoughtful hum.

>>Might be nothing. Might be something - I don’t know. Gotta get my thoughts straight, first.<< A hand gently touches his knee, and Jazz smiles up at him. >>Do you want to merge? I want to see a few things - might be easier.<<

>>Fuel, first.<< Prowl leans down to collect his fourth cube, and Jazz’s. >>Drink.<<

Jazz presses a burst of fondness towards him, and a slip of memory - the two of them sitting side-by-side together on a bench outside Apopholite’s, a smear of mercury down his cheek. >>Gotta say, ‘s not the most romantic spot fer a date, Prowler. I get ta chose next time, alright?<<

It feels like the energon curdles as it passes his lips - Jazz is right, this is nothing like it should be, Jazz shouldn’t be trapped in a cell with a mech he doesn’t - but Jazz senses his discomfort before he can hide it, and forces it back with a wave of affection. >>Not what I meant, Prowler - ‘m just happy ta be here with you.<<

Prowl hesitates for a moment. >>Drink,<< he says, again, and he’s a little relieved when Jazz takes an obedient sip.

They finish their cubes quietly - Prowl can’t help using the time to memorize how Jazz feels against him, warm and soft and wonderful, and there’s a hint of laughter along the edge of his meta, like Jazz knows what he’s thinking.

>>Alright, Medic Prowl.<< There’s a more pronounced teasing edge to the words, this time, as Jazz sets his now empty cube aside. >>I drank all my energon like a good mech. Can we merge now?<<

He sends with the words an image - his frame straddling Prowl’s legs, seated, upright, on the berth, with a pillow supporting his wings, entire frame within easy reach if Prowl - or Jazz - wants to touch. It’s sent with a flirty thought - an implication that Jazz would, perhaps, like very much to touch him, or to be touched, Prowl isn’t sure - but there’s sincere desire there, too, and Prowl flickers back approval down the bond.

Jazz swings his whole frame around like it’s nothing - just rests one easy hand on Prowl’s shoulder, and moves, silent and graceful as ever - and Prowl has a lapful of Jazz and no idea, suddenly, of where to put his hands. Jazz skims the thought off his mind and sends several suggestions that are enough to make him fluster helplessly as Jazz pushes the pillow into position behind him - he latches onto the first one that seems like it won’t needlessly upset Hot Rod, and lets one hand curl around the edges of Jazz’s chest, beneath his arm, the other sliding to rest protectively at the base of his shoulderblades.

Jazz brushes a thumb across his cheek, a bright smile on his lips - and then he leans in, chest opening in that same blue nimbus of light, and instinct as much as any higher thought has his own armor sliding apart to meet it.

The touch is electric - but this time, already more than half-synched from their previous merges, Prowl doesn’t lose himself in it. He’s aware of the white light that washes between them, the crackle of static as two electromagnetic fields meet and enmesh, the bright, crisp connection that allows for quantum-speed data transfers, faster than even thought - but more than that, he’s aware of Jazz, within/beside him, all around him. He’s aware of the bits of him that are Jazz - flickers of alien thought, no longer alien, but as much his as his own thoughts; he’s aware that Jazz, too, is considering little bits of Prowl-thought in his own meta.

Memories flow by, like a river - he hardly has to access them, could hardly access them, even with all his processing power, were it not for the efficiency of the merge. They flicker by in little flashes - sensations without context, faces without names, emotions without cause; for a moment, grief, strange and alien and unexplained, opens up beneath him like a great and gaping pit, before that too is gone, replaced by joy and freedom and the feeling of speed. Jazz’s speed, not his - not the heavy-engined endurance he’s built for, long miles at breakneck pace until his whole frame aches soothingly with the heat and strain of it, but nimbleness on wheels, agility, darting through and between obstacles, tracking objects and trajectories with instinctive grace.

The light dies back slowly, and despite the merge being easier the second time, it still takes more than a breem to orient himself fully - dragging back everything he can until he is once more a single being in his own processor. He can feel Jazz doing the same - slowly becoming more corporeal as he pulls together his own splintered consciousness. There’s a moment where they hang together, silent, before Jazz gives a huff. >>Slag. That’ll get easier, right, Prowler?<< His voice is rough.

>>It should.<< He assumes so, anyways - but he remembers Ironhide’s words, too. >>Or it will become less common, at least. As our sparks adjust to the synch.<<

>>Were you driving?<< Jazz flickers over a memory, himself-as-Prowl, and Prowl has a dizzying moment of disorientation as he views it, his own frame viewed through Jazz’s processor. He sends Jazz the corresponding file, and feels a tweak of amusement as Jazz sends him the same sensation, in return. >>Oh, that’s weird. Maybe merge-stuff is better kept to ourselves?<<

Prowl pings his agreement, and hesitates - here, so closely entwined with Jazz’s meta, he’s not really sure what he should be doing, or of what might be intruding on the other mech. Jazz seems… far more confident, as he begins sifting through their now-shared files.

>>Keep it shallow, maybe. Last… I don’t know. Since we met?<< The assassin replies to the unanswered question easily. >>Let’s look at our memories of everything since you got grabbed, how about that? See what we can figure out if we look at everything all together.<<

It’s perfect, exactly the sort of thing he needs: something concrete to pick at, a puzzle with a solution that’s far more real than… whatever this new relationship with Jazz is. He highlights the files in his own memories that seem relevant, and, after a moment, Jazz does the same, templating the format off of him - it occurs to Prowl, a moment later, that this may well be the first time Jazz has done this kind of investigation in a shared processor.

>>Yeah, it’s not something us civvies do often, I don’t think.<< Jazz pulls forward the memory of himself, Prowl, and Ratchet sitting together in Ratchet’s office, pouring over datapads, and it occurs to Prowl for the first time that that’s how they’ve done all their planning - that it’s not just been distrust of him, or hesitation to involve themselves in a more complicated three-way data hookup. >>I wouldn’t even know how ta set that up, Prowler.<<

>>Ratchet would.<< He’s confident in that - if Ratchet’s ever done any sort of processor-work, he would have needed a three-way connection so a secondary medic could protect the integrity of his processor. He flicks out memories of his own experience following the ATS - the foggier memories that come before memory, half-formed in the early days after the installation - and then Ratchet’s own words about having worked with Red Alert. >>But it’s probably better we didn’t; the ATS can be… overwhelming, for mechs not used to working with it. I’ll need to show you -<<

>>I’m a fast learner.<< He can feel Jazz consider the computer, a sleek grey emptiness at one edge of their shared meta. It’s online, and powered - he has it working through several pointless background calculations: a dozen different strategies for just-losing or just-winning at Tidek, entertaining mostly for the difficulty involved in keeping the game tight; a more detailed analysis of his two-dozen games with Ironhide, examining the grandmaster’s preferred strategies and general playstyle; a careful analysis of the camera locations in the room, and a matching backworking as he tries to figure out how Jazz located them.

Jazz chuckles at that, and hands him off a network-analysis program that clearly bears Red Alert’s expert touch - Prowl feeds it into the ATS as Jazz observes, and that thread boils away as the ATS resolves the question to its satisfaction.

>>Alright.<< Jazz sends him a false memory-file, an anticipation of an action yet to be performed - himself, feeding a question into the ATS, feeding in data, accepting an output. >>Like that?<<

>>Not quite.<< It’s close, though, and Prowl only corrects a few things before sending the file back for Jazz to examine. He partitions off a few data-bands for Jazz’s use - as much to avoid the potential backlash from Jazz making an input error as to prevent data-crossover from his own analysis - and assigns them to the other mech. >>You shouldn’t be able to do much damage even if you make a mistake - just be sure to leave the partition undamaged, and I can clear and de-cache that whole sector, if need be.<<

>>Is it gonna hurt you, if I do?<< There’s a glyph accompanying hurt that indicates pain, rather than damage, but Prowl pings back negation.

>>Only a little discomfort. If it wasn’t partitioned, it might - and an input error might risk cascading into memory, or surface systems, and take all cycle for me to sort.<< That causes a flicker of trepidation from Jazz, and Prowl hastens to reassure him. >>It’s rare, and can’t happen through the partition. The worst that can happen is it cascades back on you, and I can resolve that myself. Don’t worry - you’re not the first mech I’ve taught how to do this.<<

>>I trust you, then.<< There’s a flare of affection from Jazz, and then the mech sinks into the datastream with his own queries, and Prowl turns his attention to analysing Jazz’s interactions with Spec-Ops - and with Ratchet and Red Alert. It’s a joor later, and he’s half-way through a dozen-strand analysis when Jazz decouples from the ATS and lets out a delighted-sounding laugh that chimes across the meta.

>>Oh, Prowler. You’re wonderful, you know that?<<

It’s hardly the answer to any question he was expecting Jazz to examine, so he pings query back. >>What?<< He pairs it with the one-word question, since Jazz seems fond of speaking through the bond.

>>They’re not gonna kill us, Prowler - they never were. Oh, you’re a sweetheart, but - how did you miss -<< There’s another laugh, and Jazz’s meta skitters, impossible for Prowl to catch up and examine.

>>I don’t know what you mean, Jazz.<< He settles for the straightforward response. >>I had established that they were not intent on killing us -<<

>>Yeah, like a joor ago. Prowler, do you think they let a nice young mech like Nightbeat talk ta every hardened criminal they catch? You think Ironhide probably just goes around talkin’ about his dead friends to any mech? Slag, Prowler, I love you, but you’re -<<

>>Do you mean that?<< He doesn’t mean to interrupt, but something fragile inside is snared on the edge of those words, and -

>>What?<< The thing inside him that is Jazz seems to turn to regard him, confused, distracted from whatever he was going to say - and then a flood of warm fondness engulfs him. >>That I love you?<<

He hesitates - he doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer, if he’s more afraid that Jazz hates him for trapping him like this, resents the thought that they’ll be bonded for the rest of their lives - >>Yes.<<

>>Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice has an exasperated huff to it - but there’s a note of bright affection, too. >>Of course I love you. You’re wonderful.<<

>>Oh.<< It’s all he can think to say to that - to the earnestness in Jazz’s voice, the warmth of him.

>>But you’re an idiot.<< Jazz laughs like bells. >>Prowler - they’re trying ta seduce you.<<

>>What?<< He swims, for a moment, in confusion - but Jazz is all around him, buoying him up, supporting him wordlessly.

>>Not everyone seduces mechs with a quick ‘wanna bond’ in a prison cell, Prowler.<< There’s a teasing lilt to his tone that takes the sting off the edge of the words, though. >>Some mechs are classy about it. They want you fer your mind, Prowl - saw I had your pretty little processor all wrapped around my fingers, an’ decided to steal you away.<<

>>No!<< The thought sends jags like static through his thoughts, scattering them until he can only focus on one thing - >>Won’t let them take you.<<

>>They ain’t gonna take you, Prowler. I promise. Ain’t gonna take me - we’re a package set, now.<< Jazz’s words are soothing - as if he’s realized how much that thought upsets Prowl. >>Nothin’s gonna change that - ain’t nothin’ they can do.<<

>>Won’t let them take you.<< He repeats it again, just so Jazz can be sure. But then, a thought. >>You really think they want me?<<

>>Oh yeah, Prowler. Bad.<< A dozen memories flicker by, in lightning-fast succession - all moments with the Spec Ops mechs; Hound, Nightbeat, a flicker of Jazz’s interaction with Mirage - and then a half-dozen more of himself with Ironhide. >>They’re recruiting you, Prowler.<<

There’s a knife-edge hint of satisfaction at the thought as Jazz contemplates that. >>We can slag them, with that. They’ll never know what hit them.<<

It’s obvious how deeply satisfying Jazz finds that thought, but Prowl hesitates. He doesn’t want to - to disappoint Jazz, to anger him, but… the thought has caught at the edges of his processor, and he can’t hide the want, not enough -

- not enough for Jazz to miss it entirely. He can feel when it catches Jazz’s attention, the way the other mech turns to consider it. >>Prowler?<<

He doesn’t have an answer to the question in Jazz’s voice. He pulls away, just a little - but Jazz, curiosity blooming from him, follows, and there’s nowhere to hide from the other half of his own spark -

He can’t help it - he’s panicking - but Jazz doesn’t give him any room - follows him into his own processes, and wraps around him until there’s nowhere to hide. He blats static down the bond, helpless, but Jazz pushes warmth and earnestness and love towards him, and surrounded by it, he can’t do anything but latch on -

>>It’s alright, Prowl.<< The words cut through the panic, and all at once, Prowl registers that Jazz has been speaking to him all along, little, quiet words. >>It’s okay - I’m not angry. I’m not angry at you, Prowl - I love you. Are you alright?<<

He stays quiet, for a breem - he doesn’t know. But Jazz doesn’t push - doesn’t do anything except keep whispering to him until his spark is steady and he can ping outward with a hesitant >>Affirm.<<

>>Pings again, huh? I’m sorry fer upsetting you, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice stays gentle. >>No, no - it’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. Can I ask you some questions, Prowl? Or do you want me to wait until you feel up fer talking? I promise I won’t be upset, whatever you prefer.<<

>>Affirm.<< He sends back, reluctant. >>Query:<< He leaves the query open-ended, inviting.

>>Okay.<< Jazz’s voice is smooth and coaxing. >>What got you so upset? Was it something I said?<<

>>Negation.<<

>>Something you thought of, then. Do you… Are you scared of what they’ll do if you don’t work for them?<<

It would - it would match what Jazz seems to think of the Spec Ops agents, but… >>Negation.<< He can’t lie, not here. Doesn’t want to lie to Jazz.

>>Alright, Prowler. Let’s see…<< Jazz reaches out carefully, sifting through the memories between them. It takes… not long, just a klik or two for him to review the files, but it’s pleasant, with Jazz all around him, calm and gentle.

>>Oh.<< He can feel when Jazz finds it - finds something that makes it click for him, and he can’t keep from flinching - he wants to hide, wants to… >>Oh, Prowler. You - you want ta work fer them?<<

He doesn’t have - doesn’t have a way to explain it, not one that will make sense to Jazz. There’s no way Jazz will understand the - the spark-deep way he needs other mechs, or how good it would be to have a commander again, or - or how much it aches, to know that he’ll never be able to look his brothers in the optics without knowing, to the spark of him, that he’s a failure as an enforcer, that he’s broken inside - >>Affirm.<<

But Jazz doesn’t get angry at him. Jazz… reaches out, and begins sifting through… through memory, and coding, following a broken line of half-connected pieces - Nightbeat, and his broken coding; Ironhide, and Hot Rod, and the warmth in his spark playing Tidek as if they were friends (like cohort, whispers a bit of damaged code, but it’s much too soon for thoughts like that); Hound, who interrogated him so much like an enforcer -

Jazz follows it all the way down to the hole at the center of him, the gaping emptiness where his cohort should be, and hisses in pain when he sees it. >>Oh, Prowler…<<

Prowl can feel the way he looks - can feel it when he finds the patchwork bits of code around himself, and Ratchet, and Wheeljack, and the delicate half-torn strands around Red Alert, some new and some older - can feel it when he finds the still-raw edges, where they haven’t been enough. The brush of Jazz’s meta against his is… comforting, but it’s not enough, either - he’s damaged, and now Jazz knows -

>>You ain’t, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is quiet. >>You ain’t damaged. This is - this is what Ratch was talking about, right? With the warframes - this is what Nightbeat an’ you were talking about. Barricade did this.<<

>>Affirm.<< What else can he say? Jazz is wrong - he is damaged - but that much, at least, is true.

>>I’ll kill him for you, Prowler.<< And there’s a steel to the way Jazz says it, a promise that Prowl finds himself believing whole-sparked. >>Prime’s agents, huh? I guess it can’t be that bad - Ratch’ll be slagged, but we’ll have Red, at least.<<

Prowl can’t stop the wordless blat of surprise - but he can’t think of anything to say, either - can’t think of why Jazz would be willing -

>>You want this, right?<< But the way he says it places the weight of need on the word want. >>Prowl… I love you. We’re in this together, and I ain’t gonna ask you to - to suffer, just ‘cause I’m a little slagged about getting mechnapped. They coulda done a lot worse.<<

>>You… me.<< The words tangle up as he tries to say the, tries to make the joke - but he presses a memory towards Jazz, and the other mech laughs.

>>Guess it’s not too different - maybe this’s just how recruiting goes, fer mechs like us? They didn’t tie us to a chair, so that’s nice.<< There’s a warmth that cuts to his very spark. >>Of course, I got myself a beautiful, clever conjunx, though, so I musta done something right…<<

That makes Prowl fluster again, embarrassment rising, but he pushes the warmth right back. >>Got Jazz,<< he replies, words still hard, but he pushes victory into them.

>>An’ you got me,<< Jazz agrees. >>Yeah, Prowl. If this is what you want, I’m with you.<<

Prowl feels a surge of affection for the other mech - feels Jazz feel it, and the way he seems delighted by it. >>Can… can make it hard.<<

>>Oh, I’ll give them slag fer both of us, Prowl. Gonna make them regret threatenin’ you…<< But Jazz laughs, and Prowl knows he doesn’t mean it - that whatever he does will be reasonable, at least - and laughs, too. >>But hey, that ain’t fer now. C’mon, Prowler - we’ve got all cycle, if Ironhide was bein’ honest, and I don’t want ta waste it.<<

It takes a moment - just a moment - for him to realize what Jazz means - and then Jazz is pulling him in, and he’s pulling himself in, and the line between them blurs again until it isn’t a line at all, and he’s lost entirely in the love and joy and laughter that is Jazz.

Chapter Text

Bass thunders around him. Everything is thunder - everything except his own frame, which is silent, except for the pain. The pain is everything else - electric, all-over, unending, it pulses in time with the rhythm. His optics flicker; he’s half-blind, and the world goes dark with every heavy beat. He can’t hear anything beyond the roar of the bass; whoever is still in the room with him is either dead, or going to kill him, because he has no way of sensing them -

And the thunder grows unsteady; morphs into the roar of wind whipping over his exterior sensors. He’s going fast, and so high up that the city has fallen away beneath him; there’s nothing left except himself and the metal beneath his tires, and the suspect glowing green in his targeting systems, and the three yellow points behind him and to his sides that mark his squad. His whole frame aches with the hot strain of a long chase, but he’s so close, and the suspect is running on fumes, and in one moment he leaps and transforms and pounces -

and the merge shifts around him -

He’s standing at the precinct, a blurry figure before him, a sea of mechs all around him, and a fire is burning in his chest - he’s so proud, they’re so proud of him; he’s grieving, and they’re mourning him too. Another figure enters - he can’t tell who, but he hates them, with everything he is, he hates them, snarls in fury at their approach, but there’s nothing he can do as one by one the other figures disappear, until -

Figures pop back into existence, and they’re all looking at him, all eager, and he loves them all so much - loves this, being here, being watched. He shouldn’t - a voice in him screams that he should hide, that every pair of optics is a threat, but he places his fingers to the harp and raises his voice in song, and nothing, for a moment, matters; nothing but the music, and the crowd, and the way it fills the silence -

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They manage two more merges before anything changes in the room around them. These times, they don’t speak between them - instead, they sink into the sensations that are half-memory and half-dream, and spend the shallow times in near-recharge. By the time they return their attention outwards again, Ironhide has returned, and voices are coming from the other end of the room.

Prowl tunes his wings to it almost automatically - but, at least for the moment, the words are uninteresting: Ironhide and Hot Rod speaking, quietly, about what they’ve been doing. It’s nothing worth distracting himself from the warm frame pressed to his chest, or the way Jazz purrs when he raises a hand to scratch softly at the base of his neck, and Prowl lets himself drift on the edge of recharge as he listens.

It’s only when there’s a knock on the door that he bothers to waken fully - and gently nudges Jazz back towards consciousness down the bond. Jazz stirs as Ironhide answers the door, coming out of recharge with a stretch that arches his back artistically as he does, and slides off Prowl as he swings himself upright.

Prowl rights himself too - or begins to, before the voice at the door makes him freeze.

“Hey, ‘hide. Yeah, ‘raj sent me - he wanted me to ask Prowl for some info he was hanging onto.”

Prowl barely registers Ironhide’s reply as he recognizes the voice, glancing over to Jazz with shocked optics - but Jazz is giving him a look of blank confusion: he can obviously sense Prowl’s alarm, but -

It takes just a moment for Prowl to realize that, of course, Jazz has no reason to recognize the voice. He dredges up a file, and sends it over - waits just a moment for Jazz to access it, and is rewarded by a surprised look to match his own.

Before they can say anything further, however, a small yellow minibot rounds the edge of the cell, stopping to look awkwardly in at them.

“Um… hi, Prowl. Meister.”

“Jasper.” Prowl’s voice is entirely flat - his whole frame feels oddly flat, fury tamped down with exhaustion at the thought of another mech he was a fool to trust -

“Bumblebee, actually.” The minibot seems… hesitant? Uncertain? There’s something wary in how he holds himself, almost rueful. “Yeah, um - surprise?”

He doesn’t know what to say - doesn’t know how to react, not to a thing like this - but Jazz recovers first. There’s a sudden surge of emotion down the bond, enough to almost knock him backwards - and then fury, raw and clear and strong, overwhelms him. But it’s not his own - it’s Jazz, all Jazz, and he’s still so numb, but Jazz is roiling off the berth and surging forward, and there’s a rending clash of metal as he strikes the bars with a furious roar -

“I’ll kill you!” His whole face is a snarl, optics white with rage, and Bumblebee skitters back as if shaken by the force of his anger. “I ever get out of here, and you’d best never sleep again, you little yellow traitor, or you’ll wake up with my knife in your spark!”

There’s the clang of Bumblebee’s back hitting the wall as he scrambles away from the furious assassin, and Ironhide is moving in to grab him, to push him back, but Meister twists behind the bars and snarls at him, dentae bared. The guard backs off, wisely - despite the fury Prowl can feel twisting inside him, there’s nothing Jazz can do to lash out.

The assassin turns back to Bumblebee, whose optics are wide and scared. “He begged, did you know? When he found out you had been captured?” He almost hisses the words. “Came to me an’ told me he’d do anything if I helped him save you. Begged on his knees. An’ you were a rat the whole time? Should have let Rhodolite have you - should have pushed you in the smelter myself!”

The three frames are almost frozen in Prowl’s vision - Jazz, furious but caged, Ironhide alarmed, frame shifting to shield Bumblebee - but it’s Bumblebee whose expression traps Prowl’s attention: even half-hidden by Ironhide’s armor, the yellow minibot looks stricken. Not afraid, but…

Young.

>>Jazz!<< The assassin ignores him, optics and full focus locked on Bumblebee.

>>JAZZ!<< This time, he puts his full force behind the shout, all the power of an enforcer’s voice giving a command to a struggling civilian - and Jazz flinches with the force of it, turning, dentae bared, to face him - it takes a moment for recognition to blossom down the bond, and a sliver of apology as Jazz refocuses.

>>Prowl. Gonna kill him for you - gonna slit his miserable lines -<<

>>NO.<< He puts the same force behind the word, shoves little memories of Bumblebee-as-Jasper forwards - the ones he’s cherished, the ones that made him willing to beg an assassin for help -

- Jasper, shy but kind, the first friendly face in Praxus -

- Jasper, half-hidden behind a wall, slipping him a data-chip full of gangster gossip -

- Jasper, taking huge sips out of a cube on one of the rare occasions that they could meet and sit together, before continuing his story about a pair of tanks fist-fighting on the steps of Rhodolite’s base -

He can feel when Jazz’s meta begins to settle, fury eeking away as Prowl distracts him - and any anger that Prowl feels has melted away in response. He - he doesn’t know how he feels about Bumblebee, but Jasper - Jasper was a good friend, Jasper saved him, he might never have sought out Jazz again if Jasper hadn’t been caught -

>>’S alright, Prowler. I ain’t gonna hurt the kid if you’re that fond of him.<< Jazz’s voice is sedate, quiet. >>’sides, Ironhide already ran off with him.<<

The panic flickering in Prowl’s own spark begins to abate at Jazz’s reassurance, and he looks up and back outward to see that, yes, Bumblebee is gone, and so is Ironhide. He tunes his wings, briefly, and can hear them talking in the hall outside, but he doesn’t bother focusing on it long enough to catch what they’re saying - he wants to be here, with Jazz, right now.

>>Slag.<< Jazz gives a quiet huff, and brushes his fingers over Prowl’s cheek before leaning his helm in to press their forehelms together. >>Sorry, I - I really lost it there, huh? Hafta do better about that. I - I’ll play it as a joke, alright, mech? Just slaggin’ with ‘em.<<

Implicit in the words is what Prowl already knows - that if Ironhide, and the cell itself, hadn’t been there, Bumblebee would already be greying out on the floor.

>>That would be best.<< Prowl hesitates. >>I… thank you. For defending me, I mean.<< It’s been a long time since someone has been that - that zealous, in protecting him.

>>Always, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is soft but confident. >>I’ve got you.<<

Both of their helms jerk up as the door to the cell block reopens, and Ironhide trudges back in. He walks over to the door of the cell, arms crossed, but his plating begins to settle when he sees his two prisoners calm inside. “Yer na’ actually plannin’ ta kill th’ kid, right, mech?” His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of more genuine concern to it. “‘Bee’s a good mech -”

“I’m not gonna kill him, Ironhide. Just wanted ta put the fear of Primus in him, a bit.” Jazz gives an easy smile - but Prowl can feel the flutter of tension underneath. “Meant what I said, though - he scared Prowler real bad, when he got caught. Can’t blame me for holdin’ a bit of a grudge, can you?”

“Guess not.” Ironhide relaxes a hair, plating finally settling fully, and gives Jazz a small grin. “Can’t say I ain’t ever felt th’ same way about Ops, ta be honest. Jus’ - I wouldn’ go threatenin’ mechs, if I were ye - got some mechs ‘ere that’d be more’n inclined ta take tha’ sort o’ threat serious.”

“I won’t.” Jazz’s expression turns rueful. “Didn’t mean to this time - I let my temper get the better of me.”

“Don’ worry ‘bout it - Ops pro’lly sent ‘im in here ta rile ye up. They do slag like tha’.” Ironhide shrugs. “But ‘e wanted me ta ask ye fer sommat - said ye had some files on a couple ‘o Praxians they was interested in? ‘E wanted ta know what ye wanted fer ‘em.”

It checks out, roughly, with Prowl’s own timeline - they’ve finished examining his initial file dump, and are now looking for actionable intelligence on the gang lords of Praxus. He can sense Jazz’s curiosity down the bond, and almost absently dredges the files up so he can take a look - considering, all the while, what he might ask for in exchange.

There’s no point in hanging onto the data for long - not if, as Ironhide has implied, his and Jazz’s merging has caused SpecOps to push forwards their plans; once an offer has been made towards recruitment, there will be no point in holding the data back, so any advantage than can be should be gained now. Similarly, without the threat of death, there’s little point in assuming that medical care or energon will be withheld, meaning that the primary incentives to keeping information in reserve are gone -

“I want a shower.” Both Ironhide and Jazz seem taken aback by it - Jazz’s optics brighten as he pulls back to regard Prowl with a surprised look. “What? Not a prison hose-down - I’ll give them the information they’re looking for in exchange for a minimum of two joors in a heated washrack, for myself and Jazz, with a proper selection of supplies for cleaning and maintenance.”

“Ye want a shower?” Ironhide sounds incredulous - but Prowl narrows his optics.

“I was under the impression that we are going to have an audience with the Prime?” Ironhide nods, but it’s obvious that he still isn’t drawing the connection. “I would like us to be clean and polished - to make a proper impression on him?”

At that, Ironhide finally seems to catch on. “Oh. Yeah, suppose tha’ makes sense. He ain’ gonna be too slagged either way, but I guess I kin see ye’d wanna look nice fer it, an’ all.” His tone gives the impression that he, personally, has never been too concerned with how he looks for the Prime, but he nods regardless. “Yeah, we kin do tha’ - hang on, lemme see if they wan’ th’ info beforehand, or after.”

“Are you able to approve that yourself?” It’s more than surprising - ordinarily, Ironhide, or even Bumblebee, regardless of his actual rank, would leave the room, at least keeping up the pretense of getting approval from a handler. But Ironhide laughs.

“I’m yer guard, mech - I coulda taken ye fer a scrub-down withou’ ye offerin’ a bunch o’ info ta Ops.” He gives another chuckle. “Ain’ supposed ta, maybe, but what’re they gonna do ta stop me?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It only takes a breem for Prowl to upload the files to a datapad - neatly organized as they are, most of his effort is in adding a few additional notes from Jazz’s files. When he’s done, the files passed off to a mech that never comes into the room, Ironhide comes over to give them an approving nod.

“Thanks fer tha’, mechs. Dunno what Ops is plannin’, but it sounds like a mess an’ a half. Anyway - you gonna try somethin’ if I come in there?” That last bit is addressed to Jazz, who shakes his helm, a flicker of amusement sparkling across his meta as he raises his hands submissively.

“Nah, mech - ain’t getting out of here even if I do try something. I’ll be good.”

“Great. Face th’ wall, an’ put yer hands behind yer backs.” Prowl flickers over an image of proper restraint procedure, and obeys - a moment later, after skimming the file, Jazz follows suit, and Ironhide enters the cell, door shutting behind him with a clang.

Ironhide moves to secure Jazz, first - not with the heavy-duty manacles from the day before, but with a stasis clip and a pair of regular cuffs. There’s a frission of tension down the bond from Jazz as Ironhide looms - unintentionally, perhaps, but he’s almost half again Jazz’s height, and easily eight times his mass. It evaporates as Jazz recognizes the bonds, however.

>>Oh, this wouldn’t keep me for a klik, Prowler. Slag, I could be outta here with a knife in somebody’s chest in a -<< He laughs musically down the bond. >>What sorta ‘restraint’ is this, anyways?<<

>>How did you do that, anyways?<< He’s been idly curious about that ever since his own ‘capture’ of Jazz, following Ironhide out into the hall absently as they talk. >>The cuff I used should have been enough to knock a hauler into stasis - you just opened it like as if it didn’t even fire.<<

>>Oh, slag, no - it did.<< Jazz pauses, and a gridmap of his own frame pops up in Prowl’s meta, a handful of lines incomprehensibly highlighted. >>Just gotta shunt the charge ta my aux lines for the sonics - they’re high-voltage, and they ground out ta a charge capacitor when I ain’t using them. ‘S long as my pedes touch the ground when I’m doing it, I can shrug pretty much anything short of a lightnin’ strike.<<

That’s useful - and would make restraining him a professional nightmare, as an enforcer. But - and he gets a flicker of happy amusement from Jazz, when he thinks it - that’s a problem for other mechs, now.

>>Slagging right it is. You just gotta talk me inta the cuffs, Prowler…<< And he sends over a flirty image that makes Prowl’s engine choke just as Ironhide shepherds them into a side room.

“Aight, ye two - cut th’ chatter.” He gives a huff of his vents, but the flicker of a smile on his lips is genial. “I’ll give ye two joors. There’s polish in th’ cabinets, an’ ye should be able ta figure out everythin’ else, assumin’ ye’ve bathed a’fore - which I realize may be a stretch, fer some mechs, so knock if ye need anythin’.”

He undoes the stasis clip from Jazz’s back with a single, practiced gesture before flipping off the cuffs and gesturing up at the ceiling with an airy wave. “‘Ave fun, an’ try not ta traumatize security.”

“Understood.” Prowl replies - Jazz doesn’t bother with anything more than a casual wave of his hand and a trouble-maker’s grin. Prowl doesn’t waste any time as Ironhide leaves, however - before the door even closes, he’s wandering over to examine the shower set-up.

It’s… nice. Luxurious, even, and very familiar - fewer showers than the set-up in his precinct, perhaps, and set higher into the wall to accommodate the larger frames of military mecha, but it’s obviously designed for a cohort. It makes a certain degree of sense from a purely practical standpoint - a washracks is inherently a secure area, with no windows or vents down which vapors or mechs can escape - but there’s a gratifying relief to the familiarity, too.

He hesitates for just a moment - it’s not necessary, but he wants -

“Jazz, would you…” He drops his doorwings suggestively, and realizes that Jazz has no context for the request. “Would you be willing to help me with my frame?” Polite, inoffensive phrasing. Good.

Jazz gives him a happy look, and there’s a wave of fondness down the bond. “Thought you’d never ask.” He sidles up behind Prowl as he gets the water working - sets it to the near-broiling temperatures preferred by most officers almost automatically before realizing that Jazz, no doubt, prefers something a little cooler -

But Jazz laughs, and bats his hand away when he goes to adjust it. >>Ain’t bad, Prowler - I can take a little heat. ‘Sides, I’m gonna have to get used to it eventually…<< The implication that Jazz intends this to become a regular thing between them fills Prowl with a rush of warmth entirely unrelated to the shower’s heat.

>>So what am I doing, then?<< Jazz eyes the dozen-odd brushes hanging from the wall with a curious optic before selecting a narrow, long one. >>Think I’ve seen maybe three o’ these before.<<

Prowl takes a moment to pull together a file, sending it over - a brief description of each detailing brush and its use, followed by a quick explanation of the half-dozen detergents he can see. Jazz examines the file with some interest before twirling to press against Prowl’s back with a flicker of amusement. >>Oh, so this one is for your wings…<<

There’s a teasing touch that traces down the leading edge of one door, and Prowl can’t stifle a surprised churr - but then Jazz is carefully working his way down the upper seam of the doorwing, brushwork cautious and exact. Prowl has to hold down the urge to squirm as Jazz’s brush tickles across his wiring - it’s a little too deep, and the angle isn’t perfect, but there’s something immensely soothing about all the little imperfections of having another mech working on his wings, and it only takes a klik for Jazz to have him letting out soft, helpless chirps of pleasure.

Jazz has worked his way all the way down one wing, and is mostly finished with the second, by the time he bothers to speak again. >>How’s that?<<

Prowl can’t keep down the satisfied purr as Jazz turns his attention to the bases of his wings, swapping to a wider, flatter brush. >>It’s very nice. Thank you.<<

Jazz gives a pleased hum, and keeps working for another moment before he speaks again. >>I wanted ta ask you, Prowler - what does this mean?<< When Prowl pushes back with a little confusion, he clarifies. >This. I don’t know - showering together? It calmed you down, after Rhodolite - but you never wanted to again. I wasn’t really sure…<<

>>Oh.<< That’s… easier to explain, now that Jazz has seen the shape of the cohort-coding, at least. >>May I?<<

He holds out a hand for the brush, but Jazz hesitates. >>You don’t have to - I mean, I don’t mind doing it.<<

>>No, it’s - it’s something we share. Let me show you?<< That’s enough for Jazz to hand over the brush and, when Prowl lays a hand on his shoulder, turn compliantly until his back is to Prowl. Prowl takes the chance to assess his seams with a critical optic for a moment before picking one of the wider ones and beginning to work his way down it with smooth, even strokes.

It takes a moment for Jazz to relax into the touch - if he didn’t have the bond’s reassurance, he would think that the other mech was nervous, but there’s no anxiety from Jazz, just curiosity. Initial pass done, he moves to the circular motions that will begin working old oil and dust out from between Jazz’s seams - the foam becomes grey, not the really dark shade of neglected plating, but certainly less clean than Prowl’s own. That thought gets a laugh from Jazz - >>Didn’t have anyone ta impress before a cycle ago, Prowler!<<

>>Well, then, I’m just going to have to polish you up enough to impress a Prime.<< That gets him a laugh, and a surge of affectionate warmth from Jazz. >>It’s part of how we bond with cohort, Jazz. We… at the barracks in Iacon, we used to share one big washracks. Not exactly like this, but… you’d go out on your patrol, and come back, and everyone else would be coming off patrol, too. A few times an orn - every cycle, if you wanted - you would go and shower with anyone else who was getting cleaned up. And it could be anyone - Ultra Magnus would be in there at least once a day, though he varied when so that you’d always see him once or twice an orn, if you were looking, and all of the specialists would rotate through, too…<<

>>Oh.<< Jazz considers that for a moment. >>And in Praxus?<<

>>They had a washracks.<< He can’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. >>I never felt safe enough with my cohort there to try it.<< Not in an unmonitored area where it would be so easy to fake a fall, or clean up the evidence of a messier end.

>>Oh, Prowler...<< There’s a gentle sort of pity in Jazz’s voice, there, but Prowl finds that it doesn’t bother him. There’s no blame to it, just quiet sympathy. >>I’m sorry. Why didn’t you - if it helped, why didn’t you tell me? I woulda -<<

>>Civilians don’t see things the same way, Jazz. I didn’t want you to think I was -<< He trails off. Propositioning you seems almost farcical to say, now.

But Jazz picks it up from his meta and laughs again. >>Well, now you can proposition me all you want.<< He gives a low purr, wriggling under Prowl’s hands, before something occurs to him and he hesitates. >>Unless… is this something that needs ta stay clean, Prowler? Or can I flirt with you?<<

That… a sudden rush of want floods through Prowl, and impulsively, he leans forward to nip at Jazz’s neck, teasing. That’s enough to get him a startled yelp of surprise as Jazz jerks away, followed by an amused chirp. >>You can flirt, Jazz. But… not here, maybe.<< Not with cameras on them - there’s only so much he wants Ironhide to see.

>>Later, then.<< The way Jazz says it promises that there will be a later - probably as soon as Jazz can manage it. >>Well? Hurry up then - it’s gonna take a lot of work ta get me polished up, if I’m such a mess…<<

That thought - of getting to touch Jazz, of the soothing ritual of cleaning another mech - settles something inside Prowl, and he doesn’t bother to suppress the deep purr of approval as Jazz relaxes against his hands and lets him continue to work the brush over his seams.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes almost all of the two joor for the pair of them to be polished to Prowl’s satisfaction - he’s directing Jazz in buffing the last of the polish off of his wings when Ironhide returns. “Ye two are lookin’ shiny.”

“I thought something a little glossier than my normal polish might be appropriate.” The wax he’s selected is similar to what he’d wear to a parade, or during a formal inspection. Jazz’s polish is even higher-gloss, but he can also afford to go longer between polishings without a touch-up - no one is going to complain if a street performer has a few scratches.

That thought makes Jazz laugh - not just down the bond, but actually laugh aloud. He gets a curious, and faintly amused, look from Ironhide, and grins as he explains: “Prowler’s thinkin’ about how scruffy his new conjunx is.”

“Not scruffy!” Prowl protests, automatically, but at the snort that gets from Ironhide, and the grin from Jazz, he sniffs teasingly. “Just... unwashed. Dusty.”

He gets another grin, and a pat on the back, from Ironhide. “Good on ye fer basic hygiene, then. I know first couple vorns after we bonded, felt like half th’ times I was seein’ Chromi I was pulling her out of mudpits on Primus-fersaken organic worlds.” He shrugs. “O’ course, th’ other half o’ th’ time, she was pullin’ me outta mudpits on Primus-fersaken organic worlds, so… I dunno where I’m goin’ with tha’, exactly. Don’ get stationed on organic worlds, mostly.”

>>Primus, Prowler, not to keep fightin’ what’s dead, but you thought that was gonna kill you?<< Prowl shrugs - but now that Jazz has pointed it out, given him something to look for, he can see the careful intent behind Ironhide’s kindness. >>You’re gonna walk all over him, mech.<<

>>Ironhide is very kind.<< Prowl agrees, noncommittally, and Jazz huffs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Aw, an’ th’ two o’ ye are even talkin’ slag behind my back already. ‘S adorable - I always ferget how new-bonds are.” Ironhide laughs at the surprised look that gets him, and waves away the denials. “‘S alright, ‘s alright - I ‘member how it was. Gonna take ye a few vorns o’ practice ta keep th’ chatter hidden - well, fer you.” He gestures to Jazz. “Yer bondmate there’s got a wall fer a face.”

“Thank you.” Prowl nods his gratitude, and gets another snort.

“Anyways, I talked ta’ Optimus - ‘e’s got an openin’ in his schedule next cycle, first thing. Well, first thing he kin change - there’s a buncha early-mornin’ prayers an’ slag first, so ‘e’s not free till joor ten.” Ironhide shrugs. “Anyway, ‘s as good a time as any - ain’t never a good time ta try an’ talk ta him, honest. But ‘e’ll squeeze ya in. Figured sooner was better, a’fore ye recruit Hot Rod fer a trine or go on some kinda mech-bondin’ rampage an’ pop yerselves out a gestalt.”

“Well, I don’t know, Ironhide.” Jazz slows his voice to an easy drawl. “I’ll try to squeeze him in, but it’s pretty short notice - I’ll have ta talk ta my Prowler. Prowler, you think we can fit the Prime inta our busy schedule?”

Prowl straightens, making his voice as officious as possible. “I think we can pencil him in somewhere, yes.” He puts all of his experience into it - the tone, the bearing, memories of his time working as a secretary for Ultra Magnus - and Ironhide groans.

“Slag, ye two are gonna be insufferable, ain’t ye.” He points at Jazz accusingly, and the assassin grins back at him. “I’m blamin’ ye.”

“Rude.” Jazz smirks, then twists around, and Prowl has to stagger not to trip over him as Jazz gets in front of him and presses a kiss to his bumper. Ironhide genially grabs his nape in time to keep him from stumbling over entirely, tugging him back to his pedes as Jazz gives a mischievous chirp. “Maybe my Prowler’s corrupted me. You don’t know.”

“Such a nice young mech, ‘e was, too…” Ironhide continues as if he hasn’t heard Jazz, but Prowl can teek his amusement as he tugs the assassin back into line. “Quiet, polite, good a’ Tidek. Shame. Shame.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Ironhide has them back in the cell, and they’ve finished topping up their fuel reserves, it’s late enough to recharge. As soon as Ironhide has left, they half-tumble onto the berth, Jazz curling across Prowl’s chest as soon as they have the blankets arranged beneath them - it only takes a moment for Prowl to realize what he intends, and they’re tumbling through the exhausted peace of another merge. This time, it lingers in Prowl’s spark - he has a wavering memory of a long, late shift at the precinct in Iacon, a hazy recollection of… someone, he can’t tell who except that he trusts them implicitly, coming in to haul him off to a cot for the night…

The image changes, and he’s under… something, and the bit of Jazz in him tells him it’s a bridge; there’s a warm frame in his arms that feels like Bluestreak, and a knife-like shard of grief before the memory flickers and he’s alone, laying back, and listening to acid rain hiss across the metal above him, each drop echoing in a grand, pattering rhythm lulling him to recharge…

He’s almost asleep by the time the merge fades - would fall asleep, but there’s a note of tension in Jazz that wasn’t there before. Instead, he rouses, reaching up to stroke the smaller mech’s helm as he pings a query.

>>So… the Prime, huh?<< Jazz’s voice is steady, but Prowl can feel the anxiety creeping up around him. >>I don’ suppose they train Enforcers on how ta meet the Prime? ‘Cause let me tell you, Prowler - they don’t teach assassins. It’s like they don’t want us gettin’ close ta him, or something.<<

>>I… They taught us the basics for a Primal Audience in Iacon, yes. Magnus was a close friend of the Prime’s, and there was always the chance you’d be called up for an accolade, or be involved in a case that brought you close to the Primacy - but I’ve never used any of it.<< Prowl hesitates. >>I don’t know if the protocols will be the same, as prisoners. Or… ‘guests.’<< He pings Jazz the memory of Ironhide’s first words to him. >>I’ll admit, I’m unsure as to our actual status. I never expected it to come up - especially after my transfer.<<

>>Oh. Well, send me what you have - it’ll be better than nothing, at least, an’ even if it seems completely inappropriate for us, I’ll have an idea of what ta expect.<<

Prowl sends him the files obediently - it’s not much, a handful of guidelines at best, a few courteous bows that he practiced, once, and then promptly half-forgot. >>Ironhide should tell us.<< He draws one part of the memories to the forefront. >>Or whomever escorts us to the audience - that’s how it is for all non-nobles, I think. They won’t expect a pair of commoners to understand court protocols.<<

That’s enough to relax some of the tension out of Jazz’s frame, but not all of it. >>Yeah, I know. It’s just - it’s the Prime, you know?<< Leader of Cybertron. God made metal. Prowl is very, very much aware.

>>It will -<< He hesitates for a moment, not sure what to say. >>It will be fine, I’m sure. He’s Ironhide’s amica, isn’t he?<<

>>At least th’ Lord Protector’s on th’ other side of the universe, right?<< Jazz gives a hesitant laugh at that. >>Primus, can you imagine?<<

Prowl can - keenly. It’s the only thing he can imagine worse than having to face the Prime as a confessed murderer. >>Why would you even -<< He cuts off, shoving at Jazz down the bond. >>No. No more. Recharge, Jazz - I don’t need you coming up with flux terrors when we’re already living one.<<

>>Aw, Prowler…<< But Jazz’s tone is lighter, and there’s a warm teasing returned to it that wasn’t there a moment before. >>Can’t be that bad a dream if I’ve got you here…<<

>>Recharge, Jazz.<< He sends the message again, then sets it as an autoresponse as he triggers his own recharge, and lets Jazz’s laughter follow him down into the dark.

Chapter Text

It’s Ironhide who wakes them early the next cycle, tapping quietly on the bars - just loud enough for the sound to attract Prowl’s attention. He rouses, scanning the room, and sees Ironhide before carefully nudging Jazz, who lets out a little brrt of annoyance at the disturbance. “Good morning, Ironhide.”

“G’mornin’, kid. Don’ worry, it’s only joor six - ain’ gotta drag ye outta berth, yet, but I thought ye might like a chance ta wake up some a’fore I drag ye off ta see Prime.” Ironhide gestures at the cubes in his hands. “Figured ye should top off, an’ I wasn’ sure if ye’d wanna merge a’fore, too.”

“Thank you, Ironhide.” Prowl slides Jazz off of himself, ignoring the string of protesting noises as he scoots out from under the smaller mech and trots over to the door to take the cubes. “I appreciate it.”

“Even if he doesn’, huh?” Ironhide chuckles. “‘S alright, Jazz, I won’ hold it against ye.”

That gets him a foul look from Jazz, who has finally pulled himself upright. “I was snuggling that.” But there’s a flicker of bright amusement down the bond as Prowl returns to his side, and as soon as he’s close enough, Jazz’s arms wrap around him again. “Mine. Never leave me like that again, Prowler - it was so cold without you.”

“Oh fer -” Ironhide throws his hands up good-naturedly. “Newbonds! Jus’ merge, then. I’ll be over here.”

Jazz’s laughter follows him back around the corner.

>>Shall we, then, Prowler? One last time before we meet our maker?<< Jazz’s voice is teasing, and only the bond lets Prowl pick up on the thread of real tension underlying his words.

>>Of course, Jazz.<< He leans in, pressing as much comfort - as much confidence - into his field as he can, despite his own doubts. >>It’s going to be fine.<<

It’s the last thing he has time to say as his spark chamber irises open, and blue light consumes the air between them -

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hospital ward is quiet - there’s the steady rhythms of machinery, the beeps of sensors, intermittent, but no one is speaking, even though he’s surrounded by mechs. A smaller frame is leaning against him, one hand squeezing tightly at his knee as he wraps an arm over it’s shoulder - he can feel stress bordering on panic in its field, but he doesn’t know why. A frame much larger than his appears before him with a rumble of thunder that might be a voice, but he can’t make it out - it’s indistinct among the machines, and he can’t focus - he’s worried about something, afraid, but he doesn’t know of what -

- and the smooth white walls of a hospital ward warp into the clean lines and panels of a clinic. He’s holding onto a frame that’s limp and still - not dead, there’s still a splash of deep, rich blue, but there’s a medic standing beside him, face indistinct, and a sense of dread in his spark. The medic says something else - his voice cuts through the quiet, because there are no sensors, here, none needed to see what is already obvious, and there’s a noise like the world shattering around him as the frame in his arms goes grey -

------------------------------------------------------------------------

They resurface in each other’s arms, sparks still flickering between them. >>Feels better already, Prowler.<< Jazz laughs. >>Slag. You’re amazing, you know that?<<

Prowl feels it too - the same comfort he’s felt every time they’ve merged, the shared memory - the grief - already fading from his processor. >>So are you. We’re… it’s going to be fine. The Prime is supposed to be a good mech.<<

>>Gonna be fine.<< Jazz repeats it back with a touch less confidence - but he doesn’t have the advantage of the ATS keeping his emotions in check. Speaking of which…

>>I… Jazz, I’m going to keep my tactical bandwidth high, during our meeting. I’m not sure how I’ll react, otherwise.<< He hesitates - it’s a lot to ask, but… >>Can you - you’re better at - at mechs than I am. Can you take the lead with him?<<

>>With Prime?<<

>>Yes.<< He knows that Jazz is just as stressed about meeting the Prime as he is, but… He’s also got the sort of breathless confidence that Prowl can only dream of, the charming openness that he’s never managed. He pushes a memory down the bond - Jazz, performing in front of a crowd, a few cycles before Jasper’s mechnapping - Jazz, smiling boldly as he plays before dozens of mechs.

Jazz considers the memory quietly for a moment. >>Hadn’t thought about it like that. Yeah.<< There’s a flicker of confidence down the bond that hadn’t been there a moment before. >>Just gotta put on a show, huh? Make us both look good.<< He passes his own memory - standing in front of a guard, flirting, with Prowl looming awkwardly behind him. >>Slag - yeah, I can do that.<<

The memory, seen from Jazz’s perspective, is even more mortifying than his own recollection of the infiltration.

>>I’ve got it, Prowler. Just gotta make you look smart - ain’t like I’m tryna show off something that ain’t there.<< Jazz laughs, and for the first time since waking, seems to truly relax. >>Easy.<<

“Ye two lovers gonna fuel?” Ironhide’s voice once again breaks them out of their focus - the red mech is leaning against the wall, tapping a pede. “We should be gettin’ a move on in about a breem - gotta have somemech who ain’t me do yer security scan, which is a load a’ slag if ye ask me, ‘cause if I was gonna murder Optimus, ‘e’d be dead. Still - ‘s protocol.”

Prowl gropes along the edge of the berth for the cubes, dragging himself upright as he presses one into Jazz’s hands before popping open the top of his and draining half the cube with the efficiency of a mech used to tight timelines. He sips the rest as he spins up his ATS, opening bandwidth until his processor is suitably quiet - the last of his stress fizzling away as he begins ten dozen tidek simulations executing in tandem, letting the meditative rhythm of simulations executing in synch with each other focus him further. He checks the bandwidth usage - 32%, substantial, but not outside a normal cycle’s draw during a busy week - and sends a quick ping of assurance to Jazz, who mirrors it back as he finished his own cube. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“Oh, it’s sir, again? Hopin’ I’ll put in a good word fer you, or somethin’?” Ironhide laughs. “You know th’ drill - over ta th’ wall, hands behind yer backs.”

He complies, waiting patiently as Ironhide once again binds Jazz’s hands before his - with the same ineffective clamp as before, implying, intriguingly, that no one has taken a close enough look at Jazz’s wiring to notice the grounds. He pulls up the file absently, sending it and that fact to the ATS - it’s obvious that a medic has worked on him, it would have been necessary to remove his T-cog and disable the wiring to his magnets, at least, but he’s curious as to the likelihood that the medic would have missed something like that. It is, at least, a comparatively subtle part of a more substantial mod…

They’ve both been cuffed by the time he bothers to pay attention again, shunting his curiosity over the restraints to a background process as Ironhide leads them out into the hall. This time, it’s not for a brisk walk down the corridor, however - he leads them out a set of locked doors into a wider hallway beyond, and then out into the Palace proper.

>>Could make it, if I ran from here.<< Jazz tosses him the thought idly - they both know he won’t attempt it. >>Ain’t gonna leave you, Prowler.<<

He pings back his appreciation, and gets a warm grin in return.

The side area they’re lead to isn’t for prisoners - it’s lavishly appointed, with delicate scrollwork tooled into the metal walls, and a comfortable bench to sit on while they wait for the doors to open. Only the cuffs separate them from any other mech seeking an audience with the Prime - and, of course, Ironhide’s presence, half looming, and half shielding them from any curious gazes.

Still, the hall, this early in the day, is almost empty, and no one pays them much notice - any mech who isn’t a palace regular will be at daily prayers with the Prime, and so will most of the nobility. And it doesn’t take long for the filigreed door to open, and a familiar face to poke out - “Hey, Prowl! Hey Jazz - come in. I’m doing inspections for audiences today!”

Hot Rod seems in good spirits - Prowl briefly weighs whether he is in this posting coincidentally, or as part of an intentional effort to limit the number of mechs that he and Jazz interact with, before tossing that question, too, to background processing.

“Hey, mech!” Jazz greets Hot Rod with a smile as they step through into the antechamber. It’s not too tight a squeeze, even with Ironhide following in after them - the room is clearly designed for several mechs of Ultra Magnus’ size or even larger.

Hot Rod gestures them over to a wall. “Alright - ah, will you go first, sir? So I can -” Ironhide steps out with a nod.

“Go fer it, kid. Don’ ferget tha’ shoulders.”

“They check you, too, huh?” Jazz gives voice to Prowl’s question - it’s odd that anyone should be concerned about the loyalty of an amica to the Prime - especially since the Prime would be able to discern any betrayal long before Ironhide could act on it. But Ironhide just grins.

“Yeah - ever since one a’ Sentinel’s inner circle almost blew up th’ entire council ‘cause he didn’t notice the Quint bomb magged ta his aft. Was a mess, from how I’ve heard it - one a’ th’ guards noticed it goin’ in, an’ almost didn’ call it out ‘cause he was worried th’ lordling’d be offended.” He gives a snort that tells Prowl exactly what he thinks of that. “So everyone gets checked, now.”

As he speaks, Hot Rod is waving a wand around him, the tip flickering as it passes along his armor - a magnetic inference, Prowl recognizes, set up to detect secondary subspaces. He glances over at Jazz, who gives a grin at the warning.

>>Nah, they scooped mine out already before they pulled me outta stasis. Ain’t got many secrets left, I don’ think, after what they did ta my chassis - it’s all good, mech.<< Jazz looks at Hot Rod consideringly. >>He’s got sniffer mods, too - I can see th’ extra heat round his hand. Probably set up fer explosives, but I can’t tell what else.<<

Once Jazz points it out, Prowl can see it - the slightly too-deliberate distance Hot Rod’s hand keeps from Ironhide’s plating, not balancing himself but positioned to pick up any trace of explosive particulate. >>Then there will be a geiger counter in the ceiling, to avoid confusing the sensors.<< Doubtless there will be other protections, too - pressure sensors in the floors, to detect the irregular weight of a mass-shifted mech, and probably chemoreceptors cued to various vapors and causticants, too. He has enough experience planning event security with the enforcers to have a good idea of the basics, though nothing more specific - his knowledge lies more with effective positioning of assets, leaving the enforcers trained in their use to the deployment of countermeasures.

Still, he reflects down the bond to Jazz as Hot Rod finishes with Ironhide, it’s all mostly irrelevant, considering they have no intentions of assassinating the Prime.

That gets another laugh from Jazz, who steps forwards as Hot Rod gestures to him. “Be gentle, alright, mech? Just had my finish done.”

Hot Rod gives him an easy grin in return. “Yeah, I’ll go easy on you.” But his work is just as crisply professional as it had been on Ironhide - and, unlike Ironhide, he actually manually checks each subspace pocket as he goes.

“Gettin’ a little handsy with a bonded mech, there!” Jazz teases. “Ain’t like I can even access them - your medics manually decoupled the access points.”

Hot Rod gives an amused snort. “And you could have - I don’t know, microsurgery nanites, or magnetic couples, or something dumb like that. Trust me, there’s all sorts of dumb slag mechs try to get stuff past us.”

“Didn’t bother with his subspace…” Jazz grumbles, giving a little pout, and Ironhide laughs.

“It’s ‘cause of all th’ guns, mech. Course, I'm allowed ta have them.”

“Fair enough.” Jazz grins. “So… be nice, mechs - what’re we supposed ta do when we get in there? ‘Cause no offense, but a Prime is a little above my pay-grade…”

“Be polite.” Hot Rod speaks first, as if from rote. “Approach the dais and kneel - the Prime will tell you if you can rise. Don’t -”

He falls silent as Ironhide waves a hand. “Eh, ya don’ need all that slag. Be polite n’ all tha’, sure. But Prime’s friendly enough - jus’ talk ta him, answer ‘is questions, an’ it’ll be fine. ‘E’s an honest mech - if ye’ve managed ta frag him off, ye’ll know. ‘E ain’t gonna bite.”

Jazz relaxes down the bond at Ironhide’s easy confidence, but Prowl can’t help but wish that he’d had a chance to hear Hot Rod’s more structured answer. Still - kneel until the Prime tells you to rise, then follow Jazz’s lead. It’s a start.

>>’s gonna be fine, Prowler.<< Jazz pushes calm down the bond as Hot Rod finishes with him and turns his attention to Prowl, and Prowl does his best to calm down - he can’t quash the little shiver of tension snaking through his processors, though. He tries, instead, to focus on the mechanics of a well-performed inspection - this close, he can feel the sonographic pings washing over his frame, too short-range for even his doorwings to detect from across the room, as Hot Rod scans for irregularities in his plating.

He can’t keep from flicking a wing as the sonograph travels over it, and Hot Rod gives him an apologetic grin. “Sorry, right - sensitive?”

“Very.”

Hot Rod doesn’t skip the flat expanses - but he does work with an admirable efficiency to finish with the sonograph before reworking the area with his slower chemoreceptors, and Prowl pushes appreciation out into his field.

By the time all three of them are scanned, and Hot Rod has rebuffed their hands in front of them, it’s been five breems - almost exactly on time for their meeting with the Prime. Ironhide pauses for just a moment, obviously sending or receiving a comm call.

“Hey, yer good ta go. Like I said - don’ let ‘im bein’ Prime stress ye out - Optimus ain’ gonna hurt ye.”

“Thanks, Ironhide.” Jazz hesitates as Ironhide unlocks the door. “For - you know. Everything.”

Ironhide gives a little huff. “Slag, mech - it ain’t an execution. I’ll be right there - worst comes ta worst, I’ll see ye in like a joor.”

He pushes open the door and steps through, and Prowl, Jazz right by his side, follows him into the open chamber beyond.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The audience chamber is… vast. Not unreasonably massive, but far larger than it should need to be - a wide, open room, with a dais at the center large enough to seat the Prime and an entire gestalt, if necessary. The Prime is seated, regally, on a metal throne, two seats beside him and to the left on the dais that look large enough for Jazz and Prowl to share one comfortably - but Prowl doesn’t have time to notice anything else, because the Prime is looking at him.

At them, he’s sure - but the piercing blue optics of a living god feel like they’re looking at him, straight through him, and his pedesteps falter as his vocalizer locks - Jazz falters besides him -

And then Ironhide’s reaching back, encouragement blossoming through his field, and tugging them along - Prowl walks more to keep from stumbling than by any conscious thought, but he makes it, somehow, to the foot of the dair, and kneels - not gracefully. More collapses to his knees, if he’s ungenerous with himself - but he’s kneeling, Jazz is kneeling next to them, and his helm is bowed so he doesn’t have to meet that overwhelming gaze -

Even this far away - meters from the Prime - he can feel the smooth wall that is the mech’s field, far stronger than any other Cybertronian’s. It’s cloying - choking - it fills the space around them, and even calm, it feels oppressive. He flattens his own field carefully - can feel Jazz besides him, doing the same, pulling his field in as tight as he can, but the Prime can still, no doubt, read him like a datapad.

Ironhide is saying something - distantly, to the Prime - and Prowl has to steel himself with everything he has to hear what.

“It’s alright, Ironhide. Leave us, please - I’ll talk to them alone.” The Prime’s voice is deep, sonorous, but not loud - still, his words catch at Prowl’s concentration as if they have hooks; once he starts listening, it’s impossible to tear his focus away - he has to struggle to think enough to stream them to Jazz, who’s own audials are still fuzzing with static as he tries to deal with the field interference.

“Are ye sure ‘bout tha’, Optimus?” Ironhide’s voice remains respectful, but there’s a tint of doubt to it. “I kin stay -”

“That won’t be necessary, Ironhide. I hardly think these two are going to attack me.” The Prime’s voice is warmly confident - it rushes over Prowl like a wave, overwhelming, and he has to cling to Jazz to avoid from being dragged with it. Jazz, finally getting his pedes under him, seems hardly more confident - bolder, perhaps, as Ironhide bows politely and steps out of the room.

“You sure about that, Prime? You never know, this could all be a cunnin’ -” He chokes on his words as the Prime’s gaze settles on him again, whatever confidence he’s dredged up to make a joke at the Prime fleeing like mist. “Plot. Sir - my lord.”

“There’s no need for that, Meister. Or do you prefer Jazz?” The Prime smiles at him, and Jazz stumbles to find a response -

“Jazz is fine, my lord.”

“Like I said, there’s no need for that, Jazz. I try not to stand on formalities, if I can help it - speaking of which, you can rise, both of you. There are chairs behind you.”

