Chapter Text
The Shack of mostly empty. Jazz hummed to himself as he polished freshly washed cubes. He had finished the pesky paperwork that always seemed to accumulate in his back office, and had sent Moonrock, his current helming servo, on a break. It was late in the mid-cycle, and the younglings, and families that made up his regulars would be watching, or driving their last races before heading home before dinner and recharge. There would be another round of races in the beginning of the dark-cycle, an older crowd with less use for the Shack and more use for Visages, the bar owned, but only occasionally operated by his friend, and business partner, Mirage.
Purchasing the Shack back on their arrival in Iacon had been a stroke of genius. Though it has been the Towers mech’s suggestion to physically invest in Iacon, choosing the Shack has been all Jazz. It provided a reliable source of secondary income for his family, on the very off chance that everything else crashed and burnt, and it served as a cover for his less wholesome primary function. The Twins had loved it immediately. With their ‘genitor operating the Shack, they raced for free, however often as they liked, and they took fill advantage. Jazz took advantage too, he was a speed demon, his creations were cautious by comparison. For all three of them, the races were therapeutic, and it was the track, less than their habsuite, and the Autobots that had made Iacon home these last few vorns.
All around, it was a good set up. Rather than get a license to serve engex, and compete directly with Mirage, Jazz kept the Shack youngling friendly, he had the Twins to consider. The Shack was theirs, as much as it was their progenitor’s. Not serving intoxicants did not stop it from being a hip hang out, either. With his connection, he had no trouble bringing in live bands in to perform once an orn, and he kept the instruments out for spontaneous performances. Sometimes he performed as well, because much like racing, performing was therapeutic for the Polihexian. It had not taken long before the Shack had become a favourite spot for the district’s younglings and families. Though he liked the joint, Jazz did not wanted to be tied to it, and so he had a good manager on staff to keep the place hoping so the saboteur could come and go, and focus on spending time at the raceway with Sunstreaker Sideswipe. Though Jazz did not spent every mega-cycle at the Shack, he had come to memorize his regulars’ favourites fuels and treats, as well as their habits.
One such pair of regulars had been sitting in the stands for joors. Jazz had noticed them early in the mid-cycle, and noticed almost immediately that something was off. It was odd for Smokescreen to not have brought Bluestreak up to hang while he drove a few circuits. Blue, despite being a few vorns younger that Jazz’s twins, was probably their best friend. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe would both be disappointed to have missed their friends. How had it been, half a vorn, since the Praxian brothers had appeared at the raceway? The youngling brother was the Twins sometimes sparkling minder, because though the Twins were no longer sparklings, they were only barely younglings, closer to Bluestreak in age than Smokescreen, and they were still young yet to be left alone, nevermind Sideswipe would probably destroy the house. It was odd that Smokey had not driven a single race, and he had not bought them any fuel either. Suspicions having risen beyond tolerable levels, Jazz stepped out the staff entrance when Moonrock returned, and jogged down the stand until he came the where the brothers were sitting.
“Gettin’ late Smokey,” Jazz said, keeping his tone light. “Not gonna run a race?”
“Can’t,” the youngling replied, sullenly. There was a look of despair on his faceplates, a look Jazz had never seen on him. “I don’t want to waste the credits.”
“Somethin’ wrong?” The Polihexian asked, and he sat next to the youngling.
“We ran away,” Smokescreen explained. He hugged Bluestreak to his side. The sparkling Praxian was uncharacteristically silent. When he looked up at Jazz, the adult mech saw his faceplates were stained with tears.
“Fight with yer brother?” Jazz asked. Though he had come to known the mechlings quite well, they had been regulars at the Shack before the saboteur had even purchased it, he had never met their caretaker, an older half-brother.
“No,” the young Praxian said. “Our place went up with that fuel leak, and Prowl lost his job and no one will rent to us... no one will hire him. We’ve been in crappy motel for quartexes”
“You lived in that dump?” The barmech asked. “Ya never said anythin’.”
“Didn’t want to,” Smokescreen said and he shrugged his shoulders and doorwings. “Anyway he got canned. No job, no home, court said we had to go back to Praxus.”
“Ya don’t wanna, ’m guessin’,” Jazz said.
