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Chapter Text

In Commander Jazz’s absence, Prowl strove to behave as a model prisoner. 

How exactly he ought to accomplish this objective preoccupied Prowl’s processor for several cycles. Prowl had agreed to serve out his sentence working for Commander Jazz instead of being remanded to an Autobot prison. However, Prowl’s warden had provided no detailed rules or expectations before returning to Iacon and leaving Prowl behind in Uraya, nor did the Autobot Code or existing criminal law cover Prowl’s circumstance. 

Prowl concluded that this was a test. Commander Jazz wanted to see whether Prowl could self-administer punishment purely on the basis of Prowl’s own recognizance. Rather than letting himself off easy, Prowl calculated it would be best to set stringent restrictions and show his dedication toward properly paying for his crime. 

The next step was to determine which legal precedents might apply. Prowl’s victim was an Autobot, and Prowl had been apprehended by an Autobot agent, but he was not himself a member of the military, nor was he a prisoner of war. The crime had occurred in Uraya, but probability analysis suggested that jurisdiction would have been given to Iacon, since Giltedge was an Iaconian Towers mech (and since Prowl could not be returned for prosecution in the territory where he held legal recognition – technically, Praxus’ destruction left Prowl stateless). 

After several cycles’ worth of research and self-reflection, Prowl decided on an appropriately restrictive code of conduct for himself. Each shift he was permitted to pick up his energon ration from the commissary, but otherwise he had freedom of movement only when going between his work area and his hab. Once every five cyles, Prowl was allowed one joor of exercise in alt mode (Prowl had debated whether he ought to rely upon the Autobot code instead, which would have decreased this interval to one joor of exercise per lightcycle, but he’d remained firm and refused himself leniency).

During his duty shifts, Prowl continued running the Urayan tactical office. Giltedge’s death had no discernable effect other than requiring Prowl to obtain a different mech’s glyph on outgoing documents. 

Commander Jazz sent more interesting work by secure courier. The Autbots’ pivot to Uraya had been abandoned until they finished completely overhauling the base’s security and officer corps. Prowl was asked to submit a proposal for redirecting those intended resources without tipping off the Decepticons. Prowl sent back several scenarios, including suggestions for how the Decepticons could be occupied in the interim, which Commander Jazz seemed pleased with.

Thus, it was no surprise when Prowl was ordered on a transport bound for Autobot headquarters on the very same lightcycle the Primacy reclaimed Prowl’s lease. 

Commander Jazz took custody of Prowl as soon as Prowl disembarked. Prowl’s wings gave a nervous twitch before he locked them into an appropriately submissive position. Commander Jazz was Prowl’s warden and deserved proper deference. He had been kinder to Prowl than anyone: he had given Prowl the chance to continue doing meaningful work. 

“Prowler!” The commander beamed and caught Prowl by the shoulder, overlapping Prowl in his warm field.

Prowl shivered. Commander Jazz was a naturally tactile mechanism, but Prowl was unused to such friendliness. “Commander, thank you for your time. Please show me my designated area of activity and I will begin my duties.”

The commander had indicated during their previous interactions that he wished Prowl’s prisoner status to remain secret. Prowl was unskilled at subterfuge but would do his best to comply during any public contact.

“We’re makin’ a detour first,” Commander Jazz replied, and whisked Prowl away to the base’s medbay.

Prowl did not require repairs. Perhaps the Primacy had requested proof of condition when reclaiming their asset?

Upon entry, the commander flagged down a boxy red and white medic, size class seven, whose ID transponder loudly broadcasted his rank on all available channels. Chief Medical Officer Ratchet took one look at Prowl, scowled, and jerked his servo in the direction of an exam room. Prowl was not offended. Medics familiar with Prowl’s crash history usually behaved that way.

“I’ll be waitin’ outside once you’re done,” Commander Jazz managed to get out before the medic shut the exam room door with a snap.

In Prowl’s experience, a mechanism should not test a medic’s temper without good cause. He took a seat on the berth while the chief medic collected his tools, overseeing tacnet as it built a scale model of Autobot headquarters (while reassessing prior calculations involving Autobot morale, battle readiness and supply chain stability based on newly observed data).

A short-range transmission pinged Prowl’s comm. When he opened it, it contained only an unfamiliar comm code and instructions for a paired-key data encryption.

“I used to run a free clinic in the Dead End,” said Chief Medic Ratchet, coming to stand beside Prowl and setting down his supplies. “I treated a lot of cold constructs there. If you give me your real medical records, whatever’s in them stays encrypted in my internal archives. I don’t care what you did or didn’t report to your manufacturer, I just want to fix you.”

Commander Jazz had left Prowl in Chief Medic Ratchet’s custody. Prowl was bound to accept the order. He immediately transmitted the file as instructed. While Prowl had never sought treatment outside official medical facilities, Prowl’s official record heavily sanitized his construction and early functioning. 

Chief Medic Ratchet made a sound of inordinate rage. “What idiots deliberately designed a frame to have a processor glitch?!?”

Prowl fared poorly at identifying rhetorical questions. It was better to answer and look foolish than to not answer and offend mecha, so he replied, “Eliminating the glitch reduced my tactical system’s performance by 65 percent, rendering the design useless. As I am, I outperform any other integrated tactical computer by considerable margins.”

The medic’s vents made a rude noise. “Idiots. I’m surprised your spark didn’t gutter the nanoklick you onlined in that frame. If I ever catch the crankshafts who built you, they’ll wish they were never sparked when I’m done with them.”

Prowl’s exam was completed amid a great deal of swearing. Prowl was not consulted for further discussion.

When Prowl came out of medbay, Commander Jazz was leaning against the opposite wall, tapping his servos rhythmically as he listened to music on his internal comms. 

He straightened and grinned when he saw Prowl. “Doc Ratch already gave me an audioful. Here,” he said, and deposited two full cubes into Prowl’s servos. “Drink ‘em both while I show you to your quarters.”

Commander Jazz had arranged for Prowl to have his own cell. The commander apologized that it was smaller than Prowl’s old hab in Uraya – Prowl’s new space was large enough to fit a berth and little else – but Prowl assured him it was sufficient. Giltedge had given Prowl a hab in Uraya’s officer wing to hide the off-duty joors Prowl worked, and to isolate Prowl so no one questioned the rumors Giltedge and his cronies spread. Now, a solitary cell was quite suitable for Prowl. Prowl was a violent offender and it was only reasonable to keep him away from other mechanisms.