“Ah - thank you. My - sir?” Jazz stumbles over the word, but the Prime gives a small, approving nod, and Prowl follows his lead, dragging himself to his pedes as Jazz rises and settles into one of the too-large chairs.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Prowl.” The Prime waits until they’re seated before he continues, surveying them both with a keen-opticked gaze. The overwhelming pressure abates, a little, and Prowl forces the fear down as best he can - the Prime doesn’t seem angry, doesn’t seem hostile - “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you at last. I… apologize, for the great distress my agents have caused you - I assure you, I’ve had words with all of them about appropriate treatment of prisoners, and it won’t happen again.”

He pauses. “Not that that will change things, for you. I hope - I hope you’re both at least settling into the bond well?”

There’s a hint of concern in his voice that seems… surprisingly honest. More open than he’d expect of a noblemech, certainly - but then, the Prime hadn’t been forged a noblemech, had he? Prowl sets a thread in his ATS to contemplate that, and pushes it back, keeping his whole attention on the Prime. “It is… a delight, honestly. We are very well-suited.”

The smile the Prime gives at that is relieved, but dims to almost nothing compared to the look Jazz gives him, the sudden rush of fond joy that pours down the bond - Jazz gives him a smile like the sun bursting through crystals, brilliant and beautiful, and it takes Prowl another moment to realize that he’s stared at it so long that the Prime has noticed.

He doesn’t seem to mind, however - his own smile has bloomed just a little wider. Nonetheless, Prowl increases the draw to his ATS another fifteen percent, and relaxes again as the distraction fades, replaced with sharp focus.

He’s only missed a few of the Prime’s words, by the time he manages to refocus - Jazz helpfully catches him up. “I’m glad, then. I had worried, when Ironhide told me you hadn’t been planning to bond - but I can see that Primus has made no error here. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir.” He gives the Prime a polite nod as Jazz repeats the gratitude.

“So - I’m told you were both, after a fashion, informed as to why I’ve had you brought here?”

Jazz hesitates for a moment - then seems to decide there’s no point in skirting the truth, and dives in with a reckless abandon that sends another jolt of panic through Prowl’s processor. “Because of all the, ah - the murdering. Sir. My Lord.”

“All the… murdering. That is, I suppose, one way to put it…” There’s a touch of amusement to the Prime’s tone. “Your vigilante activities in Praxus, yes. My agents reported the presence of an assassin, early into their investigations of the city - but I will admit it was your rescue of Bumblebee that captured my attention.”

He says something else, too, and Jazz replies with something that gets him a hearty chuckle - but Prowl can’t stay focused as the panic begins to build again. He’s not - he doesn’t know why - academically, nothing the Prime is saying should be alarming him like this, but every word makes his chest feel tighter with panic, as if something is squeezing at his spark - his vocalizer clicks with an involuntary reset, but he’s not saying anything, and all he can do is hope that the sound hasn’t carried -

Jazz sends him a worried ping, but Prowl brushes it aside - he’s fine, he just needs to - to focus, to get control of his processor -

The Prime smiles at Jazz, over something he’s said - Prowl missed what, exactly, but it’s hard to focus over the deep spike of anxiety that the look sends through him.

Jazz sends concern down the bond again, and Prowl shoves back against it with encouragement, forces back the fear as best he can and ups the bandwidth on the ATS again - he can’t afford to lose control, here, not in front of the Prime -

Who’s looking at him, now, optics a bright blue that threatens to consume him - he doesn’t know what’s making him so afraid, there’s nothing but concern in his gaze, but he can’t - can’t handle it; he needs the gripping terror in his spark to go away, before it gets them both killed -

Desperately, he gives full bandwidth to the ATS, and the fear rips at him like a current and dashes him against rocks.

He’s processing as fast as he can, but there’s still more data flowing in - a constant stream of it; no, a river, flooding its banks and his processors all at once. The ATS hisses with the strain of it, and distantly, he registers that he needs to dump data, he’s overheating, and he can’t even slow the datastream enough to register what he’s calculating -

>>Shut down the ATS, Prowler.<<

The voice in his helm is trustworthy, but it doesn’t understand. He needs to keep the ATS online - he’s busy calculating… something, he’s not sure what, but it must be critically important if he’s dedicating so many resources to it -

>>Shut down the ATS, Prowler.<<

There’s a voice in his helm - someone he should trust, he thinks, but he doesn’t have the processing power free to figure out who, because he’s busy calculating something. Absently he tosses the question into the teeming sea of queries he’s working on - he’ll get to it eventually -

>>Slag it, Prowler, you shut it down or I will.<<

That’s absurd - firstly, because no one else has the permissions to shut down… whatever it is that the unfamiliar voice wants him to shut down, and secondly, because there’s an unfamiliar voice in his processor where it doesn’t belong - he triggers his firewalls, but they come up empty -

>>I’m killin’ your ATS, Prowler, you’re gonna fry your whole processor at this rate.<<

And there’s a brief moment of confusion, because there’s a voice in his processor -

- and there’s a tremendous shudder in his processor as a sig-fault slams down across his ATS with the crushing force of a blast door, and all at once, his whole processor is juddered into reboot in a crush of dumping caches and clearing queues.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He comes online in pain - an ache far worse than any crash he’s ever experienced, paired with a twisting soreness in his shoulders and helm. It takes a moment to register who’s touching him, but as soon as he does, he reaches down the bond -

>>Jazz?<<

He pings the other mech’s ident code carefully - his memories of the last few joors are gone, partitioned off neatly behind a wall of his own coding. Something about his current situation caused him to crash, then - and badly, since the ATS is still offline.

Jazz’s voice in his processor is relieved. >>Prowl. Thank Primus - I was… You crashed, mech. Real bad.<<

>>Circumstances?<< He doesn’t have the energy for words right now - he just wants to know what’s going on.

>>Keep the ATS off for me, alright? I need you to promise.<< Jazz’s voice is - concerned. Whatever caused his recent crash is serious, perhaps ongoing, and Jazz judges a secondary crash likely.

>>Affirm. Circumstances of crash?<<

>>We’re in a meetin’ with the Prime, Prowler.<< That’s enough to make him startle, but Jazz forces calm down the bond. >>You… I don’t know. It was like - you told me you only crash when you don’t have the bandwidth available for your processor ta send data, but you had your ATS at 100% capacity, and it was like you couldn’t stop sending more - it just kept looping, but all it was puttin’ out was junk. I couldn’ make sense of any of it.<<

Jazz hesitates for a moment. >>I crashed it - couldn’t get you ta shut it down, so I forced it offline an’ locked you out. You were overheatin’ bad, Prowl - you were gonna start takin’ sector damage, if I didn’t.<<

It’s… it’s not good, but he knows what this is - even as it curdles at his spark. He pushes approval down the bond as best as he can - there’s no way Jazz could have done anything else, not without a better understanding of the ATS, and…

>>Glitch.<< He has to explain it. >>Theory - at 100% utilization, glitch… could cause ATS input-output loop, if… panicked. Never… never tested it. Never run at 100% utilization.<< It’s rare he even runs above fifty - the energon consumption rate becomes so high, and the number of cases that require such a large resource dedication are so small…

He doesn’t want to - he’s not sure if he can online his optics. He doesn’t want to face -

- he’s not sure if he’ll be able to bear the look on the Prime’s face. Will it be disgust? Or just pity? Either way, there’s no way the Prime will want a defective mech, one who can’t even be in his presence without suffering a crippling crash -

>>You’re not defective, Prowl.<< Jazz’s voice is gentle.

>>Negation.<< He loves Jazz - loves that Jazz loves him, enough to lie to him about this like he hasn’t lied about anything else - but it’s not true. He was broken long before Praxus - long before Barricade damaged him -

>>You’re not defective, Prowl. You’re - you’re wonderful. You’re brilliant. Of course he’ll still want you - he’s lucky you want him!<<

It’s a ludicrous thought - but Jazz says it with such a fierce conviction, such fire in his tone, that Prowl can’t help a miserable little laugh. Jazz… Jazz doesn’t laugh, though - stays firm, pushing back against him in the meta.

>>You’re not broken, Prowler. You’re perfect - you’re mine. Ain’t gonna let anyone say slag like that about my conjunx - not even you.<<

Prowl doesn’t know how to react to that. It’s - the little bit of him that still doesn’t understand Jazz’s priority trees tells him that something’s subtly wrong with the reasoning of it, but he’s not sure what, and Jazz is - is warm, and confident, and pressing such open love down the bond at him -

He loves Jazz, so much - but he needs him to - needs to tell him -

>>Talk.<< He has to try words, even though they’re hard, and hope Jazz will understand. >>Tell… Talk to Prime for me, too.<< He - he can’t, not with the static hissing in his processor, and the pain - but he trusts Jazz, and Jazz -

>>I’ve got it, Prowler. I’ve got you - don’t worry about th’ Prime, I can wrangle him.<< Prowl sends a wordless blat of protest at the idea of anymech doing something as disrespectful as wrangling to a Prime, but Jazz just laughs. >>I won’t say anything rude, Prowler. I got this.<<

Prowl sends a soft ping of appreciation - he knows Jazz does. Trusts him with this - trusts him with his spark, and pushes that down the bond, and feels it met by affection that wraps around him like a shield as he turns what focus he can collect to listening to the voices outside his frame.

Chapter Text

It’s been almost three breems by thetime Jazz is confident enough that Prowl is calm enough to risk slipping out of the other mech’s meta and returning his focus to the outside world - and to the Prime. Optimus is just - just sitting, quiet, watching him, and Jazz is suddenly, mortifyingly aware of the twisted pair of handcuffs at his pedes and the ignored warnings in his HUD from the stasis clamp’s firing, but the Prime doesn’t seem upset. Doesn’t seem to have noticed them at all - there’s concern in the larger mech’s field, and his entire focus seems taken up by Prowl’s still frame.

“Is he alright?” The Prime’s voice is low, as if he’s concerned he might wake Prowl, and Jazz feels a sudden rush of affection for the consideration.

“He’s fine. Well -” He hesitates, drawing himself up until he’s sharing the chair more comfortably with Prowl, one of the mech’s arms wrapped around him. “Not fine, exactly, but I managed to get him offline before he could do anything permanent to himself. He’ll recover on his own, in a bit.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t need a medic?” The Prime gestures to the door. “Ambulon is down the hall - I could have him here in just a moment. This isn’t the first time someone’s, ah -” He’s polite enough to trail off at that, leaving the ‘collapsed in front of me’ unsaid.

Jazz hesitates at that - it doesn’t feel right to turn down the Prime, but Prowl is aware, and listening, and pushing little pings of negation down the bond at him. “He doesn’t want one. I don’t know why, but he’d tell me if he needed something.”

“He’s alert?” The Prime straightens at that, looking surprised, but when Jazz nods, he returns his attention to Prowl. “My apologies, Prowl - I didn’t realize. If you’re sure?”

Prowl lets out a soft, helpless chirp - it warbles, just a little, and Jazz can feel the flood of humiliation down the bond.

“He’s not… feelin’ up ta talking, quite yet.” It’s the politest way he can think to phrase it - much as he’d like to tell the larger mech to shove off and leave Prowl alone, the Prime isn’t actually doing anything wrong. Has been - surprisingly polite, in fact. Respectful.

“Of course.” The Prime leans back, regal as he considers Jazz, and seems to hesitate before speaking again. “Would you prefer to meet with me again, once he’s had some time to recover? It was not my intent to upset either of you like this.”

It’s tempting, but… “Ironhide said you were a busy mech, my lord.” The Prime seems ready to reply to that, so Jazz pushes on. “An’ - I don’t think the uncertainty is gonna help Prowl any, sir. I think we’d both rather get this over wit’, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” The Prime vents heavily at that, and Jazz is worried, for a moment, that he’s offended the noblemech - but he doesn’t seem upset when he continues. “I’ll start with - Jazz, Prowl. Though murder is a heavy crime, in the optics of Cybertronian law, there exist many precidents for it as a permissible act - those of self-defense, defense of another, of seeking justice in the face of an unjust system.”

He pauses just long enough for Jazz to worry before he continues. “In light of that fact, and with my agents’ testimony to the evils of Praxus, and your own blamelessness in perpetuating those evils on the innocent citizens of my city - I pardon both of you for any crimes you have committed in her defense.”

It takes a klik to register - and longer to sink in; Jazz feels like he’s crashed into a wall for a dizzying moment as the meaning of the Prime’s words finally finishes processing.

“That’s - really?” A Primal pardon is - is nothing like he was expecting, leaves nothing for SpecOps to dangle over them - it’s the sort of retroactive endorsement of their actions that Jazz never, ever would have expected. “We can jus’ - go?”

“If you wish. That said - I will not preemptively endorse any… future crimes you decide to commit, but if you want to just walk away… consider it repayment, for your kindness to my agent, and an apology for how you’ve been treated here.” The Prime gives him a gentle smile - but Jazz doesn’t miss the hidden implication heavy in the word preemptively. “I had hoped you would agree to stay and speak with me, but yes - you are free to go, if you choose.”

“Of course, my lord!” He almost trips on the words as a surge of relief shakes his frame - he can feel it, and his surprise, mirrored down the bond in jagged little shards. “Whatever you need. I just… I wasn’ expecting -”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t planning to be so… forwards, about it, but I thought you might prefer the certainty.” The Prime hesitates for just a moment before reaching out to gently lay one hand on Prowl’s shoulder, giving it a careful pat. “I swear to you, Prowl, I never intended any harm, to you or your conjunx.”

Prowl makes a soft chuffing noise, and the Prime draws back agreeably, although there’s no discomfort with the touch down the bond. “We… yeah, thanks. It - it helps a lot.” Jazz can’t help another of his own heavy crossvents. “What’d you want to talk about?”

The Prime settles back with a smile. “I was curious about you, actually. My operatives were more than able to find information about Prowl, but they learned almost nothing about your life before the last, oh, two centivorns. What got you into vigilantism?”

It’s a mostly pointless question - unless the Prime is really interested, or really recruiting them, and Jazz can’t help but feel a little pleased. Still, it’s… not a question that he looks forward to answering - the answer isn’t pretty. Rather than wait, he sends the answer to Prowl in a batch of memoryfiles, pauses as if composing his thoughts while Prowl views them, and takes the surge of sorrow from his bonded with relief - he doesn’t want to have to face that while he explains this to the Prime. He pulses back soothingly against the grief, which morphs like water into warm sympathy, and acceptance - >>I’ll tell you about it later, alright, Prowler? All the little bits. Jus’ gotta deal with the Prime, now.<<

The Prime - who is looking at him with an understanding smile, and Jazz realizes, after a moment, that of course the Prime realizes what he’s doing - he’s bonded to the Protector.

“It was - me an’ my brother were both forged in Polyhex, but we got brought ta Praxus when we were bits - ‘fore our parents got killed in a crash.” Optimus gives him a sympathetic look, but Jazz shrugs. “We were too young ta remember them, much, after. Anyways - couple a’ younglings, no family in th’ city - got picked up by one a’ the gangs pretty quick. Ran fer a mech named Euclase - they trained us up.”

“Trained you as an assassin? Or did that come later?” Optimus’ voice is gentle, nonjudgemental.

“Yeah - I wouldn’ go so far as ta call myself an assassin. A hitmech, maybe - none of the folks they had me knockin’ off could put up much of a fight, in th’ early days.” He pauses again. “Trained Rico’ up as a runner - had him movin’ slag around th’ city, fer the boss. He was real good at it - fast as anything, and us Polyhex’s are real good at clambering around, if we put our processors to it.”

“Ah.” Optimus give another smile, at that. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Eh.” The noise Jazz makes is intentionally noncommittal. “Rico did. Me? I was good at it. An’ - in the city, you know, a living’s a living. Wasn’t gettin’ slagged every day, or havin’ ta wonder where my next fuel was gonna come from.”

“I see. But you left.”

“I fragged up. Boss killed Rico’ over it, an’ I killed him an’ split. Wasn’t no going back, after that.” He can’t meet the Prime’s optics, at that - at the prickling sensation of energon between his fingerjoints, and the way the words taste bitter in his mouth.

It’s been a long time since he’s thought about Ricochet.

“My condolences.” It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before - but there’s a note of sincere grief in the Prime’s voice. “I’m - I’m glad you had the chance to avenge him.”

“Thanks. It... was a long time ago.” He pauses. “After that - well, I laid low fer a long time. Couple of centivorns - I didn’t want ta hook up with one of th’ other gangs, but I didn’ have much else I was good for, ‘cept killing. Picked up an instrument, after a while - my folks had started teachin’ me an’ Rico, ‘fore they died, and it wasn’t too hard to get back into playing. I’d had a harp, when I was runnin’ with Euclase’s crew, so I wasn’t too out of tune - scraped together the creds for a permit, an’ changed my colors, an’ after a couple decavorn of layin’ low, there wasn’t anyone looking fer me anymore.”

Prowl stirs on his lap, and Jazz takes a moment to pet him, gently - there’s a brush, down the bond, but when Prowl settles, he refocuses his attention on the Prime.

“After a couple centivorn like that… well, some slag happened, an’ I realized I was in a real good position ta cut th’ cables of some very unpleasant mechs. So I did - half-figured I’d die doin’ it, but I didn’t, an’ after that, well… It felt more productive than spendin’ the rest o’ my function playin’ harp. Figured something’d get me eventually, livin’ rough - might as well leave my mark.” It’s a gross oversimplification of what had actually happened - his life condensed into less than a breem, with all the ugly edges filed off - but it’s true, for the most part, and Optimus seems satisfied.

“And Prowl?”

There’s no reason to lie there, though - and he has no idea what they’ve figured out. “Prowler an’ me met by accident - we were both investigatin' a mech named Feldspar, a real nasty slagger. Slaver. I was plannin’ ta kill him, Prowl was gonna arrest him - but he caught on ta Prowl.” He gives a soft chuckle. “Was gonna have him killed, so I grabbed him first - tied him ta a chair, an’ told him ta drop the case. He told me ta get fragged.”

Prime laughs at that. “And you listened?” His voice it teasing, and it takes a moment for what he’s just said to register -

But then there’s a helpless, strangled peep out of Prowl, and Jazz almost chokes on his own vocalizer - “Sorry, what?” The Prime flushes, glancing away, and there’s a flicker of mortification across his field.

“Sorry - I’m sorry -” He seems flustered, but all Jazz can do is gape. “My apologies - I shouldn’t joke -”

“Nah, mech -” He can’t think of anything to do but - but reassure the Prime, and if that isn’t the oddest thought that has ever crossed his meta, it’s slagging close. “Nah - it’s funny, I just - I didn’ think Primes were allowed ta be crass.”

“We’re really not, but…” The Prime gives something like an embarrassed grin, flickering his gaze to the door. “Well, Ironhide. And all the rest, really - I was a soldier.”

“Oh.” It’s hard to imagine - hard to picture the Prime as anything other than the serene religious figure he’s always depicted as, or the warm, kind mech sitting before him, but…

“So he told you to frag off, and…?”

“Well, not in as many words. He promised ta keep his helm outta stuff fer a couple of orn - I figured Feldspar’d be dead by the time he got back ta th’ case - an’ then he was right back on it the cycle after I let him go.” Jazz gives a grin when Prowl pushes tenacious pride down the bond. “So I kidnapped him again.”

“Primus.” The name doesn’t sound like an invocation of the god, and Optimus’ helm slumps forward. “My agents had you two working together, on the Feldspar case - we had assumed you had worked together previously, and hidden the evidence too well for us to find.”

“Nah, nothing like that. We talked it out - Prowler wasn’t gonna let the case go, an’ I hadn’t realized how dangerous me walking in and slagging the mech was gonna be for the slaves, so we came to an agreement about the whole affair - he did his thing, an’ I did mine.” Jazz shrugs. “I wouldn’t go so far as ta call it working together, honestly - he just took his team ta a building we knew had slaves in it, an’ I took care of Feldspar.”

“I see. And the next time you worked together?”

“Rescuin’ your mech.” That gets him a surprised look from the Prime, and Jazz waves his hand. “I wasn’t lyin’ when I told the little guy Prowl begged. He hunted me down - figured out I was a performer, and was keeping an optic on me, but he wasn’t gonna frag with me ‘til his informant got grabbed. Came and arrested me, dragged me back ta my own slagging base - thought he was gonna turn me in or blackmail me until he started beggin’ me fer help.”

“Oh.” The Prime’s voice is soft, at that. He reaches a hand out, carefully, and lays it on Prowl’s shoulder for just a moment. “I’m… I’m sorry, Prowl. If I had known -” He trails off for a moment, optics dimming. “I apologize. We - I - should have handled this whole situation more delicately from the start.”

Prowl sends a hesitant note down the bond - it takes Jazz just a moment to decipher it. “‘S alright - it’s kind of a relief, ta be honest. Think we’re both pretty happy you mechs didn’t find out more about us than you did.” There’s an unhappy ping from Prowl as he says it - but he can’t pay any attention to that at all when a smile quirks the Prime’s lips.

“Ah. About your medic, you mean?” Jazz can’t help but stiffen, visibly, and he knows he’s given himself away, but even as his processor races, the Prime waves a hand. “My mechs left him alone, I promise. They know how needed medics are - and how… upset… I would be if they harassed one unnecessarily.” He pauses. “And, of course, you cannot be charged with aiding a murderer without a murderer to aid. So your pardons…”

“Oh - they’d cover him?” It’s a relief - however confident Ratchet seems to be that his allies will protect him, Jazz doesn’t want to risk whatever enmity exists between him and the Prime boiling over into Ratchet being prosecuted for helping him.

“If he gets into any trouble, contact Ironhide, or Ultra Magnus - either of them can get a message through to me, and I will intervene.” It’s… not ideal, but then, no one beyond the Prime’s agents has ever come close to catching them - and by that point, pardon or no pardon, either the Prime will have his way, or Ratchet will.

Red Alert, on the other hand… He pushes that thought to the side. Hopefully, Red Alert won’t get caught - or, if they join his agents, the Prime’s pleasure at having two new assets will excuse Red’s secrets.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, you rescued Bumblebee - unknowingly, I assume, or the two of you would have been ready for us - and then…?”

“Prowler… He’d been working on his own for a long time. Me and -” He waves his hand in the air effusively - “You know - well, he wanted ta do more fer the city, an’ we needed someone with his sort of mind fer tactics, so he just sorta… stuck around. Helped us plan a bunch of hits, focus our efforts a little more productively. Did some small stuff on the side, but… well, he ain’t a hitmech.”

There’s another uncomfortable twinge down the bond at that, this time, a little stronger, but Jazz brushes reassurance toward Prowl, and pets his shoulder a little.

“I understand.” The Prime nods. “I’m…” He seems unsure of what to say, exactly, but Jazz hardly notices - Prowl lets out another little chirp, pushing at him down the bond, and this time it’s more urgent, but not yet desperate. “One sec, Prime?” Jazz waits for the large mech to nod before returning his attention to Prowl.

>>What’s up, Prowler?<<

He doesn’t get words back, just a soundless discomfort - a phantom ache that he can’t quite place, and an urgent sensation of physical warmth. It takes him a moment to put the pieces together - then, almost on instinct, he cycles through to his infrared. The tips of Prowl’s wings are dark - cold - and it only takes a second for him to recognize the problem.

>>Slag. Sorry, Prowler - I’ll figure somethin’ out.” He reaches out to wrap his fingers around the nearest wingtip as he slips back into the world outside of them. “Sorry, sir. Uh -”

It feels almost unspeakably forward, to request something so - mundane - from the Prime, but Optimus just gives him an encouraging smile.

“He’s cold. I don’ suppose you have a - a blanket, or somethin’ -”

“Oh! Of course.” The Prime rises to his pedes - and, oh, he’s tall, far more imposing standing than he was just sitting with them, and Jazz can’t help but feel a little intimidated, plating flattening back as his optics go bright. Optimus seems not to notice, though, or if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it - instead he heads, not to the door they had entered through to speak to Ironhide, but towards a door in the back of the room. “One moment - I’ll go grab something.”

Then he’s gone, and the weight of his presence with him, and Jazz takes advantage of the brief moment alone to press a soft kiss to Prowl’s helm, getting another, slightly happier chirp in return. >>You’re doin’ so well, love. It’s gonna be fine - Prime ain’t gonna hurt us. I think he likes you.<<

That gets him a doubtful churr, and Jazz laughs. >>Lookit - he just ran off ta get you a blanket, an’ everything. He’s charmed - you’re charming, Prowler.<< He flickers teasingly against Prowl’s meta. >>Or it could be me. I am desperately handsome, you know.<<

The little chirble of agreement that gets him is enough to make him laugh again, just as the Prime returns with an armful of blanket. It’s… much, much too big for Prowl, that much is obvious as he sets it down, and Optimus gives an apologetic hum.

“Oh, I didn’t think -” He gives the blanket a considering look, and it takes Jazz a moment to realize that - that this is his blanket, the Prime has just gone and pulled his own blanket off his berth rather than any of the dozens of doubtlessly more-practical options he has available - “Here - may I -”

He addresses the question to Prowl, but Jazz scrambles to his pedes as he realizes what the Prime intends. He nods a response - “Yeah, it’s cool -” and has to force calm down the bond to counter the alarm flaring in Prowl’s meta as he’s suddenly lifted, a pair of gentle hands supporting him as he’s scooped up and deposited on top of the blanket before the edges are tugged over him. He shifts in the blanket, disoriented by the movement, and as the Prime steps back, Jazz slides back into the chair, pressing against Prowl’s side. >>S’ all good, Prowler. You’re safe.<<

He waits until he gets a contented chirp from Prowl again, before glancing back up at the Prime. “Thank you, sir. He’ll be fine in a breem, I think.” That gets an affirmation from Prowl.

“I’m glad.” Optimus settles back into his seat with a smile. “While we wait, would you tell me more about Praxus, Jazz?”

“Yeah, sure.” He glances up at the Prime, considering. “What do you want to know? I’m sure you’ve got mechs lookin’ inta stuff - an’ it’s a big city…”

“Honestly? I hardly have time to review even the most critical of information my Ops turn up - I try, but between the nobility, and every new crisis…” The Prime shrugs. “It’s a constant battle to carve out even a little time for my own business - honestly, it’s only the fact that Bumblebee was attacked that brought your own case to my direct attention. He’s a friend, and when I heard he was captured…”

He shrugs again. “Well, anyways - whatever you want to tell me, I’m sure it will be something new. I suppose - what is life like, in Praxus? Between the gangs, and the corruption, I’m sure it can’t be easy.”

Jazz considers that for a moment. “It ain’t. I… well, I don’t live what you’d call a normal life, even beyond the whole,” he waves a hand, “killing people thing - but the gangs are everywhere - everymech’s gotta deal with them sometimes, even if they’re clean. If you’re lucky, you don’t see them - but there’s always someone ready ta take something, if they get the chance. Moreso, if you’re already poor - the cops’re just gonna look th’ other way, if you don’t seem worth it ta them. Gotta be worth th’ risk of slagging somemech off - an’ that means creds.”

He glances up at the Prime, and there’s a shadow in the larger mech’s optics - something dark and angry beneath the blue. But it’s not looking at him, not yet. “And if you ain’t lucky, you’ve got something somemech wants, specific. Creds, or a nice aft, or influence - doesn’t matter what it is, if somemech powerful sets their optics on you. You’ve gotta give, eventually - everymech’s got a breaking point, and the lords are real good at figuring out what.”

“Lords?” There’s a growl to the Prime’s voice, at that, and Jazz realizes his mistake.

“Oh - not, not real lords, like with titles - not most of them, anyways. But… I dunno, that’s what they call themselves. The ganglords.”

“And the police - they ignore this?”

Jazz can’t help the laugh. “Mech - they help. Everyone knows the cops work fer the gangs - only way they’ll help you is if you pay better, and even then, only if there ain’t someone more powerful holding the strings.” He gestures at the air. “Oh, sure, ‘casionally one’ll do something useful, but fer the most part? They’re just as bad as the gangs.”

“I see.” The fury in the Prime’s tone, quiet but dark, tells him that the larger mech does.

“It’s… it’s bad, sir. Prime. It’s… I figured I’d be spendin’ the rest of my life, tryin’ ta clean it up alone - been slagging mechs for almost two vorn, an’ it’s never done anything. Even with Prowl…”

“You will not be alone any longer, Jazz.” The Prime leans forward, and the weight of a hand on his shoulder makes Jazz look up into those optics again, darkened to nearly ultramarine. “I… I cannot regret having spent so long with my gaze skyward, Jazz - the Quintessons would have been no kinder, had they managed to conquer our world. But I do not intend to neglect our planet like that again. My agents are already working in Praxus - when the time comes, I intend to see those who have hurt her people brought to justice.”

The way he half-hisses the word leaves no doubt in Jazz’s processor what sort of energon that justice will be bought with.

It’s… a relief to hear. A strong statement - and an ideal segue into an invitation to work for the Prime, if that’s what he intends, but the Prime doesn’t say anything else. As one moment stretches into two, Jazz hesitates - and then steels himself to bring up the topic himself.

“So, I gotta ask - at what point are you gonna try to recruit us, sir?” Optimus gives him a startled look, but Jazz shrugs. “Look, we both know it’s gonna happen - I jus’ figured we might as well get it out in the open.”

That gets him a deep, rumbling chuckle. “We both know, hmm?” The Prime’s voice is questioning, but he has a warm smile on his face. “I didn’t - not until last cycle, anyways. My agents have been scheming - as they do, I suppose. At least this time, they weren’t plotting to murder me - a pleasant change of pace.”

“Sorry, what?” Jazz can feel his jaw drop a little, but the Prime just laughs again, waving a hand dismissively.

“Nothing - don’t worry about it. So - recruited, hm? Did Ironhide tell you, or…?”

“Nah. Figured it out as soon as I saw how thick they were layin’ it fer Prowler.” He grins, and there’s a little push of pride down the bond from Prowl - one that’s just enough to counter the nervousness he feels at finding out that it was the agents, rather than the Prime, who were interested in recruiting them. “Ain’ like they were bein’ subtle - Prowler was just busy worryin’ bout other stuff.”

“Ah. I had been concerned that your experience might have… soured you, on the idea.”

“Want.”

Prowl’s voice, soft but firm, drags both of their attentions to him like a lightning rod - he’s staring at the Prime with optics bright, one hand reaching up, hesitant, to pull the blankets from his face. Down the bond, Jazz feels a nudge.

“You… do you need something, Prowl?” Optimus’ voice is gentle, coaxing - he glances to Jazz, but Prowl gives a huff.

“No. I -” He stutters on the words. “I want to - to be -”

“We’re lookin’ fer somethin’ a little more stable than urban vigilantes, Prime. If you were gonna offer.” There’s a note of relief down the bond - and a wordless push: >>explain?<<

>>Of course, Prowler. I got you.<<

“We - Prowl’s got enforcer coding, sir. It… he didn’t latch onta anyone, when he got ta Praxus - not ‘til he met me. It’s been hurtin’ him - won’t stop until he has the right sorta structure again, we don’t think, and Nightbeat said your Ops knew how to deal with that.”

“Oh.” Optimus gives him a concerned look - almost a sad one. “Nightbeat had mentioned - but I didn’t realize…” He hesitates. “You - I don’t want the two of you to feel pressured, Jazz, Prowl - if that’s all you’re looking for, I’m sure other arrangements could be made. Your transfer back to Iacon, maybe - Ultra Magnus would be happy to have you back, I’m sure.”

“No.” Prowl’s voice is firm, and Jazz can feel - revulsion, almost, down the bond. “Not - not an officer, not anymore. Not -”

He presses the thought to Jazz, letting him turn it into words. “He’s - not fit? Not fit ta be a cop, anymore - least that’s what he’s tellin’ me. It - I’m sorry, Prowler, I don’ think that’s gonna make sense to anymech that’s not a cop.”

“I understand, Jazz. It’s alright, Prowl.” The Prime leans back in his chair, looking at them both with clear blue optics. “It would be a privilege to have you both. If you are interested, I would like to offer you a place as my agents within Special Operations. As a tactician, Prowl, and in whatever direction my Ops commander feels your talents lay, Jazz.”

“I - we - accept.” He bows his helm, unsure of what to do, exactly, but Optimus raises a hand.

“Not right this moment, Jazz. Take some time - speak to each other, think it over. I’d like it if you stayed here in the Palace for an orn as my guests before you decide - you’ve met Nightbeat, Bumblebee, and Mirage; I’d like you to have a chance to speak to them again as potential teammates before you accept formally.” Optimus gives a small smile. “But, if by then you are certain, I will be happy to accept your oaths.”

“Thank you, sir -” Jazz starts, but Prowl - Prowl hesitates.

“Can I -” His vocalizer skips again. “Want to - to anchor the code, if it’s -”

“Of course, Prowl.” Optimus reaches out to brush a hand over his shoulder again. “Go ahead -”

Prowl starts to respond -

- and that, of course, is when there’s a yell from outside - a half-alarmed shout from Ironhide -

- and the door to the chamber slams open, as a mid-sized red frame that it takes Jazz only a half-moment to recognize as Hot Rod is flung through it with a yelp.

He’s scrambling to his pedes inside the chamber, Optimus rising to his own and pushing himself between the doorway and Prowl, who's meta is sparking with alarm, when a large frame shoves through the twisted, ignoring Ironhide’s hand on his shoulder. Jazz has just enough time for stunned recognition as he catches sight of the other mech - but it’s Optimus who’s choked voice greets the other mech’s snarl, and incandescent, cobalt-blue optics -

“Ratchet?”

“Hello, Optimus - Amica.” And Ratchet’s smile bares fangs as he catches sight of Jazz’s wide optics. “You have something that belongs to me, I think.”

Chapter Text

::Anything?::

::No.::

::Slag. Wish we had cameras.:: Ratchet leans back in his chair, contemplating his desk with a concerned look. ::Any sort of movement at all? Nothing on the general comms channels?::

::Nothing.:: Red Alert pauses for a moment, thoughtful. ::I’m going to comm Mirage. If he’s still in the building - or under a comms blocker in general, I suppose - it’ll redirect to Hound.::

::Sounds good.:: Ratchet leans back a little further, chair tilting listlessly under him as the channel dissolves into static. He toys with a scalpel, letting it flicker aimlessly between his fingers as he waits - anything to distract from the rising tension in his spark.

It only takes a klik for Red Alert’s voice to return. ::I think they have him. Mirage picked up - I asked him a couple questions about another case, tried to throw the scent, but whatever business they had with Jazz is done.:: He pauses for a moment, then gives a frustrated snort. ::Oh, of course - and now the tracker’s back. Yes - they’re moving him. Some kind of transport, I’ll have visuals of the exterior in a moment - towards the train station.::

::Any chance of an intercept?:: It’s not really his skill set, but…

::Negative.:: Red’s voice tells him what the other mech thinks of that idea. ::Road Rage would tear you apart before you got more than a few words out - she’s reasonable enough, one-on-one, but she’s not going to hesitate if she thinks you’re a threat to Mirage.::

::Slag.::

He gets a sense, over the connection, that Red Alert agrees with that assessment - but the hacker’s words are more confident. ::We have to consider, too, that Jazz may have gone with them willingly. He wouldn’t have been an easy mech to take down, even two-to-one - but if they offered him a deal, or he thought it would protect Prowl…::

::He’s an idiot.:: Ratchet says it with the certainty of a well-worn truth. ::If he’s trusted a slagging thing they’ve said, he’s an idiot - but, Primus damn, he’d play along if he thought it would protect Prowl. Protect us.:: It’s a truth he can’t deny - Jazz is, to the very core of his spark, loyal. He hesitates. ::You can confirm that he’s alive, at least?::

::Life signs are strong and steady.:: Red Alert sends him a quick ping - a comms linkup to the monitor. ::Try not to panic if it cuts suddenly, though - it loses signal if it loses comms, so any sort of blocker or comms detector will interfere. We need…:: The hacker hesitates, scrambling to plan for a mission neither of them want to do. ::We need to get you into the Desert Rose - need those audiologs, if we can get them. There’s no way we’re stopping them before they get Jazz out of Praxus - I checked the manifest, they’ve got a private car at the trainyards, they’ll be out of here as soon as they can have it hooked up, and any sort of interference with that will set them so hard on edge that they’ll shoot any mech they think is looking at them wrong. Ops hate surprises.::

::So we let them get back to Iacon.:: Ratchet can’t help but huff his vents - it’s the last thing he wants to think about. ::Let them go, with Jazz, if they’ve got him, then scoop up the audiologs in the morning, and plan our play from there.::

::Optimus…:: Red Alert hesitates on the name. ::Optimus is a good mech, Ratchet. Ops wouldn’t bring Jazz back to Iacon if they were planning any sort of execution - he wouldn't allow it, not without argument, and he’s stubborn. They’re going to be fine - we’ll have time.::

::Red… I know Optimus. They’re going to be safe with him, sure - all Jazz has to do is say one of our names, and there won’t be a thing in Iacon that can touch them. But…:: Ratchet can’t help the heavy vent. ::I just don’t want to go back, alright? Not over…:: He waves a hand. ::You know. Something like this.::

He doesn’t need to say anything else - Red Alert knows.

::...Get some recharge, Ratchet.:: His voice is soft, and sympathetic. ::I’ll keep an optic on things from up here. We’ll get you into the Rose in the morning - we’ll get them both back.::

::Thanks, Red.:: Ratchet takes a moment, after he disconnects from the call, to analyze Red’s reactions - calm, stable, and it’s obvious that Inferno has done wonders for him since leaving Cybertron - it’s a much quicker recovery than he had expected from the rate the younger mech’s glitch had spun up at. It’s encouraging - the first good news he’s had all day, honestly - and he tucks it into Red’s file before sending the hacker a quick ping about the update so that Red can refresh the encryptions.

Then he does make his way over to his berth - well, a berth. With Wheeljack already out of the city, there’s not much point in going home, and he’s spent enough time recharging on medical berths to know just how to avoid all the little aches.

He takes a moment to work himself into just the right position, and triggers the lines of code that will knock him into a fast, dreamless recharge - not something he uses often, not since the war, but… with Prime so close, he can feel the memories roiling beneath the surface, and he doesn’t want to deal with that tonight. The world goes dark around him like a cord’s been pulled, and he doesn’t think of anything at all for eight black joors.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

::You have a watcher.::

Those reassuring words are the first thing that greets him when he onlines the next cycle. ::Good morning to you, too, Red.:: He takes a moment, pauses to stretch. ::A watcher, huh? Ops, or gang?::

It wouldn’t be the first time a gang has decided to keep an optic on him - free clinics are always a little suspicious, and there’s been more than one that wound up being a reclaimationist or siphonist cover - but he’s been here long enough that most of the suspicion should have long since faded, and the timing is too close to be a coincidence. Still…

::No idea.:: Red sounds like he agrees with that assessment, but there’s a twinge of uncertainty to his words. ::I’d say Ops, but I don’t recognize him. Still, that doesn’t mean anything - with no access to the files for this case, I don’t know who’s running on it, and it’s a Praxian frame. Could be local - could be one of my mechs, with a new color scheme and some kibble.::

::Great.:: It isn’t - if it’s a tail, he needs to lose it before heading to the restaurant, and if it’s a local, he needs them away from the clinic. ::He look armed?::

::Not particularly - why?:: He ignores Red’s question - moves over to the window and glances out, using the reflection of light off the crystal across the street to hide his shadow in the window. He can see the mech - a blue Praxian, lightly-armed, if anything, looking-without-looking at his front door. ::Ratchet, why?::

::Gonna go have a chat with him.:: That gets him a blat of protest, which he ignores. ::Hang tight, Red - I’ve got this.:: He takes the stairs two at a time, tugging a comms block out of his subspace and grinning fiercely - he’s looking forwards to this. ::Gonna go dark for a few klik - don’t worry about me.::

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It is, almost tragically, a singularly uninteresting assignment.

Skids takes another bite out of his bag of rust crisps, carefully looking uninteresting as he leans against a wall. He glances, every few kliks, at the door to the clinic, which has neither opened nor closed in over fifteen joor. Eventually, hopefully, someone will come out - if he’s lucky, it will be the medic, and he’ll get to tail the mech somewhere, if not, it will at least give him an excuse to bother Arcee.

It wouldn’t be as bad if the assassin was still around - the threat of sudden, undetectable death does wonders for a slow observation mission - but with Meister contained… Skids lets his attention drift; there’s nothing he’s doing that can’t be done by a camera, not unless the medic leaves.

After another two breems, he huffs, rises, and makes his way to an alley - switching his focus to the camera for a moment while he swaps his blue coloration for a bold, classic white-and-red. He takes a moment to consider relocating - there’s a good spot across the street that might cover up the glare from the crystals enough to let him scope out inside the clinic proper - but as he reaches the end of the alleyway, he freezes.

“There’s a backdoor to the clinic, you know.” The voice - familiar, too familiar - is soft, lethal, and right behind him. Skids spins, bringing his gun out of subspace and up as he moves -

And a thousand volts of electricity arcs through his chest. Limbs lock, every servo in his frame suddenly going rigid as power overloads them - and a rough shove sends him to the ground, staring, paralyzed and immobile, at the ground.

::Arcee - Arcee!:: The comm call doesn’t go through - something blocks it - and all Skids can do is struggle to get his own systems back under control as a heavy hand lifts him up, flipping him over to stare helplessly up at the medic’s grim face.

“Well, I say a backdoor. A second story window, really. Not an easy squeeze, for an old mech like me.” The medic gives him a cold grin. “But I manage. Relax - you’ll live.”

Skids can feel fingers probing, prying open his port covers - there’s a static nip as a connector sinks home, and then a medic’s command override overwhelms even his Ops firewalls, and the world goes black.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wakes up to blackness, also. It takes a moment to realize that no - his optics aren’t offline; it’s just pitch-black, all around him. He’s just beginning to adjust to the darkness, picking out little pricks of orange light from the black, when there’s a dramatic rattling sound and a blinding light flares across his optics, forcing him to shutter them as he flinches back - it’s frustratingly effective, for something so cliche.

He lets out a frustrated hiss, forcing his optics open again as they adjust - it’s still painful, but now he can make out… the shape of the medic’s frame, silhouetted against the light. Looming, he would assume - it’s not classically compelling, medics aren’t nearly as intimidating as gang enforcers or Quintesson torturers, but it’s a good effort.

“Good morning. Glad to see you didn’t take that too hard - I was hoping to have a word with you this cycle.” The medic’s voice, to give him credit, is dark with threat - and, yes, when he checks, his comms and chronometer have both been taken offline surgically. Which means that this is a mind game - he could have been offline for as little as a joor, or several cycles.

“Good morning?” He acts more dazed than he is - better to play along, until he’s sure what the medic wants.

*WANG!*

The blow, when it comes, is an utter surprise. It’s hard - something solid and metal, long enough to get real speed before the impact, and the medic didn’t hold back - sparks scatter across his vision as it strikes, and there’s a sudden, blazing pain in his helm.

“My name is Triage.” This time - he’s not too proud to admit it - there’s a flicker of unease when the medic speaks, his voice steady with promise. “Who do you work for?”

“What? I don’t know -” *WANG!* This time, the blow is hard enough to leave him dazed.

“I know that you’re probably used to interrogators playing games, mech. I’m not going to. The lights, the chair - those were all set up, and I thought the familiarity might set you at ease, but rest assured -” *WANG!* “I’m not playing with you.”

He has to recover for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps, since I’m a medic, you don’t think I’m serious, yet.” *WANG!* “I haven’t made any dire, surgery-based threats, so of course, I’m just warming up.” *WANG!* “No. I’m a professional - I would never use my training to torture a mech.” *WANG!* “But if you don’t answer my questions, I’m going to beat you so hard you turn into my engineer conjunx’s spherical mech!” *WANG!*

The medics words don’t make any sense - but, honestly, Skids isn’t sure if that’s because they’re actually incoherent, or because he’s taking processor damage, at this point. Still, he has his orders -

“My name is Skids - I’m an agent of the Prime’s. Don’t kill me.”

He feels the object whipping through the air as he chokes it out - feels the medic’s surprise as the blow stops centimeters from his helm.

“What?”

“I work for the Prime. My name is Skids. Don’t kill me.” He says it slower, the second time - then, considering, adds a, “Please.”

“Are you…” The medic pauses, and Skids has to give Mirage credit - loudly announcing that he works for the Prime does, in fact, appear to have worked on the assassin’s colleague. “Are you… supposed to tell me that?”

“Not really? But - I don’t know, stop hitting me!” He hesitates. “What else did you need to know?”

The medic pauses, for a moment - seems to consider that. “Not a lot, actually.” There’s a clatter as he drops the wrench at his side, and Skids lets himself vent, relieved.

“I don’t suppose that there’s any chance you’ll let me go?” He gives it a shot, not expecting it to work, and isn’t disappointed when the medic barks a laugh.

“No - but I won’t kill you and string you up outside my clinic in chunks, either.” He gets the sense that the medic is grinning at him - and an itching pinprick of fear runs down his spinal struts. “And it wouldn’t be very sporting to keep hitting you, I suppose, so… Hang on. You’ll feel a prick.”

The medic leans in, and there is, for the briefest moment, a prick, right at the base of his neck cabling - and Skids has a moment, just the barest moment, to recognize it, optics widening in alarm, before a thousand volts of current slam into him like a wall and knock him, painlessly, into stasis.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

::Eh, he should be safe enough, here.:: Ratchet regards the hole in the floor with a stoney, cool look. ::Prowl kept for almost an orn, and I’ve topped off his coolant and energon. Anyways, you know where he is, and you’ve got optics on the place - I’m sure you’ll be able to fill one of his friends in before anything too bad can happen.::

He nudges the limp, stasis’d frame with his pede until it rolls down into the hole with a dull thump.

::I don’t know, it seems…:: Red seems to reach for a word, and not find it. ::Well, I’ll let Arcee know after a couple cycles, I suppose. I’m almost positive she has command, at the moment - Hound is still in Iacon.::

::Great.:: He hesitates, mulling that over. ::Those two are the ‘junxes, right? So until Hound gets back -::

::No one in Iacon will find out that Skids is missing.:: Red Alert sounds smugly confident of that.

::Perfect.:: Before he ducks back out of the warehouse, he executes a rarely-used set of commands, changing his own chromeonanites from the crisp, identifiable red-and-white of a medic to a glossy black - it’s not perfect cover, by any means, and it won’t hold to a close examination, but from a distance, his boxy frame matches up well enough to an armored transport to complete the illusion.

He lets Red Alert feed him directions to the restaurant as he’s briefed in on the cover. ::Alright - like I said, the reservation is for Kyanite. Second floor, nice table-side seat - go in, order something, and then I’d move while they’re working on it - your magnetograph should be able to pick up the audiologs no problem. Just… be blunt, alright? There’s a card on file with the account, so don’t worry about paying, just go in, get what we came for, and leave.::

::Got it.::

He flips back into his root mode outside the restaurant and strides confidently to the door. “Reservation for Kyanite.” The mech at the entrance takes one look at him and bows.

“Of course, sir - right this way.” He has to wait, patiently, as he’s checked for guns, but the server is discrete, and he’s unarmed - it doesn’t take long. “Thank you, sir - I’ll see you to your table. The second floor still suits you?”

“Yes - thank you.”

“Right here, sir. “He’s ushered up a staircase with a gracious bow - and a glint of metal catches his optic, a thin silver tube shoved against the corner of the stairs. He yelps, and tumbles forwards, ‘catching’ himself at the last second -

“Sir! Are you alright?” The server scrambles out of the way, concerned - but Ratchet is already straightening, dropping the tube into subspace.

“Sorry - sorry, caught my pede on something - I’m alright, glad I didn’t crush you -” He holds up his hands to show he’s uninjured, and is met with a flurry of apologies from the server, and from another staff member who’s poked their head into the stairwell. >>Got one, Red.<<

>>Good. We’re shooting for at least three - I can try to stitch together less than that, but it won’t be as clear.<< Red Alert gives a soft hum down the line. >>Hopefully Jazz dropped at least that many.<<

>>Kid knows what he’s doing. He’ll have dropped as many of them as he could.<< Ratchet sends back as he’s gestured to a seat. >>Here - give me a minute.<<

He lets the comm with Red Alert drop, focussing on the waiter long enough to scan the menu for something that looks time-consuming - a delicate, layered dish of syrups and crisps that will take at least a breem to assemble - and orders it, and a glass of high-grade, before pulling out a datapad to ‘read’ as the mech returns to the kitchen, and initiating a magnetographic scan.

It’s slower than most other scans - his systems are designed for high-detail scans of mech’s frames, not full-room examinations, but he’s capable of it, at least, thinning the resolution until it’s just high enough to avoid false positives. He watches the other guests as it scans, wary of any of them detecting the scanner - but sensors able to detect such a minor fluctuation in magnetic fields are rare outside of medics and shuttlemechs, and for most of the crowd, their own EM fields will wash out the scan.

It takes him half of the breem to be certain where his targets are, but eventually, he’s got them - three long, thing metal tubes, two kicked to the far corners of the room, one buried, inconveniently, inside a chair only two tables away.

He sends the data to Red, who only takes a moment to confirm it. >>Four’s not bad. If you can only grab two of those, it should be fine - the chair would be best, since it’s probably closest to where he was sitting. If we’re lucky, he only shoved it in there after he realized they were taking him.<<

>>Great.<< He surveys the room - the occupant of the chair is a smaller mech, either a lithe minibot or a short femme, but that doesn’t help him much in a room full of other mechs… unless… >>Alright, I’ve got a plan.<<

>>Oh?<< Red Alert sounds doubtful - but he usually sounds doubtful when other mechs are plotting, so Ratchet doesn’t take offense. >>Are you going to tell me, or just -<<

>>Learn from the master, Red.<< As his waiter returns from the kitchen with his enjex, Ratchet rises to his pedes, faking a wobble. He steps - first towards the kitchens, then, with a second shaky step that swings his whole frame, towards the chair. He raises a hand to the waiter, every optic in the room on him - “I - I don’t feel so good.”

Immediately, the look on the waiter’s face turns to genuine concerns - he sets the enjex on the nearest table, and rushes towards Ratchet, but before he can reach the medic, Ratchet stumbles again - one hand hooking against the back of the chair in question, sending both it, and it’s light-weight occupant, crashing to the ground alongside him with a yelp.

“Sorry - sorry, I don’t know why I’m so dizzy -” He gets the femme - obvious, this close up - upright, and surreptitiously checks her over for injuries before turning his attention to the chair. She’s shaken, but fine, and it doesn’t take much to get the audiolog out - a quick slice with a hidden scalpel, easy enough to explain away as a frame-appropriate claw-cut, goes through the mesh cover and the gel, and he’s got the log free and subspaced by the time the waiter can get to him.

“Sir, are you - I’ve called an ambulance, sir, please don’t try to move. I promise, everything will be taken care of.” There’s enough genuine concern in the mech’s voice to make Ratchet feel bad for making a mess of his shift.

“I’m sorry - I’m sorry -” He keeps his voice carefully disoriented. “Slag, my - my stylus -” He gropes for his datapad, only a few feet away, and gestures in the direction of the audiolog -

The mech at the table he’s pointing at ducks his helm, then reaches down - and tosses the audiolog to the waiter, who hands it back to him, and he drops it, and the pad, into subspace with a grin that he carefully keeps off of his faceplates. “Thank you - thank you all so much -”

He staggers to his feet, the waiter keeping carefully close enough to assist, looking uncertain. >>Sorry about this, Red -<< he takes just enough time to comm, before he looks down at the waiter with a disoriented groan -

“Can you - can you help me get outside? I think - fresh air, some wind -” He’s not the sort of frame usually helped by high airflow, but he’s willing to bet the waiter, who looks like some kind of mid-sized non-racer vehicle alt, doesn’t know that, and even if he does there’s always cross-coding - “I’m so sorry for - I don’t know what’s come over me. Put - put everymech’s meal on my tab, alright? So - so sorry for the trouble.”

That gets him a whole chorus of appreciative “Don’t worry about it”s - and the mech who found his “stylus” even rises from his table. It’s a larger hauler-frame, who’s much better suited to help a teetering, unwell transport down a staircase than the waiter - who follows him down the stairs and outside.

The hauler returns inside promptly - but, somewhat frustratingly, the waiter seems intent on waiting with him until the ambulance comes. Ratchet pings Red - >>Red?<<

>>I’m not speaking to you. That was very expensive.<< Red gives a little sniff. >>If I was, I would tell you that I intercepted the call for the ambulance, and you’re in the clear, if you can shake your tail.<<

>>Slag. Alright, give me a click.<<

“Hey, kid.” The waiter - and it is a kid, about the same age as Prowl, maybe - looks up at him. “I’ve gotta go, alright? I feel fine. Go back inside, and let anyone who asks know I was okay, alright?’

“What?” There’s a little flicker as the waiter’s field wavers in confusion. “Sir - you’re disoriented, I don’t think you can -”

“What’s your name, kid?”

He falls silent again, and Ratchet has an itching suspicion that he’s already heard the kid’s name at least once, but after a moment, the mech says. “Quartz. Sir.”

“Quartz. Great.” He pulls out a cred chip - his own money, this time, not Red’s. “You’re gonna take this, and go tell anyone who asks that I was just fine, and make a lot of money off a bunch of happy customers whose very expensive meals I just paid for, understood?”

There’s a long moment’s pause - where, Ratchet can see, genuine concern for Ratchet is warring with the fact that Ratchet seems fine, and is also offering him a large pile of money to forget the whole situation. After a moment, the money wins out - thankfully, since Ratchet would feel terrible about knocking the waiter out and dumping him behind the building.

The waiter takes the chip with a grateful smile. “Thank you, sir. If you’re sure.” He gives a short bow. “Please, ah - do visit us again, when you’re feeling better.”

“Of course, kid.” It’s never going to happen, obviously, and they both know it, but it’s the polite thing to say.

As soon as the waiter is back inside the building, Ratchet transforms, heading for the highway.

::Good job, Ratchet. Don’t go back to the clinic - whoever’s ground command will have noticed that Skids is missing, by now. They’ll be looking for you. Head to the station - I’ll pull you a ticket.::

::Got it.:: It’s unfortunate that they’ve shredded his cover, but with the scout out of the way, hopefully whoever’s on the ground looking for him will waste time searching the city rather than expecting him to move on immediately - and Red Alert is more than capable of keeping him off the cameras in a busy station.

He lets Red keep an optic out while he works his way back out onto the highway - in the tighter conditions of the train station, it will be hard to hide his frame, designed to be instantly recognizable through smoke and fog and across a battlefield. Stealth is a medic’s enemy - like command officers, they need to be iconic enough that even mechs from other units will know them instantly, know to bring injured allies or reinforcements before they can be overrun - but that means that every mech who fought in the war is tuned to spot them, and it’s slaggin hard to hide. The glossy black of his current disguise won’t be enough, in close quarters, so he begins working his way through his color options.

He eventually settles on a cobalt-blue-and-orange palette that’s right on the edge of what his chromeonanites can do - flashy, loud, and the clashing colors should be enough to break up his silhouette enough that he isn’t immediately clocked by any mech observing the station.

He pings the file up to Red Alert so the hacker can monitor him on cameras, and gets a snort in reply. ::Oh, Ratchet. I love it. It’s hideous.::

::Stealthy.::

::Sure, for an ambitious definition of stealth.:: There’s a pause - Red is almost certainly sharing the file with Inferno, and sure enough, a moment later, ::Inferno thinks it’s lovely, too.::

::Inferno uses the same default red he was brought online with - I don’t even have to change the settings before I spray him down, when he gets slagged, it just matches. Inferno doesn’t get to have an opinion.::

::Well I think it’s a charming red.::

::You’re a charming Red. Inferno is… well, he’s something.:: That gets a crackle of laughter down the comm, and Ratchet grins as he takes his exit. ::Red. I think I’m just going to go talk to him.::

::What?:: The levity is immediately gone from Red Alert’s voice, replaced by concern. ::Ratchet -::

::It’s been a long time, Red. I’ve changed - he has. Two millennia… that’s long for even me.:: And Ratchet is the oldest of their cohort by almost ten millennia. Optimus isn’t even close. ::I’m just… I want to talk to him. I want to see him - even if it’s just to give him a piece of my processors.::

Red Alert’s voice is hesitant. ::It’s a bad idea, obviously. But… I mean, ‘Hide is head of the Prime’sguard, so you could… You could just walk in there and tell him to get out of the way. I could cover you on cameras long enough to prevent Ops from recognizing you and interfering.::

::That…:: He debates it - Ironhide is fiercely loyal to Optimus, but… ::Yeah, that’d work. And… I don’t know.:: He hesitates, wanting to keep working - but Red’s voice is tired, and he doubts the hacker has slept since Mirage’s first appearance. ::Get me on the train, and go grab some rest, Red Alert. I’ll review the logs, see what I can get, and head to ‘Aid’s when I get there - he’ll put me up for a night or two, I’m sure. And then… I don’t know. We’ll think of something.::

::Sounds good.:: Red Alert sounds… relieved, which is enough to tell him how tired the other mech must be - a ticket arrives in his inbox, and he follows Red’s careful camera-by-camera directions onto the train.

He manages one last look back at the city, as it slides smoothly out of Praxus; the city glitters in the late-afternoon sun, crystal spires refracting rainbows of light across the sweeping metal of her buildings, and from this far away, he can’t see any of the pain she’s caused at all.

Setting that thought aside, he pulls the audiologs out of subspace, and plugs the first one in - he doesn’t have time for Praxus, at the moment. Not until he’s got his assassin - and his tactician - back.

Chapter Text

“What?” The Prime’s optics are huge and bright with shock as Ratchet strides into the room. He stares at the medic - they all stare at the medic, honestly, Prowl can’t tear his gaze away, and he can feel Jazz’s shock down the bond -

And then the Prime glances back, as if to check on them, on him, and Prowl gets to see the exact moment when it clicks in his processor -

“Wait, what?” Ratchet’s engine snarls, and the Prime’s attention shoots back to him - “You’re the medic?”

“I’m the medic, you idiot slagger.” The rumble of Ratchet’s engine is like thunder before a flood, and Prowl can almost taste the threat, like acid rain about to pour down from the sky - “And let me say, the conduct of your agents has been… less than satisfactory, Optimus. They’re slipping.”

Ratchet takes another step forwards, whole frame flared with fury, and the Prime backs away - his own armor flares in response -

“But the good news is, I’ll have a great chance to see how good the medic who replaced me is once I’ve torn off your arms to beat you with -” Ratchet strides forward one more time, hands uncurling into hooked fingers that promise pain, if he can manage to land a grapple, and Prowl can’t do anything but he needs to do something, and Jazz is still too shocked -

“Ra-a-tchet.” Prowl can’t keep his volcalizer from clicking as he tries to step forwards, to stop Ratchet -

Who turns to look at him as he slips off the edge of the chair and tumbles forwards with a yelp, Jazz scrambling to catch him as both the medic and Prime go momentarily silent. Ratchet’s expression softens with concern, just a little - “Oh, kid -”

Then the glare is back, aimed at the Prime. “Ironhide - take these three out of here. I need to have a word with my amica.”

“Sure thing, Ratch.” Ironhide, who is still standing at the entrance of the room, is glancing between the pair with a look that says he deeply, deeply doesn’t want to be here - Hot Rod, rapidly realizing that he’s the third of “these three”, starts to protest, but a rumble from Ironhide’s engines has him falling silent.

Prowl tries to rise, as the pair start arguing again - he wants, desperately, to listen in, but it takes all his focus just to stay upright until Jazz’s arms wrap around him. Even then, it’s barely enough to get him on his pedes, limping awkwardly around the bristling pair - Hot Rod slides an arm under his shoulder to help, as they reach him, and as they get to the door Ironhide reaches out and hauls him to his pedes, sliding one arm under his to half-carry him out of the room.

The argument between Ratchet and the Prime has gone cold and quiet, by the time they reach the door, hissed words and snarls - it’s as the door begins to close behind them that there’s a roared “DON’T YOU DARE SAY HIS NAME -” and the spark-shaking sound of a blow - of Ratchet striking the Prime -

Hot Rod gives an angry shout, and Ironhide almost knocks them all over scrambling to grab him by the spoiler and haul him back out of the room, the door finally clicking locked behind them. Hot Rod whirls with a furious snarl of his own engines as Ironhide lets Prowl drop back to the ground, Jazz supporting him to lower him down - “What the slag, Ironhide? He just attacked -”

“Ye don’ want any part in tha’, kid.” Ironhide’s voice is firm. “Trust me - I’ve known ‘em both fer a long time. Neither o’ them’d even notice runnin’ over ye ta have tha’ fight - ye’d be so much scrap under tires, an’ so would I.” He gestures at the door. “Tha’s a fight been brewin’ fer two millennia - it’s gonna get ugly, but they ain’ gonna kill each other over it.”

There’s a vicious crack, and the whole wall shudders as if someone’s been tossed, bodily, into it, and Ironhide gives a bit of a nervous shuffle and moves to block the door a little more from Hot Rod, who is giving him a wide-opticed, treasonous glare.