“They’re making us live with Origin’s Conjunx Endura,” the youngling replied. “That aft didn’t want us around when they bonded and Origin shipped us off to Prowl. Without even telling Prowl we were coming. Now all of a sudden he wants us? Now that Origin is dead? 'Genitor left us some credits. I think that slagtard just wants access. Prowl does too.”
“Your origin died?” the Polihexian asked. It was the first he had heard of it. Surely the Twins would have said something to him if they had known.
“Last stellar-cycle,” Smokescreen explained. “I... we didn’t want to talk about it.”
“’M sorry Smokey,” Jazz said. “Ya can’t stay here forever though. Y’re gonna get hungry 'n cold.”
“If we go back to the motel, Prowl will walks us right onto the transport,” the youngling replied. “I don’t wanna go back to Praxus. I don’t wanna live with that slagger. The only time we ever spent time with him he screamed at Bluestreak and shoved me into a wall.”
“Did ya tell the court that?” Jazz asked, feeling more urgency for the young mech’s. “Or yer brother?”
“The court doesn’t care what I say,” Smokescreen said. “Prowl said he’d petition to get custody back but it’s not gonna be an easy deal. They’re gonna want him to prove he’s stable when Barricade’s made him look like a walking defect.”
“They’re gonna come down hard on’m when ya don’t turn up,” barmech warned.
“That’s why he doesn’t know where we are,” the youngling replied. “So he can’t get in any trouble.”
“Tell ya what, the pair o’ ya can come to my place ‘n have a slumber party with the Twins for the dark-cycle,” Jazz said. “In the light-cycle, I’ll call y’re brother ‘n we’ll see if there’s anythin’ we can do.”
“Okay,” Smokescreen sighed. “What you think Blue?”
“Yes!” Bluestreak said, perking up for the first time since Jazz had come over. He deflated almost immediately. “I don’t want to say good-bye.”
“I don’t wanna see go either,” the Polihexian replied. “Don’t fret. Everythin’ works out in the end.”
It probably would not, and Jazz was not in much of a position to help, but he was curious as to how the court came to the conclusion that sending the brothers to live with a stranger was better than their brother. Sure, he had lost his job, and how and why were good questions, but the habsuite thing? How was it his fault that it burnt up after some ruptured fuel line caught fire. For Pit’s sake, he should have received remuneration for the fact his fragging home was destroyed. Obviously he had not taken the mechlings to live on the street, and they were clearly well fuelled, so what was the panic? At the very least he should have been getting some income assistance while he looked for another job. Either Smokescreen only had part of the story, or Prowl needed a better lawyer.
“Come on mechlings,” Jazz said. “Twins are gonna be done their trainin’ session with ‘Hide ‘bout now. We’ll swing by ‘n get’em then head home.”
Prowl would be justified to be furious with Jazz, but since they had never met, the Polihexian was not particularly concerned with his ire. It was pretty fragging clear the mechlings did not want to leave him, or Iacon, and if their former caretaker did not know about the assault, then how could he have raised it? The situation was not hopeless, but it was not exactly promising. But if Jazz was not going to sit back and let these two mechlings get shipped off to a mech with a history of aggression, not happening, nope. Maybe he could hire the Praxian? Even just for a few quartexes while he looked for something else. So long as he had evidence of employment, that was something? Maybe?
None of this was his business but he liked Smokey, and the Twins loved Blue, heck they loved Smokey. Sides was thrilled to have a willing participant in his prank wars, and Sunny liked the break from his brother. Maybe Prowl was letting them, go. Maybe raising two mechlings was more than he wanted to deal with, but from what he had heard that did not sound right. According the youngling, when Blue had memory-purges, the results of witnessing their ‘genitor’s death in a botched robbery, only Prowl could soothe him. And the point here was, would their origin’s widower bother? Probably not. It did not sound to Jazz like their origin had bothered. They had not spoken a glyph about his death, not even a hint. That made the progenitor wonder.
“If they make us go to Praxus, I’ll just keep running away,” Smokescreen said when they stopped outside the gym where Ironhide trained the Twins. Mechansisms had questioned why Jazz had them training with the old warbuild. The answer was simple, they needed a safe outlet, and a safe way to learn. Ironhide was one of the few Bots his poor mechlings had connected with. “I’ll live on the streets until I can make it on my own. I don’t care. I won’t live with Barricade.”
“Ya think it’ll be that bad?” Jazz asked.