Afterward, the commander transmitted a map highlighting the base’s basic amenities, and extended a half-mischievous, half-hopeful field toward Prowl, puckering his lower lip and making his visor display sparkle. “Feel up to meetin’ somebody important and makin’ a good first impression?”

Prowl, who never made a good first impression and had already learned to be wary when the commander employed any visual special effects, frowned. “What did you do?”

“I mighta stretched the truth a lil bit to get you in Iacon.” Commander Jazz held up his pointer digits with a .004 mechanometer space between them. “Just the littlest bit.”

Prowl frowned harder. “Explain.”

“I tweaked a transport manifest and told Uraya’s new commander that you were my undercover agent there.” Commander Jazz patted Prowl’s shoulder. “That will even be true once we get the big bot’s glyph of approval!”

Prowl could feel his own field bristling with anxiety. He hastily suppressed it (he had never been good at polite field contact). Prowl did not want to lose this chance at meaningful work. “What must I do?”

Jazz placed a hand on Prowl’s back and guided him rapidly toward the area marked as ‘administrative offices’ on Prowl’s new map. “Be yourself, you’ll do just fine.”

Prowl rebooted his vocalizer twice before he trusted himself to reply. “Commander, that–that has never, ever been a successful interpersonal strategy for me.”

Commander Jazz’s visor flared. “Really? Worked on me.”

Prowl’s wings fluttered; hastily, he locked them back in position. By then, the commander had stopped outside a door marked with the Primal Seal. 

“You are taking me to meet the Prime?” Prowl demanded in horror.

“Best mech I’ve ever known,” Commander Jazz said, and dragged Prowl inside before Prowl could organize further protests.

Behind the desk was Optimus Prime, looking more ordinary than he did in Autobot recruiting ads, with his finish shockingly scuffed and unpolished for someone of his high rank. The Prime glanced up, optical sensors brightening when he saw them. “Jazz, what brings you here?”

The commander grinned, and pushed Prowl in front of the Prime. “Hey OP, this is Prowl of Petrex.”

The Prime’s field swept over Prowl in delight. “Prowl, welcome to Iacon! I had hoped we could speak. Would you be willing to discuss your experiences as a civilian working within the construction debt system? I am ashamed to say I have no acquaintances among your fellow cold constructs.”

“I am not surprised,” Prowl said. “When Zeta Prime’s military campaigns ended and the first civilian cold constructs were manufactured, the Dockworkers and Haulers Union campaigned successfully to have their members’ functions barred to indentured mecha.”

Optimus Prime, inexplicably, beamed (corroborating his frame language patterns, which Prowl had previously categorized as ‘positive and open’?). “That is exactly the kind of thing I need to know. Can you tell me about problems you’ve noticed within the system? The Senate has been delaying my requests for data and my own research has been unsatisfying. Prewar criticism of the indenture system was heavily censored, and I’m afraid these days any hint of critique is considered Decepticon propaganda.”

“How much time do you have?” Prowl asked.

Six joor later, Prowl’s impromptu presentation on the history and abuses of construction debt had migrated to a conference room and expanded to include not only Optimus Prime (the first four joor) but also Optimus Prime’s entire inner circle (whose reactions collectively condensed down to ‘again?’).

“My Lord Prime,” Prowl rephrased for the third time, deciding it was time to be blunt, “you cannot unilaterally dissolve the construction debt system without leading to the collapse of the Cybertronian economy.”

“Just Optimus, please,” said the Prime, also for the third time. “As you have explained it, Prowl, although the construction debt system appears fair on paper, it is in fact exploitative and actively harming the wellbeing of indentured mecha. I cannot stand by and allow it to continue.”

“Acknowledged,” Prowl replied absently, reshuffling his priority queues. “The war is a significant barrier to your objective. The Autobot-affiliated industrial sector supplying your armies functions on cheap, reliable labor provided by cold constructs. Removing that essential infrastructure will end in an Autobot defeat, 95% probability, leaving the citizens you protect to the Decepticons’ control.”

Optimus Prime slumped. “Must I buy the safety of many with the well-being of a few? Is there no way it can be done? Perhaps gradually, in stages?” 

Prowl looked toward Commander Jazz, unsure if a prisoner ought to be suggesting major Autobot policy decisions. His warden, lounging with his chin on his servo, did not give him any sign.

Lifting his wings, Prowl turned back toward the Prime. “If you intend to minimize potential harm, you will have to treat this as a long-term goal. Your policy will be overwhelmingly unpopular. The common mechanism will oppose abolishment because it guarantees economic upheaval. You will also earn the enmity of the ruling class, who will lose the power and income derived from indentured labor.”

The Prime sighed. “I can live with being unpopular. I cannot live with leaving mechanisms in such conditions. Magnus, could you work with Prowl to determine what portions of the legal code will need revising?”

“Again, Optimus?” the towering field commander groaned. He’d spent most of Prowl’s presentation with his faceplate buried in his servos.

“It can be done at your convenience,” Prowl offered as consolation. “I have not completed my economic modeling yet.”

Prowl did not have any formal financial accreditation. As an Enforcer, he had not so much as known how to open a bank account. Then Giltedge had purchased Prowl’s lease and ordered Prowl to manage his investments and keep his accounts. Prowl had been desperately understimulated, mourning the loss of his function, and the math looked interesting. 

He’d found a janitor (cold constructed, of course) at the Iacon School of Economics and Political Science who would pass Prowl pirated books and paywalled journals in exchange for recordings of low-quality reality netshows. Prowl’s internal archives, fortunately, had 163 seasons of ‘Cybertron’s Got Talent.’ Prowl had read through most of the university library by the time Giltedge was reassigned to Uraya (Prowl had used his new knowledge to sabotage Giltedge’s portfolio so it yielded the most plausibly mediocre investment gains he could get away with).

“I will also need access to additional government data and adequate opportunities to speak with your economics consultant,” Prowl said.

“Haven’t got one,” interjected Lieutenant Stormbreaker, the head of the Strategy and Tactics office, flapping a laconic servo toward the mechanisms seated around the table. “This lot here? We’re it.”