“No offense, commander, but I think we’re supposed to do a little bit more than just - what, sit here and leave the Lord Prime to defend himself?” Hot Rod steps forward, shoulders back, and more than a hint of aggression in his posture. “Get out of the way, sir.”

“You’re just gonna slag them off, kid. Ain’t gonna do a bit of good -” But he shifts sideways, just enough for Hot Rod to squeeze past -

Hot Rod shoves the door back open, stepping confidently inside - and there’s the shattering sound of something metal slamming into the wall above the door and shattering as he yelps, and the Prime’s voice barking, furiously, “OUT!” before he manages to scramble back through, jerking the door closed again.

“Which one o’ them threw th’ chair at ye?” Ironhide asks with a knowing look.

“The - the medic.” Hot Rod’s optics are even wider. “Prime, ah - didn’t seem to want help, sir.”

“They’ll sort it out, kid. ‘S a lot o’ history there, but ain’t all of it bad - just… strong personalities. Gotta hash things out fer themselves.” Ironhide chuckles. “Ye’d nah believe it, but half th’ time it was me’n the Lord Protector pullin’ em offa each other, even durin’ th’ war.”

“They - ah…” Hot Rod looks a little lost. “I don’t think the Prime is going to see any more guests today, sir. Since…” he gestures vaguely.

“Then go clear th’ line out. Tell them - I dunno, make somethin’ up. Importan’ news from th’ Protector, ‘r somethin’, an’ let th’ decorators know tha’ we’re gonna need th’ audience room redone in a bit.”

“Yeah - yeah, I’ll go do that.” Hot Rod seems to shake himself out of his daze at the suggestion, and hesitates only another moment before leaving, gesturing at Jazz. “Um - you’ve got this, then?”

“Sure. Shoo, kid, ain’ nothin’ about a line tha’s gonna make that any better.”

As Hot Rod scrambles out the door, Ironhide’s focus settles on them - and then on Jazz’s wrists. “Oh fer - did he a’ leas’ get around ta pardonin’ ye befor’ he uncuffed ye, then? Or was he up ta ‘is usual ‘can’t ‘ave a talk wit’ a mech wit’ ‘em in cuffs’ slag?” Ironhide huffs a vent, then spots Prowl’s still-bound wrists. “Th’ pit?”

“I - ah… he did pardon us.” Jazz hesitates, and Prowl can feel his nervousness, how badly Ratchet’s sudden, furious appearance has thrown him - “I… may have sorted my cuffs out myself, first.”

“Ye kin -” Ironhide stops, then gives a grumble. “O’ course ye kin. An’ I suppose th’ stasis clamp did slag-all - an’ I know ye -” He directs another huff towards Prowl - “Kin pop those, no problem, but kin I use anythin’ a bit sturdier? No, we’re bein’ friendly, an’ I like ye both, kids, but it’d be real nice ta nah hafta worry ‘bout th’ Prime gettin slagged ‘cause Ops doesn’ mention ye ain’ affected by stasis cuffs!”

There’s a frustrated snarl from his engines, and Jazz hesitates. “If it helps, I don’ think they knew I could bust outta th’ stasis cuffs?”

“It don’.” Ironhide gives a snort. “Thanks fer not murderin’ th’ Prime, anyhow. Here -”

He leans down, and his hand is gentle as it all but encompasses Prowls - the cuffs pop free after only a moment, and Ironhide subspaces them as he pulls away.

“So, yer free mechs, now. Did th’ Prime say anythin’ else, or…?”

“He, ah - invited us ta spend an orn at the Palace, actually. To meet some of the Ops agents before we decided whether or not ta work for him.” Jazz shrugs. “I don’t know if Ratchet busting in will have changed tha’, though.”

“Well, I’ll get ye two set up wit’ a room, anyways. Or -” He glances at the door thoughtfully, as another loud slam makes it rattle on it’s hinges. “Actually, I think I’ll jus’ put ye in Ratch’s ol’ room - th’ three o’ ye are some kinda cohort, right? Ain’ like he kin complain - he ain’ used it in a couple o’ millennia.”

“Alright.” Jazz nods at that. >>Give us a chance to catch up, too.<< he passes to Prowl, who gives a strained nod.

“Great.” Ironhide rises back to his pedes. “Follow me, then - Roddy shoulda been able ta clear th’ hall by now, so if we’re lucky, we’ll be able ta make it there wit’out every minor noble in creation tryna find out th’ Prime’s bus’ness.”

“Great.” Jazz hesitates. >>You gonna be able ta walk, Prowler?<<

>>No.<< He can’t help the sense of relief as he manages to form the word - the staticky haze around his processor finally beginning to dissipate. >>Can you ask Ironhide to help me? I think -<< He sends Jazz an image, each of them supporting him by a shoulder. >>Until I’m steadier. Once I’ve got my pedes under me he can let go.<<

>>Sure, Prowler. I’ll tell him.<< “You’re gonna have ta get his other arm, ‘Hide - Prowl had a bit of a crash in there, and he’s still tryna shake it.”

“A crash?” Ironhide gives him a concerned look, and glances, for a moment, at the door. “You need a medic, kid? I kin try ta grab Ratch, but Ambulon’s prob’ly gonna be easier, ta be honest -”

“No. I’m - I’m fine. I just need to -” He stumbles over the words just a bit, but they’re getting easier. “Just need time. I’m defragmenting my processor - nothing a medic can do faster.” >>I’ll need a medic to check the ATS before I can boot it. I’m going to wait and see if Ratchet - if whatever’s going on with Ratchet is done before I ask, though.<< He doesn’t enjoy the sensation of a strange medic in his processor, let alone one he’s never met.

>>Got it, Prowler.<< Jazz gives him an encouraging bump down the bond. >>I’m sure it’ll be fine. I mean - I know, I knew Ratch had problems with the Prime, but I thought - well, I didn’t know they were amica. They can’t be that slagged with each other, or they’d’ve broken it, right?<< Whatever confidence he’s trying to project is undermined by a faint crunch from beyond the door, but it’s true enough, Prowl supposes.

Ironhide gives another glance between them - it’s obvious he can tell when they’re communicating, though frustratingly unclear how - and shrugs. “‘Right, then. C’mon, kid - get ‘is arm, there you go, an’ we’ll get ya to a berth, at least.”

Ironhide helps him to his pedes - already, Prowl can feel his balance returning, the world stabilizing around him as he stands. Walking is still hard - it sets the ground underneath him to a roiling roll that makes his optics shift in and out of focus - but Jazz is steady to the left of him, Ironhide solid to the right, and they guide him out into the hall with slow, even steps.

The hall is… not empty, but clear, with only a few dozen mechs milling about their business. Hot Rod is gone, but so is whatever line he’s been sent to clear, and Ironhide dissuades any curious questions with a firm glare and a few muttered words about escorting him to the medics - no one seems willing to cross one of the Prime’sguard to ask questions.

By the time they’ve reached the end of the hall, the world isn’t rocking under him, and he manages the few words to Ironhide to get let down - the guard stays close, wary for a fall, but when they reach the end of the next corridor, he seems satisfied that Prowl’s assessment of his abilities is accurate, and moves ahead a little to guide them. It’s faster, with just Jazz helping, not having to coordinate his steps between two mechs with vastly different strides, and it’s only another breem before they’re in front of a door in a much more lavishly appointed wind of the palace.

Prowl isn’t too surprised - as an amica to the Prime, he had expected Ratchet to spend his time in Iacon in one of the Prime’s better suites - but he can feel down the bond Jazz’s surprise. >>Wow, he… Wow.<< Jazz lets out a bell-like chime of laughter. >>Slag, what was Ratch doin’ in Praxus when he coulda been living like this?<<

>>Not fistfighting the Prime, probably.<< It’s the obvious answer, but Prowl can’t help but feel the same curiosity - the clinic in Praxus, and Ratchet’s house, were nice enough, but nothing compared to the sort of luxury he’s seen here, even without entering Ratchet’s room.

Ratchet’s room, the lock of which Ironhide is fiddling with with a huff of annoyance. It takes him a moment to unlock, but when he does, he grins back at them. “Sorry - someone swings by ta clean it once a centivorn, or so, but th’ locks do stick.” He swings the door open, glancing into the room beyond, and gives an appreciative hum. “Well. Tha’ doesn’ look too bad, fer a room tha’ ain’t been used fer a couple millennia.”

He beckons them inside, into a wide room set up as a living area - couches, a shallow table, a few cabinets. There’s a set of shelves with a double handful of awards on them, and a small row of frames lined up like datapads - Prowl hesitates for only a moment before tugging away from Jazz and carefully walking over to examine one: a diploma from the Iaconi Medical Academy. He flips through, when Ironhide doesn’t stop him - they’re all educational certificates, of one kind or another, close to two dozen.

“Yeah, he did well fer himself. Was a doc long a’fore th’ war pushed ‘im into field medicine - even then, don’ think they’d’ve let ‘im go except he was medic ta th’ Prime, an’ damn stubborn. He an’ Optimus knew each other back when Optimus was still Orion.” Ironhide is poking around a small bar in the back of the room - nowhere near a proper kitchen, but enough to prepare fuel for a few guests. He picks up a container of additives, pops the lid, and sniffs it before flipping it over and giving it a hearty whack on the counter - nothing comes out, the additive inside hardened by time. “Slag - this’ll need work. I’ll have somemech come by, spruce things up.”

He glances at Prowl, then at Jazz, who has wandered over to look at a handful of pictures framed on the wall. “I’ll order somethin’ brought up, then. You both look like ye could use a stiff cube.”

“Yeah.” Jazz turns to grin back at him. “Thanks. Something sweet, fer me?”

“Sure. An’ somethin’ sour fer Prowl, I got it.” Ironhide steps over to glance at the pictures. “Ah, it’s th’ whole gang. Jackie an’ Ratch - ye must’ve met Jackie, I’m sure - an’ tha’s Chromi, there, our chief o’ security Red an’ ‘is ‘junx ‘Ferno, Magnus, an’ Optimus an’ Megs - an’ there’s some’a his crew, too, Sounders an’ th’ kids - he was our commsmech - an’ Screamer an’ ‘is trine, once ‘e ‘ad ‘em - this is pretty late-on, must’a been. Prol’ly four millennia ago, or so, since it’s ‘fore th’ outer rim campaign - Chromi an’ I woulda transferred out in th’ next century or so, an’ by th’ time we got back, Optimus had returned ta Cybertron, an’ so I transferred back, too.”

“You must have known Ratchet for a long time, then.” Prowl can feel Jazz’s curiosity down the bond, and it’s surprising to realize that no matter how much closer he feels Jazz is to Ratchet, they haven’t actually known each other that long.

Ironhide, though, gives a snort. “Ye could say that.” He presses a single finger to the glass, giving it a thoughtful tap, before striding over to one of the couches to plop down, the aging gel creaking under him. “He an’ I became amica, oh - ‘bout a centivorn after I met Optimus. I was head o’ th’ guards tha’ saw his ascent, after th’ Matrix came back ta Cybertron when ol’ Sent kicked it - an’ o’ course, mosta th’ Prime’sguard had been offworld with Sentinel, so I got grabbed up ta keep an’ optic on ‘im. Had ta work real close wit’ Ratch, keepin’ ‘im online those first few centivorns - an’ even after th’ real Prime’sguard got back, ‘e kept me on. Let ‘im make me commander, ‘ventually, which was my first mistake.”

“You and Ratchet are…” The thought of Ratchet, not just with amica, but with a full cohort of them, is… unsettling seems an unkind way to put it, but it’s not inaccurate - beyond Red Alert, Inferno, and the pair of them, Ratchet seems like the sort of mech who’d be fairly hostile to the idea of close friends.

“Oh, yeah. Slag, he never talks about us, does ‘e? Just like ‘im - but nah, Ratch’s got prol’ly three or four dozen amica stashed ‘round. No idea how many are alive, mind ye.” Ironhide laughs at the look of wide-opticked disbelief Jazz gives him at that. “What? Medics bond easy, an’ often. Think ‘e was amica ta everymech in tha’ picture but Megs an’ ‘Ferno, an’ th’ Trine, o’ course - but ‘Ferno broke wi’ all ‘is amica ta bond Red, an’ Megs an’ Ratch only tolerated each other a’ th’ best o’ times.”

And Seekers, of course, don’t bond outside the trine. It’s a little intimidating, honestly, and it’s clear down the bond that Jazz feels that intimidation more acutely - Ratchet is, apparently, a singularly well-connected mech.

“He… hadn’t mentioned.”

“Yeah, ‘cause after -” Ironhide cuts himself off sharply. “Well - some slag happened, an’, long story short, he bailed on Iacon ta go inta hidin’ somewhere after gettin’ in a huge fight wit’ Optimus, an’ none o’ us’ve heard from ‘im, since.”

“After?” Jazz’s irresistible curiosity gets the better of him and he asks, optics brightening.

“Ain’t my story ta tell, kid - get it outta Optimus, or Ratch if ye can talk him round ta it.” There’s a brief knock at the door and Ironhide rises to accept a few cubes of energon, and a tray of enejex gels. “I’d ask Optimus, if I was you - Ratch tells th’ story better, but it ain’ easy on ‘im, an’ you’ll have better luck.”

“Thanks.” Jazz lifts one of the gels, carefully, and offers it to Prowl, who gives him a considering look before carefully using his glossa to scoop it out of his fingers.

“Eh, you’re…” Ironhide trails off again. “Well, some things’re worth knowin’, ye know? Jus’... ain’t my place.”

“So, you worked with Red Alert during the war?” Prowl asks, cutting through the dense lull in the conversation once he’s finished the gel.

“Red? Yeah, tons. Still do - ‘e’s a great mech.” Ironhide gives him a curious look, and Jazz shoots him a warning glance and presses caution down the bond. Prowl replies with reassurance - he’s not going to blow Red’s cover this late in the game. “Why?”

“I did, too. In Iacon - I worked a few cases, actually, with him and Inferno.” He pauses just long enough for Ironhide to pull up the relevant files, if he has access to them. “Kidnappings, mostly.”

“Oh. ‘Fore th’ whole -” Ironhide gestures vaguely skyward - “Moon thing.”

“I guess.” It’s been bothering him since he first found out that Klaxon was Red Alert, and nobody - not even Jazz’s memories - seems to know the answer. “He… didn’t live on the moon, when I worked with him. What was the moon thing?”

“Oh. Er… how ta explain…” Ironhide gives him a considering look. “Huh. This ‘s all classified, but what th’ frag, you’re all gonna be ops in an orn anyways. So, bout… four centivorns back, right? Helm of Ops is a mech named Legend. Decent sort, or so I thought - quiet, sneaky, couldn’t stand ‘im, but I ain’t a fan o’ Ops, so I figured it was mostly in my processor. One o’ Sentinel’s, but ‘e got us through th’ war, so we all trusted ‘im.”

Prowl has heard of Legend, though not much - enough to know that it, much like Lieger, is a codename meant for the public, rather than a personal one.

“Anyways. So, we all trust th’ mech, an’ he’s workin’ close wit’ Optimus. An’ wit’ me, but not so much - mostly keepin’ me in th’ loop ‘bout threats ta Prime, ‘cause Prime’sguard handle tha’ sort o’ thing. Ain’t much fer socializin’ beyond tha’, but I wasn’ suspicious o’ tha’, cause, again, I’d as soon’a shot th’ mech, an’ I figured th’ feelin’ was mutual.” Ironhide chuckles. “I mean, ‘e woulda, but fer me, it was more ‘cause ‘o how he was a slagger, an’ his a bit more ‘cause he was a traitor ta th’ Primacy an’ wanted ta kill Optimus ta install a Ratioist Prime.”

“What?” There’s not really any other good response to that.

“I know, right? So anyways, one day, I’m takin’ audiences wit’ Prime, an’ Legend’s there, too, an’ Red Alert comes stormin’ in, walks up ta us, an’ as soon as th’ petitioner’s out o’ th’ room, he tells Legend tha’ he knows wha’ he did an’ shoots him dead in th’ helm.”

Jazz chokes on his own carefully-selected gel. “That’s how he -” He cuts himself off mid-sentence. “That’s how he chose to deal with that? Seems a little… unprofessional.”

Ironhide gives him an odd look, but then grins. “Oh, it was. But… Red’s real reliable, so when he started tellin’ me ta check ‘is subspace ‘fore th’ frame was even grey, I did, an’ ‘e had a ‘Regia bomb an’ enough firepower on ‘im ta snuff all three o’ us. And then ‘is files confirmed tha’ ‘e’d been intendin’ treason, so Red was right, all along - but tha’ ain’ why Red’s on th’ moon.”

“Oh?” The thought of an assassin that close to the Prime isn’t the only thing that makes Prowl’s voice thin.

“Yeah - so, Red’s got - well, ye worked wit’ ‘im, so I’m sure they warned ye - ‘e’s got tha’ glitch, right?” Ironhide turns to Jazz, explaining. “Makes ‘im paranoid. Gets a thought in ‘is helm, an’ it jus’ sorta keeps rollin’ ‘till he can’t shake it. So ‘bout… two cycles later, a bomb goes of in Ops, an’ kills like two dozen agents, an’ tears up a whole wing o’ th’ palace. Me an’ my mechs are freakin’ out, o’ course - thinkin’ tha’ either someone’s pulled somethin’ real clever, or Ops’ve gone an’ slagged ‘emselves - we’re midway through diggin’ out th’ rubble when ‘Ferno gets in touch, tells us tha’ Red dug up a plot within’ Ops ta kill th’ Prime, an’ took out th’ co-conspirators - oh, an’ by th’ way, we live on th’ moon now ‘cause Red can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout ‘ssassins an’ it ain’ healthy.”

“What?” This time, the question is strained - Prowl can feel his vocalizer squeak with the effort, and he’s very sure that, if his ATS was functional, he’d be well on his way to a crash. He gives a helpless look up at the larger mech, who seems unduly smug at the expression - beside him, Jazz’s field is completely flat with shock, his own vocalizer fully muted so he can’t blurt out any of his many racing thoughts.

“I know, right? He was right, though - fiddled wit’ th’ Ops computers an’ everythin’, didn’ even hit any o’ th’ couple of handfuls o’ mechs tha’ weren’ involved, though ta be honest, tha’ was almost certainly ‘cause ‘Ferno told ‘im not ta. But, yeah - ‘e’s ‘appier up there, in whatever ‘lil fortress he an’ ‘Ferno’ve cooked up fer themselves, an’ Ops is ‘appier wit’ ‘im up there, too, on account o’ he’s least likely ta come up wit’ a reason ta blow ye all up from th’ moon.” Ironhide pauses. “One o’ th’ moons - not sure which.”

“That’s…” Jazz’s vocalizer resets. “That’s horrifying.”

“Eh, it worked, an’ th’ Prime’s still alive an’ we’re not all Ratioists, so I’ll take it.” Ironhide shrugs. “Sides, ‘alf th’ reason I told ye tha’ is so ye don’ hear th’ version th’ Ops mechs tell, which is a lot less charitable.” He pauses, fixing a considering gaze on them again. “Don’ get me wrong - I ain’ lyin’ when I say Red’s one o’ th’ finest mechs I know, but… don’ slag wit’ ‘im. Don’ listen ta anyone tell’s ye ta slag wit’ ‘im. An’ if, Primus forbid, ye should ‘appen ta hear somemech talkin’ ‘bout thinkin’ ‘bout slaggin’ wit’ ‘im, come an’ tell me so I kin go explain ta them in little bitty words ‘bout what a terrible idea tha’ is, on account o’ Red doesn’ deserve ta hafta deal wit’ tha’ slag.”

“Understood.” Prowl resets his vocalizer uneasily as Jazz nods his agreement. “I have nothing but respect for him - we worked well together, in the past. I wouldn’t -” He trails off at the warm look in Ironhide’s optics.

“I know ye wouldn’ - yer both good kids. Jus’, ye know - watchin’ out fer ‘im.” The guard gives him a smile, and Prowl is almost overwhelmed by the rush of fondness it causes - it’s… soothing, almost to his spark, to see Ironhide protecting his glitched colleague, to know that someone besides Jazz and Ratchet and Wheeljack thinks that Red is worth keeping safe -

>>They’ll protect you, too, Prowler. Just gotta trust ‘em.<< Jazz’s voice is warm, but the thought sends a cold spike down Prowl’s spinal struts - he doesn’t want - >>Ain’t gonna make you, Prowl. But they won’t abandon you over a little thing like that.<<

“Anyway.” Ironhide’s voice breaks through Prowl’s worry as he finishes draining his cube. “Let me show ye around?”

“Yeah - yeah, thanks.” Jazz sets down his own emptied cube and scrambles to his pedes before turning to offer Prowl a hand, helping haul him upright.

“Yeah, so…” Ironhide trudges over to the door by the pictures, shoving it open. “We got a washracks over here - oil bath in th’ back, there, but sommech’ll have ta swing by an’ fill it fer ye. Shower’s a shower, an’ careful, ‘cause it runs hot -” That last bit is addressed to Jazz, not Prowl - “an I’d bet all th’ solvents ‘ave gone off, so I’ll have ‘em clear those out, too, while I’m thinkin’ on it. Prol’ly wanna run it fer a klik ‘r so ‘afore ye use it, honestly.”

Prowl, who has no intention of being blasted in the face by cold, stale solvent, nods his understanding. “Probably wise.”

“An then -” Ironhide gestures for them to let him back into the main area. “Well, ye got some fuel additives over here- gonna freshen those up, like I said - an’ once it’s been routed back inta th’ system, there’s an energon dispenser. It’s on it’s own loop, wit’ th’ rest o’ th’ suites up here - main thing is, don’ serve th’ Prime anythin’ outta it, cause th’ fact mechs know ‘e don’ drink outta anythin’ but ‘is own cubes is th’ only thing stoppin’ us all from gettin’ poisoned constantly.”

“Are we… are we likely to have the opportunity to serve the Prime fuel?”

“What? Oh, yeah, he’ll be around. Like I said, he’s got ‘is own energon, though.” Ironhide shrugs. “But yeah, once ‘e an’ Ratch sort slag out, I’m sure ye’ll see plenty o’ him.”

“Alright.” His voice has gone thin, again, and Jazz shares his worried look. “So, ah - what else?”

“Well, th’ berth’s in here.” Ironhide shoves through another door, following the wall around. He gestures for Prowl and Jazz to squeeze past him, and follows them inside - where there is, indeed, a berth, one that looks large enough for half a dozen mechs Ironhide’s size. “I dunno - if ye two need somewhere else ta sleep, I kin make arrangements - wasn’ sure how close th’ three of ye were, bu’ there’s a side room I kin have opened up fer ye.”

“That’s very generous, but -” Prowl hesitates again. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. This should be fine - we can recharge on the couches, if Ratchet would prefer to sleep alone.”

“If yer sure.”

“I think - yes.” Prowl hesitates. “Are you supposed to remain with us?”

“Lemme put it this way - I ain’ goin’ back ‘til those two’ve hashed slag out between ‘em, not ‘less the Prime calls me, special.” Ironhide gives an amused snort. “Ain’ got anything better ta do - kid’s good ‘nuff ta handle guardin' Optimus, an’ I’m still tech’nic’ly on prisoner duty ‘less Ops says otherwise, so…”

“Oh.” Prowl gives the berth a longing glance - crashing is exhausting, and painful, and all he really wants to do is curl up with Jazz.

Jazz picks up on that, easily enough. “I think Prowler and me are gonna take a nap, Ironhide. If you don’t mind?”

“Wha’? Oh, yeah - sure. I’ll jus’ be -” He starts to gesture at the door, but -

“Wait.” Prowl interrupts him, and Ironhide pauses, giving him a curious glance. “I…”

He doesn’t know quite how to explain it, but after a moment, recognition flashes in Ironhide’s optics.

“Oh, yer - th’ fields help, don’ they? I ‘member, when Nightbeat - ye wan’ me ta stay wit’ ye?” He glances at Jazz, who is giving the same curious look to Prowl, flickering cautious approval down the bond.

“If -” >>If you don’t mind?<< It’s not right, not to check with Jazz - but the assassin gives him a soft smile, and a nod.

>>Of course, Prowler. Ain’t anything wrong with ‘Hide that I’ve seen - and we’ll be seeing a lot of him, if he’s Ratch’s amica.<< Jazz turns his gaze to Ironhide. “Yeah, stick around, mech. Ain’t like you’re not gonna need the ‘charge ta deal with Ratchet.”

“Fair enough.” Ironhide looks at the berth consideringly before looping around one side of it and settling along the edge. “You two take tha’ side, then - I don’ wanna crush ye.” o

It takes a klik to get situated, but eventually they settle on an arrangement - Prowl, propped half-over on one of Ironhide’s outstretched arms, Jazz between them, with Ironhide on his side, second arm draped protectively over them.

“How’s tha’?” He asks, and this close, his voice is a warm rumble all around Prowl.

“‘S nice.” Prowl nuzzles into his arm a little - it’s soothing in a way he can’t express, to have friendly and affectionate fields all around him, to have Jazz - Jazz - so close to his spark, and he’s so tired -

He can hear Jazz say something to Ironhide, and the warm rumble of laughter as the pair keep talking above him, but he doesn’t care. He lets himself drift into recharge between them, and doesn’t notice at all the little laughter that follows when he chirps, sleepily, into Jazz’s shoulder.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All three of them are startled awake by the thud.

There’s silence for a moment, and Prowl blinks up at Ironhide - who’s optics are already bright and alert, staring at the other room, where both of them can hear someone stumbling around -

Then there’s a thump at the door, and even Jazz glances up, resetting his optics blearily - it’s not harsh, like a blow, though, more the heavy dull noise of someone leaning against it.

“‘S unlocked, Ratch.” Ironhide calls out, and, after a moment, the door slides open.

Ratchet looks - exhausted. His whole frame is slumped, plating loose and drooping, optics dim - there’s a heavy weight to his uncontrolled field as it permeates the room, and he stares, blankly, at Ironhide. None of that catches Prowl’s optics like the dent in his shoulder pauldron, though, or the long, wide scrape of grey nanites where something has gouged the armor of his chest.

“Hey, ‘Hide.” He lets out a laugh - just a little hysterical - and takes two wobbly steps forwards, just enough that the door slides shut behind him before he collapses.

Ironhide is already scrambling to catch him, though - Jazz shoves Prowl out of the way before rolling aside as the guard half-tosses Ratchet onto the berth. Ratchet laughs again, a hollow-sounding cackle, as he lands in a heap and drags himself fully onto the broad mattress.

“You -” Jazz hesitates - they all hesitate, for a moment, before he continues. “You alright, Ratch?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Come here, Jazz.” As soon as Jazz gets within reach, Ratchet sweeps an arm out, tugging him closer - pulling him down onto the berth until he can wrap an arm around him and gesture. “You too, kid.”

Prowl is a little more careful, as he complies - but he can feel the need in Ratchet’s field, the unconcealed distress, and lets the larger mech drag him down into an embrace. He reaches across the other mech’s chest carefully, and Jazz reaches out to hold it, pressing warmth and calm into his field - slowly, he can feel the first pricks of Ratchet’s field relaxing against theirs.

“I’ll jus - give ye kids some privacy, then -” Ironhide’s voice is quiet, but there’s a flicker in Ratchet’s field, and then a croaked,

“No.”

Ironhide freezes at the door.

“Come here, ‘Hide.” Ratchet’s voice is hesitant, then, “Please.”

“O’ course, Ratchet.” Ironhide’s voice softens even further. “Sorry, I’ll -”

He makes his way back over to the berth carefully, glancing at Jazz and Prowl for a moment before working his way over to Jazz’s side. “Here, mech - gonna pick ye up, don’ panic -”

Jazz doesn’t - stays intentionally, deliberately calm as Ironhide lifts him onto Ratchet’s chest, forcing that calm into his field, modulating it to fit Ratchet -and worms his way just a little closer to Prowl as Ironhide settles in beside them, tugging a blanket up to cover them all.

“Tha’ bad, then?” He says, voice still quiet, and Prowl gets the sense that they shouldn’t be hearing this conversation, that they’re witnessing something incredibly private, when Ratchet replies, just as soft:

“That bad. He… Said some things. I said some things.” He hesitates. “It was never going to be pretty, ‘Hide.”

“Didn’t think it would. But…” The whole bed shifts as the guard shrugs. “M’ sorry, mech. I shoulda - I don’ know. I’ve missed ye.”

“You couldn’t have left him, ‘Hide. I knew that - I wouldn’t have asked you to.” There’s a moment of quiet that hangs, heavily, between them. “I’m glad he had you.”

“Still, I -” Ironhide cuts off with a grumble. “I don’ know. I shoulda done somethin’.”

“I should have done something, ‘Hide. I…” Ratchet gives a dry laugh. “How many times have me and Optimus put you between us, Ironhide? We’re terrible amica.”

“Knew what I was gettin’ into, Ratch. Wouldn’ trade it fer Cybertron.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot, ‘Hide.” Ironhide chuckles.

“Your idiot.”

“Not an idiot.” Prowl doesn’t realize he’s said it rather than thought it until they both go quiet, and then he has to say something - “He’s good at Tidek.”

That gets him a warmer laugh from Ratchet, and he can feel the mech’s field relax further around him. “Very good at Tidek. He’s a genius, of course - but after the tenth or so time you’ve seen him get shot trying to haul your aft out of the line of fire, you’ll start wondering why he’s dumb enough to keep saving you, too.”

“Yer th’ only mech tha’ kin weld a straight line, Ratch. Gotta have somemech ta weld this aft back together right, or what’d Chromi say?” That gets a laugh from Ratchet - but it sounds thin and exhausted.

“How is she?” He asks, and Ironhide grins.

“She’s real happy ta have ye back, Ratch. Look, get some charge, mech - we’ll all be wit’ ye in th’ mornin’, an ye kin chew yer lil’ mechlin’s out proper, rather than lettin’ ‘em think ye’ve gone soft.” That gets him another dry laugh, but Prowl can feel the relief flickering in his field.

“We’re both fine, Ratch.” Jazz’s voice is fond, and soothing, and he keeps talking - it wicks away the tension from Ratchet’s frame, and Prowl can feel it, too, when the larger mech’s grip begins to loosen, as he slowly slips towards recharge.

>>You too, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is teasing, but firm, and Prowl pushes back against it with wordless affection as he complies. >>Recharge. We’ll talk ta him in the morning.<<

He’s got - there are warm fields all around him, and his cohort are safe, and Jazz is his, and those are the thoughts that surround Prowl as he sinks down again, into deep and dreamless recharge.

Chapter Text

He’s seeing Praxus for the first time, and it is beautiful. The crystal spires, great sweeping constructs half-made and half-grown, seem to reach forever, their shapes indistinct, sending huge fractals of rainbow scattering across the lesser, steel-spined towers that frame them. A mech is beside him, watching his face, and there’s a deep chill of wrongness but he can’t tear his gaze away from the city - he loves it so much -

And it shifts and whirls before his optics like a kaleidoscope, crisp whites and blues fading into dusky golds and pinks - he’s so tired, but he has to stay awake, to see the city that the two larger mechs on either side of him are pointing out - he shoves the younger mech beside him, he can see it - can he see it? And even exhausted Praxus looks beautiful, a promise scattered out in front of him in a whirl of light-

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Waking up is slow.

The worst of the ache in his helm is gone, though there’s a lingering soreness in his frame that he knows will take a few more joors to fade - a hot shower might help, but Prowl has no intention of moving, not for a few more… well, never, if he can help it, if he can persuade Ironhide and Ratchet and Jazz to stay here, warm and safe and together, but he’ll take however many breems he can get.

Jazz doesn’t move - Prowl can tell, down the bond, that he’s still mostly-asleep, the blue light of the merge still glowing between them. He churrs softly, leaning in to press a kiss to Jazz’s helm - just a gentle one, he doesn’t want to actually wake him.

That gets a soft, choked noise from above him, and he looks up - up into wide, shocked, awake blue optics.

“What the slag?” hisses Ratchet, who has clearly seen plenty, and Prowl hesitates, mouth hanging open in shock, completely at a loss for what to say.

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“So you two merged?” Ratchet’s voice is indignant. “Of all the - the absurd, aft-helmed -”

It’s half a joor later, and Ironhide has managed to get the medic upright and onto a couch, cube clutched all-but-forgotten in his hand as he ignores it in favor of spluttering at Jazz and Prowl.

“In our defense, we were both pretty sure we were gonna die, Ratch,” says Jazz, and it’s only down the bond that Prowl can feel the assassin aiming Ratchet squarely at the helm of Spec Ops with the skill and precision of a sniper dialing a scope. “An’ I figured, whatever Prowler had planned, it was better than my idea, which was slag-all. Got us out of it alive, didn’t he?”

Prowl accepts the kiss pressed to his cheek with a smug flicker of delight. “I figured that they wouldn’t risk killing me to execute Jazz. And they didn’t, to be fair.”

“You absolute - Jazz, I told you to mention that you worked with me!” He very carefully doesn’t mention Red Alert, though, casting a warning glance at Ironhide when the warrior looks away for a moment. “All you had to do - all you had to do! - was say, ‘Hey, mechs, Ratchet told me to tell you to tell the Prime that he said not to kill me.’ Literally, that was it.”

“Yeah - well you didn’t lead that by mentioning that the Prime was your slaggin’ amica, did you?” Jazz sounds more teasing than annoyed by that, however. “‘Sides, I wouldn’t have gotten an amazing conjunx outta the deal, that way!”

Prowl can’t keep the smile off his face at that - and looking at him, Ratchet groans. “Oh, for Pit’s sake - newbonds.”

“Oh, yeah - these two’re sickening.” Ironhide chimes in, helpfully, with a slag-eating grin that gives away just how much he’s enjoying Ratchet’s frustration. “All soft optics an’ sneakin’ kisses - it’s adorable. Yer gonna hate it.”

Jazz takes that as an invitation to pull Prowl in for another kiss, and this time, Prowl can’t repress a happy chirp.

Ratchet groans again, and rounds on the guardsmech. “And you! Since when have you been so bad at controlling prisoners that a pair of mechs managed to bond in custody? Honestly!”

“Honestly? Tha’ ain’t my mess. Prowl was in ‘is cell, an’ Road Rage ‘ad control o’ th’ prisoner -” he gestures at Jazz - “a’ least in theory. Means tha’ this -” and this time, he gestures suggestively between them - “is an Ops problem. Ain’t none o’ my fault ‘til th’ mech’s in my custody.”

“Oh for -” Ratchet tosses one hand in the air, the other barely keeping the cube from sloshing. “Sure. Sure.” He vents a heavy sigh. “At least you two are happy - I’ve seen worse pairs.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

That drags Ratchet’s optics back to Prowl - and this time, they soften a little, concerned. “And you. What happened, last cycle? You looked half-slagged, and I know Optimus didn’t do that to you - did you crash?”

“I… believe so, yes. I…” He hesitates, and Ratchet takes the opportunity to drain his cube and set it aside, turning to face him more fully - Prowl feels the wash of a scan tingle across his wings. “I’m not entirely sure what happened. I had the ATS online, set high enough that I shouldn’t have been able to crash, but - I don’t know. As soon as I got into the same room as the Prime, I started panicking - no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it to stop.”

“And then, eventually, you crashed, and had to shut the ATS down.” Ratchet gives Jazz a knowing look. “I assume you handled that?”

“Yeah. We didn’ want him to reboot it until you had had a look.” Jazz nods. “He was overheating, looping so bad he didn’t seem to recognize me, so I forced it offline - couldn’t get it to shut down any other way.”

“A good choice. I’m going to need a hardline, Prowl - I want to get a look at your crash logs, and give the ATS a quick scan to see if you did anything more serious when you overheated.”

Prowl hands him the cable without argument, and can feel the smooth, clean angles of Ratchet inside his meta almost immediately, a neatly-ordered presence that is at once soothing and unobtrusive. ::You all right, kid?:: Ratchet’s voice is warm, considerate.

::Fine.:: He directs the requested files neatly to Ratchet - and is surprised when the movement brings Jazz swirling into his meta.

>>Oh, hey - that’s weird. Hi, Ratch - can you hear me?<<

::Of course.:: Ratchet’s response is faintly amused. ::You’d be able to feel Wheeljack, if I reciprocated the bond. Speaking of - don’t mention Red Alert, alright? He’ll tell Optimus when he’s ready, but I don’t want to start trouble for him, understood?::

::Understood.:: Jazz replies with a short affirmative, too, as Ratchet examines the files. ::They disabled our comms - is there any chance -::

::I’ll have them back online in a joor, yeah. They’re going to need to be rewired manually, but i’ll get your subspaces back online, too. Don’t use hand - Optimus and ‘hide can both read it, and so will most of the Prime’sguard.::

>>Got it.<< Jazz radiates amusement down the bond. >>Any luck with those files?<<

::Yeah, I see what happened. You were right, Prowl - soon as you hit 100% utilization, your processor started looping. You’re lucky you had Jazz - it’s not the sort of thing you’d have been able to bring yourself out of, although…:: He pauses for a moment, and Prowl can feel him sorting, unobtrusively, through his code. ::Yep - there’s a failsafe there, your ATS would have dumped cache and rebooted as soon as the overheating got bad enough to knock you offline.::

::Not before I took damage, though.::

::No, probably not.:: Ratchet agrees with him, but there’s nothing comforting about the thought. ::I think I figured out why you crashed, at least. What utilization do you usually run your tacnet at?::

::Thirty to Forty percent.:: He pulls a sampling of typical runlogs and sends them to Ratchet, followed by a pair of logs from high-utilization, stress-filled days during his time in Iacon. ::Rarely more than sixty, without a partition. Why?::

::That’s what set you off, I think.:: Ratchet takes a moment to compare the logs, then gives an affirmative hum. ::Yeah, definitely. Look - here.::

He sends back the crash log, and the ATS runlog for the preceding two joors, several sections highlighted. Prowl can feel Jazz regarding them, and passes them along as he examines them himself - but he’s not sure what, exactly, it’s supposed to show.

::I can - yes, I see where I was stepping up the ATS. I was intentionally opening more bandwidth, as I realized that what was going to be available wasn’t enough to avert the panic, Ratchet - those are all manual alterations.:: He’s not enough of a medic to tell what the other information is meant to show.

::That’s it, though - you weren’t opening more bandwidth to deal with the panic, you were panicking as you opened more bandwidth.:: Ratchet’s voice is sympathetic. ::You wouldn’t have been able to tell. Once you got above, oh… sixty-three percent utilization, your ATS began to offer stress feedback as you started to approach the limits of your ability to handle the datafeed. That stress feedback was interpreted through your ATS -::

::- as panic,:: finishes Prowl, the meaning sinking in. ::So when I opened even more bandwidth in response -::

::- your ATS interpreted its own reaction to you overloading your systems as panic, and fed back responses that recommended you open more bandwidth, and so on until you had the whole ATS online, open, and looping into a crash.:: Ratchet says it with a finality that holds just a touch of pity. ::Once you hit that threshold, Prowl - there was nothing you could have done, and no way for you to know it would happen. It’s an interaction I’ve never seen before, not in these systems - and even if you had known what you were looking for, as soon as you hit that sixty-three percent, or maybe just a little past that, there wouldn’t have been any way for you to disrupt the cycle.::

::Oh.:: He hesitates, Jazz pushing warm support up under him to keep him afloat. ::Was it my…::

He trails off. He doesn’t want to say it.

::Your glitch?:: Ratchet is quiet for a moment - it’s obvious he wants to give the answer as little as Prowl wants to hear it, but the medic is a professional. ::Yeah, it probably is.::

::Oh.::

>>I thought it mighta been the Prime. I was feelin’ somethin’, too - some kinda pressure -<<

::Optimus? No - that was the Matrix. It has its own field - most mechs can pick it up when they get close enough, though only the priesthood can interpret it unless it’s in a Prime.:: Ratchet huffs. ::Feels slagging weird until you get used to it, though - it might have been part of what stressed you out initially, Prowl, but now that you know what to expect, it shouldn’t cause crashes.::

>>Could I…<< Jazz trails off as if he doesn’t want be intrusive, but Prowl urges him forwards. >>Ratch, is there any chance - when we first met, Prowler said that a medic could - could keep him from crashing, if they were wired in. Could I do that?<<

::Over the bond?:: Ratchet considers it for a moment. ::Yeah, almost certainly. You’d have to practice - it’s not easy, even for a medic - but I could teach you to clear the cache to avert a standard crash, if Prowl is alright with it. This… might be trickier - but I can teach you enough to recognize it when it’s happening, so you could shut the ATS down -::

Prowl can feel both of their attentions on him, in the meta, and squashes down his reluctance. ::No need.:: That gets curiosity, from both of them, and he clarifies. ::Not to recognize this - set an alarm on my ATS for utilization rates over sixty-three percent; if we know at what point it becomes inevitable, I’m fine with Jazz simply shutting down the tac-net when it reaches that point. If we were not bonded, I would suggest an internal cutoff, but…::

He doesn’t need to explain - that sort of programming risks exploitation by hostile mechs in ways that a manual override doesn’t.

::I can do that.:: Ratchet sounds thoughtful. ::I’d prefer Jazz learn to recognize it before it reaches that point, but it will be a functional stop-gap, at least. You shouldn’t have to deal with most of the nastier side-effects of crashing if you get the ATS offline before it begins looping, at least. The smaller crashes, though - those need to be handled. You’ve got a remarkably resilient processor, but a mishandled crash can have serious side-effects -::

::I know.:: He does, even if he hates to admit it. ::I told Jazz I had no memory of my life before the ATS? That’s why.::

::You had a crash?:: Ratchet hesitates, thinking it over. ::No - several crashes, right after it was installed, maybe?::

::A cascade crash - they couldn’t bring me out of it for more than a cycle. They would get me out for a breem, reset the ATS, and it would crash again.:: It’s hard to explain - he has no memory of it, nothing from that whole stretch of time except a fear so sharp it’s engraved on his very spark-chamber, tiny lines of lightning-scars from where his spark had flared and flashed and almost guttered - ::It wiped out… well, everything. They thought it would kill me - it almost did, until one of the medics involved decided to bring the whole system offline.::

::That’s…:: For the first time, he wishes he had a reciprocal connection as Ratchet trails off - wishes he knew what the medic was thinking beyond the vague horror he feels from the other mech’s presence in his meta. ::That’s barbaric. They - you know that medic didn’t just think of that, right?::

::What?:: He’s not sure what Ratchet means at all - but he knows the medic can tell that, too.

::He didn’t just decide to bring you offline, Prowl. That’s - that should have been the very first thing that any of them did, the very first time you crashed.::

There’s a flicker of anger to the medic’s tone, and Prowl hastens to reassure him. ::They didn’t know what was wrong - they were troubleshooting -::

::Then they lied to you, too!:: And the anger is deeper, more vicious. ::The first - the first! - thing you do in the event of a mod incompatibility - which an uncontrollable cascade crash is, without question! - is take the mod offline, and, if possible, revert to the last known stable mod configuration. That’s not possible, for something as integral as an ATS - they were never taking it back out, once it was in - but they would have known slagging well to shut the system off to prevent damage!::

::You think they intentionally wiped my memories?:: It’s a bizarre idea - by all accounts, he was a perfectly ordinary youngling, whose upgrades just interacted poorly with an unexpected glitch - there’s no reason he can think of that a group of medics would intentionally wipe his processor, but…

::Maybe. Maybe not - I don’t know. There are plenty of terrible medics out there, though I try to cut their cables when I can. Someone could have just slagged up a reasonably complicated processor upgrade, found themselves in a hole and kept digging. Do you remember - who did this to you, Prowl? I swear to Primus, I’ll go to Prime - did Magnus know?::

The snarling fury underneath Ratchet’s tone is almost frightening - would be, if not for the fierce protectiveness lurking just below that. Prowl dredges up the memories, his first few orn in Iacon. ::He must have, I think - the upgrade was just before I became an enforcer. The medics were from an organization called the New Institute.::

::Oh.:: Ratchet’s voice goes suddenly still at that. ::Oh.::

There’s nothing good about the way he says it.

>>You know them?<< Jazz prompts hesitantly, after a moment.

::Oh, I know them alright. Slag, kid - I didn’t realize…:: Ratchet gives a heavy sigh. ::They’re all dead, if it makes you feel any better. Never found all the mechs they did work on - guess you must’ve fallen through the cracks, but I’ll see if I can dig up your file, at least - make sure they didn’t do anything else.::

::What are you talking about?:: The heavy list to the words sets him on edge, and Jazz pushes comfort down the bond - outside him, he feels the couch shift, and realizes that his distress must be showing in his field, as Ironhide leans in to wrap an arm around him.

::The New Institute were… well, butchers. A group of mechs specializing in processor manipulation - not just mods like your ATS, but shadowplay and code manipulation. Worse things. They were supposed to be Zeta Prime’s ace in the hole - then Sentinel’s.:: Ratchet hesitates. ::I shouldn’t tell you more than that, but… well. Optimus and I dealt with them, when he took the Primacy. Permanently, though it took us longer than we’d have liked. I’m sorry we couldn’t do it sooner.::

::Oh.:: He… doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He’s spent a lifetime thinking that the loss of his memories was a freak glitch - the thought that it was inflicted, either through malice or negligence… he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

>>It doesn’t hafta change anything, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is soft. >>The mechs that did it - if they’re all dead, why does it matter why it happened? You could just tell Ratch ta slag off, ta check his files an’ leave it, if there’s nothing else - just another little fragged-up bit of reality, but it doesn’t hafta be your problem.<<

::He’s right.:: Ratchet’s voice is tentative, but reassuring. ::I’m - I’m sorry, I should have been more tactful. At the end of the day, what you were told is, broadly, accurate - you had a cascade crash, and accidentally damaged your memory to the point of a format. All the rest is just… background noise.::

::Alright.:: It’s a relief to be able to table the discussion, for the moment - he’ll take a look at it again when the ATS is back online, when it can help him wade through the variables.

::What remains is that even a crash that should be minor can cause damage, Prowl. Having Jazz learn to avert them is non-negotiable - they may have been an acceptable risk when you were an enforcer, but with a willing conjunx, there’s no reason for you to take that risk now.::

Ratchet’s whole field radiates determination - and his logic is unimpeachable. ::I agree.:: But there’s still something that makes him hesitate, one thing holding him back. ::Will it… take long to learn, do you think?::

::It shouldn’t. At the end of the day, he’s just learning how to clear a cache remotely - I’d bet he could do it now, given half a klik and a decent motivation. But he needs to be fast - there’s a limited window between the crash building and the ATS onlining to do it in.::

>>I’ll figure it out, Prowler - won’t leave you hanging.<< The smooth confidence in Jazz’s voice is soothing, but it doesn’t change reality -

::I would prefer to do as few simulations as possible. Even simulated crashes where the crash is averted successfully are quite painful.:: There’s a moment of silence while they take it in - it’s obvious Jazz hasn’t considered that it would be uncomfortable, but surely Ratchet -

Ratchet explodes into a snarl half a klik later.

::One day I’m going to die, and Wheeljack’s going to have to wait for me, a while, because I’m going to crawl into the pit and teach those slaggers what pain feels like -:: There’s a rip and a ripple in Prowl’s meta, one that echoes across his doorwings as Ratchet’s engines surge in a furious rev - ::Those -::

Just as quickly, Ratchet wrestles back control of himself. ::Prowl.:: His voice is terse, but the anger isn’t directed at Prowl. ::I’m not going to - to have you live-sim your own crashes to train your conjunx. I’m going to go to whoever Optimus has running medical, tell him I’m borrowing a terminal, and set up a nice, safe image of your processor for Jazz to practice with. I may need you to crash once or twice under controlled conditions, to perfect the simulation - that’s it, though, because I’m not a slagging barbarian!::

::You can do that?:: He perks up a little - he does want to work on this with Jazz, it’s just the constant ringing ache of partial crashes that’s been leaving him reluctant.

::Of course I can - I’m the Prime’s CMO, nevermind that I haven’t talked to him in two thousand vorns.:: The medic gives a huff, but there’s a tint of laughter to it. ::This Ambulon is just gonna have to get out of my way.::

::Alright. Whenever you’re ready for us, then.::

::I’ll go talk to him in a joor. Got a couple mechs I want to check in with this cycle, so don’t expect anything today, but it won’t take long to set up, and once I’ve got the image set up, you two should be able to run the sim from anywhere.::

>>Sounds good.<< Jazz seems genuinely pleased, but there’s a note of worry in his spark that makes Prowl turn his considering attention on him, and he can feel it as Ratchet’s attention shifts, too. >>Ah, Ratch - don’t break the connection for a klik?<<

::Sure, kid, what’s up?<<

>>One sec - just give me a -<<

It’s a deeply irregular feeling, having Jazz manipulate his firewalls. It takes a moment for Prowl to even recognize what he’s doing - the way Jazz works is completely unlike his own techniques, the smooth, glassy barriers he raises so alien that it takes a moment to realize that he’s viewing Jazz’s firewalls, in his own processor, from behind - silky and silent. He pushes that disorientation down the bond, and Jazz stabilizes him with a laugh.

>>Sorry, Prowler. Just wanted ta talk ta you in private fer a sec. I wanted ta ask - can I show Ratchet your code?<<

Prowl is surprised - he can feel Jazz feel that surprise, and latches on as the other mech starts to pull away, apologetically - >>No, I don’t mind - why do you want to show him?<<

>>I want to see what he thinks of it. Neither of us are code experts, an’ Ratch has seen more than most medics see in a lifetime - he might have some ideas for patching it. An’...<< He trails off, hesitant. >>You want ta stay here - I want ta stay with you. I’d like… I’d like if Ratchet’d stay too, but I don’t know how else ta make him understand why.<<

>>Oh.<< Prowl considers that for a moment. >>Jazz - Ratchet is as good as cohort - he’s your cohort, certainly, or would be, if you had the code to form one. He’s always welcome.<<

There’s a thread of fondness down the bond, just before the firewalls shimmer and slip away. >>Thanks, Prowler.<<

::You two done being sappy?:: The words are gently teasing, all the harsh edges worn off, and Prowl laughs.

::Yes - don’t worry.::

>>I wanted ta show you something in Prowl’s code, Ratch. Get yer opinion on it.<<

::Alright…:: That seems to put the medic on edge, a little, but he follows the dancing sparks that are Jazz down through Prowl’s code, Prowl himself trailing behind, until the three of them are once more at the edge of the gaping wound.

::Oh.:: Ratchet’s voice is very soft - and suddenly, he is over and above and around them, looking down at the damage from all angles, and Prowl can feel the careful examinations of the ruined lines, the patches. ::Oh, Prowl.::

This time, there’s no disguising the pity in his voice - but it’s warm and fond and blameless, horrified, yes, but on his behalf, and Prowl curls into it, lets Ratchet and Jazz surround him with their warmth. ::It doesn’t hurt as much, anymore.::

::But it hurts.:: Ratchet says it with a certainty that doesn’t require answer. ::Slag, kid - this is… This is the worst I’ve ever seen code like this, for sure. And it’s been like this for… what? Vorn?::

::Decavorn.:: There’s no point in lying. ::It started unspooling about a decavorn after I left Iacon - it was this bad by… I don’t know. Half a decavorn after I returned from Crystal City. I’ve been working on it.::

He gestures to the patches, and Ratchet considers them momentarily. ::It’s a good effort, but you need more than a couple of friends, Prowl - you might’ve gotten away with that if we’d met in the earliest days, but to fix this sort of damage you’d need a whole cohort of -:: Realization breaks like a wave, and Ratchet falls quiet. ::Oh. Oh.::

He pauses for a long klik. ::That’s what he meant.:: Prowl has no doubt as to who the medic means by ‘he’.

::They’re… well-situated, Ratchet.::

>>Slag that.<< Jazz’s own voice is firmer, more confident. >>It’s the Prime, Ratch. With the sort of resources he’s got - we could actually fix Praxus, do more than just knife mechs in the night - we could actually get rid of the lords.<<

::Ops will never let you go.:: But the argument is half-hearted - Prowl can tell that seeing his damage has knocked the spark out of Ratchet’s resistance. ::You’re alright with this being the rest of your life, Prowl?::

It’s telling, that he doesn’t ask Jazz - and, down the bond, he can tell that that’s because Ratchet already knows the other mech’s answer: Jazz never expected a life beyond the struggle.

::I’ll be with Jazz.:: Ultimately, the reason is the same. ::That’s all I need.::

::Ops is…:: Ratchet hesitates again, and Prowl can feel Ironhide shift beside himself, and tell the pair are talking. ::Ops is a good cohort for you. And the sort of small-squad tactics your ATS is set up for would be a slagging close fit for what they probably need - it was a problem almost the whole war, that we couldn’t get tacticians capable of running variable-dense missions for such small groups. And Jazz… put a little polish on you, and you’ll be as good as anything they’ve got. Better, if the mech that tried to follow me in Praxus is anything to go by.::

But there’s still hesitance there.

>>Would you…<< Jazz is the first one to approach the question directly. >>I don’t know what happened between you and the Prime, Ratchet, but…<<

That gets him a moment of frozen silence.

::You want to know if I’ll come back to Iacon with you.::

>>Yeah.<<

::Slag, kid, you sure don’t ask for a lot, do you?:: There’s a dry laugh. ::Like Pit I’m leaving the two of you, Jazz. And’ it’s not like Jackie - slag, like Red - hasn’t been bugging me to make peace with Optimus for… well, for longer than the two’ve us have known each other. Yeah, Jazz - I’ll stick around, maybe see if I can get my old job back.::

>>I mean, if you don’t want to work with the Prime, Ratch -<<

::Jazz, Optimus is my best friend.:: Ratchet’s voice is certain, warm with gratitude for the sympathy, but dismissive at the same time. ::Honest. I love him like a brother - but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to sweat until I’m good and ready to forgive him. There’s… a lot of history, there. But we’ll get over it - we always have.::

::Thank you, Ratchet.:: He doesn’t know how to express it - the full depths of his gratitude - but the medic justs laughs.

::Not a problem, kid. We’ll make it work.::

Ratchet slips out of his processor as easily as he’d come - one moment he’s there, the next, he’s flowing away like oil, impossible to grab, and then he’s gone completely, optics flickering back online as he unhooks the cable between them.

“Any helmache?” He checks, glancing between Jazz and Prowl - when they both shake their helms, he sighs, patting Prowl’s shoulder absently.

“Well, you should be good enough, for now. Bring the ATS back online when you’re ready, there’s nothing to indicate it’ll crash again, and keep your utilization sub-thirty percent until I can take another look at it - I want to check it again once it’s been running for a bit, but no point in rushing.” He turns his gaze to Jazz. “And you - pay attention while he’s bringing it online. You’ll need a good frame of reference for what a clean boot looks like, and after how you shut him down, this’ll be as clean as you’ll see.”

Ironhide gives them both a concerned look, but it’s obvious that he’s either too polite, or to well-trained, to pry. “You goin’ somewhere, Ratch?”

“Yeah - I need to go pay this Ambulon a visit. I need a console for some sims, and a brief word.” Ratchet hesitates. “About my job.”

“Your - Ratch -” The delighted look that spreads across Ironhide’s faceplates shows that Prowl and Jazz have been all but forgotten by the larger mech, who rises, quickly, and reaches out a hand to haul a quietly protesting Ratchet to his pedes. “Really?”

“Don’t tell Optimus.” But Ratchet’s face has the same lightness to it, the same bright smile. “I’m going to let him sit on things for another few cycles. But… yeah.”

He lets out a panicked noise that’s half-gasp and half-yelp when Ironhide sweeps him up into a crushing hug.

“Yeah, yeah - ‘hide, let me down -”

He grunts as Ironhide, obviously straining, lowers him just enough to drop the last few inches when he lets go - but he doesn’t move away, staying close as Ironhide wraps an arm around his shoulder and draws him close. “Thanks, Ratch. I’ve… I think we’ve all missed ye.”

“Sure.” But the dismissal in his tone sounds faked - Ratchet’s whole field skitters with little shards of happiness. “Look - come with me, ‘Hide. I have a suspicion that Ops won’t be happy to see me walking around on my own. We’ll leave the kids to - I don’t know, merge, or whatever they do - and you can help me scare up whoever’s still hanging around from the bad old days, alright?”

“Sounds like a plan, Ratch,” says Ironhide, with the confidence of a mech who’s said that many times before, and the warmth that flares in the medic’s field is like a sun.

Chapter Text

There’s almost another joor before Ratchet and Ironhide actually leave, of course - Ratchet refuses to go anywhere without restoring both Prowl and Jazz’s comms and subspaces. It’s not a complex process, fortunately - all that’s been done to disable them is the removal of a few wires, and it’s only a matter of soldering them back into position to get the systems back online. Ironhide watches, but doesn’t protest - and, if he notices Ratchet reconnecting Jazz’s magnetics while he’s working on the assassin’s wrists, neither he, nor the medic, bring it up.

::Comms check?:: Ratchet’s voice is crisp and businesslike. ::Jazz?::

::Loud an’ clear, Ratch.::

::Prowl?::

::Loud and clear.::

::Great. One sec - let me send you Ironhide’s codes.::

The three-way commlink pings with a set of ident codes, and Ironhide’s deeper voice greets him as soon as Prowl accepts. ::Hey, kid. Give me a ping if anyone gives ye slag fer runnin’ around, understand? I’ll sort ‘em out - ye’ve got clearance fer, hol’ on -::

A moment later, a map appears in his inbox - several areas are blacked out entirely, almost half of the map, but a handful more are highlighted. ::All the public areas, an’ the red bits. Stay outta th’ blacked bits unless yer wit’ somemech - we don’ like havin’ maps o’ th’ private areas floatin’ around, but any o’ the mechs wit’ clearance ta take ye back there will know where they kin let ye.::

::Thank you. Should I keep you updated on our movements?::

::Ha!:: That gets him a burst of laughter. ::Nah, kid - I’ll know where ye are if I need ye.::

It’s as close to an admission that they’ll be tracked as he’s likely to get - not unexpected. ::Thank you, Ironhide. I’ll comm if we run into any trouble.:: He considers that for a moment. ::Is Hot Rod likely to be around?::

::Roddy? Nah - he’s off duty today, think he’s givin' a shot ta wooin’ that pair o’ his. Ain’t sure who I’m wishin’ th’ luck on tha’ one - they’re a good match, but he needs ta make ‘em work fer it.:: Ironhide chuckles. ::I’ll let ‘im know ye were askin’.::

::Thanks. We’ll make a Tidek grandmaster of him yet.::

Ironhide gives an amused snort, at that, but closes out the commlink, and Prowl returns his attention to Ratchet and Jazz. “We’ll be seeing you in a few joor, then?”

“Unless we get caught up with something. Have either of you used an energon dispenser before?” Jazz shakes his helm, but Prowl has - they’re standard in enforcer precincts - and Ratchet rounds on him. “Great. Don’t catch anything on fire, and run a few cubes before you drink anything - I don’t want to know how long it’s been since the lines have been flushed.”

“Understood.” Prowl nods again, and is surprised when Ratchet steps forward and pulls him into a hug. “Oh -”

Ratchet catches Jazz up, too, and Prowl freezes, dropping his wings to keep them from being crushed - but Ratchet is careful, and so, sensing his concern, is Jazz. “You’re good kids, you know that? It’s gonna be fine.” There’s a deep fondness to Ratchet’s voice, and Prowl forces himself to relax into the touch - it’s nice, for all it’s unanticipated.

“Thank you, Ratchet.” Prowl glances up as the medic releases him. “Have a good day with your friends?”

“I will. Give these Ops mechs Pit.”

“Understood.”

Then Ratchet lets Ironhide drag him out of a room, a broad grin on his face - as the door closes, he can hear it turn into a chuckle. “Yer th’ huggy type, now? Wouldna thought -”

“Oh, slag yourself, Ironhide, the kid needs all the -” The rest of his sentence is lost as they move beyond his doorwing’s range, but Prowl doesn’t bother retuning - Jazz is grinning fondly. “Wouldn’t have expected Ratch ta be so touchy-feely - he must have missed us.” When Prowl shares the words, he laughs aloud. “Or - oh, slag, he’s prescribed you hugs. Oh, that’s a bit sad.”

“It should help the cohort-bonds stabilize, at least. Touch is a significant part of it.” But he chuckles, too - the humor of it isn’t beyond him.

“Yeah, well - let me know if you need any… touching, alright?” Jazz gives a flirty smile, and Prowl can feel his wings perk helplessly in response. “Ooo, we’ll get back to that, then - but show me how ta use this thing first. I could use a cube - how serious was Ratch about this lighting us on fire?”

“Us? Unlikely. The rest of the room? Energon is highly energetic…” He smirks at the look of mild concern Jazz gives him. “Relax - it’s not hard.”

It’s a little surprising that Jazz has never had to use a dispenser himself - but then, knowing even just what he does about Jazz’s life before they met… He pushes those thoughts down to where he hopes Jazz won’t notice them without looking deliberately, and steps over to the energon dispenser to examine it.

