Chapter Text
The quiet hum of the early morning city echoed in the distance. Prowl, in his police cruiser alt-mode, sat motionless in a forgotten corner of a car impound lot. His sleek frame was barely visible beneath layers of dust and grime. The once-pristine black-and-white paint was now dull, and his Autobot insignia — the only thing that stood out among the rows of forgotten vehicles — was faintly glimmering beneath the dirt.
He had been there for far too long.
Prowl’s internal systems were still active, but barely. His energon levels were critically low, and his processor struggled to keep his mind functioning. But none of that really mattered anymore.
His memory traced back to the moment it had all gone wrong. The mission had been nothing more than a simple task — retrieve a human item for Wheeljack and Perceptor. It wasn’t something that required a lot of finesse, or so he thought. He hadn’t even bothered asking for details because, well, it was Wheeljack and Perceptor. He was used to their experiments by now. Unfortunately, that had been a critical mistake.
The device, whatever it was, had malfunctioned. At first, he’d noticed only a brief glitch in his systems. Then, without warning, his frame locked up, a paralyzing grip seizing him completely. He could feel the protests of his circuits, the panic rising within him as his alt-mode engaged involuntarily, locking him in place.
Unable to move.
Unable to communicate.
Time stretched endlessly. The humans had found him, of course. A police cruiser, seemingly abandoned on the side of the road. They’d assumed it was just another vehicle, without plates, without identification. Just another "car" to be hauled away. So, they towed him, helpless to protest, and impounded him.
And now… he was stuck. How long had it been? He didn’t know. Time felt different now. Days and nights blurred together. All he could do was listen to the world around him, unseen, unheard. Each day brought the same: the human workers coming and going, moving vehicles in and out of the lot. The scraping metal. The distant, ominous clanking of the car compactor. A car, similar to him, had been crushed just yesterday. He could still hear the sound.
Prowl tried to shift his systems, but nothing responded. His vocalizer remained silent, trapped in a state of utter helplessness. He was merely a forgotten machine now. Perhaps… perhaps they would find him eventually. Perhaps—
Prowl tried to shift his systems, but nothing responded. His vocalizer refused to activate, and the paralysis kept him mute. All he could do was wait. But for what? His team didn’t even know he was missing. No one would check on him, not for something as mundane as a mission like this. He was just another car now, nothing more.
Then he felt the shift beneath him. He was no longer parked in a quiet corner; he was inside the compactor. Panic surged through him as he registered the dim, claustrophobic space enclosing him. The compactor wasn't running yet, but he could hear the machinery whirring to life, the ominous sounds of gears grinding and metal clanking echoing through the lot. The dread coiled tighter in his chest, a suffocating weight.
The seconds dragged on, time stretching painfully. What if no one came? What if he was crushed before anyone realized he was missing?
But then he heard something. A voice.
It was distant, muffled, but unmistakable.
Jazz.
The familiar sound of his bondmate’s voice broke through the haze of his mind like a bolt of lightning. Prowl couldn’t turn to see, couldn’t respond, but he focused every ounce of his being on that sound.
“Hey! Anyone seen a police cruiser? Fancy emblem, somethin’ like this?” Jazz’s voice carried a sharp edge of urgency, a barely-contained panic that Prowl had rarely ever heard from him.
"Uh… you mean like— yeah, I saw one. Goin’ in the compactor today. Right about… now.”
The compactor.
The realization hit Prowl hard. The compactor was already running.
The words hit like a blast of cold solvent. The compactor groaned louder as it pressed tighter against his frame. Prowl felt his chassis warping, the pressure unbearable. Pain seared through his circuits as his armor began to buckle.
Suddenly, everything moved too fast. Jazz’s footsteps echoed like thunder, the sound of his transformation ringing in Prowl’s audial receptors. Tires screeched as Jazz barreled toward the compactor, faster than any human could comprehend.
"Shut it off!" Jazz’s voice rang out, frantic. "Shut it off! "
Time crawled. Seconds felt like hours as Prowl’s frame creaked and strained under the relentless pressure of the compactor. The sensation of his armor bending and crushing was unbearable, yet there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t transform. He couldn’t even cry out for help.
Then, suddenly, the compactor stopped.
Jazz’s servos were on him, frantically pulling him free from the machine’s jaws. His voice was hurried, panicked, and barely controlled. “Prowler! Come on, man, transform! You’re good now! C’mon…”
But Prowl didn’t — couldn’t — move. His systems remained locked, the paralysis still holding him in its grip.
“Prowl?” Jazz’s voice faltered as he realized something was very wrong. “Why… why aren’t you transforming?”
Jazz fumbled for his communicator. “Ratchet. Wheeljack. Get down here. Now.”
Minutes later, Ratchet and Wheeljack arrived. Ratchet wasted no time scanning Prowl’s frame, his face grim as he worked to stabilize him as best as he could without proper equipment. “What in the Pit happened here?”
Jazz shook his head, pacing. “I don’t know, mech. I don’t know… he won’t transform. He won’t speak. He’s just… stuck.”
Wheeljack approached, his optics narrowing as he rummaged through his tools, muttering. “Wait… this device… this is what Perceptor and I sent him to retrieve.”
Jazz turned to him, his visor flaring angrily. “You knew about this?!”
Wheeljack looked sheepish, holding up his servos defensively. “I thought he ignored the request. I didn’t think… I didn’t realize it’d paralyze him.”
Without another word, Wheeljack removed the device from Prowl’s systems. The moment it was gone, Prowl’s frame jerked violently, and with a sickening crunch, his transformation sequence activated. His body shifted too fast, too abruptly. Metal screeched as his crumpled alt-mode forced itself back into root form.
His frame buckled under the stress. The welds Ratchet had made tore open, and fresh energon spilled from the cracks in his plating. He crumpled to the ground, his optics flickering weakly, dim but still aware.
Jazz was there in an instant, cradling Prowl’s broken form. “I got you, Prowler,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not leavin’ you.”
Prowl’s optics dimmed, but he focused on Jazz, his bondmate’s presence grounding him through the haze of pain.
“I got you,” Jazz whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not leavin’ ya.”
“I’m here. You’re gonna be okay,” Jazz’s voice cracked, but he held Prowl close, refusing to let go.
And despite the damage, despite the agony, Prowl held on too.
Because Jazz was there.
And that was all that mattered.