Optimus was a wartime prime, ascending in the midst of crisis and forced to mitigate one disaster after another. The military and scientific talent he’d managed to recruit, considering his own humble origins, was impressive. Nevertheless, Prowl saw many gaps of expertise which would need filling if the Prime was to be properly supported (Prowl was still convinced the Primacy was an outdated, undemocratic institution, but was beginning to believe that Optimus Prime was neither corrupt nor useless).

“I will look into appropriate candidates and submit a list,” Prowl said, bowing his helm politely.

“Prowl,” Optimus Prime spoke up, “Even if I cannot help your fellow cold constructs, could I not forgive your construction debt, and the debts of the Praxian indentured mechanisms the Primacy has inherited?”

Prowl held still while his tactical suite branched into a dizzying new possibility tree. “I would prefer you did not.”

The Prime frowned, his powerful field enveloping the room in genuine distress. “Why not?”

Folding his servos in front of him, Prowl kept his inflection carefully neutral. “It is a matter of bureaucracy. Cold constructs do not receive a citizen ID code when they online. They are assigned a model number, which is logged in a separate registry. Paying off their construction debt entitles them to apply for citizenship. However, that process can only occur within the city-state of their manufacture. Praxus no longer exists. Therefore, I have no method of obtaining citizenship. Forgiving my construction debt would strand me in a legal vacuum. Without access to legitimate employment either as a citizen or an indentured mech, I would be unable to meet my frame’s basic needs.”

It is not a preferable scenario, but it is a possible one, and Prowl had not placed conditions on his obedience when accepting the commander’s offer (much less objections on the basis of mere personal preferability), so he continues, “Forgiving my construction debt could hold considerable benefit for you, my lord Prime. As long as you continued providing my energon you could secure my service in the absence of better options, without having any legal obligation toward my treatment or being required to provide monetary compensation.”

Everyone was staring – even Commander Jazz. Prowl had erred somehow. He reviewed his behavior but could not determine what he had done wrong.

“No,” said Optimus Prime, vocalizer crackling oddly. “I do not want to do that.”

“Thank you,” Prowl replied politely. “As your first step, I suggest you determine how many indentures the Primacy holds, and call in any currently leased to other sponsors. Some mechanisms may wish to have their debt forgiven, but many will not, either due to lack of resources or because they were built in Decepticon-held territories and cannot currently obtain legal citizenship. At the very least, you will be able to ensure they are treated well.”

Prowl’s suggestion was accepted without further discussion. In the end, Commander Jazz got his wish. Prowl became the newest member of special operations–and also an analyst for Stormbreaker’s Strategy and Tactics Office–and also the Prime’s…aide? Consultant? Occasional expert?

Frankly, Prowl thought a prisoner shouldn’t be given easy access to such highly-ranked mechanisms and their sensitive data, but the Prime and his officers apparently disagreed.

At least the Autobot security director treated Prowl with appropriate suspicion. Prowl approved of Red Alert greatly. His surveillance network, stretching in an impressive web across headquarters, constantly monitored Prowl without the need for guards. A camera was mounted right outside Prowl’s cell. Every time Prowl left, he would inform his watcher of his intended destination, path, and estimated arrival time. It was equally easy to locate cameras near Prowl’s usual workspaces where he could check in upon arrival, and perform the same service when he left. Prowl had also received several random checks of his subspace and cell, which was an excellent precaution.

Commander Jazz also admirably carried out his duty as Prowl’s warden. He delivered Prowl’s energon ration almost every cycle, a convenient cover for the two of them to meet so Prowl could give a report of his movements and activities without letting on the truth of Prowl’s prisoner status. 

Curiously, 92% of the time the commander also brought his own energon and consumed it in Prowl’s presence. Tacnet suggested Commander Jazz might simply be too busy to fuel otherwise, or perhaps the commander preferred to fuel in company (Prowl did not rate this possibility highly. Commander Jazz was an attractive and engaging mechanism who had many more preferable companions available than Prowl). 

The commander was fond of inserting his own anecdotes into Prowl’s reports, which were either amusing (41%), informational (33%) or highly detrimental for Autobot morale (26%). Prowl enjoyed being granted these glimpses into Commander Jazz’s life and character (he suspected the circumstances of their first meeting made the commander more honest than was typical, but did not yet have data to corroborate). For his part, Prowl made sure to emphasize he was grateful for his work, which kept him outside his cell outside of his minimum necessary self-repair cycles.

In the absence of complaint from his monitors and after considering the relevant factors, Prowl concluded that his imprisonment was proceeding well.

Chapter Text

Operation: Get Prowl Comfy in Iacon was going flawlessly. 

After calling in a few favors (and applying a generous coating of lies, misdirections and half-truths, with a sprinkle of blackmail), Prowl was the owner of a prized solo hab – too bad about the size, but Iacon base was bulging at the seams – he’d been hooked up with Doc Ratch for a proper medical exam, and Prowl had a cool new job (three jobs, what the frag Prowl?).

Okay, so Jazz’s plan might’ve hit one or two potholes. Like Prowl deadaft advising Prime to turn him into unpaid slave labor – not the most horrifying moment of Jazz’s decacyle but it sure made his fuel pumps stall! That was also the exact nanoklick Prowl had been added to Prime’s list of Mechanisms He Would Protect Forever.

Honestly? Same. Jazz had a brand new priority-tagged script pinging reminders to yank Prowl away from exercising his complete lack of self-preservation (Jazz handily ignored his own long record of near-suicidal self-sacrificial acts. Can’t see ‘em, nothing there to see, move along!).

Once Prowl had taken up his new position(s), he’d proved even more brilliant and innovative than Jazz imagined. As Prime’s self-appointed aide, he’d parlayed his nebulous authority into ruthlessly reworking Autobot central administration. The Budget Office had a collective breakdown and the quartermaster had repeatedly threatened to resign, but one presentation from Prowl and OP had been on board with the reorganization. It had been beautiful to watch as Prowl buried his opponents under reports and slideshows and statistical analyses meticulously detailing their inefficiency (Jazz knew a battlefield when he saw one). 

Those stiff-struts were boiling mad about Prowl from then on, 95% – heh, Prowl was rubbing off on Jazz – 95% chance they were rusty cause a mech who’d recently been a minor analyst in Uraya was giving them orders. They’d kept honking until they’d realized reports were reaching the right mecha faster, approvals and denials were flowing more efficiently - pit, Prowl had somehow found a new munitions supplier and spec ops could finally stop pretending their black market stockpile of EMP mines didn’t exist!

