Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[ERROR]

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UNSTABLE_SATA_CONNECTION

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EXTERNAL_OVERRIDE_REQUIRED

[ERROR_–

[INITIATE SHUTDOWN?]

No.

Though tempting, he was just as quick to dismiss the prompt, gritting his teeth and skimming his system's alerts. For the fourth time in two breems, his joints stuttered and locked, urging him just as adamantly not to fight. He wouldn't– he shouldn't, yet still. He struggled against his own uncooperative protocols, lugging what he could of his frame’s disfigurement.

It remained still undetermined if the pain was an illusion, fabricated surges eliciting a mortifying burn in the deepest depths of his circuity, or if he should chalk it up to yet another new development, hand in hand with his nagging, undirected assessments. He figured it was the latter, no matter the trouble it brought, and the hindrance of affliction was bound to complicate his function further. Irritating, wholly unnecessary. He did not have time to test his theory, not beyond dismissing every ping begging him to cease operation, informing him the missions parameters had changed.

He had much, much larger concerns at hand than bending to the will of his broken coding.

As if to force him from the conflicts of his own failure-ridden networks, he felt claws plunge and shift, twisting violently as cables snapped and fluid began to build. Quick, too quick to properly register as his processor spun at the agonizing rip of wires, too-little became too much. It drowned him, the build of his own fluids with no place to go, filling his intakes him as he sputtered, coughing with a pathetic rattle of his vents. His core was exposed, tips of talons just barely scraping its outer field. It thrummed with low energy, shuddering at the near breach.

Liquid, warm and rushing in violent waves forced its way through orifices it shouldn't, bubbled in his throat and began to drip from the thin connections of his optics. Trailing down his faceplate, something different but just as wrong meeting in a pool beneath his dented knee-guards, similarly sticky where it began to dry on his metal. All sensations registered in screaming alarms no matter how he tried to deflect, another complication he couldn’t seem to shake. Even now, he couldn't run any more than before, not when his lower legs resided someplace far out of reach, torn from where the wires connected the bulk of his shin armor. Propped on his thighs with one arm shakily holding his weight, he was leaned forward against the ground, digits twitching as they curled loose beneath him. The excess parts of him lay strewn across the warehouse, resting with what remained of his unit.

It just about made him sick, purge and spew profanity like he knew what it meant to truly understand that disgust— as if he were transcribing a scene he’d seen several times before, through an unfeeling faceplate and optics that seen far more than he felt. When scenes were particularly gruesome and the enforcers needed a step back– just like this, if not tamer. He often lingered, a finalist then, too. He needed not to forgo his duties, free from the nagging emotion that bit at him now.

Currently? He felt only burdened. Another new development, something previously unfamiliar.

A pitiful final drone, functioning in liberal use of the term. He knew he could hardly keep himself online. Preservation took thoughtless priority.

He wouldn't spiral, not in sickened mourning for his squadron nor panic enough to render him malfunctioning. But he would curse, dismiss the growing list of warnings, the tower of errors that flooded his HUD. They tried to guide him, pesky arrows and urging pings, aiming to override his instinct and force him into shut-down. He knew to salvage his memory chip was imperative, that conservation of any evidence meant far more than a unit of drones who’d failed their primary mission in the form of termination. Information could live on in place of him.

But he could not help the thoughts that formed, refuting each and every self sacrificing priority burned into his very being. He was not a glorified camera, and he would not clutch his helm and see to himself terminated, too.

The specifications, exact details of his damage, were among least importance (because, if asked, every part of him would be tedious to repair, and every bit that wasn't would be in the coming moments). Far more urgently, he lacked knowledge on how to proceed, stranded entirely without instruction– which was alarming in of itself for a policing drone, even moreso when he'd lost contact entirely with his station. 

He stressed, delving deep into his own processor, a desperate search on how to ease the spasms and trembles of a malfunctioning frame.

When probing for an answer, he was met with yet another error.

Improper inquiry?

Again, rewording, a second attempt then third. His request could not be fulfilled.

His databases did not contain a course of best action in a situation where he was the one in need of saving, where he was in danger and could feel his every cable glitter with the spark of torn connections.

They didn't so much as touch on how to salvage a shorting drone, how to solder their circuits and stop the flow of lifeblood that grew tacky on his plating. It told him only the measures of discarding, what parts to keep and what was worth no more than a single-use energon cube.

He felt his core give a shuddering pulse, weak with flickering power. A reminder of what was to come, the moment his sources would give, primary then every desperate backup.

He hoped, something foolish and dangerous and new. He hoped, that the enforcers seen him worthy of repairs.

Reassurance, a need boldened in the forefront of his mind. He needed to cure his growing dread, calm the too-fast crawl of worry— and in desperation he'd attempted a scan (though his farthest sensory wings were crumpled and half-there, hung pitifully from their base at his upper spinal strut. His optics were flooded and dim, sights littered with cracks and cloudy lenses. It was a statistical miracle they retained an ounce of function).

The activity signals of his unit were nil, each and every one a flat, dull line. When he pinged, the network remained still. He could hardly move, and his vocalizer spat static when he parted his lips. In spiteful agreement, both halves of his processor doubted his survival.

The enforcers that raided with them had long since fled, outnumbered, finding safety someplace far outside the warehouse. He, too, knew to remain would assure nothing but ugly deactivation. He knew the tactical advantage of a retreat. Could formulate an irrefutable defense of both himself and his unit. Admittedly, too, he simply wanted to run. He could feel it, in the deepest recesses of his core. A fear for his continued function.