“It was the last ‘cycle we were in Praxus,” the youngling explained. “Origin told me to stop acting like a little punk. His fragging Conjunx Endura calls Bluestreak a worthless little scraplet, and tries to put me through the wall, and I’m the punk? I was slagged right off, getting shipped to Iacon. I didn’t even know Prowl. I don’t know if I ever saw him, he was away at school my entire life. But I went because I figured it wouldn’t be worse. It wasn’t… Prowl’s a hard aft, but he never laid a digit on me, he cares about me... us. But the court doesn’t care what I say, Jazz. Barricade painted me like a pathological liar, and Prowl like a spastic glitch… They didn’t even let me talk… I should have a say at my age, but they didn’t even let me talk.”
“Lemme see if I can’t talk to a friend o’ a friend, get an emergency stay,” the barmech said. “Don’t know if it’ll work, but I’ll give it a shot, okay? I don’t want ya disappearin’ outta my suite this dark-cycle.”
“I won’t,” Smokescreen promised. “I’ll stay… Thanks.”
“Any time,” Jazz replied. He looped his servo over the youngling’s shoulders. “Might look bleak now, but when y’re trapped in a room with not door, ya just gotta make one.”
Either Prowl had a lousy lawyer, or he did not have one at all. A good one would have pushed to allow Smokey his own voice, even Bluestreak was on the edge. Older sparklings usually got a voice in custody hearings, and it was odd that neither brother had been given the opportunity to speak up. What kind of trouble had their brother gotten into, it seemed like he had to have gotten into a mess to have had custody stripped from him, but maybe not. Jazz was no expert in the law, but the nice thing about making a small fortune touring was that he could afford to hire experts, and like any decent business mech, he had a lawyer on retainer.
***
If he had believed in the Gods, Prowl would have said they were conspiring against him. He did not, however believe in gods or any higher life form. If he could not see it, and touch it, it was not real. His originator had taught him from the Covenant of Primus when he had been young. Whatever thread of belief those lessons had spun had evaporate with Camshaft’s death. None of the trials of this last stellar-cycle had been the design of some Divinity. It was not a conspiracy of gods but rather of mechanisms. Truthfully it hardly mattered, the effect was the same. They had ruled against him, internal affairs, as had the court, as he had known they would.
So far as they were concerned the transience for not missing they have simply moved on another community. Prowl knew better, he has seen ample evidence of a serial killer at work. This offender chose his victims in the lowest echelon of society, the forgettable street mechanisms, the addicts, the poor, the prostibots. That there were fewer of these mechanisms about the streets of Iacon was beneath the notice of the Enforcers. Prowl had noticed, and against the direction of his Commanders, had refused to believe differently, despite what they had said. When he had refused to step off the case, a case had suddenly been made against him, claiming he had falsified data, and accusing him of deception, and theft. It had come as no real surprise, not the accusations, and not the conclusion of the investigation by Internal Affairs. This was precisely what had happened in Praxus.
Many more mechanisms would die before the Enforcers of Iacon were forced to admit their was a serial killer loose on their streets. Prowl would be vindicated, as he had been in Praxus. But it could be vorns, or it could be millenia. Either way, that did him little good now. His dismissal, and original hearing had been followed by a “freak” accident where a fuel leak had caused an explosion and caused a fire, and the partial collapse of his tenement. Though his neighbours had been able to salvage the bulk of their meager belongs, his suite had been all but completely destroyed. Smokescreen and Bluestreak had managed to recover a couple of holoimagers, but all of the datapads stored in his home had vanished. They had not simply been destroyed, their had vanished.
He was not a fool. The date of his appeal had been this passed orn, just four quartexes, since his habsuite had been destroyed, and now the second tribunal had ruled against him. Despite how clearly he knew the case against him was false, he had to accept the results, he could kick up no further fuss. Since his dismissal Prowl had been unable to find even manual labour jobs, and since the destruction of his home, he had been unable to find a new habsuite to lease. The Praxian was not a fan of coincidences. Someone wanted to stop his investigation, someone with more to lose than Command, that much was clear. But just because the datapad holding his case files were gone, did not mean the data was. Every piece of information was recorded in his tactical systems. It was no matter, Enforcer no longer or no, Prowl would continue his investigation. When he found he evidence, found the killer, he would lay the failings of the Enforcer brass bare. It was a fitting revenge. Their subtle, and less subtle interference had ensured that he would be treated as unemployable. They had cost him custody of his brothers.