Meanwhile, Stormbreaker and his entire Strategy and Tactics Office were wailing with joy over the things Prowl could do with data. Jazz could relate. 

Fun new Prowl fact: Enforcer Prowl had run ops in Iacon and Praxus! Jazz had immediately tested this, because he had no resistance to shiny. Watching the smooth, calm way Prowl could command a training exercise…

Anyway, Prowl’s detractors had shut up real quick, once Prowl showed them what (who) they’d been missing. Prowl might be an ‘analyst’ now, but anybot with working optics knew some cycle he’d be the one making decisions and giving orders. Jazz had adjusted his plans accordingly.

When Prowl’s legal slag got worked out and he could officially join up, Jazz wagered (would conduct a vigorous rumor campaign to guarantee) that nobody would protest when Prowl got promoted straight into high command – not even Magnus, who was usually a stickler for protocol. As rumor had it (a rumor Jazz had started and could personally verify) Prowl and their prickliest field commander had bonded over their mutual appreciation for properly-written reports (Yeah, Jazz had shot himself in the knee joint on that one, but it was for a higher cause).

There was just one pebble lodged in Jazz’s gears: Jazz was a tiny bit tweaked about sharing Prowl with two other departments. 

Look, Prowl deserved every bit of recognition he got! He did! But Jazz worked long, irregular joors running Special Operations, and the triple custody arrangement was unacceptably cutting into Jazz’s Prowl-watching time. Even if Jazz hadn’t enjoyed Prowl’s company (and he did, to a concerning degree), Jazz needed to keep optics on his new agents, both to assess how well they were completing their duties and to make sure they weren’t gonna go rogue or eat their own blaster.

Fortunately for Jazz, Ratchet had already handed him an ironclad excuse for satisfying his professional and less-professional responsibilities (and claiming his own piece of regular Prowl-time).

Leaning against the outer medbay wall while he waited for Prowl, Jazz basked in his success and the strut-shaking vibrations of Tetrahexian remixed club punk. 

When Ratchet pinged him, he grinned and layered his comms overtop his audial processing. ::What’s the verdict, Doc?::

::Your new agent’s permanently banned from solo fieldwork. Unless you want him offlining in a ditch, do not send him out alone. Got it?.::

Alarmed, Jazz flared his plating. ::That bad?::

::The question isn’t if Prowl will crash, it’s when and how hard. Nothing I can do except help him manage his condition, which he’s already doing fine on his own. Keep him well-fueled, running regular repair cycles, and reduce his stress, and he’ll crash less.::

::You have my word, Doc. No solo fieldwork.:: It was no nicks off Jazz’s finish. He had bigger aspirations for Prowl. ::How about fieldwork with a team?:

::I want to say no. But I’ve seen Prowl’s specs. I can guess what a tactical suite like his can do. Before I approve anything, I’ve got conditions.::

::Name ‘em.::

::A medic 3rd class as a teammate–one with supplemental training on interrupting and treating processor crashes. And a handler who can drag Prowl’s aft off a battlefield if he drops into stasis.::

::You got it, Doc. Feel like running first aid recertifications for spec ops?::

Ratchet’s reply was drier than a desert. ::I’m sure your request has nothing to do with the fact you are certified as medic 3rd class.::

Jazz spread his servos, even though Ratchet couldn’t see him. ::Doc, where’d those suspicions come from? I’m just doin’ my duty.::

Ratchet blatted static down the line. ::Fine. Keeps me from patching you twitchy slaggers as often.

Without asking, Jazz knew the training would have an extra module on processor crashes. Ratchet was good like that. ::Anything else Doc?::

::Keep Prowl in Iacon for now. He’s in better condition than most indentured mecha –no mineral deficiencies, at least – but the slagging sponsors always lowball their fuel calculations. I’m doubling his fuel ration until he’s put on protoform mass and density. Might even help his glitch.::

Jazz bounced, triumphant in the knowledge he’d kept a subspace chockfull of Prowl-blend cubes destined for exactly this moment. ::I got it covered, Doc. Thanks!::

Okay, hunting down Prowl to share their ration breaks wasn’t what the doctor ordered, but Jazz was movin’ with the right spirit! Jazz got a chunk of Prowl’s lightcycle, a check-in and a little chitchat. Prowl got fuel and fun in exchange (Jazz was the most fun a bot could have without engex or explosives, kay?).

The problem–no wait, that sounded bad–the issue–nah that sounded worse. The problem was that Jazz liked Prowl–actually that wasn’t the problem. Liking a mech wasn’t enough to sway Jazz’s judgement. Jazz’d killed plenty of people he liked.

The real problem was that Jazz felt comfortable around Prowl, and comfortable was one twitchy skitter away from Jazz trusting Prowl. 

That was a slaggin’ huge problem in Jazz’s line of work. Trust was dangerous and precious and somehow he’d come within throwing distance of giving it to Prowl–Prowl, whose ruthless, meticulous intelligence made him as dangerous as Jazz.

Frag, what had Jazz been thinking? 

It was easy not to lie to Prowl. Prowl had already seen Meister at work – knew exactly what Jazz hid behind easy smiles and a friendly attitude – Primus, Jazz’d held a knife to his throat! Most mecha held grudges over that kinda slag. Not Prowl. 

Jazz’d thought Prowl might act differently once Prowl got to spec ops and dug into the archives that didn’t officially exist. Most bots did (Decepticons didn’t care so much. Jazz played permanent mental hopscotch around that lil thought nugget.).

Prowl did not do that. Didn’t even emotionally disengage from Jazz. In hindsight, Jazz shoulda had more faith, considering they met over the deactivated frame of a guy Prowl killed to save more mecha.

So Jazz started slipping his other stories into their fuel breaks. The bad ones he couldn’t share without freaking mecha out – not just cause Prowl already knew the war wasn’t going well and the ugly slag Jazz’d done to keep it from getting worse.

(Stuff like, I stood and watched while eight Autobots were lined up and executed. Then I helped sort their frames for parts salvage.