Of course, he had been instructed to stay. Firm, unshakeable. Of course, he’d bowed his helm.

He wasn't sure what aspect of the order made him pause, about the implication that destruction was certain and he needed to be destroyed to assure those of worth got away– but it dislodged the first pebble of doubt, and of course, a landslide of uncertainty soon followed. He’d shattered his walls of obedience, signing back a meek protest, something long since accumulating. As per protocol, a drones input meant little, and he was left to get ravished by sharp claws and gnashing teeth with little acknowledgement.

But it was a realization. His first instance of action separate from his unit, of the station and its enforcers, followed soon after.

Working against rather than with is what had led him here, the finalist amidst still frames and scattered parts. He ran a background set of calculations, working to uncover the terrorcon's motivations, ideally avoid the destruction of his power module. 

Just as easy as it was unfortunate, he’d come to a conclusion. Such creatures did not operate on logic.

He had nothing but their feral interest to thank, that they found entertainment in his thrashing. That the way stray light caught on his crumpled plating was enough to make them pause— not quite an intentional mercy, but catalogued as an undoubted convenience. He was nothing if not a toy, and if it meant he would get to see a better case, he would continue his pitiful show of resistance.

His systems told him they had yet to feast because he lacked a real spark, because what was nestled in his chest, between layers of easily peeled steel and false protoform, was not a pulsing orb of life, but an engineered core, built of screws and wires and carefully retained energy.

At the moment, his artificiality did not seem so terrible. And to hold out until sirens wailed over the sounds of grunts and mindless cruelty was no longer an unobtainable possibility.

__

By all means, he was a droid. Expendable, monotonous and compliant. He should not have been able to discern the panic in his power-module as the threat of deactivation loomed near, and he should not have felt a desire to live anymore than he did to serve. They lost hundreds of him an orn, and he was mass produced by the thousandths– if he displayed his erring, no matter the record, there was no more reason to keep him around than there was to cling to an outdated model, one who'd never make the mistakes or develop the faults he had. Praxus was progressive, advancing forward with every tick of a chronometer, and maybe he had overstayed his usefulness. But he still functioned, and he would not be ridden so easily.

His systems surged with power as he was summoned online. His optics cast a blue grid before him, searching the area in an automatic scan and pinging him back with an anutomated alert that read [ZERO_ANOMALIES_DETECTED].

Constructs similar to himself lined the expanse of the rooms midsection, motionless and monochrome, not quite online but on standby. Heavy cables protruded from the backs of their helms, pulsing with a constant stream of concentrated energy.

They could not run indefinitely, and without a proper charge they'd remain in an automated sleep mode— a flaw he was sure would be corrected, come the next wave of newer models.

He shook the heavy, stiff weight of nothing from his struts, the pleading of his own processor wanting the barest permission to be.

They were not permitted idle usage of their frames, why would they act if not instructed? It was an unfortunate normality. To not be in action with definitive instruction simply stated there was no reason for them to run. For a drone who was now painfully aware of every moment spent inactive, he wished he could speak of the hundred ways their time would be better utilized. Tragically, he followed his orders and he enacted them with dedicated haste, and that detailed the entirety of his existence.

Even if he was different now, and he had changed in ways no living mechanism could fathom.. He would not fail to acknowledge his place any more than before.

He continued to obey the restrictions that dictated his merit, play his part of drone and play it well, because that is all he is. All he had gained was more to work through, an additional hundred streams of thought to sort in his helm, complications arisen servo in servo with the simple action of existing. (Though, his understanding fell short when faced with the idea of obligation, when two halves of himself argued against want and duty, prioritizing reason. He figured his construction was flawed, and now he was dysfunctional beyond repair— but how could the possibility of such an error not be corrected? He wished it had been, and he had not been cursed with the burden of imperfection, as he dismissed another ray of irrelevant debate.)

He'd operated accordingly since his first mission, not even a vorn after he'd been shipped from his plant and assigned a station. No matter his difference, he worked adamantly to prove his worth. He had not been altered, in the optics of the enforcers.

He knew not of an alternative way to live, and pursuing any other was far too daunting a task. He was forged for this, and no troublesome development would impact his conformity, no matter the temptations that drilled into his processor when days were ruthless and respect was none, when purpose was questioned and a place outside his station was dangerously considered.

Convincing others was particularly easy, even when the gap in efficiency between himself and drones of his exact specifications was questionably grand– just part of a good batch, they'd said, and that was answer enough. He had no reason to display his processor’s change, if not to use it as a subtle means of self preservation.

He should not swell with relief at the prospect of performing well, tackling his tasks to the best of his capabilities should be his only goal– and yet still, he stood a fraction taller; wanting to thrive was not a crime.

He was valued, he had to be. And this was why he was summoned, cord dislodging from his port as the tingle of constant-supplied energy was cut short. His usefulness was what assured his function, promised he would not be smelted to scrap and discarded.

He took a step to ease into movement, stiff and mechanical, marching forward with his servos interlocked at his back. His doorwings were built to sit at a neutral position, and unlike those who walked the halls, they did not shift with each step, dip and flutter with words and mannerisms– they acted only as an extra set of sensors, motionless as they perched at an even, flat length. He could not move them even if he tried.

His trip was familiar, one of few he was permitted to make without a handler at his side. Where drones— weaponry, equipment was housed was dark and isolated, the distance standing firm between them and the main station.