It had been torture to leave them at the Hub, to listen to Bluestreak plead and cry, to pry him from his legs, to see the look of betrayal on Smokescreen’s faceplates. There had been no choice. The court had ruled Prowl surrender custody of the mechlings to their origin’s widower, and there was no resisting the order without facing detention sentence. Technically they would be safer in Praxus than they would be with him in Iacon, if the leak had been an intentional attack, as the former Enforcer believed it had been. But he feared for them all the same. Barricade was a selfish, and self righteous mech, so far as Prowl had observed during the reading of Sideways’s will. That mech had shown no interest in his Conjunx Endura’s creations, not before Sideways’s death, and not immediately after, not until the will had beeen read and he had learned it was Smokescreen and Bluestreak who would be inheriting the fortune Barricade had become accustomed to spending. He would not care for them, or nurture them, but without an looming expectation of violence, Prowl had been unable to form a strong enough argument to convince the court that his dreary motel made better shelter for the mechlings than Barricade’s luxury habsuite.
It had killed him to but Prowl had walked them to the security gate, and seen them through it. By now they would be in the air, flying south for Praxus. That slagsucker had not even been bothered to come up and collect them himself. The Praxian had not stayed to watch the transport take off, it had been too torturous. He had let them down, and it grieved him. At a loss, he could not bring himself to return to that cheap motel that had served as their shelter since their habsuite had been made uninhabitable. Barricade had planted enough doubts, brought up enough speculation that it would take more than Prowl finding a new function, and a new habsuite to regain custody. No, he would have to prove himself stable, and how did one do that? Prowl had always been stable, cool and steady, but the court saw a mech who had been dismissed by two different Enforcer postings, a mech who suffered a pathological defect. By the time the Praxian was able to prove himself fit, if he ever was, Smokescreen would be an adult, and Bluestreak nearly so. It was hopeless.
Prowl looked up at the sky and realized he had wandered onto the wrong side of Iacon. Many of the victims of the serial killer he was stalking had been taken from here, approximately 40% of them. It would have been logical to leave, to go anywhere else, but instead the former Enforcer walked into the dilapidated park to his left. As he walked, he passed prostibots looking for customers, addicts in a daze from their fixes. They ignored him, and he walked on. The Praxian walked deeper, and deeper until he found an empty corner. There was a single rickety bench overlooking a stagnant mercury pond. He sat, bowed his helm.
He was a failure. Despite his intellect and education, he had failed to make a successful career in the Enforcers. Despite performing all but the last Rite, he had no Conjunx Endura. Despite giving everything he had to those mechlings, he had been found wanting by the family court judge. Through every other upheaval or obstacle, Prowl’s pride had always been enough to keep him moving forward, to beat back those obstacles. This time, however, his pride was shattered. In it’s place was a helpless desperation the Praxian remembered all too well. The last time he had felt this way was when Camshaft had lain in the hospital, rusting away. His brothers were not dying, but losing them had left Prowl feeling as if a chunk of his spark had been torn away.
“Your lookin’ a little cold there sweetlin’, no place to go?” A voice cooed at Prowl in a voice meant to sound concerned. Prowl lifted his helm, and turned to watch a blue and purple Seeker approach. “It’s dangerous hangin’ out here all night. Someone might hurt you.”
“Are you aware street solicitation is illegal?” Prowl replied, with his own question, an edge to his voice. He had half expected the mech to approach him, as the former Enforcer had witnessed him approach each lonesome mechanism in the park during his short walk. Still, the interruption angered him, Prowl in no mood for this type of slagsucker.
“Who’s soliciting?” The Seeker asked, looking far less sure of himself.
“You,” the Praxian said, pointedly, unreasonably pleased to see the scummech falter. “Your game is to bring vulnerable mechanisms to your employer so they can be turned onto the street as buymechanisms. I would advise you to move on, and to find better employment.”
“Think you’re smart, huh?” The arrogant mech asked. He grabbed hold of Prowl’s wrist. As was the norm, the Seeker was helm and shoulders taller than the Praxian. As he was standing, and Prowl was sitting, he absolutely towered over the monochrome mech. His kind particularly looked down at Prowl’s. Old legends reputed Praxians to have been forged for the sole purpose of giving pleasure to the elite of Vos. It was utter slag.