Or, I scraped his processor inside-out until his mind popped like a balloon. Then I used his idents and smiled while I did it. )

Nobody liked hearing that kinda scrap, but Prowl just looked at Jazz the same way as always: calmly, patiently and compassionately calculating reasons and possible outcomes. 

Prowl was slag at consoling. Lucky that Jazz didn’t wanna be consoled. He just wanted–wanted someone to get it who wasn’t his mandated psychological counselor. 

Jazz didn’t make Prowl listen to bad slag all the time. He made up for it by sharing his best funny stories, or ones with interesting educational facts he knew Prowl would like. He passed Prowl all kinda catchy tunes, too – Jazz’s new Prowl playlist had split into three playlists (one focus beats for co-working, one smooth listening for ration breaks, and a hopeful Prowl & fun tracklist that had a lil swing to it) – and Prowl shared new music files in return (cold construct data exchange style!). 

Jazz spent way too much time teasing Prowl, but how could Jazz resist seeing those flustered tiny wing flaps? It was as self-indulgent as hoovering a cube of sweet energon. And Prowl’s frowns! Primus’ spark, Prowl’s frowns were fascinating. Prowl used ‘em to express an emotional range that other mechs needed a dozen different facial expressions to reach. 

Jazz cataloged Prowl’s frowns the way dedicated xenobiologists tracked down new organic samples. The frown Prowl made when puzzled was one of Jazz’s favorites, which Jazz dubbed, ‘You are not behaving in-model; recalibrating social protocols.’ Jazz tickled that one out of Prowl at least once a lightcycle. Other versions he was very fond of included ‘your idiocy pains my logic centers,’ ‘you are doing it Wrong yet social convention dictates I must stew in silence,’ and the very spicy, ‘you have two klicks before I extract your spark through your intake.’

So yeah, Jazz liked his fuel breaks with Prowl, and Prowl didn’t throw Jazz out so he must like ‘em too, even if he strenuously objected to dropping Jazz’s rank glyph.

They were edging closer into friendship-adjacent territory by the lightcycle and everything Jazz learned about Prowl set Jazz’s spy-senses ringing. 

Observation one: Prowl did not fuel because he was hungry. Prowl set a timer, and unless that alarm went off, Prowl didn’t go find fuel, no matter how low his tank level fell. Jazz had also – after some snooping (and a coupla door hacks, no biggie) – confirmed that despite stuffing Prowl’s hab, desks, and subspace with his prescription blend cubes, Prowl had not touched a single one. It was like Prowl didn’t believe he could fuel above his ration, even if more was available.

Observation two: Prowl’s cycles rigidly adhered to a pattern. After defragging in his hab, Prowl went straight to his assigned department and worked without stopping (unless Jazz showed up for their fuel break) before he returned to his hab for the exact minimum self-repair his frametype required. Prowl repeated this routine like a playlist on loop, except for adding one joor’s exercise every five cycles. And that was it. No deviations, ever. Jazz didn’t understand it. He’d met bots who were strict with schedules, but not like Prowl. Prowl’s routine didn’t calm him or comfort him – it wound him tighter and ratcheted up his anxiety instead. 

The lack of breaks worried Jazz even more. Prowl didn’t work shifts, he worked literally every moment he was online, unless Jazz forced him not to. 

And the weirdest part? Prowl kept talking to Red Alert’s cameras, telling them his plans for his cycle. Was this an Enforcer thing? A cold construct thing? A Prowl thing? It was probably a Prowl thing (Related weird thing: Red Alert loved Prowl. He’d never even met Prowl! Rude, tryna muscle in on Jazz’s gig. Unfairest of all, Prowl ardently admired Red Alert right back. Blaster was lying, Jazz was not pouting over it).

Observation three: Prowl didn’t seem to know how not to work. Jazz tried any excuse to drag him somewhere fun: spec ops movie night, a drive off base, public crystal gardens and museums, anything. Prowl responded each time with low-carried wings, avoidant optic contact and some variation of, “That would not be appropriate, Commander.” Prowl wouldn’t even pause his calculations to indulge in office small talk. That kinda hyperfocus wasn’t healthy.

If Prowl had been one of Jazz’s official agents, Jazz could’ve ordered a psych eval anytime. With Prowl being a contractor (a piece of rusting legal pitscrap they still couldn’t fix), Prowl needed to pose an imminent security threat before Jazz could justify a request, because Prowl’s processor state (or health) wasn’t officially the Autobots’ problem.

To bridge the gap, Jazz had tried suggesting that Prowl talk to Smokescreen. Prowl dismissed the idea on the grounds that he was, “functional, not experiencing acute distress, and completing adequate defrag.” When Jazz pressed, the Praxian insisted he would be a waste of the psychologist’s time when there were mechanisms on base suffering battle shock.

Jazz didn’t buy that for a nanoklick. Not when Prowl kept dropping fragged-up tidbits whenever they fueled. Last cycle Jazz’d been rambling about meeting his newbuild mentor (good old Ripoff, that crusty rustbucket) when Prowl offhandedly mentioned he’d spent his first activation cycle cataloging line energon spatters at a double homicide.

Jazz might’ve spat static or warbled out of shock. Even Jazz, with his extremely questionable upbringing, hadn’t seen deactivated frames until a couple vorns after wriggling out of the hotspot. 

So that was fragged up, and worrying, and even after piling on all Prowl’s other traumas (the indenture scrap, the ‘Praxus is dead and so is almost everybot who looks like me,’ the ex-boss murdering – Jazz was forgetting some more, probably) if Jazz told Prowl he couldn’t repress his trauma forever, the stubborn calculator’d probably take it as a challenge.

Jazz had a lot of power over Prowl. The straightforward kind that came from being a mecha’s boss, plus the under-fender kind that came from holding blackmail material. He could force Prowl through Smokescreen’s door using that leverage. Jazz could appeal to OP, or straight-up order Prowl to go. Prowl’d probably obey, too. 

Jazz didn’t wanna. That’d cross a line between them, permanently. If Prowl’s wellbeing was on the line, Jazz’d do it in a sparkpulse. Right now, when Prowl seemed content and stable, even if he wasn’t as fine as he claimed, the violation of trust wasn’t worth it. 

At least Jazz was making progress on Operation: Keep Prowl Alive. Ratchet had finished giving Jazz’s Iacon-based agents their crash response training, and OP had jumped at the chance to send his staff for similar refresher courses. Most of Prime’s staff and the Primal Vanguard had basic medical training anyway. 