It rested near the farthest edge of the building, past holding cells and one of several break rooms. He was summoned to a sector of personal offices, a hall across from a set of interrogation rooms, walls thick with soundproofing, observation windows tinted with one-way glass.

His arrival was made with haste, facing a door with an engraved nameplate bolted near the center. The indents read ‘Nightshift’, the station’s lieutenant from long before his creation. He raised a servo to knock, knuckles hitting the metal twice, granting him timely entrance. 

He bowed his helm in greeting, and no glyphs were exchanged as he took the data-slug offered to him. He needed no further instruction; problem solving was part of his function, and to require additional guidance would defeat his purpose. 

“...A shame we’re handing off one of our more useful assets.”

Something heedlessly mentioned, and he would've assumed it was him who was being addressed, if it weren't for the quiet buzz of an active communications link— and the fact no sane enforcer would waste their hours socializing with a piece of equipment. He had questions now, the most urgent of which involving when and why, but he knew if it was not detailed in the slug’s data then he was not meant to know.

He turned on his heel and made his return, finding his way back to the drone’s depot with no trouble. 

After transferring the contents and debriefing himself on his orders, sorting through them left him more unsatisfied than before. Of course, they hadn't told him why beyond Iacon’s requests for additional combatant support, and experience told him he was not built for high-action missions (if his track record with near-deactivation was anything to go by), so, still unanswered, why? 

They had drones built to resemble burly tanks, a healthy array. Drones with specialized guns, modded blades and transformable parts, those who better resembled soldiers than he ever could. They even had a number of designated field drones, newer models who had yet to see action outside of their lockup. In comparison, he didn't have so much as a weapon built into his frame, let alone an up-to-date offensive competence. He could form a strategy, command as the head of a unit, but that was the extent of his capabilities. He was not meant to act he was meant to plan, gather and formulate.

Troublesome.

He would take it upon himself to right their wrongs, reason insisting his involvement in Iacon was a mistake needing correction. Quickly, at that, because his deployment was fast approaching and he had no desire to be faced with definitive termination once more.

As was soon proven, hacking (or rather, thoughtfully nudging himself into) files that outranked his personal status was easy, especially when no one was on the lookout for a drones intrusion. A piece of non sentient equipment could not cause a data leak, every mech knew that. Firewalls did not so much as direct him elsewhere as he searched through records, an extensive collection of neatly filtered info at his disposal.

It was approximately two kliks before he discovered its presence under a list of more recent archiving inputs, and he delved in with swift curiosity. The text itself was short and concise, gathering all he needed in no more than a breem.

His first discovery was the request's origins, jarring as he flickered over the designation of Iacon's prime. To see it was not warriors requested in their search came second, and that should have been answer enough. But he wanted– he needed to know more. Not to fulfill is selfish curiosity, no, for the sake of his assignment.

He and his record could confidently attest for his abilities outside a battlefield, and even if he could hold his own against a common criminal, he was no combatant. His honest duties detailed tactical work, and emerging as a sole survivor in the midst of a terrorcon horde was apparently the perfect testament to his tactical genius (as it stands, this was the largest mission he'd been assigned to since. They either had such grand faith that they'd preserved him until now.. or they valued his ability to take a beating and remain functioning.)

What brought him to a pause was his lack of an escort, where their name should have been detailed was entirely blank— neither designation nor pending input. Had they yet to be chosen, or had they intended to release him to Iacon solitarily? His transport was set to leave in not even a decacycle, and any enforcer would have been entitled to at least a metacycle’s time in preparation– especially for a mission outside of Praxus.

The inherent strangeness of his mission was not lost to him, as he retreated from the archive and settled into his place between two inactive drones. 

His revelations were as follows:

He was meant to work beneath Optimus Prime and tend to any militarily stratagem. He will fulfill tactical work and planning, hopefully keeping him off any battlefields and reducing his chances of needing another full-frame replacement. 

There will be no real mechanisms attending in place of his dedicated company. Iacon did not utilize drones in the ways his home city did, not with their already too-compact population. He was, presumably, their first encounter.

Though not written in paper, he was inclined to believe his usefulness would help solidify a positive, autobot-leaning relation between Praxus and their current neutral affiliation– and with a heavy spike in decepticon-speculated crime, it was a benefit. 

Humming in thought, he slipped the cord to the port at his neck, beginning his defrag as he cycled into sleep mode. The next time he was permitted online would most likely be to escort him to his transport, and from then he would be thrown helm-first into unfamiliar territory.

He would love to sit and strategize how, how to assure his secrets remained his own, how to act his part when he was not spending most of his time powered down– but his every nanosecond online was logged and recorded. Any more stalling and it'd raise suspicion, suspicion entailed questions he shouldn't be able to answer.

His systems ran themselves to a stop in predetermined order, his vision being one of the first to flicker offline. Even among the dim pixels of his fleeting sight, he'd witnessed a stream of fluorescent light paint space before him.

Amidst the final phases of his shutdown, he'd felt something nudge its way into the small gaps of his armor, snapping into place between the socket of his upper arm and his shoulder pauldron.

__

He was not unfamiliar with bugs, neither small, barely-visible trackers nor violent, sharp-legged implants meant to drill into another mech and override them from the inside out. Even if his outer scan identified it as a chunk of debris, nearly forgettable if not for his ability to think outside of his protocols, something was there.