It really is similar to the dispensers used by the enforcers - more convenient than the cubes he stored in his old apartment, though without the flexibility of blend. The control screen indicates that three blends are available - a light solar, a flight-grade magma, and a blend marked ‘rotational’ that’s currently set to the thicker, denser magma-oil mixes preferred by high-torque groundframes like construction vehicles - a preference of the Prime’s, he would think, except that the Prime doesn’t use the dispensers.

He grabs a cube - slightly dusty, but a quick wipe removes most of it - from the bar, and shows Jazz how key in the blend - 80-20 solar to flight-grade, for himself, a high-potency mix that will absorb quickly if he needs to run his ATS, but Jazz pulls a pure solar ration for himself. There’s a setting for coolant, too, and he dispenses himself a cube of that - he’s not feeling as threadstripped as he usually does, after a major crash, but even Ratchet can’t rid him of the singed residue of an overheat that quickly.

They settle back on the couches together. “Don’t let me -” Jazz hesitates for a moment. “How should I be sittin’, with your wings? I don’t want to crush anything…”

“You won’t. Ratchet is quite a bit heavier - they’re sensitive, but sturdy, I promise.” Jazz gives him a doubtful look.

“Didn’t look so sturdy, last time -”

Prowl can’t help the way his wings flick, involuntarily, at the memory - but he smiles, nonetheless; he doesn’t want Jazz to be too worried to sit with him - “Last time, I had just dropped my whole frame, plus a chair, onto my wingedge. The panels are more durable - try not to lean on them, but simply having your frame against them won’t hurt me.” He reaches out, and uses a lifetime of experience with the limbs to guide Jazz into the appropriate position. “It’s easier with your frame than another Praxian’s - Bluestreak was clingy, as a youngling, and managing two sets of wings is harder, especially when one of you is too young to have much control.”

He sends Jazz a memory - youngling Bluestreak, leaning into Smokescreen’s side as they walk out in front of him, one of Smokescreen’s wings drooped painfully low as Bluestreak’s smaller wings bat and weave, bashing against the other one. “Our wings are less sensitive, as newframes - easier to avoid injury, but Bluestreak never understood why we preferred to walk apart.”

Jazz laughs at the memory, a coil of delight working its way down the bond. “Slag - he’s adorable. That’s your sniper? And th’ other one - Smokescreen, right?”

“He’s had a full-frame reformat since, but yes. His colors are the same, but we’re no longer quite so identical.” He sends Jazz more recent images of both of them - Smokescreen’s new frame, and Blue’s adult upgrades. “Enforcers don’t change our colors often, even though both of them have non-standard palettes - I doubt they’ve changed much since I last saw them.”

“Sure.” Jazz considers that for a moment. “You gonna visit your little brother while we’re here? I mean, we’ve got an orn where we’re both free mechs - I doubt th’ Prime would mind.”

“I’d prefer to check with Ironhide, first.” But Prowl does - deeply - want to see them, and he knows Jazz can sense it. “I’d like them to meet you.”

“Oh.” He can tell that Jazz wasn’t expecting that - though he’s not sure why. “Yeah, I’d - I’d like to meet them -”

“You’re my conjunx, Jazz.” He takes a stab at guessing, anyways. “It may not be the usual order, but they’ll be thrilled to meet you - Blue, and Smokescreen when he can. Enforcers bond even less commonly than the general population - Smokescreen prefers to keep things casual, and I never had much interest in relationships, so we both figured Bluestreak would be the one to bond, if any of us did. They’ll be fascinated.”

“Glad ta hear it, mech.” Jazz takes a swig of his energon, and Prowl can feel that his concern isn’t entirely gone, but it’s eased, somewhat. “I can’t wait ta meet them - you’re a talented bunch. We can talk ta Ironhide this evening, see what he says.”

“Sure.”

There are pedesteps in the hallway, but Prowl doesn’t pay them much attention - so, a moment later, the tap on the door startles both of them. It’s a heavy hand, whoever it is, but not rude, and Prowl and Jazz glance at each other, switching, on instinct, to the bond. >>You wanna get that?<<

>>It’s not Ironhide. Or Ratchet.<< The medic wouldn’t have bothered to knock, and the timbre of the tapping is wrong for the guard. >>The medic, maybe?<<

Jazz shrugs. >>I dunno. Could be Ops, too.<< He sets his cube on the table with a soft click. >>I’ve got it.<<

Jazz trudges over to the door, and Prowl can hear him fiddling with the lock as he tries to get the door open. There’s another tap, a little louder, and he calls out - “Yeah! One second -” as he manages to get the door open -

Then there’s silence, and Prowl can feel the sudden shock down the bond - he has to twist to see the source, and then Prowl is scrambling to his pedes, too, because the Prime has just knocked on their door -

He’s on his pedes by the time Jazz manages to find his glossa.

“Ah - Ratchet isn’t here right now. My Lord. Sir.” Jazz’s vocalizer clicks unhelpfully as he speaks, and Prowl has to push back the wave of panicked humiliation from his conjunx to keep his own processor clear enough to register the Prime’s reply.

“Oh, I - ah. I didn’t come here to speak to Ratchet, Jazz.” The Prime gives Jazz a chagrined look that would be amusing if it were anyone else, but it isn’t. “I… still haven’t quite recovered from our last conversation. I was hoping I could speak to the two of you?”

The thought makes Prowl’s spark twist with stress, and he debates onlining the ATS - but he has no desire to distract Jazz with that, or to court another crash. Across the room, Jazz scrambles for an answer - but once again, the assassin recovers faster, stepping back from the door with a strained grin.

“Of course, my lord. Welcome ta your humble abode.”

That gets a chuckle from the Prime, who has to duck his helm - just a little - to fit through the door. A blue mech follows, waiting in the doorway as the Prime straightens.

“Ah, Kup - if you would keep watch? I am not sure -” The Prime glances at Prowl before nodding regally. “Yes, some privacy, I believe. And… please inform me if Ratchet returns?”

The blue mech grins, and it’s easy to tell he’s Primes’guard - he has an air of easy confidence to match Ironhide. “Of course, Optimus. Keep an audial out - I’ll yell if it’s a security threat, but it’ll probably be some sort of loud crashing sound if it’s your medic.”

“Kup…” The Prime’s voice is fond, but exasperated. “Ratchet doesn’t open every door by tossing a mech through it.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Kup’s grin only widens, and he gives a sly wink to the pair of mechs watching, wide-opticked, as he banters with the Prime. “Ask ‘Hide to pull the security video, it was great. Turns out medics really can lift mechs twice their size -”

“Please don’t circulate video of my amica throwing me through a door, Kup.” But the Prime doesn’t seem upset, and Kup steps back into the hallway without making any such promises.

It takes a moment for the meaning of the guard’s words to sink in. Prowl makes the connection first - but he sends it to Jazz to confirm, because he can’t possibly be -

“Wait - Ratch threw you through a door?” Jazz doesn’t bother to restrain the outburst, jaw dropping open, and Prowl can feel his own shock reflected back across the bond.

“I believe he was proving a point, but yes.” The Prime’s optics are bright, his tone amused.

“What possible point -” Remembering who he’s talking to, Jazz’s vocalizer cuts out, then resets awkwardly. “Ah, what point would that be, sir?”

“That he can pick me up and throw me through a door, probably.” The Prime chuckles. “Ratchet has never been a terribly subtle mech.”

“Oh.” Jazz hesitates for a moment, uncertain. “Would you, ah… like to sit down, sir?”

“If you don’t mind.” Optimus gives Jazz a wide berth as he moves around the assassin to the couches, and settles down with easy familiarity. “There’s no need for formality, either of you - you aren’t working for me yet, and even then, I wouldn’t ask it of you in your own quarters.”

“Thank you.” It’s almost physically painful to leave the sir off, but Prowl forces it down as he approaches. As soon as he gets near, he can feel the rippling edge of the Prime’s EM field, but this time, absent the ATS-induced panic, it’s not upsetting - it’s almost soothing, a calm, smooth presence reaching out to stabilize his own.

He settles onto the couch next to the Prime’s chosen seat, leaving ample room for Jazz to settle in beside him.

“I hope the two of you are doing well?” The Prime waits until they’re both sitting to ask. “You’re feeling better, Prowl? I would have sent my own medic, but I figured Ratchet would be just as capable…”

“Yes. Ratchet examined my tactical systems, and we believe we have found the source of the conflict that caused me to crash. It should not be a problem again.” Prowl gives a polite bow of his helm. “Thank you for your kindness while I was recovering - I couldn’t express it at the time, but I am grateful for your patience.”

“It was nothing. I’m just glad to see that you’re alright.” Optimus gives him a soft smile, and Prowl does his best to relax enough to return it.

“Thank you.”

“And you’ve been settling in well? I see that maintenance got the energon dispensers back up and running - I hope things weren’t too out-of-sorts. After the first few centuries, we let things… slide, a bit - there didn’t seem to be much point to keeping the room ready.” He chuckles. “Of course, Ratchet never was the type to give warning when he was dropping in, although I’ll concede that, this time, it wasn’t his fault.”

“It’s great, yeah.” Jazz nods, and the gesture is only a little uneasy. “Nicer than our digs in Praxus, for sure - thank you.”

The Prime looks curious, at that - seems to debate asking, for a moment, before subsiding. “Well, I won’t pry - but I’m glad. You don’t mind if I -” He draws forth his own cube from subspace, stripping away the lid when Prowl shakes his helm.

“Of course, sir. If I could ask -” Prowl hesitates as the Prime’s optics settle on him again - he doesn’t want to seem like he’s dismissing the lord, but - a flicker of encouragement flashes across the Prime’s field, and he lets himself trust it. “What brings you here, sir? Much as I appreciate you checking on us, I don’t want to take up too much of your time…”

“Straight to business, then.” But the Prime doesn’t seem offended - he gives Prowl a small smile. “Don’t worry, though - it’s bad politics for the Prime to be seen injured, so I’m on leave until my nanites repopulate.”

“Your -” But even as he says it, he looks - and he can see the faint traces, covered neatly with colorant sprays, of silvery-gray, bare armor all across the Prime’s chest. Can see, on closer examination, the faint heat-rippling of weld-lines, sanded smooth so as to be hardly visible, and the faint, fresh resin of repairs to one of the Prime’s shoulders. “Oh -”

“Hardly the worst damage Ratchet has ever done to me.” But there’s a thin brightness to his optics as he says it, and the Prime glances away for just a moment. “I gave as good as I got.”

Prowl doesn’t know what to say to that, and it’s obvious that neither does Jazz - but the Prime only lets the uneasy silence hang in the air for a moment before resettling his plating with a shrug.

“I understand if Ratchet’s feelings on the matter have made the two of you reconsider your interest in working with Ops.” The Prime gives the pair of them a considering look before turning his gaze fully on Prowl. “However, if you still wished… you had asked to transfer your coding to me, before we were interrupted. I didn’t want to cause any additional discomfort - if you still wanted to, I thought now might be a good time to make myself available for it.”

“I -” It’s a level of consideration he wouldn’t have expected from the mech, even if he suspects that it’s in part a means of making peace with Ratchet. Even with that suspicion, though, the tantalizing thought of beginning to patch his damaged coding is too good to ignore. “Yes, I would - I would still like to. Thank you.”

The Prime smiles softly at that. “Thank you, then, Prowl - for your trust.” It’s his turn to hesitate. “What do I need to do? Nightbeat’s coding was intact enough that he could handle the transfer, but from what he told me, it sounded as if your code might require something more involved?”

That’s a thorny question. He could - probably - still manage the transfer on his own, but… “It would be easier if I could work down a hardline, sir. Since I’ve never worked with you before, and you don’t have the code. But - there are other options, Nightbeat could transfer me a template -”

There’s a soft snickt as the Prime’s port cover slips aside, the larger mech - the God - offering his arm as if it’s nothing. “Go ahead.”

Prowl can’t do anything but stare, frozen, at the offered ports - the Prime hasn’t even unspooled his own cable, isn’t even requesting a mutual connection. At his side, Jazz, too, is wide-optics, vents stuttered to a halt, processor blank with shock -

“Prowl?”

It takes a moment for his own name to break through the surprise, and he looks up, helplessly, into concerned blue optics. The Prime gives a vent of what looks like - relief? - and lowers his arm.

“Prowl, are you - are you alright?”

He clicks when he tries to respond, and has to reset his vocalizer. He doesn’t know what to say -

“You shouldn’t hardline mechs without them passing a much greater degree of security scrutiny, sir.”

He doesn’t know what to say, but chiding the Prime for his security habits is not it -

But the Prime laughs.

“I shouldn’t, should I? But… let me tell you a secret, Prowl?” The Prime also should not be confiding secrets in a mech he’s only known for two cycles, but who is Prowl to say no? “I was a dataclerk, before the war. In the Iaconi Archive. I’ve had a full-frame rebuild since then, but all the security software’s still there - there’s nothing the two of you could have put together in a few cycles that’s getting past my firewalls.”

Oh, that’s - that’s not too bad, as secrets go, everyone knows the Prime was a dataclerk - and Jazz corrects him, Prowl accepting the input and amending the thought, because apparently everyone except Jazz knows the Prime was a dataclerk, and Jazz doesn’t seem entirely satisfied with that amendment but that’s fine.

“Thank you for your trust, then, Sir.” He unspools his own cable, and it takes everything he has to keep his fingers from trembling. But… “If you would prefer to cable in, also? It would be more comfortable.”

“I don’t want to impose…” But the Prime unspools his own datacable readily - as the more experienced dataworker, he slots it in first, holding his arm out so that Prowl can insert his own a moment later.

The Prime’s processor is… vast. It takes a moment to orient himself as he’s plunged, helm-first, into the brilliant light of the older mech’s meta - the Prime’s firewalls stand like walls of crystal, and the light that shines through them… Something at the core of him knows that it’s the All-Spark, cascading out from within the Prime in a play of color that is at once soothing and spark-stoppingly frightening.

Optimus’ presence greets him with warm consideration - the Prime’s processor is… tidy. Neatly-organized, and deliberate - not far from what he would expect from any other data-clerk, and far less intimidating than he expected from a Prime. It wraps around him - not wholly, as if catching him up, but protectively, shielding him from the All-Spark’s light.

Jazz, too, seems to sense his distress - the cool dark form of his own processor joining them in the Prime’s meta stands out against the rainbow of lights, absorbing them with an oily ripple and slipping beneath him to keep him upright.

::Rude.:: The voice that regards them is terrifying - like a roll of thunder, and Prowl has one spark-stopping moment of fear - is it Primus? - before he realizes that, no, the Prime is bonded, so that must be -

::Megatron. Stop scaring the younglings.:: The Prime’s voice is fond, despite the warning tone. ::They’re newbonds - I doubt Jazz knew any better.::

::Ah.:: There’s a sense of deep doubt that shakes Prime’s meta around them. ::Jazz, then. It is rude to follow your bonded down a hardline without the other mech’s prior permission. Out.::

::Ah -:: All the silken smoothness of Jazz’s flow around him stiffens - Prowl can feel him, split between an unwillingness to leave Prowl and a spark-deep desire to flee -

>>Go.<< He whispers it down the bond, pushing down his own desire that Jazz stay with him. >>I’ll be fine -<<

But even as he says it, the Prime’s processor is reaching out to surround Jazz, too. ::You get out, Megatron. You’ve upset them. Jazz is welcome to stay, if he wishes.::

There’s another rumble, and Prowl catches just a glimpse of what must be the Lord Protector’s presence within the Prime’s meta - colorless, shapeless, a disturbance running without form all through the colors swirling, casting them into jagged relief as they glint off of what isn’t there. Then it - he - is gone, and the Prime’s meta once again rings with silence.

::Ah - thank you, sir. I’m sorry -:: Jazz hesitates, but the Prime laughs.

::You didn’t know. And Megatron enjoys causing trouble. He wouldn’t have hurt you.:: His coil loosens, and Prowl can feel the Prime regard him. ::What else did you need, Prowl? Beyond the hardline?::

::Ah -:: It’s hard to think, with the Prime’s presence so overwhelming. ::Nothing, sir - it’s easier to perform the transfer with an established connection to template it on. You can disconnect us when you’re ready - it isn’t a long process.::

::I see.:: There’s a moment of disorientation as Prime disconnects himself, then Prowl, from the hardline - Jazz waits just long enough in his meta for the confusion to fade before slipping back to his own end of the bond. “I had expected something more involved.”

“It’s not a two-way code - there’s very little for you to do on your end.” Prowl considers that. “From a coding perspective. For the actual bond to establish… it will still not take much direct input from you - no more than Nightbeat’s does. It will take more from the mechs who form my actual cohort, to ensure a bond forms and stabilizes - but I’m sure Nightbeat will be able to inform that process, also.”

He hesitates for a moment. “I would prefer not to reassign the coding regarding my actual precincts until I’ve spoken with him, and our place with Ops is finalized - that coding is, in many ways, more demanding.”

“It’s your coding, Prowl. I will leave it’s management to your discretion - although Mirage may have further requirements of you, as your commander. Until then, though, do whatever you need to be comfortable.”

“Thank you, sir.” Prowl takes a sip of his energon, unsure of where to take the conversation, but he can feel Jazz steeling himself for something, and pushes confidence down the bond.

“Can I ask you somethin’? Sir?”

The Prime gives him a warm look. “Of course.”

“Would you tell us why you and Ratch’re fighting?”

“What?” The Prime looks surprised at the question - it’s obvious that whatever he was expecting Jazz to ask, that wasn’t it. “I don’t know if I should -”

“Ironhide said to ask you.” Jazz shrugs. “He said he thought it’d be easier for you ta tell us than ta make Ratch tell it. But if you’d rather not -”

“No.” The Prime hesitates. “No - ‘Hide has a good point, and it’s not like… Well, it’s my story as much as Ratchet’s.”

He gives Jazz a long, thoughtful look. “You really do remind me of him, you know that? I didn’t see it at first, but as soon as I found out that Ratchet was working with you, I saw it. It’s unmissable.” He huffs a vent. “I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of a mech by the name of Deadlock? In Iacon?”

“Deadlock?” Prowl perks up. “The hitmech?”

“You’ve heard of him, then?” The Prime seems faintly amused.

“Heard of - he’s the textbook case for gang affiliated assassins!” And Prowl had spent joors, after his initial encounters with Jazz, reviewing everything he could get his hands on about the criminal pathology of assassins. “Yes, I’ve heard of him.”

“Well,” and the Prime, at that, looks almost unbearably smug, “he survived long enough to write the textbook because I kept him from getting his fool helm smashed in by angry gangsters, and hauled him to a clinic in time for Ratchet to weld him back together.”

“What?” It’s Jazz who leans in, optics brightening curiously. “Really?”

“Yes.” The Prime chuckles. “I was - Ratchet and I were friends, well before I ever ascended the Primacy. He had a clinic, in the Dead End, and I lived only a few blocks away, right on the outskirts - data analysts weren’t terribly important, during the functionalist regime, but there was some upward mobility, and if you saved the credits, you could pay for an education, so I was living in the cheapest housing I could afford that wouldn’t put me in the End itself. Ratchet’s clinic was - well, not famous, he couldn’t attract too much attention or the regime would have shut him down - but mechs talked, and so one day I wandered down there to see if he could update my antivirals and save me the thousand-cred fee to have it done at a medical center.”

“Oh?” It’s - fascinating, in a way. The Prime’s story isn’t secret, exactly - they never are; the path that leads each new Prime to the Primacy is as enshrined in myth as their actions are, and the thought of a commoner-Prime after millennia of Functionalist rule had captured the processors of his subjects. But to hear it told by the mech himself…

“Yes. And he was… well, very generous. He was CMO at Iacon General, taught classes three cycles an orn, and still made time for his clinic - made time for me. He was… vocal, very vocal, in his opposition to functionalism, but he was talented enough that no one could touch him - he was the only medic that Sentinel Prime would allow to work on him.” Optimus chuckles. “The things we got up to… You know, it still makes me nervous talking about it, even millennia later? And I’m Prime - there’s no one on Cybertron who could punish me.”

The Prime takes a long draught of his energon, swirling the cube contemplatively as he lowers it. “I would run him off fake documents, occasionally sneak an update onto the caste lists, artificially trade a living mech with a criminal past’s ID tags with a clean, dead mech, things like that. I’d have been shot, if I’d been caught, but looking back - well, no one was looking. No one cared if a few disposables got shuffled around.”

Prowl is young enough to have never lived under Functionalist dictates, but he’s heard stories - studied the histories enough to know that it finally buckled under the weight of the Quintesson Wars and a thousand tiny rebellions. Rebellions like, apparently, the Prime’s. “I see.”

“So one day, I’m on my way to Ratchet’s with a pile of datapads - I don’t remember what was on them, but I was very stressed because it was very illegal, shot-in-the-streets-by-enforcers-if-they-catch-you illegal - and this mech comes staggering out of an alley, bleeding. There are a couple of these weedy mechs chasing him, but nobody in the Dead End was that tough, back then, everyone was kind of malnourished - so when they catch up and start slagging him I go up to them and tell them I’m going to smash their helms in if they don’t frag off. Of course, at this point, I figure that at worst, I’m saving a thief, at best I’m protecting a down-on-his-luck mech from syphonists - I had no idea whatsoever that I was accidentally rescuing the much-feared hitmech Deadlock from a richly-deserved beating at the hands of some friends of one of his victims.”

“That’s a… pit, mech.” Jazz laughs. “Hell of a way to rmeet somemech. And I’m sure Deadlock was thrilled.”

“As much as you can imagine. He came online swinging - it was a slagging good thing that Ratchet had experience with soldiers, or I’m fairly sure he’d have cut both our cables before we could calm him down. Still… he was a good mech.” There’s something fond but distant in Optimus’ gaze. “He stuck around for a while - let Ratchet finish fixing him up, and then… well, he had the savings to get out of the Dead End, but not the papers. So I faked some up for him - gave him a new ID, a new past that I’d scrubbed off a guttermech named Drift we’d lost a week earlier.”

“Really?” Jazz looks absolutely fascinated, and Prowl can feel his earnest curiosity down the bond. “So he…?”

“The Quintessons had just launched their invasion on the rim territories a few days before we met.” Optimus shrugs. “By the time he was well enough to leave, and his paperwork was in order, the war was in full swing. He had papers for a speedster-frame, and a clean criminal record - he went off and enlisted.”

It makes sense, from a timeline perspective, but Prowl doesn’t see - “But you and Ratchet?”

“That came… later. Much later - after I had ascended the Primacy. We were fighting, way out on the Rim, after we’d driven off another wave of Quint incursions, and we get a report that there’s a squad pinned down on the other side of the battlefield, so Ratchet and Ironhide and I get our own surviving mechs together to try to punch through, and who do we find but Drift, holding the line single-handed so his squad can make it to cover.” Optimus pauses, and Prowl can see the memory of that battle on his face - it’s nothing good. “An artillery barrage took out the building they were headed into. It was… Things like that happen, in combat. A freak twist of fate, that the mechs who should have been safe died, and Drift’s decision to stay behind - which should have been suicide - would save him. It took him a long time to recover, and he wasn’t in any state to join a new squad, after, so I offered him a place in my Prime’sguard.”

“That must have been hard for him.” Prowl can - can hardly imagine the grief of losing a squad of enforcers like that, even one only loosely tied to him. It’s happened before, of course - fires where rescue teams didn’t manage to identify all the potential explosives, groups of enforcers led into traps - but never in his service.

“It was. But he had Ratchet, and I, and the Prime’sguard - Ironhide kept an optic on him, when we couldn’t, and he was doing well. He and Ratchet… they were… very close. Amica, I think, although I tried not to pry - or if not, they would have been. And Drift - you would have liked him, I’m sure - everymech did. He was clever, and funny, and kind - he got along well with everyone.” Optimus pauses, and even though his voice is warm, fond, a shadow flickers across his field. “And then he died. It was… sudden - by that point, Ratchet and I had returned to Iacon, and Megatron was leading the army, there shouldn’t have been any threat, but one moment I’m standing in the Basilica and the next Drift is shoving me backwards with a hole in his spark. He was gone before Ratchet could reach him.”

“Oh.” Jazz’s voice is soft, and down the bond, Prowl can feel that neither of them knows how to reply to that. “I’m sorry.”

“It was…” The Prime seems hesitant, his optics dim. “Ratchet couldn’t stand to look at me at all, before the funeral. And after… he had made his arrangements, and he just… vanished into the night without even a word. I tried to find him, of course…” He huffs his vents. “Ratchet is good at not being found. A mutual friend of ours, a mech named Red Alert, was keeping track of him, but of course I would never have asked him to betray… well, his word was the only proof I had that Ratchet was even online until last cycle.”

“‘M sorry.” Jazz hesitates again. “If it makes you feel any better… He was fine. I dunno if your Ops guys told you - he had a little clinic again -”

“And a little assassin, yes.” The Prime chuckles softly, but the sadness isn’t entirely gone. “Thank you for being there for him. It’s been - well, I don’t say it lightly when I tell you he’s my oldest friend. The only one left who knew me before I was the Prime, now.”

It’s odd, to think of that - but it would be terribly inappropriate to pry, and Prowl is scrambling for something else to say when he hears pedesteps in the hall. The Prime’s helm, too, shoots up, and he’s halfway to his pedes by the time voices sound outside the door -

And Ratchet shoves into the room.

Prowl has just enough time to see Ironhide and Kup trading worried glances outside the door, but both obviously think better of interfering, which would be fine, except that means that he and Jazz are trapped in a powder-keg, and Prowl spends one graceless moment contemplating the merits of simply grabbing Jazz and locking them both in the berthroom before he realizes that neither Ratchet nor the Prime have actually said anything. Ratchet hasn’t even moved from the doorway - he’s staring, optics locked on the Prime, who seems frozen.

Then Ratchet strides, whole frame tight, over to the energon dispenser.

The Prime shifts - glances at the door as if he’s going to flee, but as he slots the cube under the spigot, Ratchet freezes him in place again with a soft, “Stay, Optimus.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the Prime settles back down onto the couch. Stays, perfectly still, until Ratchet’s cube is ready, and the medic walks back over to lean against the corner of the adjoining couch, considering him over the rim of his cube as he takes a small sip, and the tension between them is thick enough to cut -

“You’ve already told them all of my secrets, I suppose?”

There’s a dry, hard edge beneath the forced amusement of his words, and the Prime hesitates for only a moment before nodding.

Ratchet lets out a long, heavy vent - one that trails on, and on, and on - until it trickles out, leaves him looking hollow and exhausted, glancing away. His voice, when he speaks, is very soft.

“It wasn’t your fault he died.”

“Ratchet -” The Prime’s voice is quiet, almost horrified, but Ratchet shakes his helm, and Prowl is struck with the deep, deep sensation that neither he nor Jazz should be there, that this is too intimate a moment to intrude on - but there’s no way to escape.

“No, Optimus. It - it wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t right of me to - to blame you.” Ratchet’s voice is more solid at that, and he meets the Prime’s gaze again with tired, dark optics. “It wasn’t right of me to leave, and - and I should have come back. I just…”

“You needed time. I never blamed you for that.” The Prime shifts, slowly, hesitantly. “Sit with me, Ratchet?”

Ratchet - Ratchet half topples into him, and the Prime catches him, pulls him in until he’s got an arm around Ratchet’s shoulder. With the new closeness, Prowl can feel it when Ratchet’s field loosens - the whipping surge of emotion and distress half-blankets the room, and -

Ratchet keens, and reaches out, and before Prowl can even realize what he’s asking for, Jazz is moving - curling into his arms, letting Ratchet hold him, and Prowl is left feeling suddenly very out of place. It’s obvious that Ratchet and the Prime are speaking over comms, and Jazz’s whole meta is flickering with reflected grief as he helps Ratchet modulate his slipping emotions, his whole attention distracted by the older mech’s pain, and Prowl…

Prowl sits awkwardly on the opposite couch, unwilling to move and risk disturbing them.

Then Optimus’ optics rise to meet his, and he gestures. “It’s alright - come here?” It’s - there’s not the force of a command behind it, it’s an invitation that he could refuse - but he doesn’t, entering the raging sea of Ratchet’s loosed field and finding it calmed.

Not entirely - the emotions are still surging, but it responds to his presence, opening up welcomingly despite Ratchet’s clear distraction, and he can feel the little still eddies where the Prime and Jazz have managed to settle shards of Ratchet’s meta. His own field is… unhelpful - he’s never been adept at managing it, especially with the ATS offline, but it’s at least flat, and he can feel where Ratchet’s field latches onto him as a point of stability, the same flatness reflecting back as serenity to other mechs.

“It’s alright,” he offers, keeping his own voice quiet as he pats the medic’s hand, the only bit of him he can reach as he settles close besides the Prime. “It’s going to be alright, Ratchet.”

It takes breems, for the worst of the upset to calm - the Prime’s own field is tumultuous, vast as it is, but as it steadies, it draws Ratchet back with it, until at last, he’s stable and quiet again.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is hesitant, when at last he finds the energy to speak. ::Both of you - I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have -:: There’s a long pause. ::Shouldn’t have dumped that on the pair of you. I wasn’t expecting…::

::’S alright, Ratch.:: Jazz’s voice is comforting, and Prowl does his best to echo it. “Ain’t like you haven’t seen me fall apart enough. ‘S not any trouble - ‘s what friends are for.::

::I didn’t expect…:: Ratchet trails off again. ::I’m sorry. Would you - stay with me, tonight? And Optimus, and ‘Hide? I need -::

::Of course, Ratch. It’d be an honor.:: And Prowl recognizes the request for what it is, when every other mech Ratchet has named is an amica - the thought that Ratchet holds them, holds him that close…

::Whatever you need, Ratchet. We’re here for you.:: He pushes his own acknowledgement of it into his words. ::Just rest. Anything else can wait.::

::Thank you.:: Prowl can hear the tiredness in his tone - not physical, but the sort of dry emotional exhaustion that he, himself, is familiar with - the same ache that he feels through his damaged coding, or right on the edge of a crash.

Optimus sits there a while longer, watching, quietly, as Ratchet’s field slows even further - until the medic slips into recharge and it stills to almost glassy calm. Then he glances up at the door - shifts, carefully, as Ironhide slips it open, and Prowl scrambles to get out of the way as the other large mech approaches. Ironhide gives him a grateful smile as he takes one of Ratchet’s arms - Jazz slips free as the Prime takes the other, and the pair lift him between them to carry him to the berth.

>>He’s… wow.<< Jazz sounds a little dazed as he follows, sticking close. >>I hadn’t realized -<<

>>We’ll be there for him.<< Prowl hastens to reassure him. >>He’s - this is where he belongs. I’m sure Wheeljack will come shortly - and Ratchet will feel better after a rest.<<

>>Yeah. Yeah.<< Jazz agrees absently. >>It’s just… I dunno. He never told me any of that.<<

Down the bond, Prowl can feel his - not uncertainty. Curiosity, perhaps - a sense of kindred, with this other, older assassin -

>>Ask Ironhide about him.<< He suggests. >>Or - give Ratchet a little time, but I’m sure he’ll tell you. He’d probably enjoy a chance to reminisce, once he’s had a little time.<<

>>Yeah.<< Jazz hesitates. >>Yeah - I know what you mean. I’ll ask him.<<

Chapter Text

Prowl stirs awake pressed half-sprawled across a broad, warm chest, an arm wrapped around his waist just below his wings. It’s comfortable - whoever is holding him has a soothing, warm field - but something, Jazz, is missing, and that thought makes him online his optics, lowest setting barely-functional in the darkness, and grope around for a hand he knows should be there -

He can feel, down the bond, Jazz waking, too - the same comfort breaking into curious shards as the assassin tries to find him. Jazz is still half-sleeping, though - Prowl is rapidly flickering to alertness, and he follows the bond until he finds his mark, and lets his fingers fold between his conjunx’s.

He gives a soft purr as they find purchase, and sets his systems to a slow boot - one that brings him gently back to awareness as he returns to a doze. It’s only as they finish onlining that he can place the mech beneath him.

The Prime - he’s lying on top of the Prime, and a quick sensor scan confirms that neither Ratchet nor Ironhide are present.

His stirring seems to have been enough to wake the larger mech, however. The arm around his waist shifts upward to press along his back, petting the back of his helm, and the mech’s whole field flexes around them soothingly, as if to lull them back into recharge -

Jazz mrrs contentedly, settling back down, but Prowl shifts again - he doesn’t want to recharge, and Ratchet -

The Prime’s optics shutter open, thin blue lines peering down at him, and he stills.

“Gmornin.” It takes him a moment to parse the Prime’s grumble and realize that it’s a real word. “Whatchulukinfer?”

“Ratchet.” He explains, hoping that the Prime is online enough to understand him. “And Ironhide?”

“Ratchet and Ironhide?” The Prime blinks down at him as he repeats the words, taking a moment to reset his optics as he boots, still bleary from recharge. “Oh - they went to collect Perceptor. Ah - an old colleague of Ratchet’s. The four of us were going to meet up in a bit - well, I have no idea who else will be there, honestly, especially if Ratchet chases up First Aid’s gestalt - we were going to have a bit of a get-together, while I still have the time.”

His engine rumbles warmly. “Of course, I get to sleep in, because I’m the Prime.” A pause, followed by an amused snort, and the Prime shifts to gently nudge Jazz online over his protesting grumbles. “And because we need a full phalanx of Prime’sguard if I leave the palace. But - well, I wanted to talk to you before I left, anyways. Come take a cube with me?”

“Of course.” It’s not that simple - there’s a good deal of stretching for all three of them, the kinks of a night spent piled with four other mechs not inconsiderable, but eventually, they’re all sitting on the couches, cubes in hand, and Prowl has to hold back a grateful purr as Jazz’s magnets work over the deep ache in his wings.

The Prime is polite enough not to watch - which is good, because Prowl can’t keep the flick of enjoyment out of his doorwings, and he can feel Jazz’s amusement down the bond at his embarrassment - the assassin doesn’t seem to have any interest in stopping. Still, the Prime is done with his cube before either of them, and Prowl shrugs Jazz’s hand off with a soft ping of apology as he straightens and sets his own cube down.

“You wanted to speak to us about something, sir?” Despite the companionable silence, he can’t help the tendril of worry twisting in his spark - but the Prime seems in a pleasant enough mood, and favors him with a warm smile.

“Yes. Bumblebee wanted to speak to you this cycle, if you were amiable. He wanted to talk about some of the details of becoming one of my agents, and the complexities of the position - but it’s my understanding that he is… concerned that you might bear him some enmity for his involvement in your capture.” Jazz snorts at that, and Optimus’ gaze shifts to him. “He is second in command of my Ops team - I need to know that you can work with him.”

“Oh - I can work with him.” Jazz hastens to reassure the Prime, and Prowl relaxes, slightly, as the Prime’s gaze softens. “I just - well, I ain’t a fan, let’s say. I’ll get over it - ‘s just… well, it’s personal. Betrayal, and all that. Prowl likes him - I’ll make it work.”

“Are you going to hurt him?” Optimus’ voice isn’t judgemental, but there’s a hint of concern there.

“Nah, mech - I told you I wouldn’t. Although…” Jazz hesitates for a moment. “I’m probably not the mech you should be askin’, when you’re decidin’ how much your mechs need ta be protected. Sir.”

Optimus laughs at that. “Oh, Bumblebee can take care of himself - but I wasn’t asking for him, Jazz.” The Prime reaches out, and places a warm hand on Jazz’s shoulder, and Prowl can feel Jazz’s surprise. “But for what it’s worth, I trust you.”

“Oh.” Jazz hesitates, frozen in place by the weight of that. “I… mighta been planning ta frag with them, a little. Fer messin’ with Prowl. Wasn’ gonna hurt them - just put th’ -” He cuts off with a little sprinkle of panic -

>>Prowler, is it heresy ta tell th’ Prime tha’ you’re gonna put th’ fear o’ Primus in somemech? Askin’ for a friend?<< It’s joking, but there’s a note of honest urgency to the words.

It’s obvious, though, that Optimus knows exactly where that sentence was headed. “The fear of Primus in them?” He gives Jazz a considering look, and waits until he nods, hesitantly, to grin. “Keep them on their toes, then. No serious injuries. They could use the workout.”

“I can - yeah, I can work with that.” It’s not what Jazz - not what either of them expected, but - “Thanks.”

“Obviously, your efforts will get harder once you’re working under Mirage, but you have an orn - give them Pit.” The Prime looks pleased, and Prowl can see the shape of it - letting them vent any frustrations now, before they’re stuck working with each other, relieving the tensions before things can boil over. It’s the sort of deft social maneuvering that Ultra Magnus despised - careful, gentle manipulation to grease the wheels of a tight-knit unit.

Jazz considers that thought in his processor, and laughs. >>Makes sense, I guess. Primus knows I’ll feel better about gettin’ ta work with the mechs if I can shove a couple o’ them off a roof, first.<<

The Prime glances back and forth between them - obviously, annoyingly aware that they’re talking. “I’ll leave you two to plot, then - you should have a joor or so before Bumblebee shows up.” He rises to his pedes and makes his way to the door, and his hand is on the handle by the time he turns back to them. “Oh - Jazz?”

“Yeah, sir?”

“Prowl - you don’t have any issues with Nightbeat, do you?” His gaze turns to Prowl, and there’s just a flicker of concern.

“Of course not - he’s charming.” Prowl hesitates - he’s not quite sure what the Prime intends, but - “I would like to see more of him, if possible.”

“Of course - he’s always around, but I’ll let him know you mentioned that; it might be enough to pry him out of Ops. But regardless - Jazz, I’d appreciate you leaving him out of any… clever plans… you devise for my agents?” The Prime pauses, as if not sure how to explain something. “He, ah - he has a very kind spark, but… he won’t understand why you’re targeting him, not without an explanation, and I would rather he not feel hurt over…”

“Yeah - yeah, of course.” Jazz nods. “If Prowler ain’t got a problem with him, I’m not gonna be fragging with him, sir.”

“Thank you.” With a final nod of greeting, the Prime steps out the door - and Prowl can see a flash of red and yellow fall in behind him, obviously the result of some nighttime shift change.

>>So, do you have any plans for our guests?<< Prowl is vaguely curious as he downs the last of his cube.

>>Prowler! Me, come up with a dastardly scheme on th’ fly? I could never!<< Jazz grins, false indignation heavy in his tone as he presses a hand to his spark. >>Never! But, no - ain’t gonna do anything ta them. I wanna find out a bit more about th’ job we just took, an’ they’ll be expecting slag anyhow.<<

He pauses. >>Pit, with how I threatened the little guy in the cells - they’re gonna be waitin’ fer me ta go after him.<<

>>Probably.<< Memory of the white-hot fury from Jazz makes his whole meta prickle. >>He’s… Jasper wasn’t a bad mech. I don’t know how much of Jasper was Bumblebee, but… I want to be able to trust him, Jazz.<<

>>I want you ta, too, mech, but -<<

Prowl pushes on, ignoring the interruption. >>Which is why I need you to keep me focused, Jazz. Don’t let him convince you he’s harmless - don’t trust him.<<

>>Not a slagging thing ta worry about there, Prowler.<< There’s a feral ripple to his tone, and a deep thrum of almost vicious pleasure. >>I won’t.<<

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s almost exactly a joor later when there’s a soft knock on the door. Prowl stands to open it - not something they bothered discussing, but then, they didn’t need to. “Hello, Bumblebee.”

“Hey, Prowl. Can I come in?”

Bumblebee looks… exactly like himself - but the way he says it, the exact shift of his hips, is very, very Jasper. Disorientingly so, but Prowl was expecting it. Not so much the tall, red mech behind him, a powerfully-built femme that he recognizes from Jazz’s memories as Road Rage - but it makes sense that he wouldn’t have come without protection, and Prowl steps aside with a graceful nod, and gestures in the direction of the couches. “Of course. Please, sit.”

Jazz doesn’t bother to suppress the way his engine rips when he sees the yellow mech step out from behind the door - but this time, Bumblebee doesn’t flinch, only stopping short as Road Rage shifts beside him.

“Please don’t jump me - it’d be really hard to explain to Optimus why I’ve slagged our new recruits fresh out of the box.” He straightens confidently - a movement undercut only slightly by his stature - and strides over to the couch, spreading his arms along the back as he settles onto it. “This is - well, you’ve met ‘Rage, Jazz, although I don’t know if you -?”

The red-and-blue flightframe offers her hand. “Don’ think we got two words across, no. I’m Road Rage - I try ta keep our Ops out’a trouble, when I can.” When Prowl, who’s followed them over, returns the handshake, she gives an approving grin. “You’re a cop, huh? Be good ta have more muscle ‘round here - Nightbeat’s a scattercog, an’ Hide’s th’ only member of th’ Prime’sguard who’ll take me on fer anythin’ other than a fair fight, th’ cowards.”

“Don’t listen to her,” the minibot grins. “You don’t want to take ‘Rager on in anything less than a fair fight.”

“Mechs’ get too attached ta their original limbs, is all I’m saying.” The banter is light, but it’s obvious from the way the pair move that they’ve been working together for a long time - and that they’re expecting trouble. Road Rage keeps herself - not between Bumblebee and them, but it’s a subtle thing, positioning herself a step back until Prowl takes his own seat and then settling between Bumblebee and Jazz. It’s obvious that they both consider him the physical threat - a decision that Prowl would argue with, where it not for the fact that he agrees Jazz has presented himself as far more likely to lash out.

>>Oh, c’mon, Prowler. You know I wouldn’ do that ta you - it was a mistake ta try, back in the cell, an’ I promised the Prime.<< Jazz laughs across the bond, but there’s something bitter to it, and unkind. >>’Sides, you deserve ta slag the little traitor yourself.<<

There’s a vicious curl to the words, but Prowl forces it down, smiling at the minibot and his companion. >>We need to work with them, Jazz. This is a test.<<

>>Sure is, Prowler. All I’m sayin’ is - ain’t no cuffs here, an’ I’m really tempted ta fail it.<<

>>No, Jazz.<< “I’m sure I’ve got some tricks you haven’t seen.” Prowl keeps his own reply light, pushing back against the chatter - but Bumblebee laughs.

“Oh - that’s going to need some work.” He gestures at Jazz with a grin. “Did he convince you to kill me, then, or can I relax?”

“I don’t know what -” But even as he starts to deny it, Jazz waves a hand, his own gaze narrowing even as he smiles.

“Oh, c’mon, mech - it was a joke.”

“And ‘Hide is slagging easy to lie to.” Bumblebee snorts. “A good, trusting spark. Yeah, I’ve brushed off a few heat-of-the-moment threats of my own, Jazz - I know a mech being a little too honest when I see it.”

Bluff called, Jazz’s smile widens to bare teeth. “You’re a lucky little fragger - Prowler here’s sentimental.”

“Fair enough.” Bumblebee’s own gaze is impassive. It’s a hard look - nothing at all like Jasper’s warm, open smile. “You wouldn’t make it down the hall, even if you took both of us.”

And Prowl can feel the calculations in Jazz’s processor, so familiar and yet utterly alien, and Jazz is weighing the odds and taking a completely unconscionable bet -

“Of course we wouldn’t. Wouldn’t make it outta the room, I’d imagine, unless your boss is a slaggin’ terrible shot.”

There’s a moment’s frozen silence as he says it - and then Bumblebee vents heavily, a single chuckle turning into a soft, familiar laugh. “Slag. Slag - oh, this is going to be fun. Did you - did you get a read on him, or were you just guessing?” Even Road Rage lets out an amused huff.

“Just guessing.” Now that it’s been brought up, though - Prowl tunes his doorwings carefully, reviewing what Jazz knows about the third spy. Invisible to sensors means he won’t pick up a direct signal, but the airflow in the room is still enough that, if he’s lucky when the spy moves… Jazz sends him an amused ping. >>They could just be bluffin’ me back, Prowler. I wouldn’ tell me that I didn’t have a gun pointed at my helm, if I’d threatened me the way I threatened him.<<

>>Fair enough.<< “I don’t suppose he’d like to get in on this conversation, then? We can get it all over with at once.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. ‘Raj’d hear anything worth hearing about anyways - and this is between the three of us.” Bumblebee cocks his helm, consideringly. “And Rager, if she wants. I don’t know, Rage, you feel like apologizing for anything?”

“Nope.” The red-and-blue mech gives Jazz a fanged grin. “Didn’t shoot you - I’d consider tha’ a good enough start ta a friendship.”

Jazz gives that a considering look, then returns the grin, teeth baring just for a moment. “Yeah - we’re cool.” A flicker of memory - himself-but-Jazz, claws out and pressed to Mirage’s throat - slips down the bond as explanation, and Prowl pushes back acknowledgement.

“Oh, good.” Bumblebee gives an amused look. “At least you two are getting on. Prowl. I owe you an… explanation, I suppose, if we’re going to be working together.”

“An… explanation.” Prowl does what he can to keep his sincere curiosity out of his voice at the word.

“Well - I’m not going to apologize. But…” The minibot shrugs. “If we’re going to be working together, I’d rather go into this without too many hard feelings.”

Jazz snorts in amusement at that, and Bumblebee gives him a look. “I was doing my job. Not to say I’m not grateful that you two rescued me - believe me, I am - but I was sent to Praxus to investigate… well, the city as a whole. Allegations of corruption, of a heavy presence of organized crime… You were a convenient contact within the enforcers - an outsider, who we were hoping had limited ties to other forces in Praxus. I had hoped to flip our situations and leverage you into an informant, as the scope of my investigation expanded - obviously, I wasn’t planning to get caught.”

“One of my colleagues sold you out.” Prowl offers the information easily enough - there’s no point in hiding it - and he’s gratified to see the look of surprise on Bumblebee’s face. What the spy did… It’s not that different from what he was doing, in the end - and if he hadn’t given himself away… He would have been happy, to have a Prime’s agent to work with. Would have given Bumblebee everything he had on the Praxian enforcers willingly, and they’d have transferred - he cuts off that train of thought. “Nothing you did gave you away.”

“Really.” There’s an intrigued undercurrent to Bumblebee’s tone. “That’s… interesting. Do you know who?”

Prowl shrugs - try though he had, he hadn’t managed to get anything more solid than that.

“Well. We’ll have to look into that.” Bumblebee leans back a little, considering. “I will say that I had no suspicions of you, whatsoever, until you and Meister were in the room with me - although if what I understand from your discussion with Optimus is right, you weren’t working together at that point?”

“We hadn’t, no. Beyond a few brief contacts with each other, Jazz and I hardly knew each other.”

“You work well together, then. I assumed you had been working as a team for at least a decavorn.” Bumblebee shrugs. “I will apologize for that. We probably would have reached out to you more openly if I hadn’t assumed you had history - and sooner. We both thought we were bringing in an experienced team.”

“Thanks.” Jazz is the only one of the pair of them that bothers with a response to that - and his voice is heavy with sarcasm. Bumblebee shrugs again.

“It is what it is. I gave you glowing reviews, otherwise, and Prime didn’t have us pick you both off as murderers, so you’re welcome for that, too.”

“I appreciate it.” The minibot gives Prowl a surprised look at that, but Prowl isn’t being sarcastic. “Really. This -” he gestures at the room in general - “being out of Praxus, having a team again… I needed that, more than I think I realized. And Jazz is talented - he deserves better than spending the rest of his life in hiding.”

“He stuck up to ‘Raj pretty good, I’ll give you tha’.” Road Rage grins at Jazz. “You kept a cool head when ‘e was threatnin’ yer partner - ‘s a hard thing. If you’d bin willin’ ta play him ta th’ end of his bluff, you mighta even got out of there - an’ wouldn’t that have been a mess.”

“It was a bluff, then?” Jazz looks annoyed, though Prowl can tell it’s mostly for show. “He’s a hell of a bluff, then - ‘specially considering I’d’a cut his cables on the way out, if I’d called it, since Prowl’d either be dead or he wouldn’t be.”

Bumblebee laughs. “Even if he hadn’t been, Prowl was fine as soon as Ironhide had his fingers on him - ‘Hide takes guarding prisoners seriously. We had contingencies in play for if Hound keeled over - of course, with your ‘defenseless medic’ being the Prime’s amica, I really don’t know how any of that would have played out.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Bee - I woulda torn ‘im in half.”

“You sound confident -”

Jazz sounds like he’s gearing up for an argument over that, and Prowl takes full advantage of the cover it provides. He stretches - archs his back, and fans his wings, keeping his optics on the ongoing discussion as he scans the room. The airflow is calm, steady, and there have been no noticeable disruptions since he first became aware of the possibility of Mirage’s presence, but… without motion, he can’t guarantee anything, which means he needs to force motion.

>>Jazz. When you can, get up, go to the energon dispenser, and fill a cube. Bring it to me -<< He sends a brief visual of the path he wants the other mech to take - >>hand it over the back of the couch, and then go lean over the back of the couch on Bumblebee’s other side to continue your conversation.<<

>>Got it.<< But he doesn’t break from his conversation with Road Rage, saying something that makes the red mech huff a laugh. >>Rage isn’t going to like that.<<

>>Is she likely to attack you?<<

He can feel Jazz running his own calculations, delicate things based on social norms and his experiences with Road Rage thus far, and considering the results. >>Nah, she won’t start slag. They’ll gamble on there being a medic nearby, and getting me offa him before I can finish th’ job.<< He pauses. >>Are you having me cut the little guy’s cords?<<

>>No.<< He notes, with some relief, that there’s a touch more hesitance at the thought now. >>Trying to force Mirage to reposition.<<

>>We gonna do something if he is here?<< Jazz asks, curious, as he makes another joke.

>>No - but I need to know -<< He’s not sure how to explain the data he’s looking for, exactly. >>A sample. I need a sample of how the air shapes around him when he moves, if I can get it - it’ll make him easier to track.<<

>>Sure. Tell Road Rage that you were being honest with Hound, and you’ve never studied circuit-su.<<

“No - I was being honest with Hound, I’ve never studied circuit-su before.” He pauses, not sure why Jazz told him to say that, and shifts back to let the assassin squeeze by as he reviews the last few seconds of conversation - Road Rage inquiring into his combat experience. “I am reasonably capable at hand-to-hand, but I was never a close-range fighter, if it could be avoided - as a tactician, there was little need, and the doorwings are a rather large vulnerability.”

He pauses, considering. “One that you seem to have overcome handily - or are true wings less sensitive than doors?”

“Probably.” She gives a shrug, but Prowl can see that she’s tracking Jazz’s movements carefully - and the miniscule way she relaxes when he moves towards the fuel dispenser, rather than her. “They’re not a sensory apparatus - I keep them almost offline, when I’m not in alt, just keep enough sensor input to not dent them up on doorframes.”

He doubts that that’s entirely true - all wings are sensor-dense, and when Jazz returns to slip him the cube before stepping around behind her, he can see the faint flick of her wingtips as she loses line-of-sight. But she’s no Praxian - and not even a seeker’s wings are as highly-tuned and sensor-dense as his own frametype’s, meaning that she can doubtless handle the loss of input far more proficiently.

Bumblebee’s expression remains impassive, but his entire posture looks deeply uncomfortable as Jazz drapes himself, casually, over the back of the couch. >>This good?<<

>>Perfect.<< He lets Jazz play the distraction once more as he tracks his own sensor readings - and is gratified when, less than a klik later, there’s a shift in the air currents behind him. >>Found him.<<

He passes the data to Jazz - who sends it back with a ping of >>Data unusable.<< - not unexpected, since Jazz doesn’t have the software to translate the input back into air patterns. Prowl doesn’t let it worry him - Jazz also lacks the hardware to collect the raw data for comparison - and returns his attention, fully, to the conversation, setting his doorwings to record inputs passively for analysis later.

He lets himself sink back into the - still ongoing - argument between Jazz and Road Rage, giving Bumblebee a small smile as he does. He waits for a gap in the conversation, and then -

“So - as enjoyable as the fight my conjunx is setting me up for sounds - you don’t want us for blunt muscle, or you’d be recruiting Hot Rod. What are you looking for, Bumblebee? Specifically.”

Bumblebee looks up at him, distracted from the argument, and grins. “Oh, if I thought ‘Hide would give us Hot Rod - he’s too straight-laced for an Op, but he’d be great for in-house work.” The minibot chuckles. “Honestly, I was just relieved to find out that you need us as much as we need you - we’ve been having staffing problems, lately.”

“You need us, huh?” Jazz’s voice is doubtful as he, too, looks up from the conversation, but Bumblebee waves a hand dismissively.

“I won’t lie - we do need agents. And tactical - mechs with your Conjunx’s skillset are hard to come by. I know Ironhide told you about Red Alert - honestly, don’t ever tell him anything, his grasp of confidentiality is circumstantial at best. But our losses there… we took a major hit.” At Prowl’s curious look he shrugs again. “If he’d left them alive, well - there are ways to ensure loyalty.”

He pauses, considering, for a moment when Prowl’s wings stiffen, and even Jazz’s feigned calm tenses. “That wasn’t a threat. Mirage may have… broad discretion with our own operatives, but we don’t format the mechs we’re recruiting - even if we wanted to, Optimus would never allow it. You tell us no, and you have your pardon - you get to walk away.” He pauses again. “Once you’ve sworn the oath, though, that changes things. And treason like they were planning - well, it would have been a death sentence either way.”

It’s… Prowl can feel the way the thought - formatting, involuntary processor modification, even, perhaps, shadowplay - makes Jazz tense, his whole meta swirling uneasily, but… it’s not more than he expected, really. Even within the enforcers, there are mecha too valuable to be allowed to leave unchallenged - special investigators, those with access to information on undercover operatives, even mechs with mods like his too valuable to be allowed to fall into criminal hands. The sort of forced modification Bumblebee is talking about is unheard of, at least within the modern enforcers, but lesser alterations - memory deletions, removal of mod software, even killcoding for the undercover operatives themselves - aren’t outside the realm of possibility. The sort of damage his processor, with a full understanding of enforcer protocols, could do in the hands of a criminal -

Jazz picks up on his thoughts, follows them. “So once you’re in - that’s it.” It’s not outside of their expectations, but to have it laid out so bluntly is intimidating. “You’re in for life.”

“Well, if you want out, the first step is not plotting to assassinate the Prime. We’re much more open to that sort of thing if it’s stated bluntly, preferably at a planned meeting with Mirage where you’ve divested of all of your weapons, first.” That gets a chuckle from Road Rage, and no one else. “There’s ways to leave Ops behind - it’s a lot of work, but you can do it. More options if you’re not committed to leaving entirely - we try to avoid mechs snapping on the job, so if you need a couple vorns doing something nice and life-affirming - off-world travel, religious pilgrimage, raise a couple sparklings - we can arrange it. But if you’re committed to the idea of a peaceful retirement after a long career… I’d recommend you take the pardon and go.”

“The enforcers are much the same.” That gets him a surprised look from both Bumblebee and Jazz. “We are. Very few mechs leave - few would want to. The cohort-coding promotes attachment to our precinct, and the position itself is as much a lifestyle as a career - even mechs who are too damaged to continue generally remain with the precinct as analysts or move to other on-site roles.”

Bumblebee considers that. “I don’t know - you’ll probably adapt well, then. Ops - we’re an insular bunch. Unless you’re on a mission - and I’ll be honest, probably never for you, Prowl, we’re very territorial about our tactical - you live on Ops turf, you drink Ops energon, you stick to other Ops mechs and the handful of other mechs with our kind of clearances - which, if I’m honest, is basically the Prime’sguard, although there are allowances for - well, Smokescreen is on his way to an operations-level clearance, and your little brother is clean as anything, so we’ll work something out. We’ve got our own medics and our own mod techs, although -” and he gives Jazz a glance - “we are recruiting. You know. If you happened to know of anyone.”

“You can ask Jackie, if you want.” Jazz grins. “Gotta get through Ratch, first, though - and I ain’t sure how warm he’s feelin’ ta you these cycles.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. You should be able to keep Ratchet as your primary medical, if you prefer him to Ambulon, and he’s alright with it - we keep to our own medbay, so there may be times when you don’t have that option, but he’s high enough clearance to work on just about anyone.”

“What sorta training would we be looking at?” Jazz settles back in the seat.

“I don’t know.” Bumblebee raises a hand. “Not because we haven’t discussed it - there would definitely need to be at least some work, but I’ll be honest, we’re still only certain that about half of the hits we’ve tied back to you were yours. You did a good job covering your tracks, and we’ll need to get a better idea of your current skillset and methods before you can be put into the field solo. Prowl is easier, in a lot of ways, since we have his record with the enforcers to look at.”

“So what would you do to assess that?” Prowl is honestly curious - while Jazz could certainly provide a corrected list of his own hits, that’s surely not all the information they will want -

“We would probably place both of you back in Praxus, to start. As Ops, not back with the enforcers - you’d have a scrubbed identity, Prowl, and we’d almost certainly give you a fresh coat of paint and a fancy new name too, Jazz.” Bumblebee grins. “So start thinking about what colors you’d like - that blue was nice. We were actually discussing having you continue in pretty much the same vein as before, with an Ops handler, and an Ops partner - Prowl assisting the handler in selecting the targets and coordinating the hit, and Jazz on the ground as Meister with one of our mechs. There are… plenty of good targets within Praxus, as it turns out.” The grin turns just a little feral, at that thought.

“So you gettin’ a feel for how we work, first. An’ then we get trained over ta how you like things run?”

“Exactly. We know you’re both capable as a pair - we need to be able to put you in with our own mechs, and have you work as part of a broader team.” He gestures at Prowl. “Eventually we’ll want you to coordinate multiple operations, possibly all around Cybertron, in addition to handling secure data analysis.”

“That should be well within my capabilities. I’ve done similar work for the enforcers, although I will need a mech trained as a co-processor, eventually. Jazz will be able to do so, but I imagine you would prefer to be able to use him in the field.” Prowl considers a little further. “I was trained to Iaconi enforcer standards for small-squad tactics.”

“We pulled your records, yeah. It’s impressive, but -” Bumblebee begins, but Prowl stops him.

“No - you should pull the standard, perhaps even speak to Nightbeat about them. When we call them standards - they’re standardized for training across all enforcer precincts, and while they’re not publically available, you should be able to access them with little trouble.” He’s encountered this confusion before - non-enforcer mechs rarely realize that - “When I say I was trained to them, I am not exaggerating. Examining them will give you a very precise idea of how I communicate in the field. Jazz uses a similar set of codes, close enough to cause no issues on the occasions I’ve worked with him in the field, though his variant is more imprecise than my own - but it should give you some insight into our current methods.”

Bumblebee gives him a considering look at that, then nods. “Mirage has already pulled them - I haven’t taken a look, yet. How closely would you say -”

“Exactingly.” Prowl doesn’t need him to finish the question. “As a tactician, precise adherence to the standard was essential for clarity and cross-precinct compatibility in the field. I will be able to train to a different standard, if necessary, and with the same degree of precision, as long as it has a similarly firm structure.”

“Huh.” Bumblebee looks intrigued - he holds up a single finger, face going blank. “One moment -”

There’s almost a full klik of silence before he moves again - Road Rage watching Jazz with careful optics the entire time, obviously less concerned with subtlety with her commander unable to defend himself - then movement returns as Bumblebee glances up at Prowl. “That’s neat. Would you be up for a couple sims down in Ops, later this orn? Maybe with Nightbeat as a partner?”

“Of course.”

“Great. I’ll let him know - he’ll enjoy it, he doesn’t get out in the field much.” Bumblebee leans back with a considering hum. “How about you, Jazz? Since we’re all planning - what do you look for in a partner on a hit?” Road Rage perks up a little at the question, obviously interested, and Jazz considers Bumblebee curiously as he deliberates his answer.

“Never had one, before Prowler - an’ I only worked with him in th’ field once or twice. For a long-time thing… Not you, for sure.” Bumblebee gives a little snort of laughter at that. “Nah, mech - not slaggin’ you, for once. I need a little more muscle, an’ a little less yellow - I tend ta work quiet or loud, and not much in between.”

“Oh, no - I’m not complaining. If I’m not admin or intel, something’s gone sideways - I’m about as good in a fight as you’d expect.” Bumblebee grins. “Any other thoughts, then, or should I be planning on moving you around a bit until we find someone you fit well with?”

“For a permanent partner? Eh - I’d need ta know the mech, I think. I’ve done hits where Rager here would have been a good fit, and hits where she’d’ve - no offense - got us both killed - same wit’ your boss, though I’ll understand if you’re hesitant about letting me get within grabbing distance of him with a knife on me.” He gives a toothy smile. “It’s a fair concern. How about that Praxian blue-an-red you had on Ratch? He any good with a knife?”

“Skids? You - ah, I guess Ratchet must have filled you in at some point - I don’t suppose you know what he did after he knocked him out, do you?” Bumblebee looks… hesitantly curious.

“I have my guesses, though Ratch didn’ mention anything - wait.” The flood of amused disbelief crashes down the bond like a wave, and Jazz’s smile turns slag-eating. “You don’t know?