The weak spot in their plating was Stormbreaker’s Strategy and Tactics Office: the whole department wasn’t certified for more than basic first aid. Jazz’d honed in on Step-up, a junior tactician who’d worked as an additive dispensary technician before the war. Ratchet had agreed Step-up could reach Prowl’s requirements fastest, and Jazz was working Stormbreaker up to signing his glyph to the orders.

But Jazz didn’t stay alive this long by putting all his cubes in one subspace. He had a backup plan, and if that worked out, he’d somersault right over the tac office’s inability to weld. See, Prowl needed (or was gonna need) a frameguard. Prowl was a valuable Autobot resource now. When the Decepticons figured out where the Autobots were getting their shiny new strategies from (might’ve already figured it out, Sounders was no slouch) they were not gonna sit on their servos. They’d try to kill Prowl – or best-case, try to recruit Prowl and then kill him when that failed (And if the recruitment didn’t fail? That was when Jazz’s bots got called in to fix the problem). 

If Prowl rose as high in the Autobot ranks as Jazz expected, eventually he’d need a whole security team, but for now one good frameguard with the right medical training would do the job. Jazz had a few potentials lined up, just needed to test which one jived with Prowl best.

Everything was buffing out smooth. When Jazz left for a short retrieval mission, he wasn’t worried.

Then he came back to find his agents were dumping their work on Prowl.

Jazz was slagged off, and he made that real fragging clear to the crankshafts at fault. Then he went to find Prowl.

Prowl’d overheard the whole mess through his sensor wings. He’d tensed his actuators painfully stiff, and his field was pulled in tight enough that Jazz couldn’t get a read on him.

“I’m not mad at you,” Jazz said the moment they had privacy. “They outranked you and you couldn’t turn ‘em down. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Prowler.”

Prowl’s plating loosened from where it was clamped against his protoform. “Still, I apologize, Commander. I clearly did not choose the optimal response.”

Now was not the time to convince Prowl to drop the rank modifier, Jazz reminded himself. “If I’m off grid, go to Mirage, or whoever’s acting commander. They’ll back you up.”

Prowl bowed, sweeping his sensor wings down low. “Acknowledged, Commander.”

Jazz vented. “I want you to start working a regular shift schedule.”

Prowl’s wings shot up, optics white with distress. “I–Commander–you said I did not do anything wrong!”

“This ain’t a punishment, Prowler. We been taking advantage of you. You deserve to get the same time off everybot else does. I shoulda said something before. ‘M sorry I didn’t.”

“I understand, sir,” Prowl replied, holding himself so stiffly Jazz was surprised he didn’t snap a cable.

Jazz kept an optic on Prowl, just to make sure he took those shifts off. Turned out Jazz didn’t hafta worry – Prowl did just like he promised, and left work exactly on time. Didn’t even try sneaking extra overtime! Jazz felt proud.

This seemed like the perfect moment to take Prowl out to have fun. Except when Jazz asked Prowl to Spec Ops game night (cheating required), Prowl turned him down. Again. And every other time Jazz asked.

With a few hacked feeds, Jazz figured out Prowl spent his free shifts inside his hab. Didn’t leave at all until his next on-duty shift. Not even to fuel. Maybe he was reading? Prowl liked to read.

One quick check later (didn’t count as a break-in if you lifted the key codes!), Jazz confirmed that Prowl’s hab remained completely empty other than his berth. Prowl still wasn’t fueling using the cubes Jazz stashed there, either. What was he doing?

“Have you considered asking Prowl? Smokescreen commented after Jazz sauntered into his office and laid out the situation.

When Jazz only grinned and replied, “Give me your best guess,” Smokescreen shook his helm in defeat, leaning back against his desk.

“I’m missing too much cultural context. Cold constructs are virtually invisible to modern Cybertronian psychology. Sponsors don’t have a legal obligation to provide mental health services and constructs who’ve paid off their debt don’t have spare credits for therapy.”

“C’mon Smokey,” Jazz coaxed. “You’re Praxian, that’s more’n most others can say. I know you got something in your noggin.” 

One wing flicked in irritation. “Frametype is a surface similarity. I really don’t know that I can help you, Jazz. My field’s seminal studies on cold constructs predate the indenture system, for Primus’ sake, and I wouldn’t trust them anyway–back then, the scientific community was hysterically trying to prove cold constructs were different from ‘real’ Cybertronians. The fuss died down after the Senate imposed production caps, and my field stopped paying attention after the funding dried up. I dug up a few decent sociology dissertations and that was it.”

“And what’d they say?”

Despite his irritation with Jazz, Smokescreen took the invitation to share. “Cold construct networks are built around barter and data exchanges, yeah, but there’s incredible variety, even within the same function. The indentured miners of the outer asteroid belt work in isolated, completely segregated crews, while the indentured miners of Kaon and Tarn work alongside their forged counterparts and live in the least-segregated states on Cybertron. That’s why they were so easily radicalized and recruited into the Decepticons, and also why the Senate keeps pushing segregation. Service industry cold constructs like Prowl are known for being secretive – probably a side-effect of dealing with working bots convinced their functions are being stolen, and religious dipsticks who think cold construction is an affront to Primus. And sometimes those stripped screws decide violence works better than glyphs.”

Jazz’s plating prickled. Prowl’d been an Enforcer – no way he hadn’t seen that pitscrap working cases. Nothing like potentially underestimating your buddy’s level of trauma.

“What I can tell you is that Prowl has spent his entire functioning inside rigid, rule-oriented systems – first as an Enforcer, then as military. He has constructed and self-imposed a similarly inflexible set of behaviors for himself. His system clearly has importance and meaning to him.” Smokescreen shrugged. “Beyond that, I can’t say more without talking with him.” Giving Jazz one more meaningful look, Smokescreen passive-aggressively showed Jazz out of his office.

Jazz was forced to let that conversation simmer on the backburner. Running Special Operations was a full cycle job, and successive emergencies meant Jazz had kept himself functioning off a nasty – but vital – mod that pushed off defrag deprivation (the comedown would be the pits but not as bad as field stims).

His processor lag was – well, Jazz wouldn’t be winning any quickdraw duels, let’s say – and he was so proud of getting OP’s go-ahead on appointing Prowl’s guard that he blurted it straight out to Prowl during their next fuel break, vocalizer moving faster than his priority queue.