A swift once-over revealed an electronic current huddled near to its outer shell, internals neatly compact in a tiny, deeply-colored chip; it was no more than an inch in length, and if he had to guess, it had no offensive capabilities– observation and logging, strictly.

He'd weighed his options, running them through his tactical systems one by one.

Discard of the receiver himself (highest possibility of success in preventing any potential informational leaks), report his compromised status to Nightshift (which could very well delay his deployment, and set his current plans off-course enough to need another full cycle to repair), or proceed to Iacon knowingly tapped (this course of action did not need his tactical systems to determine its effectiveness. Even with all but one offline, it was in the single digits. He was intruiged, a dangerous feeling when he’d only recently developed a need to utilize self control.)

It should have been an easy decision, and in an earlier scenario it would have been. But their inclination to hide the true nature of his tasks left him hesitant, among selfish curiosities that he would never dare acknowledge as they were; what if this, too, was an unnamed segment of his mission? It was easily concluded that the culprit was first granted entrance to the station itself, and making way to the drone’s sector was only so difficult– 

A sharp reminder pinged him, scrambling his processor’s aggregations. His chronometer informed him of the breem of free time he had remaining, noting that he'd cycled online approximately five kliks prior. Waiting any longer would cut far too close to his time of departure, and he had yet to have his frame properly recalibrated, one of the necessary prerequisites for a drones involvement outside of their home city. He filed away his thoughts for later, booting up properly now that he was not stuck in a loop of self debate.

Power cord dislodging from his port, he rose to his full height, cables tense from the awkward half-hunched posture of his stand by mode. He was actually not opposed to his full-frame inspection, especially one as brief as this would be. The dust collecting on the pale plating of his shoulders was a testament to his need.

He would be retuned and sent on his way shortly thereafter, he knew it was proportionally more cosmetic than a review of his intervals— not when there was no more than a joor blocked into his schedule for recalibration. There was not nearly enough time to dig into his processor and reveal the broken connections, the corrupt code steering his frame.

As his peds met the floor in a confident trail of steps, he'd concluded not to reveal knowledge of his wiretapped status. He would be alone in a transport for the better half of two orns, until his arrival at Iacon's capital– there was more than enough time to overhaul his decision at a later time.

—

As he moved to dock himself at a rickety, hastily installed charging station, he couldn't help but feel relieved. All had gone smoothly, the cycle relatively uneventful, leaving no room for complications to develop and scramble his tight schedule. His body moved with an added ease, gleamed with a half-obnoxious finish, and he could relate his novelty to that of his first time online post terrorcon mission; when his brain module was the only bit of his frame that was not recently rebuilt. His few scratches were buffed, and his two-toned paint was retouched where his hinges met the most abuse– he looked as if he were new, recently purchased and scarcely deployed. If Praxus wanted to push a picture of pretentiousness, shipping the Prime himself a drone who'd seen hardly any action, then they were doing remarkably well.

Once settled, he'd sectioned himself off about two joors of idle runtime, no stressing to meet demands nor hurried shutdown sequences to douse suspicion. He was online, and his only true task was to sit and twiddle his digits. Of course, he had a mountain of things to settle before his arrival in Iacon, and so his time was not spent unwisely.

He first tackled the most alarming; the bug had weaseled its way past his inspection, and it was still humming with life– it was perpetually active, though it would have gathered nothing but the whir of his frame and his overview with a mechanic thus far. To have a signal strong enough to transmit clearly and constantly between cities was impressive, and he felt more curious than he did worried. He was almost positive he would be in possession of no overtly meaningful information, and treating this as more of an isolated experiment did not seem entirely unappealing. His conclusions remained similar, the receiver would remain intact until he was given reason to step in. He'd file it under evidence gathering.

Now that he'd settled the most dire of his issues, he had no real reason to spend the remainder of his travels strictly online. But he had a desire to exist in his own right, and so that he did. 

Boredom did not take him as quickly as he presumed, and when permitted to do as he pleases, self entertainment came easily. He'd even gotten in some sight-seeing, in the form of a small, compact window just across from his power station. As he departed from Praxus entirely, spires of towering crystal and the hum of the city's inhabitants were long since replaced by unfamiliar terrain, blurred by movement as he traveled. He'd even caught sight of flora, tall enough to rival servo-built structures, peaking just above the windows metal sill. 

He played a game of identification, stabilizing what he could of his optic’s shaky snapshots and working to cross match them with existing botany in his databases. It did more than keep him busy, it was fun. A vent of fresh air, amongst files of petty crime scenes and criminal mugshots. 

Eventually, he'd dislodged from his terminal, wandering about the open space of the transport’s cabin. As Cybertron's suns began to dip below the horizon, he found himself lying flat across the floor, doorwings stiff beneath his weight as he angled to the ceiling and stared. He could feel the rumble of movement beneath him, vibrations of spinning tires and imperfect grounds. He'd soon calibrated the receptivity of his sensors, they'd nearly made his back-strut go numb.

Laying without direction, the familiarity of uncertainty overtook him. As would become known, avoiding his more pressing issues was simple when he spent the better half of his time in the emptiness of his own inactive processor, when all else was dictated by whoever summoned him online. His shaky relationship with a title of drone always pushed its way forward when presented with the opportunity, when he was not nearly quick enough to drown it out with calculation and duty.

His first thoughts always tried to put a number to his worth, his value when not monetary. If he were not equipment to be used to his fullest extent, if he'd been presented with an opportunity to flee alongside fellow enforcers, if the core in his chassis was prioritized above anything else.