“I do,” Prowl said, and deftly pulled his arm free. The mech looked startled, as though he had not expect the smaller Praxian to be able to defend himself even that much. “Keep your servos to yourself, before I make a fool of you.”
The threat had not been a wise thing to voice, but Prowl had not been hoping to scare the brute off, but rather to antagonize him. His hopes were not in vain and the blue and purple mech grabbed for him. With ease, the Praxian ducked out of his reach with ease, and onto his peds. He did not throw a punch of his own, not yet. He settled on dodging the mech’s careless punches, and grabs. This idiot was a circuit booster addict, the former Enforcer concluded, and one that had only ever learned to rely on his size, rather than any skill in a fight. On the streets he had not faced anyone trained in a martial art, which was all the better for Prowl now.
When the next punch went wide, Prowl rammed his fist into the larger mech’s faceplates. The mech staggered back, half blind. Snarling, and spitting mechfluid, he did not back down and charged the Praxian again. This time, Prowl caught his attacker’s wrist, and pulled the mech’s arm behind his back as he drove him to his knees. There was a loud crack as the mech’s arm broke. The Seeker let out a shrill sound of pain. Now when Prowl stepped back, the mech staggered to his peds and stumbled away. As he watched his attacker retreat, the former Enforcer grimaced. Handing the Seeker his aft had been momentarily satisfying but there was a price to be paid for letting his temper rule. The optics of every mechanism in the park were on him now. In another dark-cycle he had intended to come and observe them discreetly. Everyone here knew his faceplates now. Prowl had metaphorically shot himself in the ped.
Though no one else appeared interested in testing the interloper, Prowl knew better than to linger. His energy levels were too low, the fight had drained them even lower than they had been, and he had been keeping his tanks no more than a quarter full for the better part of the last quartex, lower was simply not manageable. He had no wiggle room, no reserves. There was no choice now but to go back to the motel, to fuel and to rest, unpalatable as it all was. They might have been his brothers but he had been their guardian for twelve vorns, they did not feel like his brothers, they felt like his. Prowl was only barely able to make it to his dingy room before the tears escaped. He fell to his knees by the berth his younger brothers had shared, and wept.
He fuelled at sunrise. It was not a matter of pleasure or comfort but of necessity. Prowl had been unable to recharge. Images of his brothers, the knowledge of his inadequacy had haunted his dark-cycle. Energon alone would not sustain him forever. Sooner, rather than later his systems would succumb to exhaustion, but not yet. They would have landed in Praxus, joors ago. Would they call him, beg him to come get him? Would Barricade even allow them to make the call?
When that mech discovered the mechlings’ trusts were tied up with more conditions and red tape than he could ever have imagined, would he return them? That might have been Prowl’s best hope to regain custody. Barricade would have no access to the brothers’ inheritance, and the eldest brother knew from seeing both the wills of his progenitor and his progenitor’s second Conjunx Endura that Smokescreen and Bluestreak had inherited what remained of their progenitor’s estate, not to be touched until they reached the age of majority, and this was set in stone. The high life Barricade had come used to loving was done. He could not touch their funds, not even on the auspices of housing the mechlings. Crosscut had been an excellent lawyer, there was no wiggle room in his will.
Barricade would not want to pay for the mechlings’ care out of his own diminished funds. The mech had held no real job since bonding to Sideways. Those get rich scams he had run which had allowed him to call himself an entrepreneur had never paid a single credit. He had a small inheritance from his Conjunx Endura, but it was a pittance. There was no way Barricade would be able to continue to live in his accustomed fashion on that inheritance, and the widower did not have the education or the connections to earn the credits in his own rights. It was a beacon of hope, but it did not burn bright in the disgraced Enforcer. Prowl was not a mech who leaned towards optimism, not in the slightest. Barricade could do considerable harm to his brothers before he gave up on stealing their inheritance. Bluestreak had blossomed these last vorns, so had Smokescreen. It would be easy for both to fall back into self-destructive behaviours. If Barricade raised a servo to Bluestreak, Smokescreen would not hold back, and the eldest brother did not believer their step-progenitor was capable of restraint.