“Ratchet hasn’t been… terribly forthcoming, no. We know he’s online, and stable, but beyond that, not much.” The curiosity has shifted to mix, half and half, with embarrassment.

“Oh, that’s amazing.” Jazz laughs. “Slag, I’d’ve thought that was the first thing you’d’ve been after - what, Ratch jus’ told you ta slag off, and you said ‘sure’ an’ went about your day? Really fills me with confidence at th’ though of working for you!”

Bumblebee shrugs - but the embarrassment is growing, and he’s not meeting either of their optics. “Look - I’ve known Optimus a long time - longer than ‘raj, even. And Optimus likes Ops - likes us, which you sure as Pit can’t say for every Prime. But I know my place - and if I was gonna even think about touching Prime’s amica, I don’t guarantee he wouldn’t rip my helm off - not jokingly, actually, seriously kill me. So if his amica says ‘your agent’s fine,’ and I don’t have a slagging good reason to think he’s lying - well, Skids will just have to sit tight and suck it up for a bit.”

Jazz gives him a concerned look, and Prowl can feel his worry. “You work for a mech you think’d do you like that?”

“I don’t think he would, but, well - part of being answerable only to the Prime is that at the end of the day, you have to answer to the Prime. I answer to Optimus and Mirage, and no one else, but being given a lot of freedom means knowing exactly where the line is and not crossing it - and slagging with the Prime’s amica would be sprinting over that line. He’ll tell us, or I’ll go to Optimus or ‘Hide and they’ll ask for me.” Bumblebee glances back up, and this time, his gaze is calculated. “Or you could tell me - I’d owe you one, and so would Skids…”

“Hm…” Jazz makes a show of considering. >>Well? Make th’ call, love.<<

>>Tell him.<< It’s an easy choice. >>I’d rather have gratitude than leverage.<<

“Yeah - I had a warehouse I was using for a base. You mechs ever find it?” Bumblebee shakes his helm - but if Prowl was in his shoes, that would be his answer regardless of whether he had. “Alright, well - it’s registered ta a mech named Symbol, who doesn’t exist - head over there an’ you’ll find a bunch of my slag, an’ a loose plate in the far left corner next to the room with th’ workbench in it. Slide the box of scrap metal off, and it’ll pop right up, an’ I’d bet that’s where Ratch stashed your mech - stasised an’ fine.”

At the wide-opticked, indignant look Bumblebee is giving him at that, Prowl hastens to reassure him. “It’s fine - I spent almost an orn down there, once.”

“You have a hole specifically for storing stasised mechs?”

“Nah.” Jazz is obviously enjoying this more than Prowl had expected. “I usually use it ta stash bodies ‘til nightfall, stuff like that - the stasised mechs are kind of a new development.”

“Oh. That makes it - that makes it worse, actually. Wow. So - any traps I need to worry about, or can I just send Hound a quick message to swing by and drag my wayward operative about your warehouse corpse-hole once he gets back to Praxus?”

“Eh…” That does make Jazz hesitate, and Prowl can feel him scramble for a cover story. “I got a local that watches the place for me sometime - not sure if he’ll have noticed I’m gone. Tell your mech ta act like he knows what he’s there for, and as soon as he gets in, ta say that I’ve sent ‘im ta pick up a package - an then just go right ta get your mech - an’ I don’t think he’ll cause any trouble. Poke around, an’ he might.”

“Ah. Your mysterious fourth mech.” Bumblebee gives Jazz a pleased look, but Prowl feels his spark tighten - there’s a hunger in the minibot’s optics. “We’d been wondering about him.”

“Fourth mech? I mentioned a friend o’ mine - he ain’t in our line of work.” Jazz gives a casual shrug, but Prowl can sense his own tension. “Guttermech - he’s a reliable sort, slip him some creds, an’ he keeps an optic out. Not much else.”

“We figured that there had to be four of you.” Bumblebee isn’t dissuaded - he gives a little toothy grin. “I wasn’t sure if I bought it, but nothing in Ratchet’s profile says he’s the sort of security specialist you’d need for half of the things you’ve pulled off - the Feldspar case was brilliant, in and out like that without a flicker on the cameras unless you wanted it. That takes expert set-up, even if your medic was running the Op. And - no offense - neither of you look that kind of good.”

“Nah, we patch stuff together alright.” But it’s obvious that the casual play isn’t working. “Ain’t no big thing - just a little elbow grease, an’ a fine optic for detail.”

Bumblebee looks, consideringly, at Jazz, and Prowl realizes only a moment before what he’s going to say, reaches out through the bond and slams down on Jazz, freezes him in place, ignoring Jazz’s surprise at the action as Bumblebee offers,

“Red Alert, then?” with an air of feigned casualness that’s a trap, because he’s watching Jazz with optics like knives, ready to cut deep at the slightest show of weakness - they’ve already realized that Prowl won’t give anything away, not ready for them like he is -

But he catches the shock in Jazz and stifles it, just long enough for Jazz himself to recover -

“Nope.” He gives a casual smirk that betrays nothing. “Try again, mechs.”

And Bumblebee’s grin widens. “Oh, the two of you are good. Or I’m wrong.” He shrugs. “I’m not wrong often. But Red Alert… well, any extracurriculars he’s up to are trouble for the Prime to deal with. I’d be dead, if Red Alert was a traitor - we’d all be. He’s proven that more than once.”

“He’s charming.” Prowl offers, giving Jazz a little more time to collect himself. “And very talented.”

“And of course, you’ve worked with him before, so if you slip - well, you have an excuse.” Bumblebee’s optics are bright with amusement. “It’s fine, mechs - I won’t pry. For now. There’s only other mech’s secrets, once you join Ops.”

“We will, of course, fill you in on the full details of our exploits - once we’re certain that that’s the path we intend to take.” Prowl nods his concession - it’s a reasonable expectation, and Ratchet will make sure that Red Alert is safe, one way or another. “We have our orn.”

“Prime’s word, you do.” Bumblebee smiles. “Any - I don’t know. Any questions?” He snorts, and Prowl flicks his own wings in quiet amusement at the out of place ordinaryness of the question.

“I expect we will have a chance to speak to our invisible watcher, before we finalize things?”

Bumblebee nods agreeably. “Yeah, he’ll be around. We’ll be in touch.”

“Then I’m sure there will be time for questions once we’ve thought of them.” Prowl pauses. “Thank you for the information, Bumblebee.”

That seems, encouragingly, to perk the minibot up. “Yeah - no problem, Prowl.” He rises to his pedes, Road Rage at his side, and reaches, carefully, across the table to shake Prowl's hand, then - tentatively - offers it to Jazz, who gives a predatory grin but does nothing else as he, too, accepts the handshake. “You too, Jazz. I’m - I really am looking forward to working with you.”

Chapter Text

It’s the next morning by the time Ratchet and Ironhide tromp back into the suite.

Prowl is laying on his side on the couch, wings hanging over the edge, with his helm in Jazz’s lap, when they enter - he debates, for a moment, sitting up, but his own energon is already finished, and Jazz is petting his helm while he sips his. It’s too comfortable to move, so he simply settles down as Ratchet and Ironhide grab their own cubes and wander over to take their seats on the adjoining couch.

Jazz seems more than content with that - he continues his gentle petting as he greets the pair, and Prowl lets himself relax into the warm rumble of conversation, paying absent attention to the words being said.

He hardly bothers to listen, confident that Jazz will ping him if anything important is mentioned, and is half-dozing when the assassin does just that. He hastily reviews the last few moments of conversation - Ratchet announcing that he’ll be staying in Iacon as Ops medic as well as the Prime’s personal medic - and tunes back into the conversation, curious.

“So what - Ambulon is just handin’ over his patients ta you? An’ he’s cool with that?” Jazz’s voice is concerned, and Prowl can hear the worry in it - despite his own relief at the thought of having Ratchet so close, he can’t help but be uneasy about how Ops will take the demotion of their medic in favor of the Prime’s favorite.

“Not exactly - it was more bad luck than anything, that he was involved with Ops at all.” Ratchet sounds confident, but Jazz scoffs.

“Bad luck? I mean, it’s probably the most influential medical position on Cybertron - he was workin’ on the Prime -” But Ratchet shakes his helm with a chuckle.

“Ops is a hard field to fill, Jazz - I know, I did it for, oh, ten millennia or so? It’s rough - you see a lot of slag you’d never have to deal with as a field medic. You patch mechs up knowing your own team are going to take them back and do worse to them. You work with mechs that have been -” He pauses, as if reconsidering his next words. “There are a lot of terrible things in the world, Jazz. Ops medics see most of them, if they’re at it long enough.”

“Why’d he sign up then?” Jazz’s tone is intrigued.

“He didn’t.” Ratchet takes a long draught of his energon. “He was Optimus’ medic, after I left. And then, well - Red Alert blew up the whole lower Ops level, including their medic, and Ambulon was the only other medic who had the sort of clearance to be on-scene. He spent his first few cycles with Ops hauling half-melted bodies out of the rubble - and when they couldn’t find a replacement, he got stuck.”

“Oh.”

“Oh. Needless to say, he’s ready for something a little more peaceful. The clinic will be a good opportunity for him - Ops will have a clearanced, on-the-ground medic with a solid cover if anything happens, and he can do some nice, low-stakes medicine without having to deal with running a full medbay.” Ratchet grins. “Nothing solves burnout quite like dealing with clinic scut. Vaccines, minor injuries, and all the ‘facing mishaps you could ever want - and a few hundred more you don’t.”

“That sounds… enjoyable?” Jazz puts all of his doubt into the last word, but Ratchet hums contemplatively.

“Oh, we joke, but for combat medics? It really is. Once you’ve seen that much of mechs getting carved up, it’s nice to deal with simple, little things - stuff that really helps mechs. And for all we grumble, making sure there aren’t outbreaks of ‘Rust and doing line flushes - that’s what the job should be.” There’s a touch of sadness to his words, and Prowl thinks he understands - it’s the same way he feels about patrols, that spark-deep wish that wandering the city, watching over it’s inhabitants, was all they had to do - that none of the violence or suffering that they deal with every day existed. Jazz follows that understanding back down their connection, and he can feel the other mech consider it - feel it when he understands.

“Yeah, that - makes sense, I guess.” Jazz hesitates, looking for somewhere less depressing to turn the conversation. “So - how did you two meet?”

Ratchet shrugs. “Huh? Rung dragged him along.”

Jazz gives a confused chur. “Oh - I thought you were meeting up with your amica?”

“Rung is. I worked with him back during the war - he dealt with mental health evaluations for some of the special forces units, Wreckers and Prime’sguard, mostly. Spent more time out front than some combat units, honestly, which is impressive, considering I don’t think they make weapons small enough for him - not that I think he’d carry one, if he could.” Ratchet pauses. “Think he’s going to hunt you two down at some point - he was half fritzing about the state of your bond when he found out I knew you. I’ll admit, I was surprised he was working with Ops these days - last I saw him, he had retired back to the Pools, doing some work for the enforcers there.”

Prowl makes the connection in only a moment - the Pools, the Pious Pools, are one small region managed by the Vinvissisus Precinct, and if Ops lost medical staff to Red Alert’s attack, the timing might match up - he bounces the thought to Jazz, who doesn’t hesitate to voice it. “With Nightbeat?”

“I guess? One second -” Ratchet stills for just a moment. “Yeah - they transferred him after Nightbeat had issues adjusting to life in Ops.”

“Oh. So Ambulon is a friend of Rung’s -” Prowl is trying to plot the relationships in his processor, Jazz helping, but Ratchet shakes his helm.

“I don’t think so? I mean, they’re amica, of course, Ambulon really just agreed to come because Rung told him First Aid was coming - they were classmates.” Ratchet considers that for a moment. “I think ‘Aid might have been his first amica, actually.”

That raises more questions than it answers. “And you know Aid…?”

“Aid is my amica too - one of my students. Remember? I gave you his number for Jasper, after you rescued him.” Jazz recognizes it, at least - Prowl had been too occupied with the stress of the rescue to bother archiving that little tidbit anywhere accessible, but he hadn’t been expecting to work with Ratchet in the long-term, so it hadn’t seemed important. Still, as he looks at the handful of relationships, Jazz gives voice to the question they’re both wondering:

“Are there any medics you aren’t amica to?”

“No - probably not.” Ratchet laughs at the look on Jazz’s face, at that. “Not once you go one or two steps out, anyways.”

Ironhide chuckles, too, having finished his own cube while Ratchet tries to sort out an explanation. “Don’ worry ‘bout it kid. It’s how medics do it - they bond up a’ th’ first chance, mosta th’ time. Slag - him an Rung were swappin’ code within, what, a vorn?”

“Don’t make it sound crass, ‘Hide. One of my other amica - a mech named Trepan I had studied with - had offlined around a decavorn earlier. I needed someone with specialist processor training, and Rung was one of the best.” Ratchet snorts. “Still is. And we were a good fit - Primus knows that I’ve advised on more than a few surgeries for his amica.”

“He’s a nice mech, Ratch! But a vorn’s a little hasty, fer my taste, is all ‘m sayin.” Ironhide rumbles his engines in amusement. “‘Course, ye found good company wit’ these idiots - not even haff a decavorn fer ‘junxes, I’m sure they think yer an absolute laggard.”

“Oh, frag yourself, ‘Hide.” But Ratchet’s tone is good-natured. He leans in, as if whispering an aside, though he doesn’t drop his voice at all. “He’s just annoyed because it took him the better part of the War to talk Chromia into bonding. And they had to be captured by Quintessons.” He huffs a vent cheerfully. “In fact, if either of us is going to see our young self in the pair of them, it’s you - the cutting-edge pioneer of walking into a prison camp single and walking out bonded!”

“Hey!” Ironhide’s engine grumbles with mock indignation. “First of all, I didn’ walk outta th’ camp, I got carried, on account o’ only havin’ one leg a’ th’ time. Secon’, Chromi an’ I had been courtin’ fer ‘most a millennia - an’ third, a’ least I had th’ processor ta sit down a’fore mergin’!”

“You’d have merged standing if you’d had to, ‘Hide, don’t act like you’re better than them. If I had a thousand creds for every time you being short a limb kept you from doing something idiotic, I’d have bought a moon and retired by now!” Ratchet snorts again. “But regardless - it’s going to be fine, Jazz. I talked everything over, and Ambulon and Optimus agree it’s for the best - even Mirage seemed satisfied, though I think he’s trying to wrangle Jackie into Ops with me.”

“He is.” Jazz grins. “Bee told us as much - I said he’d hafta go through you.”

“Eh, we’ll see.” The thought seems to amuse Ratchet. “Hey, Prowl - are you up? I wanted to take a quick look at your ATS before I set you loose again.”

“Of course, Ratchet.” Jazz gives him a hand up until he’s sitting, leaned against the smaller mech’s side. “I haven’t actually onlined it yet, however.”

“You haven’t?” Ratchet gives him a surprised look. “I thought you kept it running -”

“- almost constantly, yes.” Prowl pauses. “I’ve been… busy. And I haven’t wanted to distract Jazz -”

Ratchet’s gaze turns sympathetic - as if he can read Prowl’s nervousness like a datapad. “Oh. Well… let’s cable it up, then - I’ll monitor your boot sequence.”

He unspools the cable carefully, setting up the mutual two-way connection as Jazz watches. As it blooms to life between them, he can feel Jazz slip into his meta -

>>Hey, Ratch.<<

::Hey, Jazz. Prowl. Go ahead and initialize that boot for me, Prowl - might as well get some real work done while I’m in here. I wanted to let you two know - I’ve been in touch with Red.::

::Red?:: Prowl can’t help his relief as he starts the bootup, streaming the initialization processes to Ratchet as he does. ::Is he alright? We’ve done our best to keep from giving him away, but Bumblebee definitely suspects, if he isn’t certain - they asked us directly, last cycle.::

>>He should be fine, though, right? No way they’re getting their hands on -<< There’s a nervous frisson to Jazz’s tone, though, a sense of unease.

::Red’s fine - he can take care of himself. He’s going to let Prime know himself, in a cycle or so - Optimus pardoning the two of you has calmed him down a lot. He just… well, he gets wrapped up in things. Inferno’s working on it.:: Ratchet’s voice is unflinchingly fond. ::He wanted me to thank you both for keeping it a secret - it’s just hard for him. He doesn’t trust easily - not even Optimus, sometimes.::

>>Oh.<< But the concern isn’t entirely gone from Jazz’s voice. >>But the Prime - he’ll be fine with it, right?<<

::He already knows, Jazz. I told him last cycle, as soon as I was fit to speak to him again - he’s giving Red time to bring it to him on his own, though. It’s better, if he does - Red’s always struggled with opening up about things like this.:: Ratchet pauses. ::It’s not like he did anything wrong, exactly. Less than I did, even - but he knows Optimus trusts him, and he didn’t tell him about this - about me - for a long time. He’s just -::

Ratchet trails off, but Prowl can feel that Jazz, who’s known Red longer than him, has the shape of it. >>Just worried he’ll lose that trust?<<

::Exactly.:: Ratchet’s tone turns faintly exasperated. ::It’s absurd - I know it, Optimus knows it, ‘Hide knows it. Slag, even Red knows it - he just doesn’t believe it. I don’t think he can believe it - don’t know if he’s got that much trust in him, not for anyone besides Inferno.::

Inferno - who Red Alert knows to the depths of his spark, who broke all of his other bonds so that Red could trust him completely - yes, it’s easy to see how Red might not be able to believe in other mechs believing in him.

::We’ll be here for him,:: Prowl offers. ::If he needs us.::

::He’ll appreciate that.:: Ratchet considers the code running past him carefully. ::Looks like a clean boot to me, Prowl. Like I said - don’t run it up above around 60% unless it’s partitioned, and you should be fine.::

::Thank you.:: Prowl hesitates. ::If you’d check it tonight?::

::Of course.:: Ratchet’s voice is soft and sympathetic. ::Slag, kid, it really got you, didn’t it? Was it that much worse than a regular crash?::

::I wasn’t expecting it.:: It’s hard to admit, but… ::I just - usually, I know when I’m crashing, but I didn’t even know what was going on until Jazz was knocking me offline.::

Jazz coils around him, warm and sympathetic, and Ratchet’s free hand reaches out to rest, comfortingly, on his knee. ::I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but you won’t be alone, Prowl. Jazz recognized it, even without any training - he knows to act sooner, next time.::

>>Won’t let anything happen ta you, sweetspark. I’ve got you.<<

>>I know.<< And he does - he trusts Jazz with everything he is, it’s just…

>>It’s okay, Prowler. I understand.<< And Jazz’s voice is fond enough that he believes it.

::We should probably get back to ‘Hide before he starts worrying.:: Ratchet’s voice is still gentle. ::I didn’t tell him we were doing anything but looking at your code. Don’t mention Red aloud until he’s had a chance to talk to Optimus, okay? We’re not telling Ops until then.::

>>Sounds good. They’re spying on us here, or they were - listened in on our conversation with ‘Hide, at least.<< Jazz gives a little hum of amusement at the growl that gets from Ratchet.

::They are, are they? Well, maybe I’ll have to have a word with Mirage - as his new medic, of course. About boundaries.::

His engine continues to grumble as he disconnects them. “All set - like I said, there shouldn’t be any problems. Jazz - if he isn’t responding, and you think there’s an issue, knock him offline first, ask questions later; there’s no crash he’s going to suffer that won’t be improved by the ATS going into shutdown. Prowl, try to let Jazz know if you think something’s going wrong, but don’t let it stress you out - you’re safe, and the failsafes in place right now won’t let a crash get to the point of permanent damage.”

“Thank you, Ratchet.” He hesitates - all of them have finished their energon, by now, but… “Do you mind if we just… sit, for a little bit?”

“O’ course not, mech.” Ironhide reaches out to wrap an arm over Ratchet’s shoulder, drawing him closer, and there’s a brush of warm, confident affection as he lets his field relax to mingle with Prowl’s own, drawn-tight EM. Ratchet’s presses against his, too, encouraging, and Prowl lets himself steady as he sets a handful of background processes running, cautiously checking and rechecking the ATS’ function.

They’ve been sitting like that, a quiet pool of calm companionship, for more than a breem when there’s a knocking at the door.

They all glance over - then Ironhide looks back, as if checking that none of them know who it is. He’s closest to the door, so he rises, going to open it - and leans back with a pleased smile.

“Oh - hey, kiddo! Thought you were with Optimus today?”

“Hey, ‘Hide! Hello, Ratchet!” When Ironhide steps back, Hot Rod enters the room with a grin, spoiler flicking cheerfully in greeting. “Hey, Jazz, Prowl! No, he’s having Kup handle his personal detail alone, since he’s got nothing but meetings today - he sent me down here instead, since he thought you two might want someone to show you around! I thought we could swing by one or two of the common areas, and then I guess Rung wants to see you later this afternoon?”

“Oh, yeah!” Jazz grins back, and Prowl can see the way Hot Rod perks up. “That’d be a huge help, mech - we meant ta get out last cycle, but th’ Prime stopped by, so we’ve mostly been shut up in here the last couple a’ days.”

“Did Rung give you a time for us to meet with him?” Despite his own relief at the thought of having a guide, Prowl doubts the therapist intends just a simple chat - a psych screening will give Mirage valuable information before his own discussion with them, and Prowl has no intention of looking unreliable by arriving late. It’s not Hot Rod who answers, however, but Ratchet.

“He just got back to me. Joor twenty.” It’s joor eleven - plenty of time for a tour and some introductions, especially if they fuel in the common area. Jazz sends a little fritter of appreciation and approval down the bond when Prowl sends him a tentative timetable.

“In that case, of course - we’d be happy to accompany you, Hot Rod.”

“Great! I thought we could - oh, have you two fueled yet?” Prowl nods. “Okay - then maybe we should do the tour first? And then I could introduce you to some mechs - Springer and Arcee have been dying to meet you!”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jazz follows the guard out into the hall with a grin, catching Prowl’s hand to drag him along behind.

Hot Rod grows animated as he begins to describe the various sections of the wing, obviously enjoying the work. “So - this is all residential, up here. Rooms for the Prime’s amicas, mostly - there’s a fair bit of open space, since some of the Primes had a lot of amicas, but it’s all high-security so we can’t just put anyone in here. Ops commandeered the rooms down there -” He points down a side hall, which has a heavy-duty blast-door installed - “for their residential, since Optimus didn’t have any plans for it, so you won’t be far away from Ratchet at all! But the whole floor is clearances-only, except for the Prime’s guests, which is you.”

He points down another hall as they continue - “And that leads around to us - the Prime’sguard, I mean. We’re our own separate wing, since there are about two hundred of us in the palace at any given point. Only about twenty-five of us guard Optimus directly, though - everyone else handles stuff like palace security, energon handling, managing appearances, all sorts of things.”

They slowly work their way around the outer rim of the Primal Residence - the highest-security area ringed by the high-security ones in a sort of double-barrier, as Hot Rod eagerly explains. He points out a handful of courtyards, elegant crystal gardens spiraling upward under sheets of protective bullet- and explosion-proof glass, before they arrive at a junction where a long, completely featureless hallway splits off from their current path.

“Oh. And that’s Ops.” Hot Rod gestures at it. “‘Hide says that the hallway looks like that so it’s easier to repair after all the traps go off, so I don’t recommend going down it unless you’ve got an escort. I know there’s all sorts of sensors and stuff, too - not the specifics, though!”

“I thought you were our escort?” Jazz gives a curious hum. “I know we’re allowed ta poke around, ‘slong as we’ve got a guard with us -”

Hot Rod laughs. “So, it’s a bit weird - I do have the clearance to go down there, but I don’t have the clearance to take you two, since I honestly don’t know what the two of you would be allowed to see. I know you two are allowed down there with an escort, though, I just can’t be the escort.” He shrugs. “You could ask Rung, maybe? He’s got access to everybody’s clearances, I think, so he’d know who could take you.”

“What is he like?” Prowl asks, curious. “I know he’s Ratchet’s amica, but…”

“Is he? That’s neat!” Hot Rod looks a little surprised. “I guess it makes sense that he’d know a lot of mechs, since he and the Prime are so close, but Rung’s pretty new - he got brought in after Hardcase -” He cuts off, just for a moment, as if he’s tripping on the word. “- retired. He’s nice enough, I guess.”

“Hardcase was the Ops psych?” Jazz asks, with a grin. “We heard about that.”

“Oh!” There’s a little relief to the word. “Well, don’t talk about it too much - it makes the Ops guys edgy, and it’s kind of hush-hush. I was pretty new, when it happened - I had just finished training a centivorn before, so it was the first major situation I had to deal with, as Prime’sguard. I was like two decavorns too late for the Cascade Gardens bombing.”

“Understood.” Prowl nods, at that. “I assisted with Cascade Gardens - any of the Prime’sguard who were involved might remember me, actually. I was running as enforcer tactical under Ultra Magnus at the time. I managed ZG quadrants during the evacuations, callsign West Command.”

“Oh, neat! You’d have to ask around, but yeah, you’ll probably find plenty of mechs who worked that sector - I think half the ‘guard worked Cascade Gardens.” Hot Rod grins. “You weren’t in the city for the Festival bombings this year, were you?”

“No - my brother was, though. First on the ground, two hundred meters from epicenter of the second detonation - his teammate managed to put a force-field between them and the bomb, which is why he only lost a leg.” Prowl grins, and can’t keep the pride out of his field. “He assisted with evac for another six joor before medical managed to wrestle him onto a stretcher, as well.”

“Oh, wow - I heard about that! He’s up for a Merit award, too, isn’t he?” Hot Rod’s spoiler bobs. “Yeah, I was on the ground for that, too! I was with Optimus, we were a kilo out when we heard the bombs go. ‘Hide and I had to stick with the Prime, of course, but I managed to make it back out with one of the relief crews later in the cycle - what a mess.”

“Worse than the Cyber-Cronax attacks?” It doesn’t take much effort to remember an attack that they both would have been in the city for - and Prowl can feel Jazz’s amusement as that launches them both into a comparison of the various terror attacks and assassinations that they’ve been present for.

That lasts as a topic of conversation for the better part of a joor, interspersed occasionally with Hot Rod stopping to point out an amenity - “This is where the Prime’sguard washracks are - you can come by, if you want, but it might be a bit weird -” or a person of interest - “This is Ironhide’s office! He’s never here. Ever! Kup and Chromia have kind of taken it over - she uses it when she’s on Cybertron, and he stores all of these little organic cubes he collected offworld all over the shelves.”

Eventually, they loop back to an innocuous set of double-doors, however. “And this is the common room! We kind of share it with Ops - everyone in here’s got a clearance, pretty much, and they handle security, so it’s usually a pretty good place to talk about stuff. Give me a klik - you guys don’t have a clearance beyond Optimus’ say-so, so we’ve gotta give everyone a chance to put anything confidential away.”

“Sounds good, m’ mech! We’ll just hang here for a bit, then.” Jazz gives him a thumbs-up, and Hot Rod grins back as he keys a code into the door and slips inside -

“Hey, guys -”

The door pulls shut behind him with a click, but they’re only left waiting for a few moments before it pops open again. “Alright - you’re all set! Come on in, I’ll introduce you!”

Jazz gives Prowl an amused glance before squaring his shoulders and striding past Hot Rod with mock bravado, Prowl trailing curiously behind.

It’s… not all that different to an enforcer precinct’s standby room, honestly - a little bigger, perhaps, and set up for larger military-frames, but otherwise similar. A row of booths line one wall, set up to allow four or five large mechs to squeeze in together, and a handful of chairs are otherwise scattered around the room if a sixth mech needs to pull one up. On the other wall, there is a cluster of more comfortable seats - a pair of well-worn couches, and a few thick cushions strewn around the floor, framing a large vid-screen that’s playing the local news. There’s a shelf, in the back, with an eclectic mix of datapads and a few folded-up holomats - the whole room looks comfortably well-lived-in.

It’s far from empty, too - there are around a dozen mechs scattered around the room, a couple seated at the tables, a few watching the vid-screen. One ambitious minibot is even draped, upside-down, over one of the couches, pedes kicking idly in the air as he reads a datapad. As they enter, though, all of the optics in the room settle on them, the air suddenly thick with curiosity.

Hot Rod seems surprised by the sudden gazes - he goes still for a moment, optics brightening, before he breaks into another grin. “Hey - hey, no ganging up on them! Shoo! You can meet the new Ops guys later!” Just like that, the unnerving focus dissipates, but Hot Rod reaches back to grab for Prowl’s hand regardless. “C’mon, I want to introduce you before all those guys decide they’ve given you long enough to adjust and come over to pester us!”

He guides them to the nearest booth - occupied by a green-and-white helicopter and a lithe femme who looks like she has some sort of ultralight-speedster alt - and plops into the seat with a grin.

“Hey guys! I brought Prowl - and Jazz!” He turns back to them with a flourish. “This is Springer, and that’s Arcee - remember, I was telling you about them?” Hot Rod gestures to each in turn. The green-and-white helicopter offers his hand to shake, but the femme just waves, neck-deep in whatever she’s reading. “They’re members of my cohort - we started training around the same time, but they’re Kup’s trainees, not working with ‘Hide like me.”

“So this is the mech that finally got you into ‘Hide’s dumb board game.” Springer’s voice has the characteristic deep rumble of a ‘copter, the mark of the flight engines buried deep in his heavily-armored frame. He sizes Prowl up with a smirk, obviously only half-joking. “Thanks for that, by the way - he won’t slagging shut up about it, now.”

“Hey!” Hot Rod protests, but the ‘copter grabs him by the shoulder and drags him into the booth, gesturing Prowl and Jazz to the seat opposite. The femme is lightly built, and both of them are smaller than the two mech Prime’sguard, so it only takes a little repositioning for all five of them to settle around the table - the femme kicking one leg up elegantly to rest her pede on the table so she has something to lean her datapad against.

“Hey yourself. Anyways, I’m glad to meet you - Roddy is useless, so I need you to teach us how to play so he’ll leave off about it.”

“Couldn’t Ironhide teach you?” Prowl asks, curious. “He’s a much better player than -”

“He’s a slagging menace, is what he is. No way am I giving him the satisfaction!” Springer snorts derisively, which gets a bark of laughter from one of the Prime’sguard sitting on the couches. “He’s been on about teaching us to play since we met him - Roddy here’s just had to deal with the worst of it since he works with him every day. Finally wore him down, the poor slagger.”

Hot Rod has to duck the sympathetic slap on the back, and his knee slamming into it makes the whole table jump - Arcee shoots them both a glare as she repositions herself, but both of the other mechs staunchly ignore it.

“Oh, I’m sorry - what’s that?” Hot Rod grins, cupping a hand to his audial. “I can’t hear you guys over Kup telling the story about his deployment to the Centipede Planet where all of the organics, including the sentients, are centipedes, for the hundredth time. I’ll take getting pestered about a kinda-fun board game over that any cycle.”

That’s enough to make the pink femme glance up again, and over at Springer - the pair shoot each other a rebellious look, but it’s telling when neither argues with that.

“Alright, fine.” The helicopter finally shuffles his rotors in annoyance. “But the point is, nobody wants to learn how to play with ‘Hide, ‘cause he’ll be insufferable about it, and Roddy can’t explain for slag, so we need you to show us how to play the fragging game.”

“Please,” adds the femme helpfully, though she doesn’t look at him.

“I can teach you how to play, certainly.” Prowl nods. “If I explain the basics, I’m sure Hot Rod’s explanations will begin to make more sense.”

Springer snorts at that. “Ha! Not likely. But I’m willing to give it a shot.” Hot Rod grumbles as the helicopter slings an arm over his shoulder, but it’s a cheerful noise, and there’s a sappy grin on his face where Springer can’t see that has Jazz sending bursts of amusement down the bond.

>>Oh, he’s got it bad. ‘Hide was right - they’re adorable.<<

“We have a board,” offers the femme, suddenly. “If you wanted to get these two out of my joints for a joor or so - I’ve got to finish this analysis, but Roddy just had to introduce us.” She shrugs, dismissively, as she lowers the datapad back down to the table and slides upright on the seat, but Prowl can teek the fondness in her field as she looks at them.

When Hot Rod - and, though he hides it better, Springer - give him matching, hopeful looks, Prowl nods. >>You can entertain yourself?<< “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

>>Course I can, Prowler! I’ll take a walk around, meet some folks - got a couple joors before that thing with Rung, anyways.<< Jazz grins down the bond. >>Have fun with th’ kiddos - I’ll grab you a cube when I get the chance.<<

>>Sounds good.<< Prowl lets himself be led over to the Tidek board - a larger table-mounted projector, rather than the mat he and Ironhide had used in the cells - and begins showing the pair how to set it up, as well as the different save configurations.

He’s set up a new profile for the match, and is midway through explaining set-up, when his doorwings detect - something, in the room, something it takes him a moment to place. He continues explaining on autopilot, the rules too familiar to falter over as he turns his attention to the alert - and realizes, with a thrill of excitement, that it’s Mirage, moving, somewhere unseen, through the room.

>>Jazz - move over to the door. Try to be unobtrusive.<< He feels a wave of the other mech’s curiosity, but Jazz doesn’t wait for an explanation - he redirects himself, easily, to the doorway.

>>What am I looking for, Prowler?<<

>>Nothing, at the moment.<< Prowl takes a half-klik to adjust upward the sensitivity on his doorwings, and - there - he gets a lock on the spy’s location just a moment before he stops moving. >>Mirage is in this room, invisible. I was thinking we might… surprise him.<<

There’s a wicked laugh down the bond at that. >>Oh, I like how you think, Prowler. I can see who he was talkin’ ta, too - pair o’ mechs starin’ at me, sittin’ like their third just got up.” He sends a quick image - the booth is one row behind Prowl on his left, with the open seat closest to him - close enough that the movement would have been obvious to his doorwings on even the lowest setting.

>>He’s -<< He sends the image of the room back with his best current estimate on Mirage’s location. By the time he has, Jazz has struck up a conversation with a nearby mech, anchoring himself a little better by the door - he doesn’t even glance up.

Prowl takes a moment to check back with himself - he’s midway through answering a question from Springer, who, admittedly, doesn’t seem to have noticed his distraction. He settles back, keeping only a little of his attention for the explanation.

>>I think I’m in a good spot, here, then.<< Jazz’s tone, as he examines the circumstance, is contemplative. >>I’ll move off a little - make it so he has ta go by me ta get out th’ door, an grab him when he goes for it. Let me know when he moves?<<

>>I can do better than that, I think.<< Prowl checks, one last time, that the two Prime’sguard are thoroughly distracted before following the bond into Jazz’s meta. This time, the firewalls let him slip through with the smooth grace of an oil-eel, and he follows them down into Jazz’s processors, searching for just a moment until Jazz realizes what he’s looking for ang guides him - >>You don’t jutter when your targeting systems are on standby, do you?<<

Some mechs do - an unconscious, staticky movement that gives away the status to any other military-frames nearby, one that would set every mech in the room on immediate edge just from proximity - but Jazz pings back negation. >>Nah - I’m cool as ice.<<

>>Good.<< He sends back a request for permissions - one that Jazz grants automatically - and begins the process of splicing the feedback from his doorwings into Jazz’s targeting software without hesitation. It’s not too far from his use of the systems in Rhodolite’s base - though without weapons, fortunately, there’s no risk of the systems cycling up to shoot. >>This should - can you track him like this?<<

>>Yeah, that should be -<< Jazz pauses for a moment, reviewing the last breem of feed until he’s seen the movement that Prowl recorded - >>Oh, that’s how that looks. Weird - but yeah, as long as you do the pre-processing, this should work. What’s the delay like?<<

>>Fifty-three nanokliks,<< he replies after running a quick speed-test - the actual transmission, down the quantum bond, is instantaneous, but preprocessing and then packaging the data has it’s own significant delay. >>It shouldn’t be enough to significantly impact your ability to track him.<<

>>Slag - no it shouldn’t. Don’t think I’ve got reflexes that fast, Prowler - might as well be instant.<< Jazz laughs. >>You go back ta playing with your kiddos, Prowl - I’ll make sure I’m in position.<<

>>Got it. Give me a heads-up -<<

>>Oh, don’t worry ‘bout that, Prowler.<< Jazz gives an amused snort, and there’s a dark satisfaction to his tone as he sizes up the room again. >>I’m gonna have everyone watchin’ this.<<

Content with that, Prowl lets his attention slip back to the game - where, a few turns in, Springer seems to have grasped at least enough of the basics to figure out his own moves. He lets his attention drift between them and Jazz, giving both sides of the game the occasional pointer as they go - Springer is obviously a quick study, and Hot Rod looks thrilled to be playing against him.

It’s almost a breem - and half of the match, since Springer is too inexperienced to put up much resistance to Hot Rod’s bull-rush strategies - before he gets a ping down the bond and refocuses entirely on Jazz.

Mirage is - must be - very close. He can see the way the spy is trying to slip past, the slight eddies in the air that Jazz isn’t causing - Jazz can see them, through his sensors, even though every one of his own are reporting nothing there.

Jazz laughs, just a little louder than his conversation partner’s joke merits, and every optic in the room glances over - with perfect timing, because that means that everyone sees when Jazz twists sideways and lunges, and Prowl gets a very brief glance of an alarmed blue face as Mirage flickers back into perception, Jazz shouting, triumphant -

“Boo!”

Chapter Text

“It’s not that I’m angry, as such.”

Indeed, Ratchet’s tone is flat and calm, touched with only a hint of amusement.

“I’m not. I’m just hoping that you all learned something here, today.”

Jazz shifts guiltily next to Prowl - who, admittedly, is the least-damaged of the four mechs sitting in the medbay. He gets the sense, from his own lack of injuries, that he’s present less for medical care, or even to keep Jazz calm, than so that Ratchet can lecture them all easily.

Hot Rod is the first mech to pipe up with a response to Ratchet’s unasked question. “Prowl is really strong. Like, really. Sir. So I shouldn’t attempt to grapple Prowl without backup. Unless he’s going to kill someone. Which, in my defense, he was.”

There’s only a touch of condescension to Ratchet’s smile as he turns it on Hot Rod. “Very good, Hot Rod. That’s a good lesson to learn, and you didn’t do anything wrong, as such. You can go check in with Ironhide.”

Hot Rod, wisely, wastes no time scrambling off of the medberth he’s on. He’s out of the medbay in a blink, the worst of his injuries already patched up, and Ratchet waits until he’s gone before rounding on his three remaining victims.

“Now, as for you dumb fraggers...”

Mirage, the only one of them not familiar, by this point, with Ratchet’s post-mission rants, opens his mouth to protest - but he lets it clamp back shut when Jazz gives his berth a swift kick, and he catches sight of the warning shake of the helm the assassin offers him.

“Ah, Jazz. Feeling ornery, I see. Would you mind explaining to the class one slagging thing that you learned today?” As he grinds out the last few words, Ratchet steps closer, welder held intimidatingly aloft for a moment before he begins to re-attach the hastily-removed armor over Jazz’s lower abdomen.

“Ah - Mirage has knives on ‘im, too?” He offers, hesitantly.

“It’s a start. Keep going -” and Ratchet gives an annoyed huff - “I think we’re close to a breakthrough.”

“Ah - Mirage has knives, an’ he can get them out fast enough t’ tag me, so I should jump him an’ sprint if I’m gonna -” Ratchet’s engine rumbles in thinly-veiled annoyance, and Jazz squirms. “Ow, ow! Fine, I shouldn’ jump other sneaky-types!”

“Good. And if you do, for Pit’s sake don’t stab back!” Mirage gives Prowl an uneasy glance as Ratchet goes quiet, finishing the last of his work in silence. The weld is all but set by the time he straightens and turns his focus on Mirage. “Now, you. Any interesting tidbits of wisdom you’ve decided to pick up from this fight?”

“Ah - Jazz can detect me?” Mirage looks unnerved, by that - Prowl can tell from the rigid set of his spine, and the tightness in his shoulders, and the fact that Mirage’s reaction to getting grabbed while invisible had been to stab Jazz.

“I can, actually,” he explains - a conciliatory peace offering. “You don’t register at all, but there’s a disturbance in the air as you move that I can pick up. Nothing major, but once I knew you were in the room with us when Bumblebee visited I could isolate it -”

“And that gave me away.” Mirage seems to deflate slightly. “Of course - that was sloppy of me. Send me the algorithm?”

There’s a ping in his comms - a temporary commcode, good for only a few joor, and less personal than the spy’s private codes - and Prowl obligingly sends him the formulas.

“Thank you.” Mirage nods gratefully - or tries to, but Ratchet catches his helm.

“Ah, ah - don’t move. I need to -” Prowl can’t see what, exactly, he’s working on - something delicate, buried deep in the cables. “What else?”

“What?” Mirage takes a moment to realize what the medic means. “Ah - don’t stab a bonded mech?”

Ratchet hrrms annoyance, at that. “I’ll forgive you this once, since Jazz grabbed you - but don’t be coming in here half-slagged because of it again. At the very least, stay invisible when you do it - you’re slagging lucky Hot Rod was close enough to get Prowl off you.” He shoots Prowl a glare, and Prowl flinches back - a reflex, by now. “Grabbing him by the throat - that’s enforcer standard, is it?”

Prowl lets his wings drop submissively. “My apologies, Ratchet.”

“You get forgiven only since you didn’t get slagged.” Whatever he’s working on in Mirage’s neck seems to satisfy him - despite his brusque tone, his fingers are gentle as he grips the blue mech’s chin, shifting it this way and that to examine the range of motion. “Nothing wrong with defending your conjunx, but pick something easier to fix next time. Shoulder grabs - there’s nothing in a shoulder I can’t put back together in a joor.”

There’s a tap at the medbay door, but Ratchet doesn’t even glance up. “Come in.”

Prowl can feel the way Jazz’s whole frame, beside him, shrinks back when the Prime’s broad frame fills the doorway.

Mirage is the first to speak. “Ah - sir.” He also looks like he’d very much like to disappear, frame wilting just a little more - though he doesn’t move to pull away from Ratchet’s hands.

“Hello, Mirage. Jazz - Prowl.” The Prime’s voice is mild, and fond. “Nothing too serious, I hope, Ratchet?”

“Just garden-variety idiocy, this time. My idiots started it.” Ratchet’s own tone oozes amusement.

“I’m glad to hear it.” The smile that flicks across his lips is similarly amused. “I actually needed to talk to you about something briefly - can I steal you away? It shouldn’t take more than a few breems -”

“Sure. Give me a couple kliks, first.” Ratchet doesn’t even look up until the wires he’s carefully twisting back together are neatly finished and tucked back into their bundle - then he straightens, and gives all three of them a glare.

“Mirage - stay here, I’m not done with you. Jazz, don’t even think about getting up until those welds have gone over ashy - Prowl, if he tries, pin him to the slagging berth, and I don’t care how.” He lets out a warning rumble from his engines. “The three of you - behave.”

“Understood, Ratchet.” Prowl nods his agreement, and Ratchet strodes past Optimus out of the medbay, the Prime shooting a backwards glance before following behind.

The door slides shut with a click, and the three of them sit for one klik, then another, in awkward, tense silence. Then, curious, Prowl rises.

Mirage’s plating flattens - his optics shoot to Prowl, who holds his hands out to the sides a little, and open, as he approaches. Every line of Mirage’s body shows tension - understandable; he doesn’t have the armor or the mass to resist a serious attack, but Prowl has no intention of hurting him.

>>You’re gonna get stabbed, Prowler.<< Jazz’s tone is wary - his own gaze is locked on Mirage.

>>I won’t. He has more control than that.<< Prowl takes another step closer, and reaches out. “May I?”

Mirage doesn’t move - doesn’t say anything at all, but as Prowl carefully touches the freshly-repaired cables of his throat, he can feel the fear in his drawn-tight field. He examines the injury for just a moment - honestly curious - before letting his hand drop and stepping back. “I’m sorry. I don’t typically lash out like this - I’m not really certain what happened.”

Mirage stares at him for another moment, optics narrow, field tight - then, a moment later, lets out a long, slow vent. “It’s alright.” He pauses, and Prowl leans back to rest his weight against the berth opposite - as he moves further out of Mirage’s space, he can see the spy relax minutely. “I wouldn’t have expected you to react any differently - it took joors of training before I was able to watch Hound get hurt without flying into a rage. It’s something we can work on.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” Jazz hesitates, glancing at Prowl for just a moment before ducking his helm apologeticly. “Um - I really am sorry for startlin’ you like that, mech - I didn’t mean ta do more than give you a scare -”

“You didn’t -” Mirage stares at him for a moment. Then, all at once, Prowl can see his plating loosen as tension rushes out of him in a wave, and he chuckles. “Oh, Primus, you’ve never worked with other operatives before.”

“Um - no.” Jazz resets his optics uneasily. “I was workin’ kind of a solo gig, before we picked Prowler up. You knew that.”

“I - I didn’t even think about it, to be honest. I was trained by Special Operations - there’s never been a point past my formal training where I wasn’t surrounded by other professionals.” He lets out another chuckle. “I wouldn’t advise grabbing anyone else - Road Rage would have flattened you.”

“She seems like th’ sort that’d flatten me just for the sport of it, ta be honest.” Jazz offers an uneasy grin. “Still - sorry for stabbin’ you back. Reflex, honest - I didn’t go inta that plannin’ to knife you.”

“Where did you even get a knife?” Prowl is vaguely curious - he hasn’t seen Jazz pick one up, nor has Jazz mentioned acquiring one. Mirage looks curious, too, though he doesn’t press.

“Oh - ah... “ Jazz’s gaze shifts guiltily to Mirage. >>Prowler?<<

>>We’re going to be working for him in a few cycles, Jazz. Let’s see how he reacts.<<

>>Sure.<< Jazz looks reluctant in the extreme, but shifts, sideways, on the berth. “Got these stays, right here?” He gestures to one of the long, straight plates running parallel to his chest. “They snap out ta support my suspension, in my current alt, but they don’t actually do anythin’ in my root, and they just slip out, so I sharpened them up.”

He slides one loose - it’s a flat, narrow piece of metal roughly two feet long, not bladed, but the tip has been ground to a point. Mirage reaches out a hand in request, and after a moment’s hesitation, Jazz hands the metal over.

The spy turns it over in his hands - it’s unremarkable, repainted to not even seem modified - except for a long, fresh gouge on one side marred with blue paint. “Easy to miss in an inspection,” he muses, hefting it with an elegant precision that betrays training. He makes a mock stabbing motion, considering. “Not terribly useful, unless you get lucky. We’ll get you something better-suited - you might’ve managed some serious damage to me, if you’d been trying, but without an edge you’re not going to get far on anyone with heavier armor.”

The spy hands the spar back, and places his hand on his own thigh - a casual, unobtrusive gesture, until he flicks his knee and a whole section of plating lifts just enough for him to draw, with lightning speed, a razor-sharp blade of his own, shorter, but obviously designed to be fit between layers of plating and pulled.

“That said -” and he considers his own weapon - “It’s a good trick - Ambulon’s lucky to be leaving Iacon, with how… upset... Ironhide will be that he missed it.”

“I can imagine.” Jazz snorts. “Gotta admit, I thought you’d be scared ta give me more knives, after I went for you like that.”

Mirage lets out a slow, steady vent, sheathing the knife before looking back up to him. “Do I need to be?” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of tension to it. “I won’t lie - we were, perhaps, too aggressive with you, initially - we weren’t aware that you were working with Ratchet, or that you had been partnered for such a short time. I understand that both of you are interested in joining Special Operations, and I think you would be valuable assets, but none of that means anything if I have to worry that my own agents are going to slit my cords.”

“Are you ever going to be able to believe that we won’t?” Both of them look over at Prowl as his words cut the air between then, and he takes a careful step towards Mirage and feels it when the other mech’s field retracts.

Mirage contemplates that, for a moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he presses his field back outward, lets it rest against Prowl’s own. “I understand your reservations about working with me, Prowl - Jazz. And I think you can understand why I have concerns of my own - why Bumblebee has his own reservations here, despite both of us agreeing that we’d like to work with you. Why don’t we just… lay those aside between us? Agree that our introductions got off to a rocky start, and move past it, rather than try to build a working relationship constantly watching our own backs.”

>>Jazz?<< Prowl is alright with that - would be alright with it, but… >>I know you wanted to…<<

He trails off - it’s not fair to ask Jazz to give up his revenge, not when the assassin is already doing so much for him, but Jazz just laughs down the bond. >>Oh, I’ll get over it, Prowler. I don’t know if I could pull off somethin’ ta top that without gettin’ shot - I’ll keep myself warm a’ night with memories of the look on his face when I grabbed him.<<

>>I’ll keep you warm at night…<< Prowl protests, but he keeps his tone teasing. >>Thank you, Jazz.<<

>>Ain’t no thing, Prowler.<<

“I think we can agree to that.” Prowl offers his hand, and Mirage takes it with a small flicker of a smile, field calming a little. “Commander.”

“Thank you.” Mirage leans back a little, letting both hands rest against the berth. “In that case - would you like to meet up with me next cycle to take a bit of a tour around Ops? Nightbeat has been refusing to leave his office, but we could probably coax him out long enough to fuel.”

“Refusin’ ta leave -” Jazz stops. “Is he alright, mech?”

“Oh - he’s fine. We gave him those files you handed us - he’s spent the last few cycles up to his optics in analytics. He enjoys it!” Mirage hastens to reassure him, when Jazz still looks doubtful. “He’s very driven.”

“I would enjoy seeing him - I had wondered.” Prowl settles the confusion with a nod. “I’m glad to hear he’s having luck with the files - let him know that I would be happy to provide him with the rest of my archives, if it would help.”

“It would. Thank you - I’ll tell him.” Mirage looks as if he’s going to say something else, but he’s interrupted by the door opening, Ratchet stumping back into the room.

“Oh, good - you didn’t slag each other.” He surveys the three of them. “Jazz, let me see those welds.”

Jazz meekly compiles as Ratchet runs his fingers down the solidified solder, ultrasonics checking for weakness in the hardened metal as he brushes away the grey dust of dried resin. “Looks good,” he confirms after a klik. “Don’t put any stress on it for a cycle so your nanites can reintegrate the metal. You’ll be fine by the time it starts getting color back.”

Jazz slides off the berth with a grin. “You’re my hero, Ratch!”

Ratchet’s engine grumbles annoyance. “Get out of my medbay, kid. Optimus is outside - he offered to get you two down to Rung’s office.” He turns to Mirage. “You’re gonna be here another joor, at least - unless you’d rather move down to the Ops medbay?”

“Here is fine, Ratc -” The door clicks shut behind Prowl as the pair of them make good their own escape.

Optimus greets them as they work their way back out into the medbay proper. It’s a large area, larger than Prowl - carrying a bleeding Jazz, and distracted substantially by that fact - realized on their way in, just the main ward large enough for two dozen mechs, although there are only a handful of berths spaced out. There are other doors, as well, presumably leading off to smaller, private wards like the one Ratchet has commandeered - enough space, at a guess, for almost forty mechs, or a substantial mass-casualty incident.

The Prime is sitting on one of the berths. “Oh, good. Ratchet has freed you both, then? There should be just enough time to have you to Rung before your appointment.” He rises, and Prowl is, once again, struck by how large he is - smaller than Ultra Magnus, but not the comforting, familiar frame, either.

“We’re ready when you are, sir.” He ducks his helm respectfully. Beside him, he can feel the nervous tightness of Jazz’s frame, the anticipation of, at least, a dressing-down, and pushes confident calm down the bond.

>>’s gonna be fine, Prowler - I didn’ start slag.<< It’s easy to tell that Jazz is trying to reassure himself more than Prowl, but Prowl sends him a supportive ping of affirmation anyways. >>’sides, you did all the damage, an’ even Mirage said he couldn’ blame you for that, so -<<

“I’m sorry for stabbin’ MIrage, sir.” Jazz hardly seems to realize that he’s blurted it out, as soon as the door to the medbay slides shut - he resets his vocalizer, staring bright-opticked up at the Prime, and tries again. “I mean - I didn’t mean ta stab him, it just sort of -”

“Just sort of happened?” the Prime asks, amused, as he starts leading them back down the hall, and Jazz hesitates for a moment before following.

“Yeah. Uh, sir.” He hesitates again, a little longer. “It was kind of - everything moved a little fast.”

“That’s fair.” Prowl can teek the Prime’s amusement, but it doesn’t seem to be doing anything to settle Jazz. “Honestly, I’m relieved it was only minor injuries.”

“Minor injuries - mech, I stabbed him!” Jazz gives an incredulous look. “An’ Prowl almost had his throat out -”

“Admittedly, I don’t think any of us factored for you getting injured in the process, or Prowl’s response, but a few stab wounds is better than I was expecting.” The Prime chuckles, gesturing back towards medical. “Ratchet seemed very sure you were going to lure him up to a rooftop and toss him off, for some reason. I appreciate the moderation.”

“I mean, I told you I wouldn’ slag him,” says Jazz, in a tone that clearly states that if he hadn’t told the Prime that, a shove off a rooftop had been the least of his plans. “Still, he’s alright. We’ve cleared th’ air between us, I think - gonna go inta this fresh.”

“I’m glad. Mirage is a good mech, and a loyal friend. I think you’ll get along well, once you’ve had a chance to know each other.”

The Prime leads them back through the maze of hallways until they reach the blank, featurless one from Hot Rod’s tour - and strides confidently down it. Prowl can feel the tingle of a half-dozen scans brushing over his doorwings, though he doesn’t see the sensors - or any of the alleged traps.

The Ops corridors are… not dissimilar to the residential ones. Doors line either side of the hallway, evenly staggered and windowless - none have names, only numbers. “Offices,” the Prime explains with a gesture. “Residential is further back. Everyone based in Iacon has their own office - it makes it easier to ensure confidential data is stored appropriately.”

“Understandable,” Prowl comments, considering the inoffensive doors. “The whole complex fits in this area?” The perimeter seems far smaller than it should be, assuming the Ops mecha have their own training facilities and storage, but the Prime gestures at the floor.

“There are sublevels. We’ll be going down one floor to medical - Rung’s offices are there. Beyond that is high-security - you won’t be allowed any lower without Mirage or Bumblebee escorting you until you’re sworn in.”

“You don’ have the kinda clearance to escort mechs down there, sir?” Jazz’s optics brighten with surprise.

“Oh, no one would stop me.” The Prime grins at the thought. “But I prefer to leave what is and isn’t appropriate for outside optics to them. Honestly, I find taking a light hand with Ops as a whole to be for the best, the occasional attempt on my life aside - there’s a certain creative ruthlessness that my agents excel at, and I lack.”

“Fair enough, I guess.” Jazz shrugs. “Still seems kind of weird.”

Optimus laughs, at that, but guides them both into an elevator and keys in a passcode.

The ride down isn’t long - just one level - and they don’t see any other mechs as they exit. It’s curious, and Prowl voices the question as they’re led down another hall - “How many Ops mechs are stationed here?”

“Only around thirty, at the moment, including support staff.” The Prime’s shoulders drop, just a bit. “There are cells all over Cybertron, obviously, but Iacon has taken the brunt of losses over the last few centivorns - there are facilities for almost a hundred mechs, and when I returned to Cybertron, we had almost seventy agents. You’ll see mechs around, I’m sure.”

He gestures them over to a door, and knocks.

There’s only a moment’s pause before it opens, and the Prime greets - someone - with a warm, “Good joor, Rung.” Prowl finds himself following Prime’s gaze down, to an… unusually small minibot. He carefully controls his doorwings, but Jazz is less polite, letting out a small “Oh!” of surprise as he catches sight of the little orange mech - Prowl sends a warning blat of static down the bond.

>>Jazz, we’ll have to work with him. And he’s Ratchet’s amica!<<

>>I wasn’t bein’ rude, Prowler! But look at him - he’s only like ten feet tall -<< Jazz’s voice is astonished.

Prowl flicks a wing at him. >>He’s probably a cassette, Jazz. But he’s also a doctor - he doesn’t need to be heavily-framed.<<

>>Can cassettes even get degrees on their own? I mean - he’s gotta have a carrier somewhere, right?<< Jazz hesitates. >>I don’t know, maybe Ops have their own commsmech? But - slag, how do you address a single cassette? I know you’re suppose’d ta know all th’ little guys names when you talk ta a -<<

“I’m not a cassette, if that’s what you’re worried about, Jazz.” Rung smiles up at him warmly, and it’s only when Prowl lets the words distract him from Jazz that he realizes that both Optimus and Rung have been watching them, Rung with a hand outstretched. “You can just call me Rung.”

Jazz vents heavily, taking the hand. “Oh, um - right, sorry. I forgot everyone on slaggin’ Cybertron can tell tha’ we’re talking. Um, Rung. Hello.”

Prowl offers his own hand, too. “He’s normally much more suave than this. It’s been a long day.”

“So I heard! Well, why don’t you two come in, and tell me about it?” The minibot gives Prime a warm smile. “I can take care of things from here, Optimus - I’ll comm Bumblebee when we’re done.”

“Alright, then - I leave them to your tender mercies.” There’s another flicker of amusement through the Prime’s field, and Rung steps into the office, letting them squeeze past. “Good evening, you two - I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Chapter Text

“Please, come in. Have a seat.” Rung’s voice is… mild. Inoffensive, with the distinctive, soothing lack of judgement that comes with a therapist’s training. It’s a familiar tone - this is far from Prowl’s first psych eval - and he lets himself sink into it as he examines the therapist’s office.

It’s not small, compared to the minibot - there’s plenty of room for three or four larger warframes to sit comfortably spaced, or for a nervous patient to pace - but it is cozy. The walls are a deep, soothing brown, with a carefully-stenciled pattern overlaid on top in a lighter shade, giving just enough visual purchase to count, if a mech is inclined to - he’s never seen the appeal, but some mechs find it calming. There are three chairs - and a small door flush to the wall that doubtless hides a store-room, where Rung can pull or store furniture to suit the group he’s meeting with.

Rung stands, with an air of careful non-expectance, by the door, and Prowl knows he’s waiting for them to sit, so that he can take whatever seat is left over. Letting them dictate the dynamic of the appointment, and doubtless working that, too, into his analysis.

He presses that knowledge down the bond, and walks over to one of the two chairs facing the door - the outermost one, further from the wall - grabs it by the armrest, and drags it a few feet closer to the other before letting himself drop down onto the seat. As he does, he offlines the ATS - it interferes too much with his emotions to be useful during psych evaluations.

Jazz, following his lead, settles into the other, just close enough to touch.

That obviously satisfies Rung, who gives them both a pleased smile as he settles primly onto the third chair. It’s clearly too big for him - large enough that it could have fit Prowl, or Jazz, if they had chosen to claim it - but the minibot doesn’t let that bother him; rather than grab an adapter, or even a cushion, he tosses his datapad up, hauls himself up into the chair carefully and then sits, cross-legged, on the seat, datapad rested in his lap. Prowl tries not to stare, but he can feel the keen curiosity with which Jazz watches the tiny mech’s movements, only glancing away when Rung looks up at him with a soft smile.

“You haven’t met many minibots, then?” the therapist asks, curiously, and Jazz ducks his helm a little in embarrassment.

“Ah - I’m sorry. Not really? Bee, obviously, an’ there were a couple in Praxus, but I never really got ta talk ta any of them, an’ most were ‘bout my size anyways.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offense -”

“None taken, believe me.” The therapist’s smile widens a little. “It’s a common mistake - I’m exceptionally lightly-framed, even for a minibot. I’m quite used to it.”

“Yeah, I was, uh, panicking a little - I’ve never met a cassette before. Don’ know much about them, ‘cept that they’ve got there own thing goin’ an’ if you’re rude ta them their carrier’ll slag you.”

“Ah.” Rung gives an amused look at that. “And you were trying to remember the appropriate greeting for a symbiont?”

“Yeah.” Jazz shrugs. “I know there’s something…”

“It’s referential.” Rung offers, and explains when Jazz gives him a confused look. “You don’t need to address them by anything other than their name. When you’re referring to them, or to their host, or when they’re introducing themselves, there are specific stylings, but for simple greetings or interactions, you wouldn’t worry about those - I would still be Rung, for example.”

“Oh.”

“It gets quite elaborate, but they’re usually quite forgiving with outsiders.”

“That’s good, then, I guess?” Jazz hesitates, glancing at Prowl for support. “So, ah - you’re the psych, huh?”

“I am.” He gestures to the table between them, where another datapad rests. “My credentials, if you’d like to evaluate them. Have you ever spoken to a therapist before?”

The way he focuses his attention on Jazz is… professional, Prowl notes - targeting the less-experienced partner before Jazz can begin to pick up on and mirror his own more practiced reactions. He settles back to allow the therapist to work, not wanting to prejudice Jazz’s behavior, and presses his confidence in the assassin down the bond - can feel Jazz grab onto it for reassurance and press forward.

“Nah - not much call for it in Praxus, I think. I know Ratch was talking to someone - guess it must’ve been you - about how ta talk ta me, early on, but I don’t think it did him much good, if I’m bein’ honest.” Jazz gives a small grin. “Hopefully you’re better at it than he was, though.”