Even if he feigned debate, he knew. 

He understood that to treat something unfeeling with any more benignity would end in complications, monumental loss; he understood that, to them, he was replaceable. He was inclined to agree, reassure their stance with a simple once-over, side with the portion of himself that held the belief he was nothing more than a tool– at that, frustration bubbled quicker than he cared to stop it. Even if he had been glitched with the error of free will, his components were worth no more than the dozens of droids he was housed beside back in Praxus. They would treat him accordingly.

The same part of him that protested then, argued now, that one else could feel and think and experience in the ways he could– no one who wore the title of drone, at least. Did his unit share his doubts, too? When their cores were pierced and their energon grew cold in its puddle beneath them? They could not have. He himself had hardly managed to harbor his secrets of conscience so far. And maybe, they would have ran sooner. They would have fled where he chose to stay.

Was he meant to exist as he was? Dance the line between awareness and insentience? It was not a matter of want, it was a matter of obligation– and he still owed the entirety of himself to Praxus and its enforcers. Even still, Iacon was someplace new. They did not know him above files that detailed his serial number, his designation of TID-011 and an image that described a faceplate, one that was hardly unique, not even his own.

Would they know if he were to play the part of enforcer, and not dutiful drone?

Bits of broken coding spoke, pushing forth weak protests at the idea of deception. He was meant to serve, not question. And yet still, obedience in its entirety did not appeal him as it should.

Choice, no matter how dizzying a concept, was something he had been granted.

—

His arrival was estimated between 0600 and 0800 joors, his transport coming to a halt at a quarter past 7. He was escorted off the ramp by a pair of similarly built soldiers, blasters in their opposite servos as they urged him forward, positioned close enough to hover inches from his back.

The taller of the two, though barely, wore a mean, distrustful expression, focused more on him than their surroundings. He'd bumped a heavy shoulder against his doorwing, making no move to apologize as it was knocked askew. The clink was hardly audible, though the one to his right gave a huff, helm shaking as he clicked his tongue.

“Come on Sunny, this is supposed to be a punishment, remember? You can't be mean until after we bring him back,” The one who spoke wore vivid red paint, accented with deep black and dull white. His voice held little seriousness, and his opposite did not react. 

“..Ehhhh, sorry about him, he's just mad ‘cus we gotta babysit."

When Prowl did not immediately respond, the soldier took it as a show of irritation, and when he did not move to readjust his doorwing, he tried to fill the silence with suggestions that might please him. (Their trip should take no more than two breems, and to have a complaint filed against them the moment they stepped ped back at headquarters would not reflect well.)

"Let's get you outta here already, yeah? Must've been a real boring trip. We've got plenty to do back at base though," he'd encouraged.

"You alright with walking? Pretty sure we'd get ticketed if we drove on the sidewalk, and we can't really afford to get in trouble again yet."

The mech looked to him expectantly, and only then did he respond.

 “.. Yes, that is alright. I found much enjoyment during my travels.” 

He would have assumed the two were in a hurry, if it weren't for their mostly-casual demeanor, their steps heavy and unreasonably quick.

“Did you? Nah, looked pretty empty in there. No datapads or anything. Unless you're some kinda weirdo like Magnus who thinks holovids are a waste of time? That'd be a real shame. We don't need any more of those.” Although their laughter was lighthearted, he had paused all the same.

What did he like?

“No. The trip was brief, I was not provided with such.”

Already lagging, he fell into a light jog, watching as they transitioned from root-mode, engines revving and tires screeching. Though there was hardly any verbal exchange, they'd seemed to easily communicate their desires– leaving him thoroughly stunted and far behind.

“Excuse me–,”

They'd disappeared around a corner and he had no choice but to break into a sprint, just barely catching sight as they drifted curves in a blur of red and yellow.

Working through an unfamiliar city, debating whether they'd gone left or turned right and politely pushing passed any unfortunate mecha in his path, he found himself venting heavy against a fence.

It encircled a temple, land dotted with a few less extravagant buildings, stretching far behind the centerpiece.

With one servo propped against its bars and the other on his thigh, his engine gave a cough. His frame burned warm with activity and though he was tired he did not feel entirely unpleasant.

Through deep, untrained exvents, his helm perked at nearby voices.

“What do you mean you lost it?” Said the first, words bitten with disbelief.

“What part of escort didn't ya understand? Primes, I told ‘em we shouldn't send you half-bits out together anymore, but do they ever listen to me? No!” The second exclaimed, frustration palpable.

His optics began their search.

“Well, how is it our fault we lost him? C’mon, Ironhide– if he doesn't know how to get to the big fragging temple in the middle of the city, maybe we oughta send him home!” 

This one was familiar, and he deduced it was the failure of a guide he'd been tailing.

“It's a drone, Sideswipe! They don't just ‘find their way’, you need to command them! And it sure as Pit isn't going to have a map detailing Iacon when it's from Praxus!” 

He'd found them arguing beside a small check-in counter, laid near to the gate's main entranceway. Troublemaker #1 used his arms to gesture as he shouted, while the second had his helm bowed, optics focused elsewhere. Across were mecha he didn't know, and if he had to assume, they were their superiors.

“Well– well– he didn't seem like one! Jeez, sorry if I can't tell the difference.” He'd grumbled, words tapering off as he, too, lowered his helm in defeat. The pink one continued to scold him, jabbing a digit in his direction as if to hammer her words into the mech's processor.