He needed to protect them, had failed to protect them already, but Prowl could not imagine leaving them to Barricade’s mercy. There was only one thing the Praxian could think to do but to relocate back to Praxus. It would cost a fortune, a fortune Prowl did not have, but he had survived on little, and his savings were not non-existent. All he really needed was the cost of a flight, or several tanks worth of fuel. For the remainder of the light-cycle Prowl calculated costs, and researched his options. It became clear almost immediately that driving was out of the question. Whatever route he took, he would have to cross through the territory of the Crystal City, and that would require an expensive visa that was onerous to get at all. Fuel costs in the area were high, the demand on his frame would be higher still. Even if he chose to skip the motels and recharge in his alt-mode exposed to the elements, it was still absolutely cost and time prohibitive. That only left a flight, and while it was not at all cheap an option, a standby ticket was not outside his limits, and if he was able to avoid Enforcer patrols Prowl would be able to avoid the cost of booking a motel while he looked for more permanent housing.
Avoiding those patrols would not be too difficult, the former Enforcer had driven them himself. Transiency was illegal in Praxus. Those too poor to house themselves, or suffering from addictions or mental illness were housed in Institutes, or workhouses, and they paid the cost of their living through what amounted to forced labour. The lucky poor were those who lived in the colourfully painted ghetto. Tourists found the facades charming, but they were only that, facades, and the interiors of those too small homes were anything but charming.
There was a knock at the door, startling Prowl from his calculations. He had no friends, so of course he was not expecting visitors. Cheap as it was, the motel was not so cheap as to have no security, and when the Praxian turned on the monitor, he found that his guests were a pair of Enforcers. Why? These were not mechanisms from his former precinct, and they were not metaforensics, or Prowl would have seen them at one of the many conferences or planning sessions he had attended in the vorns. So what did they want with him? His brothers were safe, his spark was certain of this, so why?
“Prowl of Praxus?” The femme asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “How can I help you.”
“I’m Enforcer Strongarm, this is my partner Tigertrack,” she explained. “It’s been reported that your minor brothers failed to arrive in Praxus…”
“What are you talking about?” The Praxian demanded, not letting her finish. His doorwings shot up on his back, and his helm spun. “They’re flight was scheduled to land this time yester-cycle. How are you only coming to speak to me now?”
“They were only reported missing a joor ago,” The mech of the pair explained.
“A joor ago?” Prowl asked. “That mech only reported it a joor ago? I helped them check their bags, and saw them through security. Have you checked the Hub? They could be anywhere! They have been gone over the dark-cycle!”
“We’ll be headed to the Hub next,” Strongarm said. Her tone, and stance suggested she was trying to placate him. Prowl resisted the urge to scream.
“Check my room, and get out and look for them,” he ordered, voice low. “They could have been taken! By anyone! Do you know the rate of sparkling trafficking? Hubs are the epicentre of that epidemic.”
He was not surprised when the Enforcers did exactly as he had said. They stepped passed Prowl when he moved to the side, and into the small room. Strongarm walked immediately to the washracks as Tigertrack checked under the berths, and in the closet. It took the two only a klik for the Enforcers to confirm what the Praxian was speaking the truth, his brothers were not here. Prowl knew they would asked for surveillance footage from the front desk, and he did not care, he knew the footage would support what he said. His plating flared as he watched them finish their search. Time was wasting, and his brother may likely not have that time to spare.
“We’ll be in touch,” the femme said. “We have resources at work, looking for your brothers.”
“I have seen how well those resources are used,” Prowl replied, coldly. “You will have to forgive me if I do not have the most faith.”
Enforcer Strongarm gave him an odd look, but did not linger. Been snippy with Enforcers was not a crime in Iacon, though that did not make it the wisest thing. Thankfully, these Enforcers were more concerned with their investigation than an agitated family member, and they left Prowl less than a bream after they had arrived. He could not stop himself from panicking. Could Barricade have lied? Could he be playing a con, a scam? Or had Smokescreen run off with Bluestreak? Prowl took a slow invented and tried him comms. Smokescreen’s were off, and a nanoklik later he found the same was true of Bluestreak’s.
Prowl forced down his fear, and forced himself to think. Smokescreen had not put up nearly enough of a fight. His cooperation had been a trick. Where the eldest brother had thought the youngling had been willing to hope, and to wait for Prowl to find away to regain custody, the opposite was obviously the case. Rather than fly back to Praxus, the youngling had taken their sparkling brother and disappeared. Where could they have gone? Primus, they had been gone over the dark-cycle. Something could have happened to them, someone could have taken them. He could not wait for the Enforcers to find them, had no faith that they would. And only a couple of nanokliks after the Enforcers had left, Prowl ran from his motel room and into the streets.