That gets an honest-sounding laugh out of Rung. “Hopefully I am, or my profession is in a dire state indeed!” His gaze is fond. “Ratchet is a great mech, and the finest surgeon Cybertron has ever seen, but a more emotionally- - well, you know how well he handled his feud with Optimus, of course. I wouldn’t consider him a tranquil pool of emotional serenity, no.”

“A ‘tranquil pool of emotional stability’?” Jazz repeats, voice incredulous. “What sort of pitsla-”

He cuts off anxiously, vocalizer tripping into a rough reset, and Prowl can feel the awkward tension in his field. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be - believe me, the Wreckers used to call my work far worse.” The therapist chuckles again, a warm, open sound that makes him feel approachable. “Usually immediately after I had refused one of them a field clearance. A note, in case it ever comes up - if you threaten me during an evaluation, I will withhold your clearance longer, not authorize it.”

“They were threatening you?” Jazz’s voice is rich with thinly-veiled disbelief. “Slag, mech - if anyone ever tries that here, sic Ratchet on them - he’s got strongly-held personal beliefs about mechs that don’ listen ta their medic’s advice. He’ll get them in line for you.”

“I’m sure he will - he’s a force to be reckoned with. Fortunately, both Ops and the Prime’sguard understand the value of having stable, well-adjusted members, so there isn’t the… resistance from command… that I used to have to deal with with the Wreckers.”

It’s obvious down the bond that Jazz finds the idea of resisting a medic who’s willing to work on you just as alien as Prowl does, despite his unease. “Well, I’m livin’ with him, right now, so you don’ hafta worry about that slag with me. An’ Prowler knows what’s up.”

“How are you enjoying living with him?” The transition is seamless and expert - there’s not even a shift in Rung’s face or field as he changes topic to follow the new path that Jazz has inadvertently opened. “I understand that Ironhide put you in with him so you’d have a familiar face, but would you prefer more privacy? Arrangements could certainly be made.”

Jazz looks over at him, at that. >>Prowler? I dunno - I kinda like bein’ close ta him, but I’ve never really had a pad of my own -<<

>>Tell him, Jazz<< Prowl presses back with warm encouragement. >>He will ask both of us.<<

“Oh - um, I like it. Ratch’ll probably want his room back at some point, I guess…” Jazz gives a considering hum. “I wouldn’ mind stayin’ close ta him, though.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Rung smiles. “I will admit - I’m pleased to have the chance to meet the two of you, after hearing so much about you. Ratchet is very fond of both of you.”

“He was talkin’ about us?” Jazz asks in surprise. “Or - I mean, I guess at your party -?”

“Oh, not directly, but, well, we’re amica. He would come to me for advice, from time to time, about the new ‘patient’ he was working with.” Rung’s lips quirk in a grin, and he taps the tip of his stylus against his datapad in amusement.

“You knew that he had recruited an assassin, and you didn’t tell anyone?” Prowl can’t hold back his surprise at that - Rung would have been working with Ops for centivorns by that point.

“Nothing so specific, I’ll admit - medics are good at anonymizing. I knew that he was asking for advice about trauma, and that he had alluded to the fact that a patient under his care had been forced, in the past, to kill mechs against their will, and was now doing so willingly. It could have been a former gladiator, or a soldier.” Rung shrugs. “Ratchet - and I love him with my whole spark - Ratchet is a pile of antisocial behaviors given frame and spark that somehow managed to pass med school. I knew he was busy with some kind of ill-advised plan, and made sure to never find out anything beyond that, both for my own sanity and so that I could avoid being called to testify against my amica at a trial and/or ethics hearing. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t curious.”

“He said the two of you met durin’ the war.” Jazz sounds curious. “He never really talked ‘bout those days with me - I didn’ even know he was th’ Prime’s amica until he burst inta our audience with him.”

“Yes - the Wreckers were recovering after a rough campaign around a Quintesson-controlled star-system called OAN-3 - we had moved back behind the lines to recruit and train. At that point, we had pushed the invasion back entirely, and were expanding into Quintesson space, so our role was cyclical - we would strike out past the Cybertronian lines, get a foothold in Quint territory, and fall back as the line moved past us. It was pure luck, that we wound up in a good position to reinforce Command when they were attacked, and wound up taking our R&R as a support battlegroup.” Rung gives a fond grin. “Ratchet and I clicked immediately - he needed someone with a psych specialty, and he was one of the foremost surgeons on Cybertron even before the war. It was a privilege to have access to his expertise, and we complimented well.”

“‘Hide said the two of you took less than a vorn ta cut channels?”

“Not as scandalous for medics as most mechs, I assure you.” Rung laughs, and again seamlessly redirects the conversation. “Not that the two of you took much longer, from what I understand. How are you enjoying the bonded life?”

Prowl reaches out to let a hand rest on Jazz’s knee, and feels the fond affection that sparks across his field. “We’re a very good fit, as it turns out. While it was, admittedly, a hasty decision, I have no regrets.”

There’s a wonderful softness to the look Jazz gives him as he says that. “None at all,” he agrees, letting his own hand rest on Prowl’s. “Prowler’s perfect. We’re gettin’ on fantastic - wouldn’ wanna be doin’ any of this without him.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I will admit, I had been - concerned - when I heard the two of you had bonded under such stressful circumstances - but the two of you look quite well-matched.” He gives a teasing smile. “I suppose for your next evaluations I should pull out one of the couches.”

“Oh - I’m sure we could figure somethin’ else out, rather than make you go through all tha’ trouble...” Jazz’s expression turns mischievous, and Prowl has only a moment’s warning before he has a sprawling lapful of amused Jazz pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “How’s this?”

Rung is absolutely unflappable - the slight coil of amusement through his field is the only indication he gives at all that Jazz has done anything out of the ordinary. “If that’s how you feel most comfortable. I’ll try to make sure you have a sturdier chair.”

It’s a reasonable point - Prowl can feel the current seat straining under their joined weight, the metal creaking subtly. Doing his best to keep his weight balanced, he slides one arm under Jazz’s legs, wrapping the other around his waist, while distracting him by pressing a kiss to his forehelm - before meeting Rung’s optics with an amused look of his own and depositing a startled Jazz on the floor with a mighty clang.

“Tha’ -” Jazz scrambles to his pedes, a look of feigned affront at the betrayal on his face, and shakes his finger at Prowl. “Tha’ was horrible of you, Prowler. Never mind, Rung - he’s terrible, an’ I want my own room. An’ my own chair.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.” Rung’s face is impassive, but there’s laughter skittering all across his field.

Prowl leans out and presses another kiss to the brandished fingertip, and Jazz huffs, tosses his hands in the air, and flops, dramatically, back in his own seat. “Ugh. He’s incorrigible, doc. You see what I’m dealin’ with?”

“A conjunx who loves you.” Rung agrees, nodding. “The horror.” He marks something down on his datapad, not glancing down, and gestures. “So, aside from the obvious relationship struggles, how have you been adjusting to Iacon? I understand that you actually approached Optimus about joining Special Operations - I’d be interested to know what motivated that decision, from your own perspective?”

Jazz glances at Prowl, who gives him another encouraging smile. >>Ain’t you supposed ta be gettin’ some questions, Prowler?<<

>>They have my psych profiles from the enforcers, Jazz. All I have to do is look relatively balanced, and Rung will pass me, at least through primary evals.<< He gives another encouraging nudge. >>I don’t doubt that they’ll have me back in here to talk about Praxus at length, but you’re the unknown quantity, for now. I’ll chime in as needed, don’t worry.<<

>>Alright - sure.<< “Well, it ain’t like they weren’t layin it on thick, for Prowler. Which - ta be fair, they had to, since he was positive they were gonna slag him right up until we were bonded - but as soon as I had a look at th’ memories it was pretty obvious. I mean, slag - Nightbeat?” Jazz grins. “After that - well, Prowler wanted it, an’ I wanted it, so better to get it out in th’ open with Prime, right? Give us one less thing ta worry about, with Prowl already crashing.”

“That must have been stressful, Prowl.” Rung’s gaze is sympathetic, and beneath the obvious professionalism, it seems genuine. “You know that Optimus was serious, when he told you there wouldn’t be any reprisals against you if you chose not to remain with Ops?”

“I know.” Prowl does - but he understands why Rung, again, is asking. “It would be of no benefit to any of us for Jazz and I to resent Ops over our recruitment, in the long run. Mirage has spoken with us, and apologized - we’ve agreed to put the past behind us on both sides, and start fresh. We have our own reasons for wanting to work with him.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Mirage… well, he was raised in the nobility - I assure you, any apology you were given was entirely sincere.” It fits with the stoic image the spymaster has given Prowl, so far, and he nods. “As for your own reasons… your damaged coding?”

Prowl nods again, and the therapist gives him a considered look. “Ratchet provided me with a copy of his own examination of the code - in a professional capacity, seeking my input. I realize that Jazz has access to it too, but you two are still fairly new to the bond - are you comfortable discussing this in front of him, or would you prefer to have a separate appointment later this orn to talk about it?”

“I don’t mind. He has been… a great help, in dealing with the worst of the damage - I didn’t even notice how bad it had gotten, until he and I were working together.” It’s Jazz pressing comfort down the bond, this time, and Prowl latches onto it gratefully - even with a therapist, it’s difficult to face how badly he had allowed the coding to erode without noticing.

But there’s no judgement in Rung’s field - nothing but sympathy. “That’s common, from what I’ve learned about enforcer- and military- cohort-coding. The damage often goes undetected until you - or the mech in question - are back in a more functional environment, where the contrast is obvious - the initial degradation is gradual, and gets written off as the more simple variation that happens between any two cohorts.”

“That sounds…” correct. There had been almost a vorn, before he had realized that Barricade was actively malicious - a vorn where he had tried everything to fit in with a very different social structure - “reasonable. It wasn’t so bad, in the beginning - I thought I was having difficulties adjusting to Praxus as a city. Having so much change - I had worked in the same precinct since I joined the enforcers. Having a new beat, a new residence, unfamiliar faces on the streets - I thought it would get easier with time. And then…”

He trails off, but Rung nods, understanding. “And then you realized that your commander was actively corrupt.”

“Exactly.” He ducks his helm. “I didn’t - I should have contacted… someone, when I realized that he was selling my projections to the gangs. Ultra Magnus, or - Smokescreen had already begun working with the Torus enforcers by then, he would have known who to contact, but I didn’t even think of -”

He goes quiet, and Jazz reaches out, shoves their chairs a little closer with a loud scrape that cuts through the sudden silence and rubs soothingly at the base of his wings. Prowl flicks a wing in gratitude, but he can hardly think of anything to say - he debates pinging Jazz, asking him to - to give his thoughts the words that will come easier to him, but Rung’s gaze softens, and he starts to speak, voice steady and slow enough to process -

“It’s alright, Prowl - you didn’t do anything wrong.” He pauses, as if making sure Prowl is following, before going on. “It’s part of the coding - part of the error that formed. Nightbeat - he gave me permission, to tell you this, I promise anything you tell me will be completely confidential - Nightbeat experienced the same thing when his own coding began to fail. The cohort coding makes it easier to leave an old cohort once you’ve joined a new one - it would have discouraged you from reaching out to old teammates, prompting you to turn to your new cohort instead, but when you didn’t have anyone you could trust on your new team, it didn’t leave you anywhere to go. That wasn’t your fault.”

“The coding didn’t stop me - it doesn’t work like that.” He protests, faintly, but Rung shakes his helm.

“It didn’t stop you - it would have prevented it from even registering as an option, Prowl. And by the time your coding had eroded to the point where you no longer felt obliged to seek help within the Praxian enforcers, you had already been isolated. It’s a known symptom, when the coding fails to latch appropriately - you’re not the first mech, I promise you.” Rung gestures at Jazz. “And then you met a group of mechs that your coding considered a suitable alternative for cohort, and they had their own ideas about how to resolve the corruption in Praxus.”

Jazz gives the minibot an uncomfortable look, at that. “So, what - Prowl’s coding made him join up with us?”

“No!” The words are hard, but he pushes the same negation down the bond - tries to find the words, but Rung is already shaking his helm in agreement.

“No. The coding - it can encourage or discourage behaviours, but without someone modifying it directly, it would only have latched onto you once Prowl had decided you were suitable.” Rung hesitates. “It may have… lowered his resistance to certain aspects of your work, but I promise you, it doesn’t - force mechs to be friends, or anything of that nature. Whatever relationships you built together are as genuine as any built between two enforcers.”

Prowl forces his agreement with that down the bond - and an image of Cliffjumper, snarling up at him, only barely tolerating the rest of his team at the best of times. >>Not all - friends.<< It’s still hard to think of the words, but he can feel the way Jazz acknowledges them, the way Jazz appreciates him trying to explain - >>Good teammate - good cohort. Jazz - friends. Even -<< He sends a wordless memory - himself, frame sore with panic, Jasper - gone, and Jazz’s arms carefully holding him up, supporting him despite his anger.

>>I’ve got you, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is comforting. >>Just… don’t wanna think I took advantage, mech. You were happy, as an enforcer. Didn’t want ta think that th’ coding made ya give it up.<<

>>Never.<< He puts all the strength behind the word he can muster. >>Loved enforcers. Better - with Jazz. Always.<<

>>Prowler…<< He can feel the flood of affection - of love - that Jazz pushes down the bond at that - can feel Jazz carefully guiding him out of his seat, wrapping his arms around his shoulders on the floor. Jazz says something to Rung, and the minibot’s field recedes for a moment before returning, a blanket settling over his doorwings - Prowl doesn’t worry about any of it, focusing himself on Jazz entirely, the gentle, warm presence in his lap.

It’s at least a breem, almost two, before the world starts to stabilize again - the staticky numbness receding. As soon as he has the words, he pings Jazz - first for attention, before trying to speak. >>Jazz? I’m going to bring the ATS online.<<

>>Go for it, Prowler. I’m right here - I’ve got you.<<

The ATS is a relief - the last of the haze clears, and he takes a moment to let it anchor him before cycling his vocalizer and looking up. “My - my apologies, Rung.” His voice is still staticky. He’s on the floor, arms wrapped tight around Jazz, and Rung has settled on a pillow in front of his own seat - there’s a look of concern in his optics as he meets Prowl’s gaze.

“It’s alright, Prowl. I’m sorry - I didn’t realize how hard this situation would be to discuss.” His voice is gentle. “May I ask - do you have panic attacks often?”

“Not -” He hesitates. “Not when I’m working. It’s - I generally use my ATS to regulate my emotions. When it’s offline, I have difficulty moderating them. It rarely overwhelmed me before my transfer to Praxus.”

“I’ve seen a couple.” Jazz’s own voice is calm, steady, quiet. “He kinda - forgets how to talk, I guess? We ping a lot. This one wasn’t really bad - he was still talkin’ ta me the whole time - but sometimes he can’t talk at all.”

“That’s an uncommon way of processing emotional input, Prowl.” Rung’s voice, again, is carefully non-judgemental. “May I ask how long you’ve been using the ATS like that? Since Praxus, or even earlier?”

“Always.” He’s feeling steady again - Prowl shifts, letting Jazz slide out of his lap to curl at his side with a grateful churr. “I have no memories before the installation of the ATS, but I’ve never done anything else.” He hesitates. “As far as I know, it is independent of my glitch.”

Rung doesn’t even blink at the word. “It would be - you have no younglinghood memories at all?”

“None. There was an error in the installation - they were lost.” He hesitates again, but Rung nods.

“The subprocesses for handling emotional input are generally developed in younglinghood, typically before the five-hundredth vorn.” Rung pauses. “Would you be interested in working with me on learning to handle them? While I doubt there’s any need to transition away from using the ATS as your primary regulator, there are certainly techniques for emotional maladaption that might be able to help you when it’s offline.”

“I - yes, if you think that would help.” It's intriguing, but right now, he just wants to - to leave. To wrap things up and go - but Rung seems to recognize it.

“I think it would. It would let you mitigate some of the severity of the attacks, at least, and probably make them less frequent as well.” Rung gives a satisfied nod. “I think, for the time being, I’d like to meet with the two of you twice an orn, if that’s alright? I know it feels like a lot, and we can adjust it as you settle in, but I’d like to keep an optic on how you both adjust to life here. I’d prefer to meet with you as a pair, as well, unless you’d rather meet separately - I think the support you two provide each other will be beneficial.”

“That sounds acceptable, yes.” Jazz nods his agreement, too.

“Yeah. I think we can manage that.”

“In that case, I’ll have a word with Mirage about getting it scheduled - he’ll work out a time, and give it to you when he’s done setting up your training. Until then -” There’s the ping of a comm code. “That’s my professional code - please, feel free to get in touch if there’s anything I can help you with, or even if you just need to talk.”

Prowl pings back his own code in reply, establishing the channel briefly before shutting it - besides him, Jazz does the same. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“In that case, let’s call it here for today - you look like you could use a chance to rest, and if I’ve timed things right, Ironhide should be -” There’s a knock at the door - “Right here. I thought, after all the excitement, you might prefer a more familiar face for an escort.”

It’s something of a relief not to have to face Bumblebee, now, too, and Prowl flushes his field with appreciation as Rung rises to open the door.

“Hey, kids.” Ironhide glances over at them before grinning down at the minibot, giving him a pat with a hand that engulfs his entire helm. “Hey, Rung. Been a while - how’s slag?”

“Oh, well enough.” Rung doesn’t seem offended, giving the guard a pleased smile. “You know how it is. Busy. How is Chromia doing?”

“Oh - she’s tearin’ em up on Kassivus. Ain’t hardly heard from ‘er in a couple a’ orn, but we’re used ta it - she’ll be in touch when she can. I’ll let ‘er know you were askin’.” He grins. “Gonna haul ye off wit’ th’ two o’ us’n Ratch, when they cycle ‘er back ta Cybertron - it’ll be just like th’ bad ol’ days.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” He turns to the pair of them, amusement glinting in his optics. “Jazz, Prowl - you have a nice evening.”

“You too, mech.” Jazz says their goodbye for both of them, and they follow Ironhide out into the hallway.

He’s quiet as he leads them back up the elevator - they can feel a frisson of amusement in his field, but it’s impossible to place until they’re back out of Ops. As soon as they are, he turns to Jazz with a grin. “So, I let ye out o’ sight fer two joors an’ you’re stabbin’ ‘Raj, huh? Woulda recruited ye fer Prime’sguard, if I’d realized ye had it in fer the mech.”

Jazz snorts a laugh - “Wait, that’s what you’ve been sittin’ on? Slag, mech, I thought you were gonna jump us!”

“Nah - thought it’d be a bit gauche ta talk slag ‘bout th’ Ops helm in ‘is own hallways, is all. Wish I coulda seen his slaggin’ face -”

Jazz grins, and Prowl settles back as he begins to describe - not how he located Mirage, but everything else, to Ironhide’s delight. The chatter is companionable, and he lets himself relax into it, until he’s curled up on the couch, cube in his hand, with the warm rumble of Ironhide’s voice above him, and Jazz’s field pressed against his own.

Chapter Text

They’re sitting together in the Prime’sguard common room, Hot Rod and Springer arguing animatedly over the plot of… something - Prowl has lost track of what, between the three different romances and two different murder subplots being explained hastily and poorly whenever Jazz interjects with a question - when Mirage arrives.

The buzz of the room goes quiet - not completely, but Prowl can feel the pricking way that all optics have settled between him, Jazz, and the spymaster, the handful of other mechs in the room obviously eager to see how their interaction plays out. There’s a thrum of tension, too - Hot Rod seems not to notice at all, but Prowl can see the way Springer glances, sidelong, first at Mirage, and then him, as if weighing the chance he’ll have to intervene to prevent another fight.

Mirage, for his part, seems not to notice the attention at all - or if he does, he ignores it stoically, gliding gracefully across the room, pausing only to grab a chair before settling primly at the end of the table and taking out his own cube.

“I’m sorry - I haven’t been able to watch that show since Kyanite’s actress was replaced. The new femme is just -”

“Oh for -” Springer’s engine rips. “What, you’re coming over just to start that slag again -”

“Go frag yourself, Springer!” It’s the first thing Arcee has said all morning, but she swings herself upright to say it. “That’s what I’ve been saying for vorn, Koncerz is a mediocre actress at best - and she looks nothing like Estoc, the only reason they even chose her was because they’re both Kalissite -”

“Koncerz is fine, it’s that ridiculous turbofox subplot -”

Mirage gives them a slight smirk as the three Prime’sguard start squabbling, the tension slipping out of the room as conversation resumes.

“Whenever the two of you are ready.” He takes a sip of his own cube, watching in faint amusement as Arcee swings herself up onto the table so she can meet Springer’s optics as she begins explaining, at volume, the various deficiencies of the mentioned performer.

Jazz downs what’s left of his cube in two gulps. “Hey, guys - ‘Raj promised ta show us around, we’re gonna hop out, alright? See you around.”

“See you around, Jazz!” Hot Rod looks up just long enough to give a bright grin and a little wave before diving back into the disagreement - apparently arguing passionately for a third performer who he would have preferred for the role -

They slip out.

“Thank Primus, mech.” Jazz lets out a low, steady vent. “I have no idea what th’ slag they were goin’ on about.”

“Oh - Wings Over Protohex? It’s about some kind of Seeker-Grounder romance, set against a backdrop of being entirely terrible.” Mirage sniffs. “Just to clarify, I’ve never watched it - there’s a whole article of controversies on the ‘net. If you ever need to get out of a conversation about it, just pick one at random and state a position authoritatively - Arcee and Springer will disagree on principle, and anyone else who’s been roped into the discussion will be dragged into their arguing.”

“Is that a likely thing ta come up?” Jazz asks curiously.

“A new episode comes out on cycle six, every other orn. Personally, I just try to avoid the Prime’sguard entirely on the seventh - half of them watch it for the plot, and I believe the other half play along for the spectacle.” Mirage pauses. “There’s a group viewing, if you do wish to socialize, but we have a moratorium on discussion of the show in Ops, because I will shoot you if I have to listen to it in my own slagging department.”

“Eh, fair enough. We got any fun movie-night slag ta look forward ta, in Ops?” They turn down the long, empty hall that leads to the Ops base at an easy pace.

“Bumblebee generally arranges something around once an orn, for agents on-base. Beyond that, it varies - sometimes we’ll go visit one of the clubs in the city, or a concert or play. We don’t maintain a regular schedule, obviously - generally, it’s a cycle’s notice beforehand, and anyone who can make it attends.” Mirage gestures upward. “There are galas, as well. It will take a little training, for you to develop the… social acumen… to attend without standing out, but I do enjoy the company, when I can get it.”

He gestures as they reach the far end of the hall, guiding them into an unlocked room. It looks unused - there’s a thin coating of dust over everything, and the shelves and desk are bare except for the console bolted to the desktop. There’s enough room for the three of them to squeeze in, but it’s not spacious - perhaps large enough for Ironhide and Prowl to sit comfortably, with Prowl behind the desk. “Offices - every mech assigned to Ops has one. Bumblebee and myself have full access, as do a handful of other officers. Someone will talk you through the protocols once you’re officially Ops.”

Prowl considers it for a moment. “I will need something larger - big enough for a command-level meeting, at least - when I’m working tactical. Is there somewhere suitable, or…”

“There are a set of dedicated rooms in the lower levels, yes. And a conference room attached.” Mirage nods easily. “They’re still set up to our former tactician’s specifications. It will take some time to get them ready - any sort of renovations take a while, since the team that handles high-security construction work for Ops is shared planet-wide - by the time you’ve been cleared to run tactical, they should be ready.”

“Understood.” Prowl nods. “And Jazz?”

“We’ll have a room set up for him nearby.” Mirage gestures. “Probably not dissimilar to this. Honestly, most field agents don’t spend much time in their offices - you, Nightbeat, and myself all have larger ones on the lower levels, since we handle so much datawork, but really, the main purpose is to allow a secure, personally-locked terminal, and keep your work in one place if you go missing or get offlined.”

“So you guys just have ta dig through one set of datapads. Got it.” Jazz looks around. “Seems nice enough. It’s no giant warehouse, but I’ll make it work.”

“I’m glad.” He guides them back out into the hallway and onward. “Residential covers two stories - a larger area up here, and then around thirty rooms downstairs - mostly intended for medical and support staff. There’s plenty of space, and as long as you can convince Hot Rod and his friends to help you move, no one will be too particular about your living arrangements. For the moment, I’ve put you in one of the Seeker suites - they’re mostly vertical, so the floor space is limited, but they’re sized for three mechs so it shouldn’t be prohibitive, and they have entrances on both floors. I thought you might prefer the easy access to Ratchet, once he’s settled in.”

“You’re going to move him into Ops?” Prowl asks with some surprise. “Is he aware?”

“He would insist if I didn’t, I expect.” Mirage nods. “It’s typical for combat medics to recharge near their medbay - if something were to compromise Ops, it wouldn’t make much sense for him to have to fight his way to medical.”

“Makes sense.” Jazz shrugs. “An’ Jackie’s gonna be living with him?”

“Presumably, unless they prefer a different arrangement.” The spymaster gestures at the hallway of doors they’re walking past. “As I said - there’s plenty of space.”

“Fair enough.” Jazz pauses. “So, since we’re gettin’ ta know each other, an’ you know both our stories… I thought noblemechs sorta - did your own things. Not like, I dunno, real work… How’d you get ta be Ops?”

Mirage stiffens - a faint movement, though; he doesn’t break his stride. “It is not unusual for members of the nobility to serve the Prime in some capacity.” The words are just a touch clipped, not enough to notice if Prowl hadn’t expected it.

“Well, yeah,” Jazz pushes on, “but… I dunno. I’ve heard that nobles used ta sell their kids, sometimes, if th’ kid had a useful Sigma.”

Prowl has heard similar stories - and has spent enough time in Iacon to know that there is, at least, some truth to them - though the stories Jazz reflects on don’t bear much similarity to the delicately-worked bonding contracts that the nobility are known for. He shares that down the bond almost reflexively - but they’re both surprised when Mirage huffs a laugh.

“Sold? You mean - what, contracted?” He chuckles again, frame relaxing. “No - my family was influential enough that Optimus would never have been able to compel my bond, even if he had been inclined to. I was the sixth scion of House of Twisted Glass, not -”

He trails off as Prowl’s helm rises to look at him in surprise. “Twisted Glass? But -” He cuts himself off, not wanting to be impolite, but Mirage hesitates only a moment before nodding.

“They’re all dead, yes.” There’s a bitter twist to his lips. “I assure you, I’m aware.”

“Except their Lord.” Prowl hesitates.

“I go by Ligier, outside of the Palace.” Jazz echoes back a brief snippet of a conversation with Red Alert, when Mirage says it - he had known the name, but nothing else about the family. “Lord Mirage is a tool, nothing more. My own name is… sentimental, I suppose - I went back to it, once there was no one to stop me.”

“Slag, mech - I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories -” Jazz tucks his armor reflexively, sympathy and embarrassment warring across his field in submission to the spymaster’s grief - but there’s no pain in Mirage’s field.

“It’s alright, Jazz. I am simply used to mechs knowing my story - it’s been a long time since I’ve had to tell it.” He pauses. “With that said, this doesn’t leave Ops.”

“Of course.” Prowl nods, Jazz giving a soft chirp of agreement a moment after.

“My family were traitors to the Primacy. They conspired against their Prime, and rather than play my part in their plotting, I surrendered them to him and told everything.” He pauses. “In such situations, when the corruption runs so deep, it is… typical, for the entire house to be purged and their name struck. Optimus was merciful. He spared me, and named me my sire’s heir in my brother’s stead, so that our house could endure.”

“Slag, mech -” Jazz’s optics are wide. “That must’ve been awful -”

Mirage huffs a vent, shrugging his shoulders gracefully.

“Any of my siblings could have placed their duty to their Prime before their duty to my father - he saw their loyalty as his due, and would never have rewarded it.” There’s an angry flicker to his voice, at that, and his optics brighten with anger, a faint sneer curling his lips. “He would have seen our family ruined, for his vanity - seen a hundred generations of the House of Twisted Glass wiped from the histories because he thought he knew better than Primus’ will. Rest assured - I don’t mourn any of them. They burn in the Pit where they belong.”

“Still -” Jazz trails off, uncertain, and Prowl pushes reassurance down the bond as he takes over the conversation.

“So you joined Special Operations, after that?”

“Not quite. I had - a house to run. Among other things. I remained at court for a while, of course, but once Optimus and his ‘guard were satisfied of my loyalty, I returned to the towers. The nature of my family’s deaths were… covered up, and I spent several decavorns reestablishing our position before Optimus invited me to return to Iacon on a more permanent basis.”

It seems entirely reasonable - at least, when taken into context with the rest of Mirage’s story - but something about it catches Jazz’s attention. >>That’s a lie.<< He offers to Prowl, intrigued. >>Want ta do some digging?<<

>>Not right now, I think.<< Prowl sends back. >>We’re still outsiders - there may be operational secrets he’s not at liberty to discuss. He’s been more open than I expected.<<

>>He’s proud of it.<< Jazz tosses back casually - a dynamic that Prowl hadn’t noticed at all. Jazz sends back a handful of conversation snippets, a few errant notes - >>Look at him. He’s loyal as slag - an’ th’ Prime trusts him. Whatever went down, he’s proud o’ stabbin them in th’ back. Might not be able ta tell mechs much, but he wants ‘em ta know.<<

>>That’s…<<

>>Just… watch him, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is still casual, but there’s a thrum of tension that he doesn’t let slip onto his field. >>I think he’s on the level, but… that’s a stone-cold thing ta do ta your family, traitors or no.<<

>>I’ll keep an optic out.<< Prowl pings his agreement.

Mirage is watching them, and there’s a hint of wary amusement in his optics.

“Try - when you talk, you’re glancing at each other. Look at the wall opposite your partner, instead, for the moment. And try to keep the conversation going when you’re speaking over the bond - even something inane will help distract mecha.” He gives an amused smirk. “It took Hound and myself only a few orn to adjust, but we both had the training of a noble House to fall back on. Fortunately, it’s easier when you aren’t in the same room - not too different from speaking over comms.”

“That’s what’s been giving us away?” Prowl can’t keep the note of annoyance out of his voice. “From the way everyone’s been teasing us about it, I had assumed it would be something more…”

“Subtle?” Mirage offers, with a chuckle. “You would think, wouldn’t you? It frustrated Hound and I to no end, until we figured it out - Ironhide took great pleasure in calling us out. But no - once you’ve met a few newbonds, it becomes obvious.”

“Bumblebee said there’d be training?” Jazz asks, grinning.

“Oh - Bumblebee. Good luck with that - his ‘training’ is… unique.” Mirage huffs. “Not to say it isn’t effective - he trained me, after all. But look forward to a minibot popping out of the vents ten times a cycle until you’ve mastered it.”

“He has th’ time ta -” Jazz gives a surprised snort. “Seems like a waste of time fer the second-in-command of Spec-Ops ta follow mechs around in vents.”

“Oh, I didn’t say it would be Bumblebee.” Mirage’s lip curls in amusement. “No - he has a team, for such things. They take rotations. They will haunt your waking joors.”

“We aren’t that bad!” protests the nearest ceiling vent, and Jazz has to stifle a yelp as he leaps back - Prowl’s own claws come out as he shifts to stand in front of the assassin, dentae bared -

“Hello, Beachcomber. Are you going to come out and meet our new operatives, or were you just going to lurk in the ceiling for the next joor?” Mirage seems totally unruffled, glancing up at the vent with his arms crossed and just the faintest quirk of an amused smile on his lips.

“Neither, actually - I was just on my way back from Comms, Bee had me relayin’ some stuff to Cosmos. Blaster says hi!” The unseen speaker’s voice is cheerful. “But I gotta scuttle - Seaspray’s back from that thing, you know how it is - unless you need me to hop down for a bit?”

“No - I think we’ll be fine. Have a good cycle, Beachcomber.” Mirage’s voice is rich with fond amusement.

“You too, boss. Jazz, Prowl - it was nice to see you! I’ll be around, I’m sure - later!” There’s a faint pinging noise, and then a soft scrape as the smaller mech moves off - a scrape that, back-analyzing his sensor feeds, he can track back to part way through Mirage’s explanation of the tells of their bond-communications.

He carefully logs the noise, and sets a mid-priority alert on it, not interested in being surprised again, before returning his focus to Jazz and Mirage and carefully transforming away his claws.

“There are -” Jazz’s vocalizer cracks with static. “Just minibots everywhere, huh?” His voice is a little faint.

“Oh, absolutely,” Mirage agrees easily. “Nine, if you include Rung, and he prefers that we do. Minibots are very loyal to their warrens, so after Red Alert’s… unfortunate purge, Iacon Special operations consisted of basically myself, Hound, one or two other agents, and the warren. We’ve added a few more in the vorns since - recruits from the other Ops bases, mostly, who were more comfortable transferring to an established warren than being isolated.”

“That’s a lot of minibots.” Jazz hesitates, but Mirage gives him a tired look.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is. They’re all fine operatives, of course, and you’ll get used to them popping out, sooner or later - they have a knack for going unnoticed, however. It may take you a few orn.”

>>I can tell. When they move, at least.<< Prowl offers, staring fixedly away from Jazz. >>It won’t help when we’re apart, but we’ll at least be able to tell if they’re watching when we sleep.<<

>>You’re a lifesaver, Prowler.<< Jazz does the same, and Mirage gives an entertained huff.

“Ah, that… that doesn’t help at all.” He’s smirking, when Prowl looks back. “We’ll work on it. Come on - that’s the last of the residential. I’ll take you down past the ranges, and then to our common area - if Nightbeat has been paying even a little attention to his schedule, he’ll have headed up for a cube by then.”

His voice implies that that outcome is unlikely, at best, but the pair follow him onto the elevator obligingly.

The ranges are broad and empty. They’re almost surprisingly expansive - long and high enough for minor artillery training, with wide-open lanes suitable for even larger, military-framed mecha to shift positions comfortably.

Mirage gestures at a set of stalls almost double the width of the others.

“Usually, you’ll find only Ops mechs down here. Back when we were at full force, there’d be someone here at any hour of the day, but with so few of us, we tend to schedule practices - you’ll have access to that schedule once we’ve formalized things. There are rooms set up for mock-combat and infiltration scenarios, as well - occasionally we’ll set something a little more intensive up, when there are enough agents on-base to justify the effort. R&D has a block reserved on the range twice an orn, you’ll rotate through observing for that once you’re a little better settled in, and you’ll occasionally find other mechs with clearance down here - usually Ironhide.” He pauses. “If it looks like a gun, but not exactly like a gun, comm myself or Bumblebee, and don’t touch it. R&D can be… flighty.”

“Got it - don’t get blown up by the science-bot’s spectech. Do you mechs have a mod specialist? I know Bumblebee mentioned wanting Jackie…”

“We share with the Prime’sguard, currently. And I think we would all appreciate… another option, if one were to present itself. Brainstorm is…” He trails off with a grimace.

“That bad?” Jazz probes, curious.

“A talented inventor. Very talented. Not yet, technically, a war criminal.” Mirage pauses significantly, optics narrowing. “Yet.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. He’s a good mech, as long as you make sure to ask probing questions regarding civilian casualties and potential radioactive yields. Don’t worry - consultations with him are chaperoned-only, so someone with a little more… experience… dealing with him will be able to catch the less-glaring concerns.”

“Ah - that’s good, I guess.” Jazz glances out at the range again. “‘S a slaggin’ big place, even if you’ve got a hundred mechs ta share it with.”

“A deliberate design choice.” Mirage gestures downward. “The levels below are colloquially referred to as the Tomb - the top-security sections of Ops. You won’t be going any deeper until you’ve officially joined. In the event of an assault on Iacon, this level is wired with charges - it can be dropped to bring the whole weight of the levels above down on top of us, sealing the remainder of Ops off entirely.”

“Huh.” Jazz rocks back on his heels with obvious curiosity. “So what sorta slag’s down there?”

“Plenty.” Mirage smirks. “My offices, on the next level down. And Tactical, once it’s ready. An outpost for the Prime’sguard, if they get pushed back with us. Archives.”

It’s obvious that there are a whole sea of less-savory things he’s leaving out, but Prowl doesn’t press any further. “Ops and the Prime’sguard work closely together, then?”

“In Iacon? Of course.” The spymaster nods. “A substantial portion of the work we do is ferreting out assassination plots, or following up on those that the Prime’sguard manage to avert. There are other cells, of course, who have their own command structures scattered across Cybertron - they tend to be more isolated.”

“Ah.” It makes a degree of sense for the two groups to cooperate, then, despite Ironhide’s obvious distaste for Ops.

“It has taken… some time for us to integrate as cleanly as we have. Fortunately, Bumblebee and Ironhide are old friends - Bee was a scout, before he joined Ops - and that eased the transition, somewhat.” Mirage shrugs. “An uneasy partnership, sometimes, but it has been successful.”

“Successful enough ta have th’ commander o’ th’ Prime’sguard watchin’ a couple o’ Ops prisoners?” Jazz’s question is oil-smooth, but there’s a note of unease down the bond. Mirage, however, grins.

“A personal favor - to Bee. Ironhide is a very personable mech - open, honest, military.” He meets Prowls gaze with a smirk. “Loyal to a fault. Kind. Unflinchingly fair in his treatment of prisoners, and willing to spit in my optic over it. Brave enough to make his distaste for your erstwhile captors known, and build rapport -”

“- based on how much he reminded me of Ultra Magnus.” Prowl hesitates for a moment. “Very effective.”

“I thought so, yes.” Mirage gives a pleased smirk. “You proved impressively resistant to my cunning, of course. Next time I capture a tactician, I’ll print pamphlets. ’A Prisoner’s Guide to Joining Special Operations”, perhaps.”

“‘Defectin’ fer Fun an’ Profit’” Jazz grins, and Prowl can feel his amusement down the bond. “‘What ta Expect When You’re Expectin’ ta Get Shot’. It’s a good idea, mech - just slippin’ them under doors, and such. I dunno where you’d find enough stunningly handsome Polyhexians, otherwise.”

Prowl can’t help a satisfied purr at that. >>My Polyhexian.<<

>>All yours, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is light with amusement, and he scoops Prowl’s hand into his own with a graceful gesture, lifting it to his lips to press a small kiss to his wrist that makes Prowl’s wings flutter embarrassingly before he can still them.

“Primus.” Mirage vents. “Let’s head up to the common room, shall we? Before I lose you two entirely.”

“Sure, mech.”

They follow him back into the elevator. This time, however, it stops at the second floor. Mirage doesn’t spend much time showing them around - he points out the residential, then the various wings of the medbay itself, before leading them to a set of double-doors. “And this,” he offers, with a flourish, “is our common room.”

He swings the doors open with an elegant shove, and strides into an entirely deserted room.

Well - not deserted. The room itself is nice enough - fresh, clean paint, brightly but not glaringly lit, with a handful of tables, a few booths, a large, L-shaped sofa that looks precisely large enough for eight tightly-packed minibots positioned in front of a vid-screen. There’s a few shelves in the corner packed tight with brightly-colored datapads, and a sim-table pushed up against a wall; the only thing missing is an energon dispenser, instead replaced by a small pile of cubes pre-filled and piled neatly against a wall.

Mirage picks up three of them and ushers them to a booth. He checks a seal imprinted on each one before cracking and peeling off a thin, almost-invisible wrapper - catching their curious gazes, he explains. “We don’t use a circulating dispenser down here. Ops fuels only on Ops fuels - you don’t eat, drink, or inject anything that hasn’t been cleared unless you have to to maintain a cover. The wrapper -” He offers one of the wrapped cubes to Jazz to examine - “Has an imprinted seal - you’ll get the program to compare it once you’ve joined. Any signs of tampering, or an imperfect seal, and you don’t drink the cube and tell me so it can be tested. Medical works the same way - your medic will show you the sealed oil, and it doesn’t leave your sight until it’s in your tanks. Incautious Opsmecha have short careers.”

“You mechs get lots of poisoning attempts, then?” Jazz runs his fingers over the seal curiously before handing the cube off to Prowl, who takes his own look before peeling away the thin coating.

“Not as many, anymore. Well - attempts are not uncommon; we have a false circulator set up as a decoy for the less-astute assassins. Generally someone tries to slip something in around once a decavorn, and then we have to hunt them down and figure out who’s behind it. I observe each refilling of our inventory personally, and test the batches myself - it’s been more than a centivorn since someone’s tried to slip something past me, and the last successful poisoning within Ops was before my time.” He pauses. “Most successes are because the agent got sloppy, and drank something that was handed to them. Agents who need to be seen fueling in public - myself included - are fitted with a secondary tank to allow testing or a purge before the fuel is metabolized, but even then, a powerful encaustic could do critical damage before you have a chance to purge it.”

“That…” Jazz hesitates, and Prowl can feel his uncertainty down the bond. “Sounds like a nasty way ta go. Pit.”

Mirage looks like he’s readying to reply when the door to the common room swings open unannounced, and a new mech strolls into the room. He makes a beeline to the energon, grabbing two cubes before glancing up, his doorwings arcing in surprise.

“Well well well! What have we got here?” The blue mech that strides towards them isn’t Nightbeat - but it is a fellow Praxian, wings held wide and open in greeting. Prowl ducks his own in courteous acknowledgement before straightening to the neat, low-and-shallow posture of an enforcer’s rest - it’s been almost an orn since he’s bothered with wingspeak, but the presence of another Praxian has him minding his doors. The blue mech’s own wings bob once - a friendly gesture - before dropping to a low, casual position, spaced with the errant care of a civilian unconcerned with appearances.

Jazz pats his back absently, fingers rubbing gently at a loosely-locked gear. >>You alright, mech? Lookin’ stiff.<<

>>What?<< He tries not to drop his gaze from the other Praxian, unsure of how well he succeeds. >>Oh, no - I’m fine, this is just -<< He pings Jazz a file absently - not a full translation of Wing, just the basics. >>Politeness. It’s not uncomfortable.<<

Fortunately. Mirage’s words distract from their distraction - neither of the Opsmechs seem to notice their side-conversation. “Hello, Skids. Out of medical already?”

“Free and clear, once Ambulon finished banging out all the dents.” The blue mech grins. “Came over to say hi - I’m told that the two of you are the reason I’m not still waiting for your medic to take pity on me. He hits like a tank, by the way.”

“He was sayin, yeah. Glad ta see you’re fine, mech.” Jazz grins, shaking Skid’s hand in a more traditional grounder greeting when it’s offered. Skids offers the same gesture to Prowl, with a quick glance to Mirage, and Prowl, sensing his intent, shakes it - despite the fact that they’ve greeted each other already, it would be awkward to seem unfriendly in front of the spymaster.

“So - were you all onto me the entire time, or was that only a thing after we picked you up?” Skids slings himself into the seat next to Mirage, opposite the pair of them, and passes a quick glance over the seal on his cube before cracking through the membrane and cube in a single, practiced gesture and downing half the cube in one long draught. “‘Cause I gotta tell you - I thought I was free and clear right up until your fragger of a medic picked me up.”

“Hey - he’s not just my fragger of a medic.” Jazz matches his grin with an easy smirk. “Or hasn’t your boss told you?”

“Slag - ‘Raj, what am I about to not like?” Skids’ optics brighten a little as he turns to the spymaster, who has a look of barely-constrained amusement on his face.

“Ambulon has decided to take a bit of a sabbatical, Skids.”

“Oh, no - frag yourself, you’re not going to tell me -” Skids’ voice skips in surprise, and Mirage takes the opportunity to press on, obviously enjoying himself.

“Fortunately! We have managed to acquire a replacement with suitable clearances. An old amica of the Prime’s, in fact, one of the best surgical minds on Cybertron.”

“Frag yourself, frag yourself, frag yourself -”

Mirage grins.

“He only dumped you in a hole, Skids. You’ll learn to love him, I’m sure.”

“He tried to cave my helm in!” Skids’ voice crackles again. “He - he tied me to a chair, and beat me with a slagging wrench -”

“It’s how he shows affection, mech.” Jazz’s smirk has turned vicious. “You’ll get used ta it.”

“Arrgh.” The scout groans, flopping down on a chair across from them, wings sweeping dramatically - but as he does, Prowl can see just a hint of a grin on his lips, and feel the amusement in his field. “You guys are the worst.”

He lets his helm drop to the table with a thud. Mirage takes a sip of his energon, watching in quiet amusement - after another dramatic moment, Skids pops his helm back up. “Oh well. So - he’s the Prime’s amica, huh? How the slag did we miss that one?”

“He had a little help from our friend upstairs when he left Iacon, as I understand it. A new identity, going all the way back.” Mirage grimaces. “Hence ‘Triage.’”

“And Red didn’t -” Skid’s optics brighten again. “Oh - oh, slag, that’s why -” He glances at Jazz for a moment, then Prowl. “They good to be here for chatter, ‘Raj?”

“They were working with him.” Jazz perks in offense, opening his mouth to deny it, but Mirage raises a hand. “It’s alright - Red doesn’t work for me, and Optimus seems to have it well under control, so I’m not going to argue the point.” He turns back to Skids with a small smile, and a nod of finality. “They were working with him.”

Jazz doesn’t bother to protest again. Neither does Prowl - it’s far less likely that he dissuades them than he misspeaks and confirms Red Alert’s involvement accidentally.

“I’m going to be very upset with him if I got smashed over the helm for no reason.” Skids lets out a small grumble of his engines. “I got shoved in a hole -”

“Half of the people here have been shoved in that hole, Skids.” Prowl has been quiet so far, but… “It’s not as bad as you’re making it sound.”

Skids gives him a look of faint surprise - then a smirk curls his lips as he turns to Jazz. “Oh, mech - if it was just me, that isn’t so bad, but you and your crew have shoved a couple of Praxians in holes? That’s a fetish.” He gives Mirage a frank look. “That’s a fetish, ‘Raj - you watch him.”

He leans in with a grin, and his voice goes soft as he whispers to Prowl, “You know you don’t have to put up with that slag, right? There’s help out there, mech.”

Prowl’s optics brighten in amusement, and he lets his wings flick invitingly, reaching out to weave the fingers of one hand with Jazz’s as he leans in to purr his response. “Oh, Skids… Jazz and I are bonded, now. We stick Praxians in holes together.”

The sound of Jazz choking on his energon beside him is more rewarding than even the way Skids’ wings arc in shock.

“Slag - Prowler, warn a mech!”

“Hah! Oh, so there is a sense of humor under the grim determination, huh?” Skids chuckles. “Well - I owe you my thanks twice over, anyways - if the two of you hadn’t slagged ‘Raj, I’d be getting all sorts of Pit about it from the rest of Ops, so keep it up, I guess.”

“Excuse me?” Mirage’s voice is indignant.

“You heard me, ‘Raj, you got knifed by the new guy. At least I got got by an enemy.”Skids snorts in amusement. “And he was like twice my size, so, y’know, fair.”

“I barely -” Mirage straightens indignantly. “I would have been fine, if someone with a little more bulk to them than Hot Rod had tried to pull Prowl off of me -”

“Might have been able to shove him off yourself, if you weighed more than four tons!”

“If I -” Mirage’s voice is incredulous - but he catches himself before he says anything else, plating flaring before resettling, face and field composing themselves into a noble’s calm as he does.

“I am blessed,” he says, turning to Prowl with an amused flicker across his field and a dramatic lilt to his voice. “Blessed, that I should have subordinates so ready - so willing! - to volunteer for even the most difficult tasks.” He gestures, with an unkind smirk. “Behold - Ratchet’s new assistant, for his move-in.”

“What - come on, ‘Raj -”

“Don’t worry, Skids. I’m sure he will have plenty of boxes that my needley limbs and delicate noblemech’s plating couldn’t possibly manage.” Mirage gives a smooth smirk that makes Skids groan.

“Ugh - fine. Slagger.” But his field flickers with amusement. “So, anyways - what’re the three of you waiting down here for? Rung’s out chasing Prime’sguard, if you’re looking for him - don’t think he’ll be back until tonight. And the little guys are all out and about.”

“We were hoping to visit Nightbeat.” Prowl glances at the door. “I wanted to discuss some of the data I provided him, and had hoped to lure him out for a cube.”

“Oh. Yeah, good luck with that -” Skids meets Mirage’s optics with an eye-roll that the noble is too composed to return. “I haven’t seen him in half an orn.”

“Of course not.” Mirage huffs. “Primus - the mech needs a minder. We’ll give him half a joor, then go see about prising him out of whatever has caught his attention this time.” He pauses. “If that’s alright with the two of you?”

“Sounds good ta me, mech.” Prowl nods his agreement, as well. “So - Skids. What d’you get up to, round here - if I’m allowed ta ask?”

Skids glances towards Mirage, who nods, and smirks. “I’m a theoretician.” He leans back in his chair, letting the word speak for itself.

Prowl leans forwards, intrigued, but Jazz is quicker to speak, and his earnestly curious question knocks the wind out of the blue mech’s sails. “A what?”

“A - a theoretician.” Skids’ plating slumps a little, and there’s a flicker of defeat in his field. “You know - I study hypothetical modeling. Projective social interactions, political theory -”

“Predictive modelling?” Prowl offers, and Skids perks up a little, latching on.

“Yeah, that!” He grins. “You’re looking at precisely half of our current Ops tactical, here, so, you know - welcome aboard, have fun, you’re welcome to it. Me? I’m gonna be back to figuring out who’s plotting to knife the Prime, politically speaking - thank Primus.”

“You have a theoretician running tactical?” He can’t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice as he turns to Mirage, and can feel the way Skids’ field shuffles with indignation - “Sorry - I’m sure you’ve done well, but they’re not exactly similar specializations - how have you not managed to find a tactician in centivorns?”

“It’s kind of a rare specialization, Prowl.” It’s Skids who replies with a shrug. “Not a lot of mechs who work tactics, outside of the military, and they’re trained and programmed for mass-combat. And enforcer tacs don’t usually want to leave.”

“We’ve been trying.” Mirage adds with a shrug. “Finding the right mech for the role is challenging. We make do - the Prime’sguard and some of the other Ops units lend resources, when necessary, and Nightbeat and Skids handle our day-to-day.”

“You let Nightbeat run tactical -” Prowl feels his vocalizer stagger, then reset, from sheer professional indignation. “He’s -”

“Hey, Nightbeat’s done fine - he’s a slagging decent tac, if you just sort of shut him in a room with nothing else except someone to keep him focused!” Skids’ voice starts confident, but flags as his defense of the other mech goes on. “Look, we’ve only had a couple centivorns -”

“We’re managing.” Mirage’s voice has a cutting finality to it. “Regent and Ironhide have both been generous with their tacticians, and with only a handful of agents, it hasn’t become an issue, by Primus’ grace. Still…” He trails off for a moment before venting a heavy sigh and quirking a small smile. “It’ll be good to have you.”

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And now, before we move on to the author’s note, a special world-building aside, since it got totally out of hand and wouldn’t fit in the A/N Endbox!

So: Minibots! Jazz asked, so I’ll tell - what’s the difference between a cassette, a minibot, and Jazz?

So, Jazz, obviously, is just a short dude. He’s tall enough that he’s distinctly not a minibot appearancewise, but only just - any shorter, and he’d be getting confused for one all the time. But! He could be way shorter, and he still wouldn’t be a minibot, because

Minibots! They’re their own thing. A separate sub-race of Transformers, like Seekers or Cassettes! Despite being physically just smaller Transformers (in most cases - Cosmos is a minibot, but he’s the same size as Ironhide!) they have very different coding. They’re one of the earliest code-based divisions of Cybertronian society, going all the way back to the days when Cybertronians were a Quintesson slave race. They originated as ship’s crew - smaller mechs who would work and serve aboard large Quintesson vessels, and later, living Cybertronian ships (what would eventually be the Cityformers).

Unlike most Cybertronians, minibots are colonial - they only thrive in groups with other minibots, and suffer mentally and physically when isolated. A group of minibots is a warren, a flexible but discrete social unit comprised of members who live and work together. On a ship, that would be the entire minibot crew - in a city, they all typically rent a place together and split rent and living expenses. One minibot will be the leader, generally by a mixture of seniority and group consensus, and the rest will generally follow their lead - they’re very loyal, and usually gregarious, kind of the friendly hobbits of the Cybertronian race.

Besides their general aptitude for social interactions within and outside their warrens, minibots have a few other important features. They use less energon than most other mechs by an order of magnitude, built small and with a tendency to avoid more extreme mods; they can unhinge their joints outside of a full transformation, allowing them to travel easily through vents and other areas (kind of like mice or cats; if the helm fits, the rest of the minibot can usually follow); and they tend to sort of blend into the background wherever they are. All valuable features in a space-ship-dwelling slave-race of maintenance and repair-bots that make them very good secret agents!

Minibots can resemble just about any other frame - most look like grounders, but there are aerial, femme, and beastformer minibots as well. As mentioned, there are even shuttle-type minis like Cosmos - though he’s a shuttle only in that he can travel and space, and a mini more by coding than by dint of size. Always, always, always it’s the coding that determines whether a minibot is a minibot, rather than any physical feature.

Politically, minibots occupy an… odd position. They tend to be treated as fairly unimportant, especially by movements such as functionalism, because they’re generally passive - but they can become very aggressive in defense of their warrens, so most politicians stop short of anything that would deliberately have negative impact on minibots in particular. And because of their tight-knit social structures, things like low wages tend not to impact them heavily, since a large group of minibots will be splitting their costs, so they tend to thrive longer during and recover quicker from economic downturns and disruptive legislation. That frequently breeds resentment from less-fortunate neighbors, so areas of intense poverty or high crime, like the Dead End or Praxus, tend to have few warrens - the minibots who lived there generally scrape together funds until they can leave and then get out, or are assisted by other warrens.

For Spec-Ops, Bumblebee is both the Most Senior and Most Respected minibot, so he’s king of the minibot hill, in addition to having the rank to match. Despite Mirage being the nominal commander, the rest of his warren generally look to Bee for guidance first, but that’s fine - it’s pretty expected, socially, that you go to the leader of a warren if you want them to do something, and he passes the message along in the same way a gestalt commander or squad leader might.

The other members of the Ops team are Rung, Seaspray, Beachcomber, Cosmos, Powerglide, Flipsides, Garboil and Howlback. I’ve modified things a bit - there aren’t that many canon minibots suitable for Ops, so a couple of the more interesting cassettes have made the change to avoid cluttering the handful of hostmechs I’m using.

Speaking of cassettes! The polite term is Symbionts, with the corresponding frametype being Hosts, but cassettes and carriers is very much part of the vernacular, and isn’t particularly offensive. Not all symbionts are cassettes, though - some don’t have the mods for internal carriage, and many turn into other things entirely, like having a beast- and mech- alt. Symbionts are nothing like minibots or regular mecha - they’re closer to sparktwins, or even gestalts, physiologically speaking, though they look nothing like them.

Symbionts have receptive sparks created by splitting an ordinary spark artificially - but, unlike a natural twin, the bond between the halves is severed entirely, leaving them looking for something to bond from creation. Hosts, on the other hand, are created from overly-strong sparks - an uncommon but natural occurrence - that have at least some sigma potential for technopathy, something that an existing host can screen for fairly easily. The host is enframed and trained, and will at some point during their last upgrades, create their first pair of symbionts by designing a pair of frames and then splitting, bonding, and enframing a spark.

An ordinary host can manage between four and eight symbionts, though most prefer around six. A very powerful host might be able to manage fourteen or more, but doing so would be extremely unusual, and strain their spark severely. Still, a larger group of symbionts is a social signifier in hostmech society, so a politically significant carrier will have more - Soundwave has seven, a fairly large group.

Because of their small sparks, the processors a cassette can manage are… limited, in some ways. Unlike minibots, who are as intelligent as any other mech, cassettes don’t have full-sized processing units because they can’t handle the strain, so they tend to be underdeveloped in some ways*. Most are very effective at data collection and dissemination, with limited social and physical abilities, but others are configured differently. For example, Rewind and Eject are both configured for datawork - archiving and collection, respectively - but Rumble and Frenzy sacrifice those capabilities for social skills, to assist Soundwave with his disabilities, and Ravage and Ramhorn both sacrifice social niceties and datawork capacity for physical ability, Ravage being faster both on her pedes and mentally, and Ramhorn in the form of a bigger frame and more armor.

A host being killed snuffs their entire cohort, but a symbiont’s spark isn’t large enough to drag a host with it unless the host has only one or two symbionts, and even then, it’s unlikely. Still, it’s agonizing, and the backlash can traumatize the host - or, worse, snuff another symbiont, which does occasionally result in a chain reaction ending in the host’s deactivation.

Socially, hosts tend to live apart - they are hyper-specialized for comms work, and therefore rarely wander. Modern cities have further removed them from society, limiting the need to interact with non-hosts, and so their society is unusually close-knit, with its own delicate politicking. Less-powerful hosts, those not capable of running a city-wide network or relay, typically work for companies or agencies like the Enforcers, managing smaller, dedicated comms networks for their employers - so, for example, Blaster wouldn’t handle the day-to-day radio chatter of the Enforcers, because they’d have their own mech to handle it for them. Ops works with him directly because, like most other things, their own comms agent was - *cough* - murdered by Red Alert and they haven’t replaced him yet. Or b/c he’s the only guy with a clearance, IDK, I haven’t decided, but probably that first one.

So, for example, Soundwave has the Twins (Rumble and Frenzy), who he created a few vorns before his final upgrades; they’re his most senior symbionts, and he built them to assist him interacting with other mechs. After that, he commissioned into the military and created Ravage and Nightstalker, matched stealth scouts. Nightstalker deactivated a few decavorns after he created Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw, aerial scouts, and he didn’t create again for several millennia while he recovered from the pain of that bond breaking. Eventually, however, he created Glit and Ratbat - Glit, in memory of Nightstalker, and to assist him with a recent serious injury, and Ratbat as a third partner for Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw. None of them are particularly well-suited to datawork, but he’s a really powerful technopath in addition to being one of the most talented hosts ever enframed, so he doesn’t really need the help - serving in the military, he’s much more interested in data aquisition, and he doesn’t deal with the sort of intensive comms work Blaster does.

*Just to clarify - natural twins, like Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, don’t have this disadvantage. For twins to form, the splitting spark has to be above a viability threshold, and much larger than an ordinary mech’s - around the size of a shuttle’s or hostmech’s - or it will destabilize and simply fade into the Allspark. Twins do typically have slightly undersized sparks, but not to the point of impairing them from supporting a full frame - you never find twin convoys, shuttles, or triplechangers, however, since they wouldn’t be able to support the extra mass or strain of a third alt mode. Alpha abilities are unheard of, also, though twins frequently share a minor sigma ability - like their spark signatures, it will be identical for both of them.

Chapter Text

“He probably has been sleeping at his console again.” Mirage guides them towards Nightbeat’s room with a frown on his face. “He does this - forgets to recharge, then naps at his desk as if that’s enough to count. We’ll have to see - he may or may not be fit for company, I’m afraid.”

“That bad, huh?” Jazz nods. “He seemed a bit of an odd sort, from Prowler’s memories, at least. Pit of a mech to send into an interrogation.”

Mirage sniffs. “Not my idea, I assure you - that little bit of cleverness was all Bumblebee. Effective, however.”

“He is… charming.” Prowl agrees with a fond smile. “It was good to see another enforcer. Was he aware, at the time, that you were recruiting me?”

“Primus, no!” The spymaster laughs. “Nightbeat can’t keep a secret for anything. I was impressed that he didn’t simply tell you that we were sparing you, outright, when you mentioned execution, and that was with Bumblebee feeding him what to say word-by-word - if he knew you were a potential recruit, I guarantee he would have brought it up.”

“Not great spy material, huh?” Jazz grins.

“He is a wonderful investigator - can pull information from a scattered pile of notes and a quick glance around a room.” Mirage pauses in front of a door - as nondescript as any of the other offices, and glances back over his shoulder at them. “With that said, we don’t let him off-base without a minder, no. He tends to get into trouble the moment you take your optics off of him.”

He knocks, politely, at the door. When there’s no answer, he repeats the gesture more briskly.

“Nightbeat?” His frown deepens, just a touch. “If he’s starved himself into stasis again… Nightbeat!”

There’s a grumbling noise from beyond the door, then the clatter of something data-pad-sized toppling off a desk. “Huh?” a bleary voice calls from behind the door. “Oh - come in!”

Mirage nudges the door open carefully, leading them into the dimly-lit expanse of Nightbeat’s office. The mech is sitting at his desk with bright optics and a haggard smile on his face, re-stacking a handful of datapads.

“Hey, Mirage! Hi, Prowl - oh, and you're Jazz! Good to see you again!” There’s a pause, almost a jutter, as if he’s checking something - “Oh - I was supposed to meet you, wasn’t I? Sorry - sorry, I got caught up on some stuff. Give me a breem?”

“How long has it been since you recharged, Nightbeat?” Mirage asks, his voice gentle - but there’s a wire of steel through it.