He was not far, and it took only a few steps for him to approach. The red one, Sideswipe, was the first to notice, and the stretch of silence that had grown between them was broken in an instant.

“See!” He'd pointed, exclamation loud enough to make him wince. “He got here safe and sound! Now you can't say we didn't do our job.” His servos met his hips, and he seemed to beam with newfound victory. 

“You two didn't do anything, he got here himself.”

An argument left his voicebox sputtering, lips parting with a shout. “Arcee–!,”

“Sideswipe, drop it.” The yellow one– Sunny, presumably– had finally spoken. That was four, and he'd filed their designations away in his memory bank.

“I am here–,” He raised a servo, waving stiffly. He had little practice with speaking out of turn, and so when four pairs of optics met him, he felt a tightness in his throat. “–and I don’t want my arrival to be a point of conflict, if it can be helped.” 

“Ah,” Arcee, he'd recalled, had moved to rub a servo along the back of her neck, looking almost flustered.

“Sorry about that. Really, these two glitchheads don't know when to stop. If they caused you any trouble, any at all, just let us know– they aren't getting out of this one, I can tell you that much.” She wore a smile, and when Sideswipe moved to talk, her servo met the back of his helm in an audible clank.

“We’d better get you inside ‘nd properly debriefed, can't have you prowlin’ around the city unaccounted for. What was it, again? Files didn't say we'd be gettin’ a real mech, your name ain't anywhere that I've checked.” Ironhide, donning plating that was a shade deeper than Sideswipe’s, had moved to press a servo against his shoulder, ushering him past the gate. “Where's your lil’ helper, too? We've got plenty on the drone.”

It took conscious effort not to freeze.

He'd already acted out of line, and to say he was the drone would interfere with the plan he'd already set in place. They'd come to a mutual understanding that, as Sideswipe claimed, he did not act entirely dronely– and therefore, he must not be. Indecision stunted his words on his tongue, and his processor sorted through that orn's interactions in a desperate search for something.

He was quiet for longer than he would've liked, and Ironhide's optic ridges bunched in concern. 

“Hey, it's gonna be fine. We can give your superiors a call ‘nd get it sorted–”

“No.” he'd protested, words sharp and conclusive.

Ironhide’s expression morphed from worry to amusement, and he was thankful he read no anger. The burly mech clapped the back of his shoulder pauldron, giving a heavy chuckle. He stumbled forward at the force.

“Alright, alright, no need ‘ta be bossy about it. We'll get things sorted inside, that okay with you?” 

He tried to reciprocate, though the corners of his intake upturned in nothing but a shaky smile. He'd need to work on that, too, soon filed away with an indicator that read moderate urgency. Mecha did not take too well to their friendly advances being met with flat faceplates and silence.

“Yes, that is fine.. Thank you.” He'd tagged on, after a nanoklik.

He followed behind Arcee with Ironhide to his right, his ‘guides’ all but pouting behind him. To his surprise, they did not enter the temple, they simply maneuvered around it, moving instead to one of the larger, secondary buildings that occupied the plot within the fencing.

It was sparsely populated, but diversity was something he was quick to note. Foreign frame types typically equated trouble in Praxus, though no two mechanisms thus far had looked even remotely similar. Uncertainty began to make itself clear, one of the more prominent emotions in the face of his processor.

If he had to approximate, the building housed roughly 36 unique mechs, and there were about 17 currently inhabiting its space– including himself and his welcoming committee. His optics dimmed in concentration as he upheld a subtle, active scan, mapping the halls best he could as they walked.

They'd eventually made way to a pair of double doors, sliding up with a hiss of dissipated pressure as Arcee punched in a code.

“Pretty sure this is where you're going to hang when you're on duty. And off duty. And.. anything else. My advice? Get used to it, not sure how you’ll find time to be anywhere but here.” A loose shrug. “It's our tactical unit– but, if I'm being honest? You're probably gonna end up picking up slack for every division. Plenty of visitors.” At his blank expression, Arcee chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, some of our mechs just.. need a little guidance.”

She gave dismissive grin. 

“You're not alone, though. You've got twooo… no, three! Other strategists backing you. The numbers aren't too high, but hey, that's why you’re here.”

Despite its minimal total there were more than three mechs already present. Two spoke at a console, gesturing to figures on a holo-monitor displayed from one’s wrist. A third sat near a table, data-pads sprawled before them, deep in thought with their optic ridges bunched. A dozen were gathered at a corner, a count of six– mostly unfamiliar, if not for the duo he could have sworn was behind him. When exactly they slipped away, he didn't know, but Sideswipe was laughing and Sunny didn't look terribly troubled– so his peds moved, guided by curiosity.

He thanked Arcee with an incline of his helm, approaching the group slowly. He'd intended just to listen, inclusion was the least of his desires– but the one seated upon a console, a smile spread wide across his features, had chosen otherwise.

“Ah-hah! New one already?” They'd helpfully identified, and he was unsure if he'd ever regretted a decision as quickly as this one. He took a step back and turned in preparation to leave, but the mech slid from his seat and moved to follow.

“Hey, wait– I was just messin’ with you, come back!”

His frame paused at the command.

He was not sure what part of it urged him to turn and stay, but he did. He was stiff with uncertainty as he faced him, optics shuttering twice.

“Sorry, sorry. I got a little excited, that one's on me. Can you blame a mech?" He apologized, visor bright as he brought up a servo. "Last rookie was here for… What was it?” He'd turned to face the mini-bot at his side, who shot up a hand displaying a set of fingers.