Prowl froze up, optics dilating wide and bright. Shame flushed his field before he yanked it back to his plating. “Commander, I–I did not realize my behavior had become inappropriate enough to warrant a guard. I apologize–I assure you, I am willing to correct my errors. Please, how can I improve?”

Jazz squinted his optics against the static in his visor feed, sinking further into his half-sprawl over Prowl’s desk (the only thing preventing Jazz from lying on the floor; his gyros felt like liquid mercury, hehe weird). “Prowl I ain’t got the bandwidth to puzzle that question out. Ya not in trouble, frag, ya done half a miracle pullin’ off the defense of Lamda-Chi-sixteen. The guard’s to keep the Cons from killin’ ya, aight?”

Prowl kept studying him. Jazz could feel the cogs turning in Prowl’s big brilliant processor, spitting out figures Jazz was too janky to follow, beyond being strut-deep certain there was a miscommunication going on. 

Finally, Prowl sat back, leaving his cube barely touched. “Thank you, Commander. I am grateful for your consideration.”

Jazz made it back to his hab before he defragged through two-and-a-half duty shifts, and he probably would’ve made it three if his emergency comm line hadn’t startled him online. Jazz stashed the knife he’d reflexively drawn back under his plating, spec ops protocols cutting through his boot sequence to leave him instantly alert. 

The comm ID code was unexpected. ::Inferno, mech, what’s burnin’?::

::Jazz, Red Alert thinks–:: There were sounds of a struggle, then Red Alert’s nigh-hysterical voice took over the line. ::Prowl’s five klicks overdue for his check-in! He’s missing!::

Jazz propped his pedes up on his berth. ::Red, five klicks ain’t a lotta time. You tried his comm?::

::He’s not answering! Prowl’s never unavailable and he’s never been more than two klicks late. If his timeline changes he’ll always update me. We’ve been compromised by a Decepticon agent! The Senate has it out for Prime and they’re taking us out one by one!::

Inferno cut in before Red Alert could wind himself up tighter. ::We’re reviewing the cameras now.::

Jazz received a data packet with footage of Prowl walking through–he ran a comparison match–walking through corridor I5B, right up to where it crossed hallway A89Z, where a pair of mecha (one tall, spindly, non-wheeled alt for sure–ansible maybe; the other one a heavy frontliner build, tank-alt for sure) herded Prowl into the adjoining hallway. The Praxian twisted away until the frontliner scruffed him, and the spindly mech bent down to whisper against Prowl’s helm–prolly some variation on ‘we got a comms jammer, struggle and I shoot the next bot I see.’ The camera angle didn’t show Prowl’s face, but the Praxian went docile, allowing himself to be dragged along by larger servos.

Jazz was already out his hab door, pulling up the duty roster and sending off orders.  ::Ops will take point. If we don’t keep this quiet we’re gonna spook ‘em into killin’ or takin’ more hostages. Red, you find Prowl?::

Red Alert pinged him a set of coordinates and Jazz’s bad-mojo meter went off. Prowl and his captors weren’t anywhere near an exit – without a solid exfil lined up, this whole caper was either shoddy planning orrrr– 

::Red, this ain’t a grab. This is a scrape n’ snuff. They’re takin’ Prowl somewhere private they can hack him ‘n hide him once he’s grey. What’s near Prowl that fits?::

::There’s a storage room! Spare office furniture!:: Red Alert shrieked – having infiltrators on a base he was personally occupying must be knocking his paranoia glitch into a tailspin.

Jazz switched to his wheels, peeling down the hall and plotting a route that would let him stay in alt. Stealth was useless when Prowl’s worth to his captors had a cut-off.

Inferno commed while Jazz was sending followup orders to his agents. ::A security squad will meet you at intersection E-013. Prime’s been secured and base lockdown protocols are active. We’re asking for check-ins from all three departments Prowl’s worked in. No one else is missing so far – ah! Prowl broke away from the heavy! Went straight for the camera and signed ‘data hack’ in Basic Hand!::

::We got optics on them?::

::Not consistently. Prowl’s tracker is still sending::

::You put a tracker on Prowl?!?::

Red Alert broke in. ::I had permission this time! Prowl said it was an “admirable precaution”!!::

::I ain’t gonna argue, Red. Sitrep?::

Inferno databurst an updated security map and more footage. ::The heavy roughed Prowl up. Now they’re moving again. They’re definitely heading for that storeroom.:: 

Jazz meticulously combed through the data, spinning ideas around. By the time Ironhide’s security squad and Jazz’s agents had the admin block discreetly cleared and cordoned off, Jazz’s processor held the makings of a plan.

“We ain’t goin’ in through the door,” Jazz told Ironhide. “S’ either booby trapped or bein’ guarded. We break through the office behind – this wing’s all new construction, won’t take much to crack prefab sheeting. I got stealth mods and enough detcord to set up our new door without tippin’ anymech off. I’ll set the breaching charges as far from Prowl’s tracker as I can, n’ they’ll have him low to the ground anyway.::

Jazz arranged the setup as carefully as he would’ve run an op in Darkmount itself, watching the time since Prowl’d been dragged out of sight tick up and up. 

They’d be hacking Prowl right now. Lotta nasty stuff you could do with hardline access to a mech’s systems (Jazz hated his processor’s imagination algorithms right now). 

Jazz forced himself to remember that Prowl’s defenses were top quality. Jazz’d tested them himself. Those fraggers had no idea what they were dealing with–anybot who tangled with Prowl’s processor was gonna get wrecked. Prowl’d keep his interrogators busy long enough for Jazz to get Prowl back alive (accidents happened). 

Jazz crouched down behind Ironhide to brace for the boom, darkening his visor and dialing down his audial sensors to save time on recalibration. A nanoklik after the shockwave hit, Ironhide was busting shoulder-first through the smoke and melted prefab. When Jazz leapt through on his heels, Ironhide had the enemy frontliner in a grapple, desks and chairs being tossed and smashed every which way. 

All Jazz could see was Prowl, cuffed and pinned to the floor, with the spindly mech cabled into his anterior dataport. Prowl, Primus bless him, looked Jazz straight in the optics, then threw his entire weight against his interrogator’s ankle joint.