“Huh?” Nightbeat glances over, and Prowl can see how long he must have been running - the other enforcer’s optics are too bright and steady, his plating loose with exhaustion. “Twelve joor.”

“In a berth, Nightbeat. For more than a joor or two.” There’s a warning edge to the words, but Nightbeat doesn’t seem to notice - he replies with a shrug.

“I dunno - let me check. Couple of cycles, maybe?”

“Nightbeat…” Mirage’s voice is resigned. “The files will wait. You’re going to fuel, come take a shower, and then recharge. In that order.”

“But -” Nightbeat frowns. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

“You aren’t getting anything done like this.” Mirage’s voice is coaxing, but Nightbeat looks more than ready to protest -

“Nightbeat. We - I wanted to spend some time with you - but we can’t, if you’re this exhausted...” Prowl softens his voice, letting his field reach out to brush across the detective’s, and feels his tiredness in the sluggish way it responds.

“I can talk -” But he stumbles on the words and goes silent, looking resentful. “Maybe a little break.”

“Fuel first.” Mirage makes his way around the desk, neatly avoiding the piled datapads, and pops open a drawer, pulling out a brightly-glowing cube of energon - medgrade, by the thick, viscous way it moves when he holds it out. “There. Drink.”

Nightbeat complies obediently, downing the cube in a few gulps. “I’m fine, really, ‘Raj. Maybe it was time for a bit of fuel, but I really want to -”

“Shower. Up.” Mirage’s voice is still gentle, despite the clipped encouragement, and he gets an arm under Nightbeat’s to help haul the mech to his pedes. As he does, Nightbeat stumbles, datapads scattering as he tries to grab for them, and as soon as they’re around the table, Prowl hastens to get a hold on his other arm and help guide him.

“Oh - ah…” Nightbeat shifts his weight until it’s more on Prowl than Mirage, letting them lead him out into the hallway. “Sorry. I’m a little more tired than I thought, I guess.” His field pushes out a little more. “You’re going to come, right? Mirage, they can come?”

“What do you mean, Nightbeat? Remember to explain things.” Mirage’s voice is gentle. “Where do you want Prowl to go?”

“With us - to shower?” Nightbeat’s optics are a little wavery, though he manages to keep his footing better in the clear hall. “Because he’s cohort now. And he needs to…” He pauses as if he’s just remembered that Prowl is close enough to hear him, helm swinging back around. “Oh - sorry, Prowl. I forgot it would be rude to talk about how messed up your coding must be in front of you.”

Mirage’s free hand reaches up to rub the bridge of his nose as he vents. “Yes, Nightbeat. You’re being very polite, not bringing that up.”

“Thank you, Mirage.” There’s a tired shuffle of his plates as Nightbeat preens. “I’m glad I remembered.”

There’s the ping of a comm code in his inbox, and Prowl accepts it automatically, half-expecting it to be Nightbeat rambling tiredly at him - he’s surprised when, instead, it’s Mirage’s cultured tones. ::My apologies - I’ve been trying to get him onto a regular recharge schedule, but even if you can get him away from his desk, he simply smuggles his notes back to his room to keep working. He doesn’t intend any offense, I assure you.::

::It’s alright.:: Prowl sends back hastily. ::I’m not offended. He had a… reputation for bluntness that persisted long after he left the Iaconi enforcers.::

::I can handle this alone, if you’d prefer not to get involved - he won’t be alert for much longer, now that he’s fueled.:: Mirage offers delicately. ::It will most likely take the rest of the afternoon to settle him, and possibly into the night - I can have someone escort you out of Ops, if you’d like.::

::No,:: Prowl says automatically, before hesitating. ::One moment.:: >>Jazz-<<

He doesn’t have to explain, however - Jazz just laughs. >>We’ve got time, Prowler - let’s see where this goes.

::It will help me,:: he explains to the listening spymaster. ::My coding - things like this are part of how cohort-bonds are built between enforcers. It will help it latch onto him - and you, also, as our team leader.::

Mirage hums thoughtfully. ::Not commander?::

::For the moment, I have designated the Prime as such within the coding.:: Prowl pauses, hesitating. ::It is… not difficult, to change it, but I believe he fits the role more closely. There will be no issue having you as a direct commander; there is a separation there.::

::If he has given you permission to designate him, I see no issue. I have my own oaths to him - I don’t foresee a conflict.:: Mirage hums thoughtfully. ::Work with it for now - we can reevaluate if it becomes necessary.::

::Understood.:: Prowl pauses for a moment. ::Commander.::

Mirage smiles, but shakes his helm. ::None of that, yet - you have four more cycles, and I don’t want anyone implying to Optimus that I was forward.::

::Of course.::

>>Takin’ that real serious, huh?<< Jazz passes down the bond. Mirage is right - positioned in front of him like this, Prowl has no issue not meeting his optic, and can feel the difference in how he holds his frame. >>’S good - I might not trust Mirage as far as I could throw him, but the Prime is…<< He pauses, but he doesn’t have to explain - Prowl felt it too, in the Prime’s presence, the brilliant light that burned away any doubt in the mech’s sincerity. >>Well. If Prime has his leash, I might just trust ‘Raj as far as you can throw him.<<

>>Mirage seems… sincere in his devotions.<< Prowl agrees after a moment.

>>Got his whole family killed for the mech, I should hope so.<<

They cut off their conversation as they reach a set of doors on the far side of medical. Mirage keys in a code, then ushers them inside.

“Our communal washrack, such as it is. Most of us prefer to shower privately - up until a few centivorn ago, this whole room was a decontamination rack.” It’s easy to see the additions to allow it to be used as a shower - and the valves that will let the solvent be quickly exchanged for a variety of neutralizing agents in the case of a chemical attack. “You won’t have much competition for it, except for the warren - they annex it once or twice an orn, now that it’s been remodeled to be a bit more comfortable.”

Those modifications, too, are obvious - there are a pair of benches set up about ten feet from the wall with the nozzles, anchored to the floor by heavy magnets designed to be tossed aside in an emergency, and a narrow rack bolted at waist-height around the perimeter of the room and lined with brushes. There are a few caddies with solvents and polishes, too, lined neatly against the wall.

“We don’t need to do much.” Mirage leads Nightbeat, and Prowl, to one of the benches. “Sit, Nightbeat. Just get him cleaned up a bit, maybe a touch of polish - help settle the code so he can recharge. Otherwise it’ll take a joor or two for him to get any sort of sleep.” The detective is already dozing - it takes a little effort to cajole him into position, plating locking obediently after a minute to hold him in place.

“Of course.” Prowl nods. “If we could all bathe, at least a little, it would be a help. Perhaps you and Jazz could help Nightbeat and I, and then I could polish him while you clean up?”

Mirage considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Certainly. I won’t say no to a little neatening up.” He appraises Prowl momentarily. “Your polish isn’t too bad - it shouldn’t take long. You’ll need to do something about those scrapes, though.”

“Jazz?” He dips his doorwings invitingly. “That is, if you’re all right handling Nightbeat alone for the moment?”

“I’ll be fine - I’ve done with with Nightbeat often enough.” Mirage is already selecting solvents by the time he responds, evaluating Nightbeat’s frame with a careful optic.

“Great, thanks.” Jazz gives him a little flicker of a smile that flares to life as he turns to Prowl. >>Gonna let me get my hands all over those pretty little wings, Prowler?<<

>>Of course.<< He sends a quick image capture. >>That brush, if you don’t mind? Just work around the bases - the flats need less attention.<<

>>Mm - yeah, I see it. Looks like they’ll just need a quick rinse with a mesh.<< Jazz’s hands are careful but more confident as he picks up the brush and begins to detail, Prowl waiting just long enough to be sure he’s got a handle on it before taking a brush of his own and beginning to clean his front. There aren’t many scrapes, but they are long, and fairly deep; none go all the way to metal, the glossy polish doing a good job of protecting the nanites, but there are little dark streaks where Mirage’s paint got left in the grooves.

He lets himself relax into the familiarity of the work - hands on him, hot solvent splashing down, he lets his field open outward to brush Mirage’s and Nightbeat’s. Mirage’s is tight - not entirely, it’s obvious where he’s meshing it with Nightbeat’s, but it’s a practiced thing compared to the casual way the other enforcer’s field slips out in welcome, expanding until they’re fully enmeshed on one long edge.

>>Mirage is good with him,<< he comments idly, pinging the observation to Jazz. He can feel the way Jazz stretches his own field out until all four of them are overlapping, looking for himself, before retracting just a little.

>>Seems kind of… I dunno. Strung up, maybe. He’s a bit uptight, ain’t he?<<

Prowl gives a little nod. >>I’ve hardly felt his field since we met him; he draws it in close. For him to let it out that much for Nightbeat…<< He trails off - he doesn’t have a good way to explain how much it means to him, to see the obvious way Mirage cares for Nightbeat, how important it is, but fortunately he doesn’t need to - he can feel Jazz’s understanding down the bond.

>>’M glad.<< He offers. >>Nightbeat seems like the type to need it. And kind of a mess, honestly.<<

Prowl hums back his agreement. >>He’s a specialist - we tend to be.<<

Jazz laughs, and pushes fondness down the bond. They work silently for a few kliks, letting the warmth of the mindling fields distract them, until Prowl gets another ping over comms.

::I should be done here in a klik, if you’d like to rinse off before we get him on his pedes?::

::Of course.:: Prowl replies. >>I’m sorry to break your spark, Jazz, but -<<

>>Duty calls. I understand.<< Jazz grins. >>Go help your new disaster sort out his polish - I’ll entertain myself with our new boss.<<

>>Play nice!<< Prowl sends back, but there’s no admonishment behind it, and Jazz’s field flickers with amusement.

>>Always.<<

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It takes them almost a breem to get Nightbeat rinsed - he rouses, for some of it, but never enough to be much of a help; for the most part, he grumbles helpfully before slipping back into recharge. It takes all three sets of hands to get him positioned back on the bench in a good position for polishing; once he is, Prowl settles down to work, and turns his attention almost fully to the flickers of mischief Jazz is letting slip down the bond.

He doesn’t do anything for a few kliks - not until Mirage is mostly finished with his own plating, at least what he can reach. It’s only then that, impossibly silent, he slides up behind the spymaster.

“You need some help with your back?”

Mirage whirls, optics brightening in shock, and his hand drops - there’s a moment where Prowl thinks that Jazz is going to be stabbed again, but this time, Mirage manages to resist the urge. “What?” His vocalizer skips, just a bit, on the word.

“You know - since we’re doin’ this whole enforcer thing.” Jazz grins. “Thought we might do as they do - you’ve got a couple o’ scratches on your back from when Prowler landed on you.”

“Oh.” Mirage hesitates, field drawing back in unconscious nervousness. “No - I will be fine, thank you.”

Jazz’s grin falters a little, though his amusement, down the bond, does not. “Oh, Mirage - I see how it is.”

“Excuse me?” Mirage hesitates again, obviously disarmed by the feigned hurt.

“You don’t trust me, huh. An’ after all we said ‘bout starting fresh - I was just tryin’ ta be helpful…”

Mirage’s gaze is wary, but Prowl can see him weighing Jazz’s reaction, debating if the wounded tone he’s taking is real or entirely faked, and down the bond, Jazz smirks. >>Easy.<< He comments, and Prowl can feel the way he contemplates Mirage, looking for a new angle of attack.

He’s disamed, therefore, when Mirage hesitates - and then nods, turning to offer his back to Jazz. The tension in his plating is obvious, but he doesn’t flinch away when Jazz shifts behind him. “Alright.”

“What?” Jazz is completely thrown off guard.

“You may work on my back, if you wish. I’m sure you’re right about the scrapes.” He gestures. “The blue solvent, if you don’t mind - the others interact poorly with my polish.”

Mirage’s back is in easy reach, the solvent in question close by, but the assassin hesitates. “You don’ gotta let me, if you don’t want, you know that, right?”

Mirage glances back in confusion. “Apologies?”

Jazz hesitates again. “I mean - you know I’m teasin’, right? Ain’ gonna be offended if you don’t trust me yet, or if you’ve got some kinda noble thing where you don’ wanna be touched.”

“Oh -” Mirage laughs, and Prowl can see the way some of the tension seeps out of his frame at Jazz’s words. He turns away again, but his voice is a little lighter. “No - my apologies. You were right - we agreed to go into this more openly, and I was being unfair to you. If you wish to help me with my plating, you are welcome to.”

“There we go.” Prowl can feel Jazz’s satisfaction down the bond as he reaches out and begins working delicate circles into Mirage’s shoulder-joints with the brush. >>Knew he’d come around, lover.<< “Promise I won’t get handsy, mech.”

“I promise you wouldn’t get far, if you tried.” Mirage smirks. “Hound is an excellent tracker.”

Jazz laughs in reply. “I’ll remember that.” He concentrates on the brush for a moment, but Prowl can feel his curiosity across the bond. “So - since I’m collectin’ stories, or so it seems, how’d the two of you meet? Is he another noble, or…?”

“Hound? No - he’s a commoner.” Mirage’s field flickers with fondness. “He worked for my sire as a gardener on our estate - he’s only a few decavorns older than me. I’ve known him since I was a youngling.”

“Huh. Didn’ know noblemechs could do tha’ - thought you all had ta get swapped off for politics, or something.” Jazz pauses, considering. “Sorry - I don’t mean ta be rude, it’s just - not a lot of nobles in Praxus.”

“It’s alright. We were something of a holovid romance, I’ll admit - if my sire had been alive, I’m sure we would have thrown the Towers into scandal when we were caught.” Mirage shrugs. “With him dead… Optimus gave us his blessing; I need no more endorsement than that. With that said, however, Lord Mirage is unbonded - one gala in with the turbowolves and I fear Hound would never return to Iacon for fear of another.”

“That bad, huh?” Jazz’s tone is amused.

“Worse. I prepare for - well, every formal event, but the galas are the worst of it - by spending several joor getting polished and having my House markings re-etched and lined in gilt. Then, once I’m immaculate, I have half a cube of base-neutralizer piped directly into my energon diversion tank. Then I get to go to a party where I will, almost invariably, be poisoned; I pretend I have not until I can get away and flush my tanks, and return to the party.” He pauses. “That, by the way, is the enjoyable part. When I’m not being assassinated, I have to listen to senators tell me how eligible I am while I try to build support for Optimus’ platforms, and quietly defer interest from the other noble houses.”

“You get poisoned that often?” Prowl almost misses the second half of Mirage’s explanation, his processor sticking on that fact.

“Oh, constantly. My house is, and has always been, powerful, and reduced to one member… there are plenty who would like to see me dead, and my support of the Prime ended. Without an heir, that is… precariously easy.” Mirage shrugs. “No one has succeeded yet, and not for lack of trying. At the Festival of Lights dance, I was poisoned three separate times - we managed to catch two of the mechs responsible, but there are always others.”

“Slag, that sounds miserable. You’d think they’d stop trying after th’ first couple of mechs get caught.”

Mirage laughs. “Oh - no. It serves my interests that they keep trying - it’s easier to catch assassins once they’ve shown their hand - so the mechs responsible simply… vanish. You’ll doubtless get a few of them, once you’re officially Ops.”

“Fair enough.” Jazz moves his brush to the other shoulder, pausing, for a moment, to work at a scrape in Mirage’s polish.

“A lot of Iaconi Ops work is like that - ferreting out opposition to the Prime, and dealing with it, one way or another.” The spymaster pauses, arching, very slightly, into the brush. “Optimus is… more generous than some of the previous Primes, admittedly - he doesn’t ask us to target his political rivals, generally speaking - but the nobility, and the Senate, are rarely content with remaining simply vocal opposition. The Prime’sguard are very effective at protecting the personage of the Primacy - but the Prime’s supporters are more vulnerable, and making sure that they are able to support him is critical.”

“So when anybody gets any ideas about slaggin’ with one of them, you off them first.” Jazz grins. “‘S clean - I like it.”

“Well - it’s not always assassination. That’s reserved for… particular problems.” Mirage lingers on the words significantly. “Blackmail, and the removal thereof, bribery, when it’s called for - occasionally, we are the delicate finger tipping the scales in our Prime’s favor.”

“Fair enough.” Jazz’s eagerness, down the bond, hasn’t faded, though. “So - what got you to Praxus? Ain’t like you’ll find many mechs there lookin’ ta interfere in the Prime’s business.”

“He asked us to investigate.” Mirage shrugs. “We are his optics and audials, also. Praxus has been isolated for a long time - since Sentinel’s reign - and Optimus wanted to know what was going on. He would have been content to leave it, I think, had the city been doing well on it’s own, but with what we’ve found… He wants Praxus opened back up to the Iaconi sphere of influence.”

“‘S gonna be a lot of work, cuttin’ the gangs out of there.” Prowl can feel Jazz turning the thought over in his helm. “Whole city’s rotting out underneath - you’re gonna have ta dig through the rust ta find solid metal ta build on. ‘S gonna take a long time.”

“We’re prepared for that.” Mirage nods. “Once we’ve sunk out dentae into the city, others can follow - we don’t need to rebuild the city, just make sure that whoever Optimus sends in to finish the job can get their claws into it.”

“You’d need to purge the enforcers.” Prowl pauses on that thought for a moment, uncertain of how he feels at the thought of Special Operations - of himself - being turned on his former colleagues, but he brushes it aside. “Need to get rid of Titanium, and all the other Lords, or they’ll tear whoever you send in apart.”

“We’ve got some plans - plans Nightbeat was working on, before he decided to spend three cycles locked in his office.” Mirage gives the enforcer a fond glance. “As Bumblebee said, Praxus is an ideal proving ground for the pair of you - we’re already planning on your involvement. You’ll be briefed in full once you’re officially Ops.”

“Thank you.” Prowl ducks his helm gratefully. “It will be good to see things through, there.”

Mirage nods agreeably, falling silent for a few kliks as Jazz works his way down his back. His question, when he asks it, is carefully gentle, curious without judgement -

“Do you want to kill him?”

Jazz goes still, and Prowl doesn’t have to ask who ‘he’ is - he knows to the spark of him. What he doesn’t know is the answer - does he want to kill Barricade? To see Jazz kill him? Does he want him dead?

“I -” He trails off in a blat of static, unable to answer, but Mirage just nods.

“It’s alright, if you don’t know.” He pauses, and there’s something distant in his voice when he continues. “I killed my own sire, Prowl - someone else pulled the trigger, but I painted the target and watched as they took the shot. I understand what it’s like to feel conflicted.”

“I hate him.” It’s easy to say, because it’s true. “But…”

“He was your commander. A fellow enforcer.” Mirage nods again. “I can understand that.”

“Ain’t gonna stop me though - I know your spark.” Jazz’s voice is vicious and self-satisfied as he resumes moving, working the brush along Mirage’s spinal strut with just a touch more force than before. “You might not be able ta want him dead - but you ain’t gonna cry when I do him, either, Prowler. I’ve got you.”

The way he says it makes Prowl’s spark warm, shaking off the nervous indecision of Mirage’s question. “You do. I trust you, Jazz.”

“Trust you too, love. An’ speakin of trustin’ mechs - I think you’re good ta rinse, Mirage. Looks like I got everything.”

“Excellent.” Mirage turns to let the spray of solvent rinse away the lather, working the sprayer across his shoulders carefully. “How is Nightbeat doing, Prowl?”

“He’s all set - I’ve been working over the same few areas for the last breem.” Prowl lays the buffer aside carefully. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” Mirage is businesslike as he rinses the last foam from his frame before shutting off the spray - he gives the remaining liquid a few moments to drain before igniting the remainder. As it burns off, he eyes Nightbeat, who doesn’t even stir, already deep in recharge. “Give me a hand carrying him up to his room?”

“Sure.” Jazz grins. “Prowler, you wanna get th’ top of him, an me an ‘Raj can grab a pede each?”

“Amusing as that is…” Prowl smirks, before leaning down to hoist up the other enforcer and slinging his limp frame over his shoulders in a firemech’s carry, “I’m more than able to carry another enforcer to safety, in the event of an emergency.”

Mirage gives him an appreciative look. “Thank you - I usually have to get a gurney. Or, if I’m feeling particularly unkind, a medic.”

“‘S the good news, I guess - forget Skids, ‘cause Ratchet’s not gonna have anywhere to put him once Nightbeat’s in a hole in the ground. He’s gonna be fragged off an’ madder than Pit th’ first time he finds out Nightbeat’s up ta this kind of slag.” They follow him out into the hall, Mirage getting out front to guide him once they’re through the doors.

“He means well.” Mirage’s voice is warning, just a touch. “But he could do with someone else reminding him. Hopefully Ratchet will prove more persuasive than Ambulon.”

“He is.” Prowl hasn’t met the Ops medic, but it’s harder to think of anything more persuasive than an angry Ratchet. “Rest assured.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They make a bit more idle chatter as they work their way back to the top floor - Prowl picks up, once or twice, the faint scuttle of minibots moving through the vents, but no one pops out to greet them, so he doesn’t bring it up beyond a quick mention to Jazz.

Nightbeat’s room is… more orderly than his office, which is the most generous thing that can be said for it. The lights, when they turn on, are as dim as the ones in his office; Mirage glances over when he sees Prowl looking up at them.

“He likes to work without his visor, occasionally. ‘Lets him see the world through fresh optics,’ or something like that - there should be a way to turn them up, but I’m not sure how.”

“I wouldn’t want to blind him when he wakes up, regardless.” Prowl steadies his grip on Nightbeat, and tunes his own optics to maximize pick-up in the darkened room. “His berth?”

“Over here.” It’s through a side-door, and Prowl hums approvingly when he sees it - wide enough for four or five mechs and obviously custom.

Mirage settles on the edge of it and helps Prowl get Nightbeat down, before laying down beside him, back to the wall. “Thank you.” He pauses. “It will just be a breem to get someone down here - I’m sure that you have things you’d like to -”

“Nope!” Jazz plops down on the edge of the berth, and Prowl can see Mirage’s whole frame tighten - he’s not in a bad position, for a fight, but lying down supine gives him no easy way to get away from Jazz. Jazz doesn’t do anything, though, just rearranges himself until he’s laying pressed against Nightbeat’s other side. >>C’mon, Prowler. We can have a bit of fun, right?<<

>>I suppose.<< Prowl lets a flicker of his own amusement slip back to Jazz, who purrs approvingly as he settles down behind him. “Nightbeat will recharge better with more fields against his,” he offers to Mirage. It’s true, and after a moment, the spymaster nods - obviously uncomfortable, but unable to argue with the premise.

He settles in, frame comfortably framing Jazz’s against Nightbeat’s side, and lets his field flicker soothingly against all three of the enmeshed fields - feels the way they respond, and how, after a moment, even Mirage’s starts to relax. But there’s still a frisson of tension there that doesn’t abate - and despite the stillness in his frame, Mirage’s optics don’t even begin to dim towards recharge.

After a moment, Jazz blooms open a comm-link between the three of them.

::You’re not going to get any recharge like this, are you?:: Prowl can taste Jazz’s amusement down the bond, but his voice, over comms, is sympathetic.

::Probably not, no.:: Mirage agrees easily.

::Pity.:: Jazz lets his arm shift until his hand rests, easily, on Mirage’s upper arm, across Nightbeat’s still chest - what would be a fond, even affectionate gesture, if they were cohort. If Prowl couldn’t feel the way the faint tension in Mirage’s field twists and grows more solid at the touch. ::Oh well.::

His optics go dark, and Mirage’s widen in surprise for just a moment before narrowing in indignation. His gaze flicks up to Prowl -

::We won’t hurt you, Mirage.:: He promises, and lets his own free hand rise to cover Mirage’s, pressed over Nightbeat’s chest. It’s obvious, from the way Mirage’s field flickers anxiously, that this has had exactly the intended result - and, with that, he offlines his own optics.

>>You’re an aft, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is warm with amusement as he snuggles in a little closer.

>>Your aft.<< Prowl agrees fondly.

>>My aft is perfect, an’ I won’t hear a word against it.<< Jazz grins down the bond. >>My conjunx is pretty great, too. Bit of a fragger, though.<<

>>You started it.<<

>>I wasn’ gonna pin his whole arm down!<< But Jazz is laughing. >>You think he’s gonna ‘charge at all, tonight?<<

>>Probably not. I wouldn’t.<< Prowl pauses, considering. >>I like him, Jazz. I like this.<<

He sends a snippet - not memory, but perception. Jazz, curled against him, warm and gentle and perfect; Nightbeat, cohort, and there’s no need to flinch away from the word because he can already feel the truth of it; even Mirage, nervous at his touch, but not flinching away, calm and confident and visionary -

>>Eh, he’s growin’ on me.<< But he can hear the little flicker of fondness in Jazz’s voice. >>It’ll take time, I think. I dunno if I’d ever have chosen somethin’ like this, Prowler, not without a knife at my throat, but I’m happy we’re doin’ it.<<

Chapter Text

It’s over eight joor, according to his chronometer, before Prowl begins to stir again.

Safe, with four friendly, warm fields enmeshing his own, he lets his processor spin up slowly, using the time to pet, gently, at the hand underneath his own. He feels it when that mech begins to stir, rousing more quickly without the extra burden of the ats to bring online - there’s a frission of tension through his field that relaxes, almost immediately, into calm.

“Good morning, Prowl.” Mirage’s voice is gentle, and there’s an almost teasing lilt to it. “Recharge well?”

Prowl doesn’t bother with trying to talk, yet - instead, he lets out a deep, rumbling purr.

Then there’s a hand patting his wing - it’s gentle, but he can’t tell who it is. He takes a mental tally - Mirage’s hand is under his, safely pinned where it can’t stab Jazz; Jazz is quiet, curled warm and safe against his bumper; Nightbeat is lying between them, under Mirage’s hand…

He sends the question to his ATS as it spins up, unhurried - whoever it is, their field is steady, and Mirage seems unconcerned. He shuffles his wings a little, though, churring as the hand moves obediently to scratch lightly at their bases, and lets himself relax back into a doze as the ATS continues to run through boot.

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He wakes up again when Nightbeat begins to stir. The ATS, helpfully, informs him that the mech at his back is Road Rage - fully alert, it’s easy to distinguish the femme’s heavier motors and distinct flightframe systems. He onlines his optic’s to Mirage’s bright, amused gaze.

“A little more awake, this time?”

“Yes, thank you.” Prowl shifts, letting his hand slip upwards to pat Nightbeat’s shoulder carefully. “The ATS has a long boot, if I’m not in a hurry - there’s additional active defragmenting that’s easiest to do as it comes online.”

“We’ll hafta work on your reflexes a bit - you’n you ‘junx didn’ even notice me comin’ in.” There’s a flicker of amusement in Road Rage’s field, but it dims a bit when he doesn’t jump at her voice.

“You wouldn’t have tripped my systems - even in recharge, my sensors are able to distinguish between mechs moving around me.” It’s a lie - technically, he can, but surrounded by cohort, he hadn’t bothered to set any such monitors before slipping into recharge. “I knew I was in no danger.”

“An’ I been up since you came in - just didn’ feel like givin’ myself away.” Jazz’s voice is amused, and entirely alert, and it makes both Road Rage and Mirage jerk in surprise. “Wasn’ that tired, mech. You mind puttin’ th’ gun away now that we’re all up an’ not assassinatin’ each other?”

“Slag - you run silent, mech.” Road Rage seems torn between impressed and annoyed.

Jazz chuckles, though he keeps it soft in deference to Nightbeat, whose field is still on the groggy edge between recharge and waking. “‘S the whole job, my mech.”

“‘M gonna stick bells on you.” But Prowl can hear the grinning amusement in her voice as she says it, amusement that is matched, forebodingly, in Jazz’s.

“Oh, you can try.” But Nightbeat makes a little wuffling noise of protest, and they all look down at him.

“No-ooo-o.” He grumbles, optics onlining, dim. “No bells, Rage. He’s gotta be - sneaky -”

“Wake up, Nightbeat.” Mirage’s voice is gentle, but amused. “You’re missing the whole conversation.”

There’s another grumble at that, and Prowl can hear the faint whir of Nightbeat’s systems spinning up. Another klik, and he goes, “Oh. Yeah, that makes more sense.” He pauses, and then, more quietly, “Sorry, ‘Raj. I got so caught up -”

“It’s alright.” Mirage’s hand moves to rub, gently, at Nightbeat’s neck, a fond, possessive gesture. “You were still upright when we arrived; I’ll take what I can get.”

That gets a happy purr from the investigator’s engines. He shifts, slightly, under the weight of three other mechs. “Can I get up?”

“Of course.” Mirage slides down to the foot of the bed, sitting up on the edge so that there’s enough room for Nightbeat to wiggle out from under Jazz. He does, sitting up to brace himself on the wall, but he doesn’t pull away from Jazz entirely - one hand pats, a little awkwardly, at the smaller assassin’s helm.

It takes a little more shuffling to untangle themselves, and work into a position where all four of them can sit on the berth - Jazz sandwiched between Prowl and Nightbeat, Mirage to Prowl’s side, but a little more apart, and Road Rage, amusement at the spectacle flickering through her field, watching from her chair. “I brought you mechs some fuel,” she offers, with a grin, letting the rifle on her lap slip to lean against the chair. “Though you could probably use another cube, Nightbeat.”

She offers him a cube of thick, viscous med-grade, and Prowl logs that carefully; at their interview, Nightbeat had been drinking plain energon, but so far, both of his cohortmates have offered med-grade. And Nightbeat accepts the cube eagerly, gulping it down before grinning back at Road Rage. “Thanks.” He turns to them, smile dimming just a touch, shoulder plating flaring slightly, with what Prowl can read on his field is embarrassment. “Sorry you two had to see me like that - thanks for sticking around.”

“No problem, mech - just glad to see you’re alright.” Jazz reaches out experimentally to pat the investigator’s leg. “You feelin’ any better?”

“Yeah - I just need some sleep, usually.” There’s another little flash of embarrassment as his plating settles back. “And a couple of cubes.”

“What were you working on?” Prowl asks, curiously.

“Oh, I -” Nightbeat pauses, glancing over at Mirage as if for permission, and perking up when the blue mech nods. “I’ve been working on the situation in Praxus! There are a lot of mechs involved - I mean, obviously, it’s a whole city - so ‘Raj has had me doing socioanalytical mapping. Figuring out who the lynchpin figures within the city are, who we’d be better off leveraging rather than taking out - all that stuff! Your files were a huge help, by the way - thank you!”

“I’d be happy to assist,” Prowl offers, though he, too, glances at Mirage to see how the spymaster will react to such a forward offer. “I’ve got an inbuilt tactical processor - I don’t have the training for that sort of analysis on a broad scale, but I’d be happy to lend you the bandwidth.”

Mirage doesn’t seem to mind, and Nightbeat grins. “What - oh, right, you’re going to be taking over tactical eventually! Thank Primus - not that I haven’t enjoyed working with Skids, but it’s very stressful, isn’t it? Having to keep track of mechs in real time like that. I’d love to work with you, though - it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to collaborate with another enforcer!” It’s obvious that he relishes the thought.

“Once he’s got clearance, of course.” Mirage reminds him, and Nightbeat nods agreeably.

“Of course!”

Prowl accepts a cube, carefully, from Road Rage as she offers it out - and holds it over to Mirage. The spymaster gives an approving hum, checking the seal with a glance, before giving a short nod of approval, and Prowl hands the cube to Jazz before taking another for himself. >>Be careful about that,<< he offers to Jazz. >>I doubt he’ll do anything before we’ve officially joined Ops, but once we have, I wouldn’t put it past them to ‘test’ us - there are plenty of things that they could slip us that would be unpleasant, but not fatal…<<

>>Yeah.<< Jazz gives a contemplative hum. >>Might hafta have a talk with Ratch about that - I don’ got room in me for a secondary tank, not without subspacing more of my current mods than I like, but he might be able to upgrade my chemoreceptors or something, if it comes up that much.<<

>>I have a set of secondary filters for contamination, but nothing beyond that.<< Prowl agrees. >>I had them upgraded after the first time someone in Praxus slipped me dirty oil, but there was never an attempt that went further than spoiled fuel - I didn’t see the point.<<

>>Yeah, I noticed.<< Jazz’s voice, down the bond, turns teasing. >>Remember?<< An image, disconcertingly taken from Jazz’s perspective, of himself, slumped over in a chair that he’s chained to, almost-empty cube on the floor as if fallen from a limp hand, flashes over to him.

>>In my defense, caesium butyrate would have gone right through any kind of filter I could have added.<< Prowl shrugs. >>It was a good pick.<<

>>Slaggin’ right, it was. Ratch hooked me up.<< Jazz laughs. >>Drink your fuel, Prowler. ‘Raj is lookin’ chatty.<<

Prowl takes a deep draught of his energon - it’s unflavored, and therefore wholly uninteresting, except as a burst of extra energy as his fuel levels tick up - and glances over at the spymaster, who does appear to be in the middle of a comms conversation with Road Rage. After a moment, the bodyguard lets out a vent, but her field doesn’t seem upset.

“That bad, huh?” Jazz asks, voice teasingly sympathetic.

“Nah - jus’ more sparklin’-sittin’ duties.” Road Rage grins, leaning back. “Ain’ bad - just been a while since I got ta crack some helms. I don’ suppose you’re the type that likes ta wander down dark alleyways lookin’ vulnerable, give me somethin’ ta do?”

Jazz snorts at that. “Are there that many shady alleyways in th’ Primal Palace, mech?”

Mirage gives an amused smirk. “I was actually thinking that the four of you might enjoy spending the rest of the day out in Iacon. I’m sure you’d like to see your brother, Prowl? He’s not aware that you’re in the city, but Ultra Magnus is.”

Prowl can’t help the way his shoulders tense at that, and it’s obvious that the other four mechs - even Nightbeat - pick up on it. Mirage’s voice softens. “He - we haven’t told him the specifics, Prowl; I leave that up to you. Officially, your cover will be the same as Nightbeat’s - that your services were requested to fill an opening in Prime’sguard Tactical - but Magnus has a clearance as high as Ironhide’s. You can be as honest with him as you wish in private - he’s already been briefed on the situation in Praxus, though not the… specifics… of your involvement.”

“And Bluestreak?” His voice is tight. His spark feels tight in his chest, at the thought of lying to his brothers about this - at the thought of hiding Jazz like Mirage has hidden Hound, of not telling them -

Mirage can obviously tell - his gaze is considering as Jazz pushes comfort down the bond. “He will have to be cleared for it, Prowl. I will have the process expedited, however - we’ve already begun the background checks. You won’t be able to tell him about your work, but as long as he passes clearance, you’ll be able to tell him that you’re working with Ops.”

It’s good enough - he’s never shared much of his work with Bluestreak, anyways, and by the time the younger mech was old enough to hear about it, Prowl had been preparing for his move to Praxus. “That’s all that’s necessary.” He pauses. “I will tell him about Jazz.”

“Of course.” Mirage’s voice is smooth and agreeable. “I wouldn’t ask you to do otherwise.”

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“It’s gonna be nice to see everyone - I don’t get out into Iacon often!” Nightbeat’s voice is cheerful as Road Rage escorts them out through the palace to the streets of Iacon below. The bodyguard seems in good cheer, also - her field is light with amusement.

“We’ll need a transport.” She glances around once they’re on the street, blending in to the crowds moving about.

“It’s not far -” Prowl offers, but she shakes her helm with a roguish grin.

“Lemme clarify - unless you want your first visit back ta th’ Iaconi enforcers ta be in cuffs, we need a transport.” She gestures at herself. “Got a wirin’ problem - I ain’ good ta transform unless we’re in… hostile territory. Makes me ornery.”

“Orneryer?” Jazz offers, teasing, as Prowl nods acquiescence and steps out to the curb to flag down a shuttle. “Mornery?”

“She does this thing where she locks her back wheels in place, gets her front wheels against someone, and revs. It was very impressive!” Nightbeat adds helpfully.

Road Rage laughs at that, clapping him on the back. “I try. Point is, I ain’ allowed ta smash helms within th’ city limits, an’ that means no transformin’.”

They climb aboard as a shuttle slows to a stop, and Prowl gives quick directions - fortunately, the enforcer precincts in Iacon are wide complexes designed to centralize the hundreds of enforcers needed in such a vast city, rather than the smaller, more spread-out precincts used in Praxus, so he doesn’t need to worry about where Bluestreak might be stationed. Jazz, as they depart, sends a quick comm to Ratchet - they both receive a brief affirmative ping in response, as if the medic is busy with something, but that’s plenty.

“So, Nightbeat.” He offers, after a klik. “Road Rage - might I inquire after your comms codes?”

Another moment, and there are two codes in his inbox; he accepts them, and a commlink blooms between the four of them. ::Apologies - I didn’t want to speak where the shuttle might hear.::

::Of course.:: Road Rage’s voice is agreeable. ::No problem - I’d’a given it ta you earlier, if I’d thought on it. I know I’ve been playin’ th muscle, so far, but if you need anythin’, don’ hesitate ta comm - I’ve been Ops ‘bout as long as ‘Raj, an’ I’m a sight less busy, so chances are I’ll be able ta sort it fer you.::

::Thanks, mech.:: Jazz gives her a thumbs up, and she mirrors the gesture with a grin. ::Now - were you serious about crackin' some helms, or -::

::Hush, you.:: She snorts with amusement however. ::Not in fronta th’ cops, mech.::

::I gotchu.:: He laughs back, but she just grins and waves a hand.

::Not allowed ta have any fun in Iacon, unfortunately. But when Bee or ‘Raj rotate out ta take command o’ the Praxus mission, they’ll prob’ly take me - an’ that should be some good sport.:: She grins. ::It’s enough ta make you miss th’ war, sometimes, I swear.::

::You were a soldier?:: Prowl asks, curious. She shakes her helm, though.

::Eh. I was brought online fer a bodyguard - spent my first couple’a thousand vorns chasin’ noble brats around fer a couple o’ th’ flier houses. One o’ th’ mechlings decided to run off an’ enlist, and their sire sent me with ‘im ta keep outta danger - o’ course, I didn’ bother with any o’ tha’ slag, but Tracks is still ‘live an’ well, an’ half his family got slagged when th’ Quints bombed Uraya, so I think I did fine.:: She shrugs. ::After we got back, well - he had a tower ta rebuild, an’ my contract was up, so I rambled around a bit ‘till Sounders called me up an’ told me tha’ Legend was lookin’ fer muscle tha’ knew how ta play wit’ nobles fer one’a his new agents. Been ‘Raj’s partner ever since.::

::Sounders?:: Jazz asks, curious - then, with a shock of realization, he does a double-take. ::Wait, as in Soundwave? Th’ Lord Protector’s right hand mech? Th’ war hero?::

::Yeah - I worked fer him, a bit, durin’ th’ war. Well - with his little guys, mostly - me or Tracks’d fly patrols wit’ his scout deployers, sometimes, when he wanted a bit more muscle with ‘em without a whole slaggin’ trine taggin’ along.:: She shrugs. ::Doubt he remembered me, personal-like, but I was a good fit fer th’ position, an’ he always seemed ta know everythin’ about everymech.::

::Huh.:: Jazz looks vaguely surprised, at that. ::You know Ratchet, too, then? If he was deployed with th’ Prime, an’ th’ Prime with th’ Protector, an Soundwave with th’ Protector?::

::Nah - this was durin’ th’ Tarnian Incursions, strictly planet-side. I never deployed off-world - Urata was part of th’ Quint’s last major push on Cybertron, but’ there was plenty of clean-up to be done.:: She gestures. ::After that, I didn’ really feel like gettin’ pushed out ta th’ front again - decided ta enjoy peace, a bit. Plenty of work to be had with all th’ warframes off-world, and just about anyone over ten tons signin’ up, too.::

::Fair enough.:: Jazz nods thoughtfully. ::Me’n’Prowl are both too young ta remember those days.::

::Well, ta give you an idea, ol’ Sentinel was still Prime when I enlisted.:: She snorts. ::An’ good riddance ta that.::

::Good riddance!:: Nightbeat nods agreeably. ::Optimus is much nicer. Sentinel always spent much too long talking, and he was very rude if you got distracted.::

All three of them cycle their optics in surprise. It’s Road Rage who recovers first. ::You met th’ ol’ slagger? I never knew that.::

::Oh - yeah, once or twice. We rotated off as honor guards when he’d visit the temples, since so many of the Prime’sguard had been sent to fight the invasion - it was kind of ceremonial, but he liked to have the frames behind him for speeches, I guess.:: Nightbeat shrugs. ::Had a couple of his Prime’sguard knock me around when I got twitchy, and that was the last time Trucheon ever had me put on that duty.::

Prowl can’t help a surge of anger on Nightbeat’s behalf, at that. ::He - what?:: He pauses, unable to even think of what to say to that - ::Ultra Magnus would have killed them for something like that -::

::Eh, he was Prime - I doubt even Magnus would have been able to do anything.:: Nightbeat pauses at that, considering, and then nods fondly. ::He would have tried, though.::

::Slag, I can’t wait ta meet him.:: Jazz grins, but Prowl can feel him carefully turning the conversation back to something more cheery. ::He sounds like a terror - an’ he’s like forty feet tall, right? Pit, that’s horrifying.::

::Oh, no - he’s not quite forty feet. He’s very big, though!:: The fondness in Nightbeat’s voice is unmistakable - it mirrors Prowl’s own, though more exuberantly phrased. ::He’s really nice, though he can be a little… rulesy, I guess? He’ll act really formal, but that’s just how he is - it doesn’t mean he hates you.::

::He was my mentor.:: Prowl offers conversationally. ::I worked with him for centivorns while I was learning to use the ATS - he’s a good mech. The best.::

It’s hard to keep the trepidation out of his field, though, as he thinks about facing Ultra Magnus - as a murderer, rather than an enforcer.

>>Hey, Optimus pardoned us, Prowler. Didn’ just pardon us, he endorsed us retroactively - you ain’t a criminal.<< Jazz picks up on the thought, and his voice is comforting.

>>I failed, Jazz. Crime or not - enforcers aren’t supposed to do things like that.<< He’s not sure how to explain - Nightbeat would understand, probably already understands, but Jazz… >>We uphold the law - maintain order. There are - there are rules, there’s a system - we’re supposed to follow them, not -<<

He cuts off, but Jazz nods agreeably. >>Not team up wit’ a vigilante an’ kill mechs over it.<<

Prowl hesitates - he doesn’t want to hurt Jazz’s feelings, but… >>Yes.<<

>>Prowler…<< Jazz trails off, but there’s no reproach in his voice. >>You didn’ fail, Prowler. Th’ system failed you - I don’ know what I’d hafta say ta make you believe it, but if this Magnus of yours can’t see it, he’s obviously not half th’ mech you say he is. You were one mech - ain’t your fault Praxus was a pit, ain’t your failin’ that you weren’ willin’ ta let mechs die ta do things ‘ccordin’ ta th’ system.<<

>>Maybe.<< He hesitates again. >>Still, I -<< He trails off, but Jazz pushes comfort down the bond.

>>S’ gonna be alright, Prowler. I’ll be with you th’ whole way - we got this.<< His voice is warm, and confident, and as the transport rolls to a stop, Prowl lets himself relax into it.

>>We’ve got this.<< He agrees, and rises to push his way out of the shuttle.

The sight of the Precinct hits him like a physical blow. He stops for a moment to - to just stare at it, as a wave of nostalgia crashes over his spark - the longing recognition of home - until Jazz nudges him lightly, and he has to step forwards to let the other three mechs disembark. It’s a large complex, several stories of steel-and-enamel rising up out of an open courtyard large enough to address all five-hundred mechs the station is designed for - almost-empty, so late in the day, but if he had come earlier… memories of a hundred other mechs in crisply-regimented black-and-white paint milling around him threaten, for a moment, to overwhelm him entirely.

Jazz takes his arm, gently, and nudges him forward. “Where’re we goin’, Prowler?”

He takes another moment to shake off the haze, and gestures. “He’s probably over in the second-wing commons - if he’s off-shift. I don’t have his schedule -”

“‘Raj does - that’s why he suggested this for now.” Road Rage’s voice is encouraging. “C’mon - fingers crossed he won’ have gone out on th’ town, or we’ll hafta hunt him up.” She takes his other arm, Nightbeat moving to lead them, and guides him forwards.

It’s not very far - the common areas are central, once you go through the main doors. The enforcers at the front desk are all familiar, but no one he knows, offhand - still, they seem to be expected; Road Rage says something to them, and the four of them are waved by. He doesn’t pay much attention - he’s too busy focusing on - on Iacon, and the Precinct, and the thought that he’s going to see Bluestreak -

And then Road Rage and Jazz steer him through another door, and the desperate longing freezes him with indecision as he catches sight of a pair of wings - wings he hasn’t seen in a long time, far, far too long. He can’t move - his vocalizer clicks, helplessly, he wants to call out -

But Bluestreak has seen him - is staring, wide-opticked, gaze like blue fire with how intensely they shine - and he clicks again, and raises a hand to wave -

Bluestreak slams into him like a wall, the force of the impact enough to rock him back on his pedes before he has time to brace. He catches his footing, and suddenly his arms are full of the younger mech, and Bluestreak’s are wrapped around him, and he’s holding on as tight as he can.

“Prowl!” Bluestreak calls out, voice rich with staticky delight, and then he clears it. “Prowl - Prowl! When did you - why didn’t you tell me you were coming, I was expecting a letter -”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, but Bluestreak has known him for a lifetime - known him as long as he can remember, and even before - and Bluestreak knows better to expect one, better than to mind when, again, he crackles out wordless static rather than a greeting.

And Bluestreak can fill the silence easily enough, excited chatter cutting easily through the hum of friendly background greetings as his field flickers with delight.

“Oh - oh, I can introduce you to Sunny and Sides! And Trailbreaker, I guess - you know Trailbreaker, but you can visit him, anyways, he’ll be thrilled! Or, wait - are you here on official business? Did Chief Barricade send you? Do you need to check in with Magnus first?”

Jazz laughs at that, stepping forward to lay a steadying hand on Prowl’s doorwing. “Nah, mech - we’re here ta see you. Prowler’s on vacation, an’ he’s been missin’ you lately, so we thought we’d swing by.”

It’s the first time Bluestreak seems to notice the other three mecha with him. “Oh, hello! Are you friends of Prowl’s? Wait - no! You’re Jazz! You’ve got to be Jazz, you sound just like him! I’m so glad to meet you!” He makes a little, abortive gesture with him arms, stymied when Prowl holds him just a little tighter. “Oh - I’d shake your hand, but…”

Prowl doesn’t want to let go - but there’s something that he has to tell Bluestreak. It takes him a moment to remember what, exactly, with Bluestreak so close - but then Jazz brushes curiously down the bond, and he remembers, all at once, and lets go, field flickering with excitement.

“This is Jazz.” He reaches back to tug Jazz a little closer - the ordinarily-graceful assassin stumbles for a moment, as if taken by surprise. “He’s - Bluestreak, Jazz is my conjunx.” It’s hard to resist the urge to say it aloud, again - to have everyone hear it - and after a moment, he gives in. “Jazz is my conjunx - I love him.”

It doesn’t seem like it should be possible for Bluestreak’s optics to widen further, get brighter, but they do - his jaw drops open, wings flaring in shock as the room around them goes entirely silent, the only noise the clatter of a dropped cube.

Chapter Text

Bluestreak, unsurprisingly, recovers first. “What?” There’s a moment of absolute incredulity in his voice, and Prowl would be almost tempted to be offended, were it not for the way excitement floods his field only a moment later, as the words sink in. “What!? Oh, Prowl - congratulations! Why didn’t you tell me you were courtmates - oh, gosh, did you tell Smokey you were courtmates? He’s gonna be so mad if you didn’t - he’s been waiting for a letter, I’ve been waiting for a letter for almost an orn, you should have invited us to the ceremony!”

“Yeah, slagger!” There’s a shouted agreement, and then, like a roil of storm, a small red frame is shoving to the front of the crowd, other mechs scattering before him. Cliffjumper crosses his arms with a snarl of his engine and glares up at Prowl. “What the frag - you didn’t even comm -”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the crowd, though at least three separate hands move to hold Cliffjumper back, and Prowl can feel the excited buzz running through the room -

“I didn’t have a lot of notice, beforehand - it was kind of -” And then a dozen questions are being asked all at once, and he can’t keep from laughing at the shell-shocked feeling of Jazz, down the bond, more than a little disamed as Prowl wraps their hands together and bats away the questions with the ease of familiarity.

“No - he didn’t have to woo me, Hardhead, I’m lucky to have him -”

“- he’s not - no, he didn’t spark me, Streetwise! Honestly, you’d think you’d never -”

“- we’re not transferring back to Iacon, no, but we’ll be in the area a lot more, now -”

“Look, everybody frag off!” It’s Bluestreak who calls the impromptu interrogation to an end, barking loudly above the crowd. “Primus, guys - let me see my brother for, like, a joor? I’ll toss him to you guys for interrogation later, I promise, all right?”

That gets a few scattered laughs, but for the most part, the crowd does break off - Bluestreak glances back over to him and grins. “Sorry, Prowl - we’ve all just missed you. You’ve got to write if you don’t want mechs mobbing you for answers, remember?”

“I know.” Prowl lets his wings droop apologetically. “It’s been a… busy orn. I apologize - I really had no way to get in touch.”

“Huh.” Bluestreak looks doubtful at that, for a moment, but then the smile returns. “Well - you’re here, now! So come on - we can go find somewhere a little more private to talk, and you can tell me everything!”

“Of course.” Prowl lets his wings flick back, and glances over at Jazz. >>Are you… alright?<<

>>Yeah - yeah, I’m -<< Jazz lets out an anxious laugh as they trail after Bluestreak, who’s guiding them to one of the rooms set aside for team briefings, Prowl can tell. Nightbeat and Road Rage don’t follow - the bodyguard gives them both a nod as they’re lead out of the room, but sticks with Nightbeat, who’s already talking, animatedly, to Cliffjumper. >>Sorry, I’m fine. Just wasn’ expectin’ you ta tell them like that.<<

>>Oh.<< Prowl hesitates. >>Should I not have?<<

>>Prowler -<< Jazz laughs, and his whole field flickers with fondness. >>Slag, no, Prowler - you can tell whoever you want, if you’re gonna tell ‘em like that! Jus’ surprised me, was all. Thought you’d maybe wanna do it in private, or somethin’.<<

>>I wanted them to know.<< He offers, easily, because it’s true - he wants them all to see how wonderful Jazz is, how lucky he’s been, but also - >>I didn’t want you to think I was ashamed. I… I regret what I did - my own actions may have shamed me, but I would never be ashamed of you.<<

>>Prowler…<< Jazz trails off, as they’re guided into the briefing room - a couch, a few comfortable chairs, a fuel dispenser. Bluestreak flicks his wings eagerly as he guides them over to the couch, shoving Prowl down in the middle of it before squeezing in on one side of him and gesturing to Jazz to take the other -

“Alright, you two - spill! What’s been going on - I don’t hear from you for a centivorn, Prowl, and then I get a couple letters and you show up with a conjunx -” He pauses - “Which, by the way, it’s so lovely to meet you! And your friends, I’m sure - they could have come, if they wanted, are they enforcers from Praxus too?”

“Those two?” Jazz’s voice is intentionally light, but Prowl can feel the anxious tension rippling down the bond. “Nah - they’re some local friends of ours. Um - it’s very nice ta meet you too - Prowler’s told me a lot about you.”

He - he hasn’t, really, he’s told Jazz some, but suddenly it doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough - but Bluestreak’s field lights up in delight, and Jazz places a reassuring hand on his thigh. >>You told me plenty, Prowler. I’ll get ta know him myself, too.<<

>>Thank you.<< He pings wordlessly back as Bluestreak bobs his helm. “Oh, yeah - he told me some about you, though we hadn’t really been writing that long! He sent us some of your music, though - it’s beautiful!”

“Thanks, kid.” Jazz relaxes just a hair, at that, before tensing again. “Oh - um -”

“It’s fine - I don’t mind! I know I’m still pretty young!” Bluestreak grins. “And I kind of ramble a lot - it’s fine, you can just tell me to shut up if I get really going, lots of people do.”

“Prowler’d kill me.” Jazz snorts. “If I didn’t get to me first. Ain’t gonna let anymech disrespect my bonded’s little brother like that!”

“That’s a good attitude to have!” Bluestreak bobs his helm in another animated nod. “Especially because there are a lot of parts you can shoot off of someone without killing them, did you know? Especially if they do anything to disrespect you, or hurt your brother - have you seen my most recent range scores, by the way?”

Jazz makes a vague choking noise, and Prowl’s optics go wide as he turns to his brother - “Bluestreak!”

“Oh come on, Prowl, it’s traditional - I’ve got to threaten him, or he’ll think I don’t love you!” Bluestreak laughs. “I’m not going to shoot your conjunx.” He pauses, significantly, and then turns a foreboding glare on Jazz, leaning across Prowl towards him. “Yet.”

Prowl takes advantage of his misplaced focus to shove a hand in his face, making Bluestreak yelp and giggle. “Never,” he declares firmly, and Bluestreak ducks his wings submissively -

“Fine! Fine - you’re poking my optics.” His wings beat, once, as he scrambles away. “Ugh, you’re no fun, Prowl.” But his field is gently teasing, and Prowl pushes reassurance down the bond to Jazz.

“Of course not - I have to manage you and Smokescreen.” He smiles fondly at Bluestreak. “Reprobates, the pair of you.”

“Of course!” Bluestreak laughs again. “But - seriously, what happened? Not that I would have expected you to throw a big party or anything, but you didn’t even mention bonding - or coming to visit! Are you looking at transferring back to Iacon, or -”

Prowl shakes his helm, not wanting Bluestreak to get his hopes up.

“No. I’m working with the Prime’sguard now, as a tactician.” It’s less than a half-truth, but Bluestreak will understand - they’re both enforcers, Bluestreak knows the value of a cover. “Jazz and I - well, it’s high-security work. The only way we could stay together was as bondmates, so that’s what we chose. I would have informed you beforehand, but the… exigencies of our recruitment meant that there was no time to waste.”

“Yeah, sure.” Bluestreak snorts, and it’s obvious that he’s already caught on. His focus, the attention to detail that makes him such an excellent sniper - it’s hard to hide anything from Bluestreak, and he can read Prowl like a book.“Your new boss is working on getting me and Smokescreen cleared, right? Because I’m not gonna put up with that slag forever - I want all the juicy details.”

“Of course.” That gets him a fond grin.

“So - if you’re with the ‘Prime’sguard’, now, though - you’re transferring back to Iacon?” Bluestreak’s wings give an excited little flick at the thought, and he shimmies a little closer to Prowl, who wraps an arm around his shoulder.

“We’re not really sure, yet. Jazz’s work requires him to travel a good deal, but we don’t know what that will mean for me - at least for now, though, we should both be based out of Iacon.”

Bluestreak - wonderful, responsible Bluestreak - doesn’t pry any further than that, though Prowl can see his younger brother’s curiosity when he mentions Jazz’s work. “Oh - well that will be nice, then! I’ve missed you - especially with Smokey gone so often, I feel like I barely get to talk to either of you! But -” and he turns to Jazz eagerly - “I’m sorry - I feel like I just threatened you and got distracted - it’s so nice to meet you! I’m glad to see someone’s finally managed to catch Prowl’s optic, although I never expected him to end up conjunxed!”

It takes a klik for Jazz to recover from the rapid conversational shift, but when he does, he affects a look of mock-offense easily. “What - a charmer like your brother? I’m surprised he stayed available long enough for me ta scoop him up!” He grins, and Bluestreak laughs.

“I know, right? But I think everyone figured it would be me, if any of us bonded, on account of Smokey’s never ever gonna settle for just one or two mechs, and Prowl -” He snorts in amusement. “Well, Prowl once missed the point so hard that one of Iacon’s foremost forensic psychologists transferred to Kaon to get away from him, so I think we all kind of thought he’d be alone forever, sorry, Prowl.”

“I what?” He has no memory of any such thing, but Bluestreak nods eagerly.

“Oh - really? I figured someone would have - Cliffjumper, at least, he’s got no tact - apparently you knew a mech named Chromedome? Worked with him a lot before he transferred?” Prowl remembers the tall orange mech fairly well, a polite, clever enforcer with a strong work ethic but a far better talent for social rapport.

“Yes - we were partners for around a centivorn before his transfer, shortly after I joined the enforcers. He was always trying to get me to accompany him to clubs with the other members of our squad.”

“Oh - oh Prowler -” And he can feel Jazz’s amusement down the bond as the assassin turns to Bluestreak. “Yeah, mech, I see what you mean - he’s kind of a hopeless case, I’ll tell ya more once you’re cleared for it, an’ you’ll think it’s th’ funniest slaggin’ thing - but we sorted it out in th’ end.” Jazz laughs. “Ya just gotta be blunt with him.”

“Really blunt,” Bluestreak agrees cheerfully, and Prowl has the faint sense that he’s missing a joke at his expense, but it feels too good to see the two of them getting along for him to mind, much. Jazz will fill him in later, he’s sure, if it’s important. “But - yeah, I don’t think anyone would have guessed that he’d be bonded before me -”

“Oh - speakin’ of!” Jazz gives an impish grin. “You havin’ any luck with those two handsome gladiators of yours?”

Bluestreak’s optics go wide. “What?” He ducks his helm - “I don’t know what you mean, I mean -”

“Oh, don’t be givin’ me tha’ slag.” Jazz snorts in disbelief, and Prowl can feel his mischievous amusement down the bond. “I can read between th’ lines. Two strappin young mechs, a red one n’ a yellow one - good fer you, kid! Ambitious, for sure, but you know wha’ they say about twins -”

That’s blunt enough for even Prowl to understand - he straightens in surprise. “Wait, you’re courting -”

Bluestreak’s field is staticky with panic. “What - no! I mean - not yet, really!” His optics are wide and bright. “We haven’t actually - I mean, it’s not been discussed, or anything, we’re just -”

Jazz laughs, reaching across Prowl’s lap to lay a soothing hand on Bluestreak’s leg. “Relax, kid - I’m just slagging with you.” He brushes amusement down the bond towards Prowl, though. >>’Course, just ‘cause I’m slaggin’ ‘im doesn’t mean it ain’t true.<<

Prowl nudges that thought back, pushes reassurance into his field, and sets his hand, lightly, besides Jazz’s. “I’d love to meet them, of course,” he offers gently. “If you think they’d be willing.”

“Really?” That has Bluestreak’s wings popping up in delighted relief. “I mean - of course they would, I’d love for you to meet them, you’ll love them! I could - I mean, if you wanted, they should be around -”

“Of course.” He nods agreeably. “Go get them, Blue. We have the rest of the evening.”

“I’ll - yeah! Give me a breem - they should be down in the training rooms, they never answer comms -” He scrambles to his pedes, but stops before he makes it out of the door. “Ah - please don’t mention, um -”

“I ain’t gonna embarrass you in front of your friends, kid. Me an’ Prowler can play nice, right, Prowl?” Jazz nudges him, and Prowl nods again.

“Of course, Bluestreak.”

Jazz waits until the door has swung shut behind Bluestreak to say anything else - once he’s gone, though, the assassin turns to him and wraps both arms around him in a hug. “Aw - I knew your little bro was gonna be cute, but slag, Prowler - you didn’t tell me he’d be such a sweetheart! How likely’s he ta actually shoot me, do ya think?”

“Very unlikely - you wouldn’t do anything to get shot.” Prowl offers, reassuringly, and Jazz laughs. “I’m glad you like him. He can be… overwhelming, at times, but it’s just high spirits.”

“Aw, Prowler - we’ve got very different definitions fer overwhelmin’, I think. Kid’s a chatterbox - ain’t no thing.” Jazz chuckles. “Him’n’ Jackie will get on great, if we can ever get ‘em in a room together an’ talkin’ ‘bout guns, I bet. So w
hat’s your brother like, then? Smokescreen, I mean - you an’ Blue couldn’t be more far apart, I don’t think, but does one o’ you take after him?”

“Smokescreen is… much more like you than either of us, actually. I think you’ll get along well. He’s very good with mechs - as you’d expect from his specialization - but… socially, too; he enjoys being in a crowd, and the crowd enjoys him.” Prowl pauses, considering. “He’s a risk taker - a gambler, certainly - but he’s very protective of… well, Bluestreak too, but of me. Especially after all the trouble with my upgrades.”

“So he’s th’ one ta watch out for, huh?” Jazz is still smiling, but the knot of worry is back.

“He’ll love you, Jazz.” Prowl hastens to reassure him. “He wants me to be happy, and no one’s ever made me happier than you.”

“Aw, Prowler -” He can feel the way Jazz’s whole field softens at that, the rush of warm affection. >>I love ya too, Prowler.<<

>>I know,<< Prowl hastens to reassure him, and Jazz, just for a moment, hesitates.

>>Tha’ was th’ first time you said you love me, back there, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice is warm, but there’s something beneath it, something fond that threatens to overwhelm the words.

But… >>Was it?<< He can’t recall. But Jazz knows...