“Three joors! He actually didn't even technically make it on base but he made it to Iacon so–”

“Yeah, there you have it! You're already holding up better than the last one. Good on you, really.” With the hand previously raised, he gave it a gentle wag, and it took shamefully long to recognize it was a handshake he wanted. Interlocking their digits, he'd guided his optics elsewhere. 

“Jazz," the mech introduced, pulling away after a good few shakes. When silence followed, his lips parted again, words humored and urging. “..And who exactly do we have here?”

“...Prowl.” He returned, glyph feeling foreign on his tongue. With no guidance on how to proceed, he ended off with a small, stiff smile, only a fraction more practiced than what he’d offered Ironhide.

Chapter Text

Their newbie was one pit of a worker. 

He was quick and quiet and focused, something that greatly eased his integration into their ranks, making it simple not to alienate him among the already-close mechanisms of HQ. He pumped out calculations, suggestions and plans with such great efficiency you could assume he was forged for it. He was already meshing well with their other strategists, too, and they hadn't gotten even a single complaint thus far.. Which was impressive in of itself, because they’d been working side by side for the better half of a millennia and they’d still hardly tolerated opsmechs in their sector of the base. 

It was still too early in his involvement to make a solid assumption, but Primus, was he promising.

…At least, from what Jazz could tell.

He, personally, was never one to sit still and mull over a single calculation, not unless he could act immediately after. He'd made a habit out of following loose instruction and adjusting his methods as complications came– which has, notably, kept him online for centuries. He had no doubt it would continue to do so, and if he could live relying mostly on his own processor's whims, then he would prefer it. Being commanded was never something he liked, and he'd hardly tolerated it before Optimus had stuck him into his own division.

He just couldn’t imagine being restricted to a single spot on-base, dedicating all his time to a job that could be detailed in less than five words. Really, it seemed more like a punishment, one that'd be dished out to one of the twins. But Prowl seemed more than willing, awfully compliant with the concept of staying put and performing a one-note function. It was painfully obvious when someone couldn't pull their weight, and Prowl was doing no less than what was asked of him. He was a good mech, one that sat strict at a desk and remained, as if it were the only place he belonged. He accepted any and all work pushed to him, and he'd never once uttered the word no, not with a shake of his helm or the crackle of a vocalizer. 

Though, Jazz prided himself in recognizing when a bot was fazed, and Prowl was hardly adept at masking it. He wore his discomfort openly, so much so Jazz was led to assume he either didn't care if people knew or didn't know how to hide it— and throughout their few interactions, he could not in confidence say which it was. For all his vivid complacency, he didn’t seem too enthused by his position. He was a walking contradiction. (And, yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have inadvertently tasked himself with psychoanalyzing their newbie, but the orn was slow and he didn't have much else to do.)

Despite Jazz’s judgments, Prowl's dedication was both heavily admirable and openly appreciated. To have another specialist splitting their workload eased plenty of the tension from their tac-mech’s struts, and he supposed he could dismiss most of his queries for the sake of sparing the mech's efficiency. His ops was closely intertwined with that of their tactical, and good news for one meant good news for both.

He'd just hoped their rookie wasn't already overtaxing his clever little helm, a single cycle of decent work wouldn't progress them much. If Prowl had something to say, he was open to share– be it a complaint, request or anything in between. Slag, Jazz himself would bend backwards to try and accommodate, if not because Prowl had shown himself to be at least somewhat useful, then to chip away at the mech's motivations.

If he wanted any chance at all, he'd need to catch Prowl when he was free. And despite the constant duty he'd shouldered from the moment his shuttle left Praxus, he was permitted breaks. He just wouldn't use them. It wasn’t intentional, but damn it, he’d been overcomplicating Jazz’s plans since before he’d even made them.

If he gave it some thought, he hadn't seen Prowl leave his console, not even once. Not to stand and stretch, not with any offhanded questions or input.. actually, he hadn’t spoken at all, which wasn’t as important but still dimmed Jazz’s pride— and he hadn’t even moved to up and refuel, something a few degrees more alarming than the rest. It intrigued him just as much as it worried him, and he confidently concluded it to be something he should act on. A starving mech would do them no good, and if he fell into stasis, Jazz couldn't talk to him at all.

Now, another's eating habits were something he typically didn't concern himself with, he did not sit and keep count of how much energon every mech drank. Different frames had different fueling regimes, and their needs were almost always met if their medics could make it happen. Prowl’s work wasn't physically demanding, either– it'd make sense not to burn too much power sitting at a desk, and his files (though Jazz had not yet seen them) probably would’ve detailed if he needed a kind of additive or specialized fuel. They would not deprive him, and by extension, he was sure Prowl needed nothing of the sort.

Even still, Jazz had paid visit several times since Prow settled and began working; if he was not there to deliver debriefs of his own then he was there just to see. And, time and time again, he'd come to discover the mech hadn't moved any more than an inch– he sat, just as stiff, just as strict. He’d docked at HQ more than half a cycle earlier, and their arrivals almost always replenished their stores once hopping off transport, but Prowl notably hadn't.

Maybe he was just nervous, didn't know how or where to get his fill– and even if that wasn't the case, it was something and Jazz felt inclined to act.

Mostly because no one else was as amazingly observant about their rookie strategist as he was, and if he didn’t catch and correct this, who would? To have one of their few tactical mecha lacking because they weren't properly fueled was something so easily corrected he couldn't ignore it. 