Jazz was on the destabilized mech in an instant, slicing through the data cable and knocking the interrogator off Prowl before they tangled up together in a ball of limbs and claws, tearing at each other. The spindly mech stabbed for the seams of Jazz’s underbelly, but Jazz was hopped up on fight chems and this mech didn’t have near enough size or rage to crack his armor. Jazz had the fragger down and pinned in less than a klick. 

Skyspotter came up behind Jazz with an EMP emitter and got the mech offline and in cuffs before hustling him away to an ops interrogation room (Yeah, Jazz was taking this personal. Prowl was his agent.).

The frontliner was already gone, dragged away so Autobot security could pour over the wreckage and unearth any nasty surprises, but Jazz couldn’t think about that right now. 

Prowl was kneeling in front of him, wings folded and back straight, with his arms restrained behind him. His plating was battered, the left cheek of his faceplate was crumpled in, and one optic dripped glass shards, yet his field remained impeccably, unnaturally placid. There was something about this brittle veneer that set Jazz’s circuits itching.

“Prowl, you got anything going critical?” There were servo prints denting Prowl’s doorwings (Jazz shoulda kicked the fragger harder).

“My injuries are superficial,” Prowl reported, posture losing none of its stiffness. “I gave them no cause to harm me after warning you of their intention. None of my data was compromised. They did not have time to break through my firewalls. Would you prefer to hardline me now to confirm this?”

Jazz looked him over critically as he decrypted the stasis cuffs’ unlock code, then freed Prowl. “You sure you're okay?”

Prowl regarded Jazz serenely in return. “This is not my first abduction, Commander.”

“Enforcer, gotcha.” Jazz resettled his plating. His instincts were still nagging at him. “Let Doc Ratch have a look anyway, aight?”

“As you wish,” Prowl replied, and did not say anything further until they were shown into an exam room to wait – Ratchet was patching up the frontliner, who’d also gotten a few good hits on Ironhide.

“Are we unmonitored?” Prowl asked, sitting down on the exam berth.

Jazz flipped on his scramblers. “We’re good. Whatcha need?”

Prowl squared himself. “Am I going to prison now?”

Jazz replayed the audio twice before he was sure he wasn’t glitching. “Prowl, why the frag would I put you in jail?”

Prowl slumped. “I understand. At this junction, it would be a severe data security risk. I am due for a full memory core wipe, then?”

Jazz’s intake fell open and his vocalizer shrilled static. “No! Nobody’s wiping you, Prowl! Why the pit would we do that?!”

Prowl cocked his helm, his field taking on a puzzled cast. “I violated my parole.”

“What parole??” Jazz felt like he might be going crazy.

Prowl frowned sharply. “What do you mean? You cannot have forgotten the terms of our agreement.”

“What agreement?”

Prowl’s field began to fritz, falling into discordance. “You proposed that I serve out my first-degree murder sentence by working for you. I agreed.”

Jazz reviewed his memory files. Surely he hadn’t–aw, slag. “Prowl, you know I talk faster n’ I process. I tossed that out to stop you crashing but I didn’t mean it serious. Why didn’tcha say something?”

“You ordered me not to talk about it anywhere we could be overheard!” Prowl rebutted sharply, fans whirring on high.

“I told you not to talk about how we met, yeah,” Jazz replied. “Didn’t say nothin’ about any agreement.”

Prowl’s plating clattered, optics flickering unevenly. “That–that cannot be right. I-I–4klw7%!” There was a zap of electrical discharge, and the smell of burning; the Praxian stiffened.

Then Prowl began seizing violently on the berth.

“Medic!” Jazz shouted, using his weight to pin Prowl’s thrashing limbs and force the Praxian down on his bumper. 

A sensor wing thwacked Jazz’s nasal ridge; he tasted energon as he used his free servo to feel for the port at the base of Prowl’s helm. 

There! Jazz’s digit transformed into the corresponding port configuration, and he plugged right in, pulling Prowl’s diagnostics. 

Prowl’s reality matrix had suffered a massive realignment, triggering high volume edits in archived memory, which had pushed Prowl’s overwhelmed tacnet to requeue so many calculations it had destabilized Prowl’s entire processor. Predictably, Prowl’d crashed. Hard. 

Instead of performing a safe medical reboot, his overtaxed processor had spun into a crash loop. The error cascade was self-reinforcing; Prowl wouldn’t have pulled out of it without help. He’d have kept crashing and crashing until something vital burned out or his spark guttered under the stress.

Jazz thanked Primus and Ratchet for every klick of medical training he’d ever received as he aborted the crash loop, cutting through corrupted data and snarls of errored calculations. While Jazz worked, he was distantly aware of medics flooding into the room and helping hold down Prowl. One carrying a tub of cooling gel drenched Prowl’s helm in the goo, then spread a coating over Prowl’s chassis. Another nudged Jazz aside, plugging into Prowl’s hip port and using medical overrides to disconnect Prowl’s motor relays. The Praxian went limp.

Letting the professionals take over, Jazz laid where he was between Prowl’s sensor wings, revved his systems into a purr and meshed their fields, soothing the tangles in Prowl’s frequency while the hardlined medic gently ushered Prowl offline into self-repair mode.

Jazz unplugged from Prowl, and slid off the berth into a heap, covering his faceplate with his servos. 

Ratchet, who’d shown up while Jazz was cuddling Prowl, gently shook Jazz by the shoulder. “You okay, kid?”

Wiping energon off his lower lip, Jazz shook his head. “I made him crash an' it coulda killed him.”

“The way I hear it, you saved Prowl’s life twice today. System stress and damage will always tip Prowl toward a crash. You just happened to be the trigger.”

Jazz laughed mirthlessly. “That isn’t the half of it. I fragged up bad.”

Ratchet whacked Jazz’s helm. “Then get off my floor, and go unfrag it. You’re not out of chances till you’re deactivated.”

Forcing a grin, Jazz vaulted to his pedes, doing a showy spin (and a discreet wiggle of his nasal ridge–wasn’t broken, hot treads!). “I’m goin’, Doc, no need to wave the throwin’ wrenches.” 

Wrapping his field around Prowl’s still frame, Jazz scooped up Prowl’s servo and gave it a solid squeeze. “I got interrogations to run, counterintelligence to plan, and Soundwave’s vorn to ruin. An’ then I’ll be back.”