Jazz laughs. >>Well, sure I do - but it’s nice ta hear it, too.<<

>>Oh.<< Prowl considers that, carefully. >>Why?<<

>>Why?<< It doesn’t sound like that was the question Jazz was expecting, but there’s no reproach in his tone. >>Prowler, it’s nice ta hear th’ mech you love tell you they love you back. Don’ you like hearin’ me say it?<<

>>Of course I do!<< And he does, but - but it’s obvious there’s some sort of disconnect there, that either he or Jazz is misunderstanding something, because - >>But… I don’t handle emotions very well, Jazz. So it’s reassuring to hear you affirm -<< That you didn’t make a mistake, he doesn’t say, because he knows, now, that Jazz didn’t. >>To hear you say it.<<

>>Oh.<< And it’s Jazz’s turn to look considering. >>I love you, Prowler. I know you love me - you don’t gotta say it, I know. But it’d be nice ta hear, every once in a while. If you wanted.<<

>>I love you.<< It’s the easiest thing he’s ever said - the words spring to him easily. >>I love you, Jazz. I love you.<< He reaches out, catches one of Jazz’s audial horns, gently, and tugs his helm in a little closer.

“I love you,” He says, again, and kisses him.

Chapter Text

By the time Bluestreak returns, they’re curled, comfortably, on the couch, Jazz’s helm in Prowl’s lap to allow Prowl to stroke his back fondly. Jazz jerks at the sudden knock, but Prowl, who heard the approach, just helps him sit upright. “Come in.”

“Oh, good - youu two aren’t ‘facing in there, right?” There’s a choking sound from beyond the door, and Prowl flushes, wings rising indignantly as he straightens -

“I would never -”

“Yeah, I know, Prowl.” Bluestreak shoves the door open with a grin. “I promise you, no one would ever suspect you of getting too handsy in public. But I don’t know this Jazz character very well at all! He could be corrupting you -”

Jazz lets out a chirp of protest. “Hey, mech - he seduced me! I promise, I’m th’ picture of innocence, hand ta Primus.”

Bluestreak snorts disbelievingly, but strides into the room anyways. The two mechs who follow behind him - one a brilliant shade of scarlet, the other a bright, warm yellow - both look less confident, but they don’t shy away from Prowl’s considering gaze, either.

“Prowl! Let me introduce you - this is Sideswipe,” he gestures at the red mech, “And that’s Sunstreaker. They’re my partners - well, two of them, obviously, but Trailbreaker knows you already and I thought it might just be nice to introduce you to them -”

“A pleasure,” he offers, before Bluestreak’s nervous babble can pick up steam - this far away, Bluestreak’s field is pulled too tight to his frame to read, but despite his confident posture, Prowl can read the string of tension in his frame.

“It’s really nice to meet you - Bluestreak has told us loads.” The red mech grins up at him. “Thanks for the rocks - we’ve got ‘em all set up in our hab, they’re really pretty.”

“Yeah, it’s a pleasure to meet you - um, sir.” Sunstreaker shuffles awkwardly behind his brother, looking uneasy.

“You’re welcome.” Prowl nods his helm in greeting, ducking his wings in a way that makes Bluestreak choke, a little - the polite, curt formal gesture of a creator or older sibling meeting a prospective courtmate of a younger family member. It’s obvious that the two Kaonites have no idea what the gesture means - they glance back in concern, but Bluestreak waves them off with a furious glare at Prowl, who carries on as if he’s noticed nothing at all. “Bluestreak told me about you, as well, and of course I’ve pulled your records - you’re a talented pair. All four of you did excellent work on the Lights festival bombings.”

“Oh - uh, yeah, that was kind of a mess. Thank you, sir!” Sideswipe nods gratefully, looking relieved to have something to talk about. “You should have seen Blue - he was incredible! An’ TB was a life-saver.”

“He’s a good mech,” Prowl agrees with a nod. “And the four of you impressed some of the Prime’sguard you were working with, as well. I’ve been reassigned to work with some of them - they had nothing but good things to say.”

He gestures at the chairs. “Sit with us?”

There’s only a second’s consideration before both of the twins, obediently, sit. Bluestreak, on the other hand, doesn’t - he moves over to the energon dispenser, casting an amused look over their helms at Prowl as he does. “Energon, guys?”

Sideswipe, at least, looks eager to have something to do with his hands - Sunstreaker has crossed his over his chest almost defiantly. “Yeah, thanks, Blue - we’ll both have some, if you don’t mind?” Sunstreaker, after a moment, nods agreement with his brother’s words. Both don’t take their optics off Prowl for even a moment.

“None fer us, please, Blue? We’ve got our own slag - fer security, an’ stuff.” Jazz grins, and Prowl, obligingly, unsubspaces them both a cube, checking the labels as best he can before offering one to Jazz. >>Slag, Prowler - they both look like you’re about ta sentence them ta th’ mines, or somethin’ - what’d you do?<< His voice, down the bond, is amused.

>>Nothing.<< Prowl pauses. >>Though I think Bluestreak’s interest is mutual. We have no sire - traditionally, they would need my permission to court him, or Smokescreen’s, and Kaonites tend to take such things seriously... And I am a senior officer from another precinct - they never knew me as an Iaconi; they need to present themselves and the Iacon enforcers with dignity.<<

>>You ain’t an enforcer anymore, though.<< Jazz’s voice turns curious. >>Or - I dunno, how does that work?<<

>>I don’t know, yet.<< Prowl… has done his best not to think about it, honestly. >>That would be up to Barricade - will most likely be up to Ultra Magnus. I don’t know if my discharge from the enforcers has been made permanent, yet.<< He pauses. >>If I am discharged honorably, with a Completion of Watch, I will be an enforcer for the rest of my life. If not… I don’t think Mirage would allow the fuss of a public censure - but…<<

>>It wasn’ your fault, Prowler. And your Magnus sounds like a good mech.<< And it’s true, and Prowl knows it, but… he doesn’t have time to explain it any further to Jazz, anyways; Bluestreak is settling back onto the couch, this time on the other side of Jazz.

Sideswipe takes a nervous gulp of the fuel before speaking again. “So - yeah, um, lots of excitement with the festivals. It’s been mostly quiet the last few orns, though - Commander Magnus had us on deskwork for a few cycles while Blue’s leg healed, and he’s kept us on short patrol these last few orns. But we should be clear to go back on full patrol in a few cycles - TB got kind of freaked out, with how close we all came to blowing up, so he had to get re-cleared by psych.”

“Of course.” Prowl nods. “And I’m assuming they evaluated the three of you, also?”

Sideswipe nods again, a little hesitantly. “Well - me and Sunny, we’re mostly bomb-proof - we used to be gladiators, I don’t know if you -” He trails off, looking nervous, but Prowl nods his helm.

“Yes, I’ve had Ultra Magnus forward me your files for review. Your record in the ring was very impressive - I’m glad to know Bluestreak has talented fighters to watch his back while he’s shooting.” That gets him the response he was hoping for - some of the tightness goes out of the red mech’s frame, and his brother’s yellow armor flares in a preen.

“Hey - I can hold my own!” Bluestreak protests, but it’s with an indignance that’s entirely feigned - both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker mass him by at least three times, and it’s obvious from the dense set of their plating that ‘bomb-proof’ isn’t just a psychological descriptor. Sunstreaker gives him an indulgent smirk.

“Sure, Blue. Like I said - in the ring, anytime.” That gets a pouting huff from Bluestreak, but it breaks into a smile the moment Sunstreaker glances away, and Prowl can feel the flush of delight in Bluestreak’s field.

>>Aw - little bro’s got it bad, Prowler.<< Jazz laughs down the bond. >>Slag, they’re cute together.<<

>>They are.<< Prowl says, considering. “No denting Bluestreak, Sunstreaker. Or I will dent you.”

That relatively minor threat, to his surprise, gets him a hastily-suppressed flare of combat aggression - Sunstreakers gaze shoots to him, dentae baring in a snarl seemingly before he realizes what he’s doing. Prowl forces down his surprise, keeping his own face carefully flat as the aggression drains, rapidly, from Sunstreaker’s, replaced almost immediately by embarrassed resentment. “Yeah. Of course. Sir.” He hesitates until a clang cuts through the anxious stillness of the room - his brother kicking him. “Um… sorry.”

Prowl waves a hand dismissively, and feels, almost imperceptibly, Jazz relax against his side - a stinging tension he hadn’t even noticed in the assassin uncoiling. “It’s alright.” He pauses. “My apologies, Sunstreaker. I suppose I can make exceptions for…” He pauses significantly, turning to lock optics with Bluestreak as he continues, “... certain sources of dents.”

Bluestreak gives him a look of utter mortification, and Jazz chokes, in vain, on his fuel. “Prowl!” His brother’s voice is indignant, but Prowl only smirks before turning back to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker innocently. Both of the former gladiators look entirely confused, for a moment, before a look of horrified understanding crosses Sideswipe’s face, followed, a mere moment, by an alarmed, wide-opticked stare from Sunstreaker.

“Um -” Sideswipe seems entirely lost for words - he hesitates, uncertain, and Prowl cocks his helm in a demure smile.

“Of course, some allowances have to be made for training injuries. You’ve taken good care of him so far - I’m sure I can count on the two of you for the same careful handling of matters, going forward?” Sideswipe’s jaw drops, just a little, and he makes a strangled affirmative noise before resetting his vocalizer.

“Uh - yes, sir! Of course.”

“I’m glad.” He holds the red mech’s gaze for just a moment longer, then glances over to Bluestreak, who’s own optics are wide, almost white with light, wings flared in embarrassed shock. “No threatening to shoot my conjunx, understand?”

“Go -” Bluestreak has to reset his own vocalizer, kicking out indignantly, though not particularly hard, at Prowl. “Go frag yourself, Prowl!” But he doesn’t manage to keep his own amusement out of his field, not entirely, and Prowl just smirks back at him.

And keeps smirking as Bluestreak opens his mouth to say something else, and a wide-opticked Sunstreaker clamps a hand over it. “Shut up, Blue.” He pauses for just a moment, before adding, “Please.”

Sideswipe leans in, and despite the fact that he’s obviously trying to keep his whisper to Bluestreak low enough that Prowl can’t hear, his doorwings pick up the hissed words easily: “Blue, that’s - he’s giving us permission to court you, right? That’s how Praxians’d give permission to court?”

Bluestreak makes an indignant noise into Sunstreaker’s hand, glaring daggers at the red mech, and at Prowl - and then Sunstreaker yelps, and pulls away. “You bit me?” His voice is high and tight with indignation, but Bluestreak all but ignores him to lock optics with Prowl, who gives a very slight inclination of his helm. Bluestreak’s optics go wide, again.

“What - really?” It’s obvious he’s almost speechless - and Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s helms both snap to regard Prowl too. He shrugs, almost defensively.

“I didn’t ask permission at all, Bluestreak.” He lets a light smile play over his lips, though. “And I’m sure to get an audialful next time I see Smokescreen. It’s not like I’m approving your bonding, but I’m not going to make you play along with whatever contrivance Smokescreen devises to test them… Of course, you will still need to prove yourselves, if you wish him and I to endorse your bond, but… well, I’m glad Bluestreak has talented fighters to watch his back while he’s shooting.”

“You’re an aft, Prowl -” Bluestreak hisses, and then he’s half on top of Prowl, and half on top of Jazz, and hugging him. “Thank you -”

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker still look stunned.

“So... “ Sideswipe hesitates, after half a klik. “We can just… ask him to court us?”

“I expect you to put in a little more effort than that, Sideswipe.” But he keeps his tone light and the teasing obvious. “But yes - you have my permission, whenever the three of you are ready. I’ll deal with Smokescreen - he’ll be angry enough with me already.”

“Of course.” Sideswipe nods, still looking a little shell shocked. “We’ll come up with something, I promise -”

“Thanks.” Sunstreaker is less wordy than his twin, obviously, but even he seems to have relaxed, a bit, plating loosening. “Uh - Sir.”

“Aw, you kids are adorable. Countin’ you in tha’, Prowler.” Jazz grins. “But - slag, you’ve got th’ family stuff out of the way - what else’s been up around here?”

That breaks the tension - Bluestreak perks up, and it doesn’t take long before he and Sideswipe are deeply involved in a complicated story involving Cliffjumper and a group of very unfortunate botnappers - Prowl half-listens, letting his attention shift to Jazz when the assassin pings him.

>>You’re an aft, Prowler. Teasin’ th’ kid like that.<< But his voice is teasing.

Prowl pings back an affirmative. >>Smokescreen would be worse, I assure you.<<

Jazz hesitates. >>How long d’ya think it’ll take for him ta hear -<<

>>Oh, I’m sure the first thing that happened after we left the commons was someone - perhaps everyone - writing him. I’ll have heard from him by the end of the orn, I’m sure, if he doesn’t fly to Iacon to give me his opinion in person.<< Prowl pauses for a moment to consider. >>Unless he’s on a mission - he can be out of touch for orns, sometimes.<<

>>That’s be nice.<< Jazz offers. >>Give me a bit ta win Blue over so I only hafta worry ‘bout one mech comin’ fer me.<<

>>He won’t -<< But Prowl trails off at the teasing note in Jazz’s voice. >>He’ll love you, I promise, Jazz.<<

>>I’m gonna hold you ta that, Prowler.<<

They both shift their focus back to the ongoing narrative as Bluestreak pantomimes strafing upward with an automatic rifle - “Pow! Pow! Powpowpowpow!” - and Sideswipe dramatically topples over sideways.

“Anyway, so, yeah - don’t kidnap minibots, I guess!” Bluestreak laughs. “How about Praxus, Prowl - I know you don’t get a lot of say, but it must be rough, having to transfer again after just a centivorn?”

Prowl tenses, helplessly. “Ah -” He doesn’t know how to answer that, but Jazz shakes his helm, taking over effortlessly.

“It wasn’ great, mech. Not th’ kind of story for company - we’ll fill you in later, right?”

Bluestreak’s optics widen, just a bit, but it’s obvious he understands - “What - oh, uh, yeah. Later.” He hesitates. “But you’re alright, right, Prowl?”

Prowl pushes gratitude down the bond to Jazz and nods. “Yes - there were some… issues… with my transfer to the Praxian enforcers, but those have been dealt with. I’m glad to have this opportunity with the Prime’sguard, even if it isn’t what I was expecting - I think it’s going to be a much better posting for me.”

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From there, the conversation turns lighter - Bluestreak steers the conversation into another drawn-out story about life in Iacon, this time with Sideswipe taking on the role of an intensely-frustrated and seriously-dented Streetwise being lowered from a rooftop in alt by his gestaltmates after a pursuit-gone-wrong. That gets Prowl to transition into a set of stories about drug raids in Praxus, heavily-censored though they might be, and by the time Bluestreak rises to his pedes, they’ve been talking for almost two joor.

“It’s been - Prowl, it’s been so wonderful to see you!” He leans in to pull Prowl into a hug, one arm sweeping out to catch Jazz, too, up in the affectionate gesture. “But Sideswipe and Sunny and I have to get ready for our shift. You’ll be around, though, right?” His expression, as he pulls away, is pleading. “None of this vanishing for a centivorn slag - you’re in the city, you can comm!”

“Of course, Blue.” He hesitates, just for a moment. “You know I never stopped thinking about you, right? It’s just…” He trails off with a shrug. “I’ll explain when I can, I promise.”

“Prowl…” And Bluestreak gives him a fond look. “Of course I know that, silly! And I’ll try not to harass you too much - I know we both have stuff to do, nowadays, but don’t think I’m going to let you disappear on me again! If you’re not good, it’ll be every night before you go to recharge!” He shoots a teasing glare at Jazz. “You! Remind him!”

Jazz brushes teasingly at him down the bond. “Of course, officer. An’ I’ll watch his back fer you, too.” He grins, and Bluestreak meets it with an approving snort.

“Yeah! You better, or you’ll never even see me coming - I promise!” But there’s no threat to the words. “Are you gonna go see Magnus before you leave, Prowl? And you’ve got to swing by the commons, or everybody’s going to be mad at me for keeping you all to myself!”

“There should be plenty of time for that, yes.” Prowl can’t help the little frission of unease at the thought of finally facing Ultra Magnus, but… it needs to be done, and Jazz pushes confident calm down the bond at him. “But you - go. I won’t have Ultra Magnus grousing at me because I made you late for a shift. Not when he has so much to grouse about, already.”

“Of course, sir!” And it’s Sideswipe who takes Bluestreak’s hand - Bluestreak looks down at their fingers, entwined, and flusters, armor flaring in what is obviously embarrassed delight. “C’mon, Blue - punctual as anything, that’s us, right?” He shoots a grin at his brother, who grumbles, but obediently follows them out into the hall, pausing just long enough that Bluestreak can give them both a parting wave.

Jazz watches them go, his whole field teeking amusement. “Aw…” He chuckles. “They’re gonna be great together, Prowler.”

“We’ll see.” But he feels… confident, in the Kaonite pair, seeing the excitement in Bluestreak’s optics. “They can have the chance, at least.”

>>Especially with your lovely, talented bonded ta take care of them if they slag it up, huh?<< Jazz teases, but Prowl just huffs in response.

>>Please. If they hurt Bluestreak, I will deal with the matter myself.<<

>>Fair enough.<< Jazz chuckles, though. >>So - Ultra Magnus. You important enough that you can jus’ walk in, or…?<<

>>I’ll comm him - we are close enough for that, I think.<< Once, he wouldn’t have hesitated to, but… >>Someone will have told him I’m here - if he’s not available right away, we can return to the commons to wait.<<

>>I wanna meet this Cliffjumper - he sounds like a slagger.<<

Prowl snorts, at that. >>Nobody wants to meet Cliffjumper.<< But he can’t keep the touch of fondness out of the name as he drops down into comms.

It takes a moment for his comm to go through - Ultra Magnus is a busy mech - and he’s almost surprised when it connects in less than a breem. Ultra Magnus’ voice is just as deep as he remembers, a steady, warm confidence. ::Prowl. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.::

::Ultra Magnus.:: It takes him a moment, faced with the mech himself, to remember what he wants to say. ::I… apologize for not contacting you sooner.::

It’s not at all adequate for what he means, but… he can only hope that Ultra Magnus will understand.

::Of course. Are you available to speak now, Prowl? Mirage - and Optimus - have already updated me as to your… circumstance. I would like to discuss it with you further in person.::

::Of course.:: He hesitates, not sure if it’s the right thing to say, then chances it anyway. ::Sir.::

::Hmph.:: Ultra Magnus… doesn’t seem upset, but he isn’t a particularly expressive mech at the best of times. ::Bring your new conjunx, if he is willing. I would like to meet him.:: That’s… more reassuring - the thought that Ultra Magnus might still care enough to want to meet his bonded…

>>He’s your mentor, Prowler. He’s not gonna hate you.<< Jazz’s voice whispers reassurance as the commline cuts brusquely. >>I’m sure of it, mech.<<

Spark tight with nervousness, Prowl lets Jazz brush a hand soothingly over his doorwing, and nods - hoping, to the core of him, that Jazz is, once again, right.

Chapter Text

The hallways leading to Ultra Magnus’ office are comfortingly familiar - he’s walked them a thousand times before during his time in Iacon, as often at Ultra Magnus’ side as alone. Only a handful of mechs are around, but it’s still enough to delay them slightly - everyone wants to talk, even if Prowl is careful to cut the conversations short after a brief greeting.

He lets himself into the vestibule outside of Ultra Magnus’ office, waiting only a klik before knocking on the inner office door.

“Come in.”

He gestures for Jazz to follow, and gets a nervous nod in return as he pushes the door open and steps inside. Ultra Magnus’ office is… comfortable, is the best word for it. It has a massive desk sized for the equally massive mech sitting behind it, of course, but several generations of enforcers have managed to gradually wear soft the edges on the commander’s otherwise-spartan design philosophy - there’s a pair of chairs neatly arranged in front of the desk for them, of course, but off to one side is a little corner set up with couches for team evaluations and debriefings, and there’s a small set of flavorings set up near the dispenser. That said, the cube resting on Ultra Magnus’ desk is entirely blue - and Prowl knows from experience that he takes his energon straight.

“Commander Magnus, sir. Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice - I apologize, I didn’t know we would be coming here this cycle, or I would have sent word ahead.”

“It’s no trouble, Prowl.” The fond way Ultra Magnus says his name is enough to make Prowl relax, a little - there’s no recrimination to it yet, at least. “It’s good to see you - we’ve all missed you here, I think.” He pauses for just a moment. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, sir.” More than he can possibly say - but Jazz has hung back, Prowl realizes after a moment, standing uneasily in the doorway, and Prowl steps aside, gesturing him in. “And this is Jazz, my conjunx.”

Jazz hesitantly steps into the room, a nervous smile on his lips, and Prowl is almost surprised when, rather than an icy but polite greeting, Ultra Magnus’ optics narrow. “Ah - hello, uh, Commander?”

“Sir. I am not your commander.” It’s a sort of blunt hostility that Prowl has never seen from Ultra Magnus before - and he can feel the anxious twist of Jazz’s fear down the bond as the enforcer commander rises from behind his desk to loom over them. “Sit.”

Jazz sits.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, I assume. I had been hoping to have a… brief word.” Nothing in Ultra Magnus’ tone implies that he’s at all pleased to meet Jazz. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Uh -” Jazz looks back at him, and Prowl can feel his budding panic - but he doesn’t know what advice to give - he’s never seen Ultra Magnus act like this - “I’m from Praxus?”

“I had gathered.” Ultra Magnus’ engine rumbles in annoyance. “Mirage has… informed me… that you are some kind of murderer?”

“Ah - an assassin, yeah -”

“Assassin is a pretty word for a killer of note. Are you worthy of that note, Jazz, or should we keep things frank between ourselves?” Jazz chokes a little as Ultra Magnus’s gaze narrows further into a glare.

“I -” He resets his vocalizer. “I don’t know? Sir?”

“Hmph.” Ultra Magnus snorts. “I think not. Perhaps you’ll earn the title, in Optimus’ service.” And there’s no mistaking the familiarity in the way he says the Prime’s name, and the threat it implies. “Perhaps not.”

“Um -” Jazz is completely off balance, scrambling for what to say - “Thank you?” he tries, and Ultra Magnus chuckles unkindly.

“That was not a compliment, Jazz.”

“Oh.”

Ultra Magnus considers him for a long, tense moment. “You’ve bonded Prowl, of course. What do you think of him?”

It takes Jazz, to his credit, only a moment to recover enough to answer. “Ah - he’s great? Fantastic. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Ultra Magnus considers that for another frozen moment. “A worthy answer.” He pauses, again, significantly. “I am… in agreement. Prowl is like kin to me, Jazz. I have delighted in him - as a mentor, as a commander, as a mech. I am not always an… expressive mech, but do not doubt me - I consider him one of my dearest friends. Do you understand, I wonder?”

Jazz, vocalizer crackling when he tries to speak, nods.

“Good. Then I trust you will… recognize what I’m saying when I tell you this. I am not a torturer like your new employers, Jazz. I do not delight in causing pain.” Ultra Magnus’ voice is low, and deep, and terrible - the sight of his dentae bared in naked threat something Prowl has only seen a handful of times before. He feels his own spark frost with fear, but it’s nothing compared to the terror that has Jazz’s plating pressed flat, his optics huge, frozen to the ground despite a spark-deep desire to run -

But Ultra Magnus seems to recognize that, and places a heavy hand on his shoulder, not pinning him in place, but awful with the threat of it. He rolls on, like thunder, as he leans in. “But I have seen much, in my life. The cruelties of Sentinel, and of the Quintessons, and every terrible thing that one mech can do to another… I assure you, I have learned enough. And if you betray Prowl - if you turn on him - there will be no place and no mech on Cybertron to hide you! Do you understand?”

He pauses - and then, when Jazz stays frozen, he snarls. “WELL!?”

“Yes, sir!” Jazz manages to choke out, wide-opticked, and Ultra Magnus rumbles again.

“Not Ratchet. Not Optimus. Not Ironhide. I will find you - I will hound you to the ends of Cybertron, to the corners of the galaxy, and there will be nowhere for you! AM I UNDERSTOOD?”

Prowl can feel the choking, cloying terror in Jazz’s field, down the bond, but there’s nothing he can do about it - he’s never seen this side of Ultra Magnus before, and the terror has its claws in his own spark, too. But Jazz - something seems to click, and all at once, the brittle fear turns… fluid, and instead of freezing him in place, it’s flooding him, and Jazz, in an act of inimicable bravery, nods.

“Yes, sir.” He hesitates, for just a moment, steeling himself. “I’ll hold you to it, sir. If I hurt him like that.”

Ultra Magnus stares down at him for a long moment, face stoney, dentae still bared in a furious snarl. Then, at last, like the cracking of crystal, he lets out a single, low chuckle.

“Good answer.” He manages to catch Jazz as he slumps, vents pounding, in the chair, scooping the smaller frame into his arms easily. Prowl steps forward, but all of the fury in Ultra Magnus’ expression is just - gone, as if it had never been.

“Ah - too much?” He asks, hesitantly, carrying Jazz over to one of the couches. Prowl sits, obediently, where he gestures, and wraps his arms around Jazz the moment the assassin is lowered into his lap.

“One - one klik -” He manages to get out, before slipping down the bond to wrap himself around Jazz’s meta.

>>What the - Prowl, what the slag was that? You an’ - you an’ everyone made him sound nice - he’s fragging terrifying -<< Jazz’s meta is dancing with panic, mixed with a healthy amount of terror, and Prowl doesn’t have any good answers for him.

>>I’m sorry, I don’t - he’s not usually like that, I’ve never seen him act like that before!<< Prowl tries to push reassurance down the bond. >>Wouldn’t let him hurt you, Jazz. Would have torn him apart -<<

>>He’s huge! He’d slag us both -<< Jazz protests again, still on the edge of panic, and then he makes a choked noise as Ultra Magnus looms over them again, a huge shadow, blotting out the light and…

...And tucking a blanket around Jazz’s shoulders before laying a warm, soothing, Ultra Magnus-like hand on Prowl’s shoulder.

“Primus. I’m sorry.” His voice is gentle, almost fretful. “I apologize, Prowl - Jazz, are you alright? I won’t hurt you.”

Jazz makes another choked crackle in reply. He resets his vocalizer desperately, spitting static, until he can manage a tight, panicky, “What?”

“I’m going to -” Ultra Magnus pauses, hesitating, and appears to reconsider his words. “I’m going to have a word with Ironhide. I told him that this was a terrible idea - I don’t know why I let him convince me of things -”

“What?” Jazz manages again, optics helplessly wide.

“- He insisted that Prowl would feel slighted, but that’s obviously ridiculous, why on Cybertron would Prowl expect me to threaten his new bonded -”

“What?” Jazz grinds out a third time, but this time, something has clicked for him, and he manages to follow it up with - “Did Ironhide tell you to - mech, what th’ pit did Ironhide tell you?”

Ultra Magnus pauses, and this time, Prowl does recognize him - the awkward nervousness in his frame whenever he’s forced to deal with an awkward social encounter, the slight tightness in his shoulders as he straightens, almost imperceptibly, like a recruit expecting a scolding -

“Ah… He said that I should explain my relationship to Prowl, and then threaten you. Verbally. If you did anything to hurt Prowl - intentionally, of course. I - ah…” He hesitates. “He implied that the magnitude of the threat would indicate my fondness for Prowl?”

“He told ya ta give me a shovel talk.”

Ultra Magnus hesitates again, and it’s obvious that he’s off-balance. “Yes? Maybe - I don’t know, I’ve never had to give one before. But Prowl was my protege, and he said it would be expected?”

“Primus.” Prowl can feel the relief roll over Jazz in a warm wave, and the way his plating shifts and loosens as he lets out a long, heavy vent. “Primus. Okay, yeah - I can see where Prowl gets it. Alright, mech - I’m gonna need you ta tone tha’ down by about a thousan’ percent, if you ever have ta do it again, an’ please never ever do it ta me again. You got your point ‘cross, I promise. Prowl knows you love him, right, Prowl?”

There’s something pleading in his tone, and Prowl nods obediently. “Of course.” He pauses. “I knew you cared, Ultra Magnus. I never doubted it.”

“I’m glad.” Ultra Magnus hesitates, for a moment. “If I might ask -”

“You threaten ta string a mech up by his knees, or somethin’, mech! Blue threatened ta shoot me somewhere painful, an’ promised he wouldn’ miss! Not -” Jazz chokes again, “- not threaten me with ten thousan’ vorns worth of understandin’ of th’ worst tortures ever devised! Keep it slaggin’ light!”

“Ah.” Ultra Magnus steels himself, as if gamely debating the merits of a second attempt before deciding against it. “My… apologies for alarming you, Jazz.” He hesitates again, before letting his hand drop, gently, to pat at Jazz’s shoulder. “As I said, I promise I won’t harm you.”

“Yeah -” Jazz gives a hoarse laugh. “Yeah, I believe you. Just - slag, just give me another klik, alright?”

>>Are you alright, Jazz?<< Prowl tries not to intrude too much, but the moment he brushes over Jazz’s meta, the assassin latches on needily, and it’s all Prowl can do to keep himself soothing in the face of his own upset. >>I’m - I apologize, I would never have announced you like this if I had realized -”

But Jazz laughs, and it’s not half as brittle. >>Nah, Prowl - nah. Just - Primus, I wasn’t expecting that. But - he trained you, right? You’ve known him - what, as long as you’ve had the ATS, so pretty much forever?<<

>>As long as I have uncorrupted memory files, yes.<< Prowl agrees, not entirely sure where Jazz is going -

>>No, it’s nothing bad, Prowler. Just - it explains some things, I guess.<<

Prowl hesitates. >>He just threatened -<< He trails off. >>Nothing bad?<<

>>Really, Prowler.<< Jazz’s voice, down the bond, is soothing as it steadies. >>I mean, yeah, he’s scary - but like I said, I can see you in him. Hard ta begrudge him wantin' ta protect you, when I can see how much of him shaped th’ mech I love.<<

>>I’m - thank you, Jazz.<< Prowl lets himself relax, a little. >>We’ve always been close - I would like the two of you to have the chance to know each other. He’s one of the best mechs I’ve ever known.<<

>>Then let’s introduce me, Prowler. I ain’t gonna hold a grudge.<< Jazz chuckles, and finally pulls away to sit up. “Sorry about that, sir. You just, um, gave me a bit of a scare, there. Maybe we should give that another go, an’ I’ll just keep your words in mind? M’name’s Jazz - it’s a pleasure ta meet you, Prowler talks about you all th’ time.”

“Oh - ah…” Ultra Magnus looks uncertain, but reaches out to gently clasp the offered hand. His own hand engulfs it entirely, but the touch is careful - the delicate grasp of a mech used to dealing with smaller frames. “And I am Commander Magnus, of the Iaconi Enforcers. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He pauses. “I really am sorry, Jazz - I hope I didn’t frighten you too badly?”

“Mech, I’ve faced literal murderers lookin’ ta off me fer doin’ some very unpleasant slag ta their friends, an’ I was never half as scared!” Jazz laughs, and Ultra Magnus’ gaze dims, just slightly, in regret - but he goes on: “But it was in th’ defense of my bonded, so I ain’t gonna hold it against you. Really, mech - we’re good.”

“I’m… thank you.” A little relief crosses Ultra Magnus’ expression, and he nods. “How are the two of you doing, anyways? I understand from Ironhide that your bonding was… under duress, as it were - that hasn’t caused the two of you any issues, has it?”

Prowl shakes his helm, and Jazz chuckles. “Not at all. We’re - honestly, th’ two of us are doing fine. World might be fallin’ down around our audials, but I wouldn’ want ta go through it with anyone but Prowler, if you catch my meaning?”

Prowl shuffles his wings fondly in agreement. “Jazz is perfect, sir - I have regrets, but he will never be one of them.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. You deserve happiness, Prowl.” Ultra Magnus nods. “I took the liberty of contacting xi-fu Dai Atlas in Crystal City. Your brother is currently working on several confidential cases around the region as a special consultant, but once his responsibilities there are at an end, Dai has arranged for him to take time off in Iacon. I thought you might like to introduce Jazz in person.”

“Yes, I would. Thank you, Ultra Magnus - I still am not sure where our training will take up, however, or what the limitations on our time will be -”

Ultra Magnus shakes his helm. “It will be at least a vorn before Smokescreen is available. I will take the scheduling issues up with Mirage myself - consider it a bonding gift.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It is no trouble, Prowl. The least of what you are owed, after everything.” Ultra Magnus settles back in his seat. “Would you… come here, please. I need to ask you something.”

Jazz nudges him along, but Prowl, willingly, goes - whatever censure he’s afraid of, he has never, ever feared Ultra Magnus hurting him. And he doesn’t - the larger mech, instead, reaches out and wraps his fingers around Prowl’s wrist, carefully, pulling him closer until he can in a single easy gesture scoop him into his lap.

It pulls them into an overlap, too - Ultra Magnus’ field is the same steady, unflinching force that it has always been, warm and vast and confident. Prowl can’t help but curl into it, and Ultra Magnus gently runs a hand across his free wing, soothingly, in a way that he hasn’t since Prowl’s earliest days with the force.

They sit like that, fields reattuning to each other, for almost a breem before Ultra Magnus speaks again, and when he does, his voice is gentle and sad.

“I wanted to ask you, however… I agreed with Mirage that I would not… involve myself, in the resolution of the issues in Praxus, Prowl. Of course, he had to inform me, after your capture, and since most of the enforcers who will be transferred once Barricade is pushed out are Iaconi - but he doesn’t want me to confront Barricade himself.” Ultra Magnus pauses, giving a considering, level look to Prowl. “Do you?”

“Sir?” He replies. Uncertainty.

“Prowl… Barricade looked me in the optic and told me that he’d protect you - that you’d be safe, in Praxus. It’s… there are oaths we swear, between commanders, when we transfer officers from district to district, and he looked me in the optic and lied.” Ultra Magnus pauses, again, and vents heavily. “What he did… it would have been a cruel thing to do to any of my mechs, but I will not pretend that it was not crueler because it was you. I… I didn’t want to send you away.”

“Ultra Magnus…” Prowl can’t keep the tremble out of his voice. “It’s - it’s alright. I don’t blame you - I never -”

“I handed you to him, Prowl.” There’s a snarl, low and deep and pained, from somewhere in his chest. “I should have torn him apart.”

“I…” He hesitates, curling tighter against the large mech’s side. “I was excited, sir. I didn’t want to leave, but… I thought it would be a good opportunity for me, something like Smokescreen has in Crystal City - not… what it turned into. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have.” Ultra Magnus’ voice is vehement - but then he chuckles, a dry, humorless sound. “But… now you do have something very much like Smokescreen, I suppose. Mirage - he hasn’t pressured you, has he? I - if he has threatened you, I can protect you - both of you. I don’t have influence in Praxus, but here - I swear he won’t be able to touch you.”

“No -” And Prowl shakes his helm. “No, Ultra Magnus, he’s - no one pressured us. It’s going to be good for Jazz and I, I think - we enjoy working together, but…”

“The enforcers no longer suit your needs. I understand.” And Prowl can feel, in his field, that the other mech does.

“Sir, there’s… one other thing I wanted to discuss. That I need to know before…” He hesitates, but Jazz is a warm, comforting presence down the bond.

>>Just ask him, mech. He ain’t gonna hurt you, an’ you’ve gotta know.<<

“I am no longer going to be an enforcer, Ultra Magnus. I… I can’t be, anymore.” Ultra Magnus nods his agreement, but says nothing. “So there’s the matter of my discharge, sir.”

His voice crackles, just a little. “I have not conducted myself with dignity befitting an enforcer, sir. I have not held myself in the esteem required of my rank.”

He falters, but… the words are enough - Ultra Magnus has been an enforcer, a commander, long enough to know what he intends. He considers the words carefully, for a klik, one hand continuing to stroke soothingly down Prowl’s back as he does.

“Prowl… there are many good enforcers in the world. Bluestreak, Cliffjumper, Trailbreaker - they are honorable mechs, sworn to uphold a code of duty that can, at times,be overwhelming.” Ultra Magnus pauses, and Prowl feels something in his spark break when his own name goes unmentioned. “But there is a difference between being a good enforcer and a good mech, Prowl. Ratchet, Ironhide - even Optimus - they are good mechs, but they would not be good enforcers.”

“I understand, sir.” But it doesn’t make hearing Ultra Magnus say it any easier - and he can’t keep the flicker of grief out of his field. Ultra Magnus’ touch is still soothing, though, and the enormity of his field its own sort of comfort.

“Do not mistake my meaning, Prowl. You were one of the finest enforcers I have ever worked with, Prowl. Praxus and whatever happened there don’t change that. You were in pain, Prowl - Barricade was hurting you, hurting your city, and you know as well as I do that there was nothing else you could have done to stop him.” Ultra Magnus pauses again, significantly, adding the weight of sincerity to his words. “No one could have asked of you more than you did. You didn’t give in to him - and we both know the terrible weapon you could have been in his hands, if you had. You did not falter in your duty to your city, and when you had to - when you had no other choice - you chose to place her people before your oaths. That is no fault.”

“I should have -” Prowl protests, but Ultra Magnus hushes him fondly.

“I should have torn out Barricade’s spark the moment he laid optics on you, Prowl. Hindsight is easy. If I had known then what I know now - but I could not have.” Ultra Magnus gives that just a moment to sink in, before continuing.

“I understand why you feel you can no longer serve the Precinct, Prowl. I may not agree, but… I understand. You were the best of enforcers, serving with distinction by every account, and you went above and beyond in every way in the service of your city and her people - and I know you will be the best of mechs; Optimus could have no finer in his service. It is my privilege to discharge you at this, the completion of your watch, with full honors. You have been the pride of Iacon, Prowl.”

“Oh.” Prowl doesn’t know what to say to that, not at all - but Ultra Magnus doesn’t seem to expect him to say anything.

“You will always be welcome here, if you need anything.” Ultra Magnus’ gaze falls on Jazz, and there’s a warmth there that wasn’t there before. “Both of you. You may not be serving besides us in the Precinct, but you will always be one of us - this will always be your home, when you want it.”

“Thank you, sir.” And he means it, to the bottom of his spark, with a desperate, white-hot intensity. “It has been - working with you, learning from you, has been an honor.”

“We’ll work together again, I’m sure.” Ultra Magnus gives a soft chuckle. “Though beat enforcers rarely are made aware of it, it’s not uncommon for Ops to call on me when they need talents the Prime’sguard aren’t equipped to provide. I work… perhaps not closely, with Mirage, but I am kept informed about their movements within Iacon, to an extent. And you will see me at the Palace on occasion, visiting Optimus.” He pauses. “Visiting you, now, too, if you’ll have me.”

“We’d love ta see you -” Jazz grins, and Prowl is about to add his voice in agreement when all three of their helms shoot up in response to an uninvited commlink. Whoever is speaking to Ultra Magnus is obviously not the same as the mech addressing Jazz and Prowl - Red Alert’s voice, crisp and tight with running tension, cracks along a comlink opened between just the three of them.

::Jazz - Prowl.:: There’s a wire of urgency run taut between his words. ::Make your way back to the entrance, straight away, and rendezvous with Nightbeat and Road Rage. There’s been a - situation, in Praxus; Mirage wants the four of you back at the Palace right away.::

::Red?:: Jazz can’t keep the delight out of his voice, but even so, he’s already moving, turning to offer Prowl a hand up as he rises to his own pedes. ::Are you -::

::Back?:: Red Alert pauses. ::Yes - I will explain later, my apologies. Ultra Magnus has been informed - time is of the essence, please, hurry. Congratulations on your bonding.::

The commlink closes just as brusquely as it opened, shutting authoritatively.

Prowl glances back at Ultra Magnus as the larger mech rises to his own pedes. “I’ll escort you out,” he offers, and there’s something grim on his face that tells Prowl that he’s been given more information than either of them.

Chapter Text

By the time they reach the common room, Nightbeat and Road Rage are already standing outside, ready to move. “Oh - good. Mirage commed - we’re ta get th’ two of you an’ head back ta th’ Palace asap.” Road Rage sidles aside as Ultra Magnus brushes past her towards the common area.

::What are we being recalled for?:: Prowl half-expects her to refuse to answer, but Road Rage just chuffs affably before replying.

::No idea. ‘Raj wants ta talk ta th’ two of you, an’ Nightbeat.:: Road Rage glances up at Ultra Magnus. “Don’ suppose you’d give us a hand gettin’ -” But Ultra Magnus is already gesturing to two of the other mechs in the room.

“Streetwise, Hardhead - you’re running escort.” The named mechs are on their pedes before he’s even done talking.

“Sure - who’re we -” Streetwise pauses as he gets a glance behind Ultra Magnus - “Oh, Prowl?”

“No.” Ultra Magnus’ voice is the firm, commanding tone he takes when he’s focused on something. “Me. Road Rage - you’ll be with me. I’ve got my own business to attend to at the palace - now is as good a time as any.”

“Oh.” Then Road Rage’s optics brighten, as she follows his brisk stride down the hallway. “Oh - thanks, sir.”

“Of course.” Ultra Magnus’ stride is long enough that Jazz, Prowl and Nightbeat are forced to jog a bit to keep up with him - he doesn’t slow until they reach the main gate, and he transforms. Road Rage doesn’t hesitate - there’s a rail running beside his cargo cab, and an anchor-point atop it, and she steps up and grabs hold, locking her hands in place with the ease of familiarity. Then he’s moving, briskly, up to the gate, which rolls aside at a commed command, and Jazz and the four enforcers have to hastily transform to keep up.

Matching speeds with Ultra Magnus is easy - despite extensive reformatting, there’s no mistaking the broad, heavy profile of a hauler for anything else, and he’s designed to sacrifice speed for stamina at every step of the way. Heavy military plating slows him further, far thicker than even most enforcer tanks - but Ultra Magnus doesn’t need to be fast, or nimble, when he has other enforcers for pursuits; Prowl has used him as cover in a firefight often enough to be well aware of why the older mech never reformatted down to civilian plating.

They move at a sedate but steady pace until they reach the highway - there’s a dedicated on-ramp for enforcer traffic that lets them avoid the main road and lights, and the other enforcers slip readily out of the way of their commander, letting the small escort through.

Once they get onto the highway, however, that all changes.

Streetwise bleats his engine - and it’s answered, a moment later, by Ultra Magnus’ bassier whup; the deep, strut-shaking warning that the enforcers are merging into the light traffic of the open road. The other vehicles on the highway are quick to reshuffle, leaving the innermost lanes available for the enforcers - there’s a brief moment where Ultra Magnus and a similarly-sized cargo hauler have to negotiate around each other, Road Rage pressing herself flat against the enforcer, and then they break free and match speed with the vehicles ahead, spreading out to allow traffic to flow around them on the outer lanes.

All of them run sirens, on the highway - as much to allow other vehicles to triangulate their position on the road as to clear the way - and the sirens whip around them like a chorus. Prowl, daring, bleats a caution and takes the next turn at a drift, the other three enforcers repositioning effortlessly to allow him to swing wide on the turn. It’s exhilarating - the sort of tactile, mid-speed pursuit driving that he hasn’t gotten to do in far too long.

He cuts the fishtail carefully and drops back to drive tight beside Jazz - the assassin slides sideways, knowing Prowl’s intent before he can even act, but Nightbeat, cheerfully, drops in to flank him, giving only a few feet of clearance on his left. They hold the dangerously tight positioning for only a klik - a few thousand feet - before dropping back, but Prowl can feel the amusement down the bond anyway.

>>Slag, Prowler - you mechs gonna arrest me fer real, this time?<< Jazz laughs, though. >>Didn’ realize emergency escorts were such a social affair.<<

>>Well…<< Prowl can’t hide the exhilaration of driving headlong, however - it’s hard to worry about the palace, about anything, with the cool press of the wind around him, rushing through his vents as his tires grip achingly across the pavement. >>If we’re clearing through traffic anyways…<<

>>You guys got a track for this, or somethin’?<< Jazz asks, consideringly, before opening a four-way comm to Road Rage and Nightbeat - ::You guys got a track, or is Prowl gonna need ta stop by th’ station when he wants to drive?::

::The Prime’sguard have a track.:: She offers distractedly. ::Not bad, either, but it’s more kitted out fer endurance runnin’ and obstacles - there’s not a lotta space fer pursuit runnin’, ‘ccording to Nightbeat.:: She drops out of the comm a moment later.

::Yeah, it’s -:: Nightbeat swerves neatly to avoid a pothole and corrects. ::It’s kind of narrow on the stretches, honestly - not a lot of room for positioning, and there’s only like… three mechs who really can keep up for a good chase. Hot Rod’s really good, and Arcee’s fast - but she’s real little, so you’ve gotta be careful not to shove her off the track, and then even more careful not to tell her you’re trying not to shove her off the track because she won’t talk to you for a couple of orns if you mention it.::

::Well - I’m not built for Prowler’s kinda endurance, but I can probably give you mechs a good chase fer a bit.:: Jazz fishtails teasingly. ::An’ Jackie’s faster than he’s got any right ta be.::

::That’ll be nice!:: Nightbeat agrees cheerfully. ::Though we can still visit the station track as often as we want - there’s nothing quite like it, really.::

Prowl hums agreement, and sends Jazz a file - himself, running on the Enforcer track, two dozen other enforcers all around him, and the exhilaration of directing, moment by moment, the ever-tightening box of wheels and plating -

They fall into a looser, more ordinary escort as they exit the highway - Streetwise leading, giving out the characteristic whoop-and-churr of an enforcer navigating, clearing the intersections ahead of Ultra Magnus, who Prowl and Nightbeat flank, lights flashing; Jazz follows, with Hardhead taking up the rear, ready to break off in the event of an incident.

No one interferes, however, as they make their way to the Palace. The gates open for them unhesitatingly, and it’s obvious that Ultra Magnus has commed ahead to clear them, but Hardhead and Streetwise still break off to return to the station, giving a farewell bleat before guttering their sirens. Ultra Magnus transforms as they reach the doors, catching Road Rage as he does to lower her to the ground in a coordinated gesture. Mirage is there to greet them when they arrive - his plating flattens, ever-so-slightly, as he meets Ultra Magnus’ gaze.

Road Rage obviously has her orders, whatever they are - she brushes past him wordlessly, headed deeper into the palace.

“Commander Magnus. It’s -”

“A pleasure, Commander Mirage.” Ultra Magnus ducks his helm courteously. “I understand that you have urgent business to attend to - I won’t keep you. I’m only here to visit Ratchet.”

“Ratchet is - ah - not available.” It’s easy to see how hard it is for Mirage to resist adding the ‘sir’ to that - but long familiarity with Ultra Magnus is enough for Prowl to realize that the tense set to the taller mech’s shoulders isn’t annoyance, but a response to the tension in Mirage’s own. “He’s assisting with our operation - Bumblebee is briefing him now.”

“Ah. I will visit Optimus, then.” Mirage has to step outside completely to let Ultra Magnus pass - it’s only when the larger mech is gone that his plating relaxes.

“You three - Nightbeat, I need you to return to your office, pull me everything you have on Bismuth’s gang, and have it organized for Prowl. Red Alert is aware of the required format, and will assist.” His voice is crisp, but not panicked, and Nightbeat nods.

“Red Alert’s ba-” He cuts himself off. “Of course, sir - it should be about a joor. Do you want -”

“Whatever you think is relevant, Nightbeat. I trust your judgement.” That gets him a brief look of delight from Nightbeat before the enforcer darts down the hall after Road Rage.

“So what’d you need us fer, then?” Jazz asks, curious. “Or - Rager said you wanted ta talk?”

“Yes.” Mirage gestures for them to follow. “You are aware we had other assets working in Praxus, besides ‘Jasper’ and Skids, correct?”

“Tangentially.” Prowl agrees. “Not of the specifics.”

“Good. We’ve had a small team in the city since shortly after you recovered Bumblebee - investigating various areas of the criminal underground, trying to establish a pedehold for future operations.” Mirage gestures loosely. “A handful of mechs - all we could spare, since we’re so understaffed.”

“Of course.” Jazz nods. “An’ then send in - what, some Prime’sguard, a couple o’ Enforcers who kin keep their glossa still, once you’ve got your approach figured out.” He grins. “An’ me an’ Prowl, or isn’ that th’ plan anymore?”

“That is, still, roughly the plan.” Mirage nods in agreement. “The problem is that a few joors ago, we lost contact with two of our operatives in the city - Punch and Flipsides. They’re specialist infiltrators - their particular expertise lies in assuming a secondary cover identity and ingratiating themselves with a hostile faction long-term.”

“An’ they’ve dropped off the map?” Jazz gives Prowl a concerned glance that the enforcer can’t help but return - it’s not something that bodes well for either of the spies. “Dead, or…”

“Alive, hopefully. Punch managed to get off a comm before we lost contact - but it was over an unsecured channel, which implies that at least part of his commsuite was damaged. Heavily encrypted, and patchily - we’ve managed to decrypt enough that we’re fairly certain that their cover was blown and they escaped, but not much else.” He shrugs, and Jazz gives him a curious look.

“So what’s th’ plan? They’ve gotta have transponders or somethin’ - can’t you mechs track ‘em down?”

Mirage shakes his helm. “Not quite that easy, I’m afraid - a transponder would give them away to the first mech with sensors fine enough to pick it up, and in Praxus...” He gestures at Prowl, “Well.”

He guides them around another corner, and stops. “Here’s the situation. I have two agents missing in Praxus, and the two of you -”

“Know th’ city like th’ backs of our hands. Or I do, a’ least.” Mirage nods. “Great - when’re we leavin’?”

Mirage gives him a steady look. “You have three cycles left, if you want them. I won’t - no one will hold it against you. Ratchet has already agreed to return to the city with us, and Red Alert -”

“That’s not necessary, Mirage.” Prowl pauses. “Commander. We’re happy to be of assistance - we’re not going to -” Jazz cuts him off.

“We ain’t gonna leave your mechs ta get slagged fer a job we’ve already decided ta accept. When’re we leavin’.”

There’s a flicker of relief in Mirage’s expression at that.

“As soon as possible,” he replies, and starts walking again. “Within two joor. There’s a handful of arrangements that need to be made - Bumblebee is getting the team together, but the two of you -”

He rounds the corner, and they’re faced with a door guarded by Ironhide and a teal mech that Prowl remembers, a moment later, is Kup. Mirage squares his shoulders and steps forward.
“I need to speak to Optimus.”

That gets him a chuckle from Kup - but Ironhide grins. “‘S more like it, mech. Give me a klik -” There’s a moment’s pause, then he shoves the door open. “There ya go.”

“Thank you.” Mirage gestures them to follow, and ducks inside.

The Prime’s rooms are… ornate, is the best way Prowl can think to describe them. Compared to even the luxury of Ratchet’s rooms, they stand out - rich wall hangings woven in fine metallic thread, elegantly-carved crystal furniture lined in silicone gels so fine that they’re almost as clear as the crystal, even a few elegant blankets woven out of organic materials that catch the optic intriguingly, their textures unlike anything else Prowl has ever seen. A broad staircase with elegant, sweeping guardrails trails to a balcony overlooking the vaulted ceiling, a pair of doors there no doubt leading to more private chambers - the room they’ve entered looks like nothing more than an area for entertaining guests.

And, indeed, Ultra Magnus is seated on one of the fine crystal lounges, and the Prime on another, both looking far too large for such delicate furnishings to support. It’s almost a comical effect - it would be, if it were any other mechs, but as kind as he is, Prowl still can’t bring himself to think of the Prime as comical.

He keeps himself composed - it’s not the first time he’s visited a Lord’s tower, some even more ostentatiously-decorated than the Prime’s. The lords may prefer to avoid the company of enforcers, but the occasional theft or death of a servant can prompt an investigation that forces their involvement, and as Ultra Magnus’ protege, he’s accompanied his commander to a double-handful of such incidents. Jazz is less successful - he gapes, a little, at the glinting gilted scrollwork decorating the upper walls and the meticulously-tended crystalariums gently glowing from their brackets on the wall.

>>This’s -<< He can hear the astonishment in Jazz’s voice as he regards the room. >>Slag, Prowler - I’ve never even seen - not even th’ ganglords have slag this fancy. Well, maybe Titan’, but he’s -<< He trails off.

>>He’s the Prime, Jazz.<< Prowl points out, and he can feel amusement radiate down the bond from his mate.

>>Guess th’ Matrix doesn’ give ‘im a sense of taste, huh?<<

Prowl can’t help the indignant squeak he makes at that, twisting to stare, wide-opticked, at Jazz - he’s only stopped from responding by the rumble of a deep chuckle behind him.

“It’s hideous, yes - I’m well aware. In my defense, I had nothing to do with the furnishings.” The Prime gestures at the room as they both turn to give him a wide-opticked look. “You are working on that with them, aren’t you, Mirage?”

“Yes, Optimus.” Mirage’s voice hesitates on the name, but he presses on. “Bumblebee is going to set the warren on them as time permits.” He pauses. “I wanted to seek your permission for something. My lord.”

“Of course, amica.” There’s something patient in the Prime’s voice as he says it - something warm and fond. Mirage seems to relax, just a bit, at it.

“You’re aware of the situation in Praxus?” Optimus nods easily. “Prowl and Jazz both have extensive on-the-ground knowledge that I believe would be of great assistance in our search - but I am aware that your agreement with them covers another three cycles before they officially make their decision.”

The Prime glances over at Prowl, then at Jazz, before he nods.

“I would like to ask your permission for them to take their oaths now, so that they can deploy to Praxus with Bumblebee this cycle.” He hesitates for just a moment as the Prime’s gaze resettles on him. “They’ve agreed that they would both be willing, if you approve.”

“You have?” Optimus considers that thoughtfully, but Prowl steps forward, averting his gaze respectfully in the manner of an enforcer greeting a lord.

“Yes, my lord. We’re both - neither of us would leave a teammate in that situation, sir.” That gets a nod of eager agreement from Jazz - and an approving look from Ultra Magnus.

Who glances over at the Prime for just a moment - and Optimus glances up, as if receiving a comm. It only takes a moment before they glance away again, barely long enough to be notable, but Optimus gives Mirage a confident nod a moment later.

“You have my permission, then.” The Prime reaches out a hand to Prowl invitingly. “Did Mirage explain what is required?”

“I didn’t want to… impose on them, without your permission.” Mirage pauses. “Optimus. One moment?” The Prime nods again, and Mirage glances to them.

::There are a great many formalities to officially induct you into Special Operations - it’s a fairly lengthy process, but… exceptions can be made under duress. All that is really necessary is your oath to the Prime - given in the understanding that, should you betray us, every resource at my disposal shall be put into hunting you down. Ironhide, Ultra Magnus, the military, if it becomes necessary. Special Operation serves as the Hand of the Prime, and through him, Cybertron; to betray us is high treason, and is punished as such.:: Mirage hesitates for a moment, and his voice softens. ::This is your last chance, Prowl, Jazz - no one will fault you for turning back. You don’t need to do this.::

::Frag off, ‘Raj.:: Jazz laughs down the bond at the startled jerk that gets him. ::Last time I’m gonna get ta say that fer a while, I bet. But we’re ready for this - I ain’t turnin’ back now, an’ neither is Prowler.::

::Agreed.:: Prowl nods. ::Commander. I’ve been - I think we’ve both been eager to get back to Praxus. We don’t need any more time.::

Mirage gives an amused huff, lip quirking. ::Jazz… Prowl. It will be good to work with you, I think. And don’t worry, Jazz - Road Rage especially enjoys telling me to frag myself; I’m sure the only difficulty you’ll find managing it is fighting her for the privilege.:: He nods. ::All you need to do is approach Optimus and kneel - he knows the oath.::

::Sounds good, mech.:: Jazz pings Mirage with a secondary affirmation, before switching to the bond. >>Me or you, Prowler?<<

It doesn’t take Prowl long to decide - he can sense the trepidation in Jazz, faint but present like a buzz against his meta. >>Me.<< And there’s a little curl of relief, there, too, at the word. >>It’s not the first time I’ve sworn an oath like this - just observe.<<

>>Got it, Prowler.<< Jazz gives an uneasy chuckle. >>Ain’t a thing, right?<<

Prowl pushes reassurance down the bond. >>Ain’t a thing.<<

That gets him a little snort of laughter as he steps forward and kneels - and Optimus’ hand rests soothingly on his shoulder. “It is a privilege to have you enter my service, Prowl.” There’s a sincerity flickering in his vast, warm field when the Prime leans forward that is - not unexpected, but it still surprises Prowl, a bit. “I hope you find the happiness you deserve here, student of my brother -” He gestures to Ultra Magnus, who’s own field is a warm, sturdy wall beside them - “Friend of my friend.” And there’s no doubt from his glyphs that he means Ratchet.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Prowl offers when he pauses - it’s the only thing that seems right to say.

“I ask for your oath in the name of Primus, and all Cybertron, in my place as Prime - to serve them and I for as long as your spark endures, in whatever way you can, loyally and well.” The Prime pauses, just a moment, as if weighing the next words, though they have all the subtleties of rote. “It is not an easy road. You will be tested. You may be asked to do terrible things for our planet and his people, and you must face them unflinchingly and do them well. Your mind and frame and spark will be a blade in the hand of the Primacy, and death your only release from that obligation. Can you swear that oath to me?”

Prowl doesn’t hesitate. “I can, my Lord.”

There’s a shimmer of something in the air - Prowl can’t look to see what it is, but after a moment, he realizes that he doesn’t need to; the sheer force of the Prime’s field, barely restrained, is casting frissions of energy around his frame like a nimbus, a faint, phosphorescent charge. “And can you answer to Mirage, my Commander, unhesitating except in the face of your oath to me, and serve him as the trusted envoy of my will, whole-sparkedly and without reservation?”

The words sound less rote, this time, and Mirage makes a little, soft noise behind him that doesn’t sound intentional - but if Mirage is the Prime’s amica - “I can, my Lord.”

“Then offer me your oath, Enforcer Prowl of Iacon, Brother of Smokescreen, Brother of Bluestreak, who Ultra Magnus taught.” The Prime’s voice softens as he lists the names.

“You have it, my Lord.” These words, at least, are easy - a lifetime ago, he offered the same - You have it, Commander - to Ultra Magnus.

“Then arise, agent Prowl -” And the Prime’s hand shifts to guide him upright, until he’s on his pedes again, and the Prime’s fingers rest gently over his spark. “Until all are one.”

“Until all are one,” Prowl echoes back - not entirely sure if he needs to, if the blessing means anything at all from a laymech to the Prime - but Optimus just gives him a soft smile and an encouraging pat.

“Thank you, Prowl.” With that polite dismissal, he turns to Jazz. “And you?”

“Of course, mech.” Jazz gives an uneasy smirk. >>Ain’t no thing, Prowler, right? Jus’ gotta say a few lines - easy.<<

>>Easy,<< Prowl agrees, nudging him down the bond. >>He won’t hurt you, Jazz.<<

>>I know -<< answers Jazz, sinking to his knees before the Prime, >>But - slag, Prowler, you were glowin’ -<<

He cuts off as Optimus begins to speak - the same gentle encouragement, the same oath. Prowl realizes right away what he means - standing back, it’s obvious the way the Prime’s EM field dances around them, skittering across Jazz’s field and the metallic disruption of the assassin’s armor in a eddying swirl of light. The nimbus is less apparent, from outside it - but the white of Jazz’s plating shimmers with color, and even the black of his limbs shines with a pale blue glow.

Jazz carefully mimics Prowl’s responses - even most of his accent is pressed out of the words by his nervousness. It’s not until the request for his oath that there’s a hitch - Optimus looks him in the optics, gaze steady and warm, and asks for his oath as “Jazz of Praxus, Brother of Ricochet, who Ratchet taught -” and Jazz’s vocalizer spits static.

“I -” He resets it, frantically, but Optimus reaches out and steadies him, and Prowl can see but not hear the whispered,

“It’s all right.”

Jazz resets his vocalizer again, and it clicks, once, twice, before he manages to get the words out. “Yeah, mech.” He resets it again. “My Lord, I mean - I mean, you have it. Sir.”

“Thank you.” The Prime helps him to his pedes - it’s a moment before Jazz is steady, and Prowl can feel his surprise still roiling down the bond, even as the Prime gently presses fingers to his chest. “Till all are one.”

“Till all are one.” But Jazz doesn’t pull away, optics locked on the Prime’s. “Ah -”

“Ratchet said you wouldn’t want him to be forgotten,” Optimus offers kindly.

“Oh.” Jazz cycles his vents nervously. “Yeah. Uh - thank you. My Lord.”

The Prime chuckles at that. “I’ll never break mechs of that, it seems.” He shoots a teasing look at Mirage over their shoulder, just for a moment. “Not while their commander insists on it, at least. Go to Praxus, you two. Bring my mechs back to me.”

“Understood, sir,” Prowl offers, with a nod, as he takes Jazz’s hand, and they’re guided from the room by Mirage.