Fear may have flooded his every circuit, but it did not cloud his processor. He forced himself to think, and to focus. Smokescreen and Bluestreak had a few favourites places… The park. The raceway. The shopping district. The Artisan district. Prowl had taken them to the park, but not for a long time. It had been so much Smokescreen’s responsibility to see to it that the their younger brother was entertained. Obsessed with providing for them, struggling to make a place for himself in the Enforcers, Prowl had worked fiendish joors, and even on his ‘cycles off, he had still spend at least a good portion of this time working. This explained why he could not immediately guess where they would have gone.
There was an unexpected ping through his comms, and Prowl’s spark surged with hope, only to deflate quickly. It was not Smokescreen’s ID, and it was not one he recognized. If someone had taken them… Prowl had to credits to pay a ransom. Before he could crash there, in the middle of the street, the Praxian forced himself to calm. If this was a kidnapper, the only thing he could do to save his brothers was to keep his helm.
- “Prowl,” he said as he accepted the stranger’s requested.
- “Hiya, ya don’t know me, the designation’s Jazz,” the mental voice was accented, to Prowl’s audials, but the same could be said for his. “Y’re brothers spent the dark-cycle at my place. They’re friends with my creations… Smokescreen gave me a bit o’ the run down on what’s goin’ on, I thought ya’d better come ‘n get’em.”
“Where…” Prowl was unable to complete his question as he was struck in the side, and off his peds.
The comm went dead as he raised his servos to defend himself. Someone pulled him upright, and held him up as another punched him hard in the midsection, and chassis. He struggled against the arms restraining him, but pain and exhaustion had slowed his reflexes. Even as his best, these were formidable odds to face. Still, the former Enforcer did not give up. His tactical systems roared into pull power and he felt nothing of the beating he was facing. Prowl went limp, as a plan formed in his battle computer. As he did, the servos holding him loosened, and he struck out.
Vision distorted by the first blow to his helm, Prowl relied on his other sensors to find his target. The colours just about blurred together, before it cleared. Seekers, again. He curled up, let them think he was helpless, and then struck out with a well aimed ped. He landed a kick just above one attacker’s knee and the mech fell with a scream. There was no way the Praxian was going to win. He just needed to survive long enough for someone to come across the fight. Mechs like these would not want witnesses. Another attacker was on him the very next instant. Breathing into the former Enforcer’s audials, as he held Prowl’s head up by his chevron, the large mech grabbed the Praxian’s right doorwing and wrenched it down, dislocating it with a horrifying pop.
“Darkwing was right,” the mech said. “You got some fight, Praxian. Time to beg for forgiveness. You messed with business you don’t understand.”
“Let’m go,” a new voice ordered, from somewhere behind them. It was not knew though. It sounded like that comm…
“Mind your own business, groundpounder,” the Seeker holding Prowl sneered. “Before you get hurt.
“Says the tungsten-turkey with his servos full,” Jazz, the mech had called himself, replied. “Meanwhile I got a blaster trained on yer stupid helm. Turn ‘round, slowly. Lower the Praxian to the ground, gently. I see ya jerkin’ him ‘round I might just shoot ya outta spite.”
The mech obeyed. Prowl managed to summon enough energy and concentration to put an arm in front of himself, and to guard his helm as he fell to the ground. His attacker fled, heavy pedsteps, the sound of a transformation sequence and then thrusters roaring as the Seeker flew to safety. It was a struggled but Prowl was able to raise his helm and look over his shoulder. His other attackers had already fled. Maybe when this mech first game upon them? This mech was at his side a nanoklik later, Prowl let his helm droop.
“Y’re a wreck, ain’t ya?” Jazz said. “Don’t worry, got help on the way.”
“You are Jazz,” Prowl hissed through clenched denta. Status reports queued in his helm, as pain burned through his every circuit.
“I am,” the mech replied, and he knelt in front of Prowl. It was not intentional but as the injured mech collapsed, he collapsed into the stranger’s arms. Sirens screeched in the distance, as the former Enforcer’s senses began to fade. “Don’t worry, Prowl. Help’s comin’.”
End Chapter 1