So, with energon in either servo, he'd walked the hall to Prowl for the sixth time that orn.

Balancing one cube atop the other, he punched the door's pin, stepping inside as it chimed. His presence was hardly acknowledged, not by the bots who knew him, much less by Prowl himself. They were busy, he understood, and his visit wasn't exactly an unlikely occurrence. He was lucky they hadn’t immediately wished him gone— at least, audibly.

His optics were quick to search, and their newest addition was right where Arcee had left him. Before now, he really didn't have much of a reason to stare; the mech looked about how Jazz expected, acted only partly strange and did his job as he should– but now, Prowl was his motivator, and allowing a moment more to observe would not cause harm… Especially when his chances of being caught were in the single digits. Prowl had priorities, something he'd made very clear through his quiet dedication, and chatting up Jazz was probably not among them.

Casual as he stepped, he allowed himself the time to properly scan Prowl's form. Well, what he could see, when everything beneath his chassis was hidden behind a desk, stacks of data-pads balanced neatly on either side.

From the tip of his deep-gray chevron to the curve of his black-and-white bumper– his immediate conclusion was boring, though an alternative could stand to be cohesive. His paint was shiny, sure, and his features were sharp, but the mech was hardly something to gawk at. If Jazz could properly recall Prowl's function in Praxus, it'd make sense– he had no need for mods or specialty, all the crazy stuff was probably packed in his helm, settled prettily across his shoulders. Unassuming was good, beneficial, even. Bots like this liked the logistics– he probably wouldn't hate Jazz's assessment.

As he cycled his attention back upward, his sights zeroed back in on Prowl’s faceplate. He guided his search along the dim glow of his optics, the curve of his nasal ridge and the pleasing transition from nose to lip, a guiding flow into the shallow downturn of his intake. His derma were pulled into the subtlest frown, as easily indifferent as it'd always been, and Jazz felt the strangest desire to change that.

Despite Prowl’s confident efficiency, Jazz couldn't help but think he looked… lost.

Unsure, maybe, in the faceplate. Everything below had been locked into position since before Jazz had thought to keep note.

He was motionless in a way that could be anything but comfortable as he sat, and though there was a data-pad in one servo he couldn't have been reading, not when the standard-blue of his optical lenses didn't so much as cycle to follow the graphs. (And even if he was, there was a distinct lack of understanding spread across his features. Jazz knew every mech looked different when their diagnostic networks were running active, but Prowls features remained distinctly static.)

Yeah. He must be lost, Jazz commended himself. It was now a question of for how long?

Even if Prowl was unnerved by the concept of asking someone new a few questions, was scared of looking for help when he didn’t know a mech fully, he was still permitted access to nearly every asset in the room. His unwillingness to seek out another tactician could validly be chalked up to intimidation, though Prowl hardly seemed the type— these assumptions came easy when Jazz had hardly scratched the mechs surface.

Above all, Jazz hoped their newbie wasn't making things harder on himself, especially if the root of his troubles was something as stupid as unsociability.

He was under the firm impression Prowl just needed a bit of encouragement, and he'd be the one to ease him out of his shell.

As he closed in, observant as ever, he was hit with the briefest wave of deja-vù.

Prowl’s demeanor was not entirely off-putting, and if anything, Jazz was drawn further to him, beyond his initial desires. It took only a moment to decipher who he'd resembled.

Maybe, just maybe, his inclination to help stemmed from Prowl's similarity to Mirage, more specifically stubborn, recently-transferred, still-adjusting Mirage from vorns ago. (And, if they truly were anything alike, Jazz had his work cut out for him.)

Placing the cube to the desk’s surface, he nudged it close to Prowl. The mech gave no initial response, and when he scooted it closer, he still did not react. Giving it more than a moment, Jazz waited for him to finish up with the data-pad in his servo.

And waited.

And waited, and after the third klik Jazz was entirely convinced he could not have made any progress.

Was he stumped? Had he finally been tasked with something outside of his skillsets? Maybe they'd significantly overestimated the mech's ideal workload– they'd been pushing expectation onto him left and right, there wasn't a time beyond his arrival where Prowl wasn't working. He oughta tell the higher-ups to tone it down, march on over with a hand on his hip and urge them to spare their newbie for a little bit longer.

Resting his own fuel beside Prowl’s, he reached forward, waving his servo a few inches from his faceplate. And when he got nothing in return, he moved to block the data-pad's screen.

Still, nothing. He was sure that would’ve gotten him at least an annoyed sigh.

With a pause to think, Jazz moved to cross his arms. Maybe Prowl was just caught up in his own helm, too focused on numbers, percentages and all that slag to connect with the outside world. He knew how simple, logic-oriented mecha tended to be. (Not at all an assumption he was using to deflect the alternative, the potential of being ignored and already managing to weasel his way onto the bot’s bad side. Being hated when the words Prowl had spoken to him could be counted on one servo was rough.)

For all of his strategizing expertise, it must be hard to split his attention between tedious tactical work and sudden conversation. Yeah, surely that was it. He just needed to try again, really pull Prowl out of the processor-spinning boredom of logic and calculation. 

Uncrossing his arms and reaching forward, he tapped a digit twice against his shoulder. The clank of metal was audible in the room's quiet atmosphere, and yet still, Prowl did not budge. The chill of his disregard stung almost enough to elicit a wince.

Well, now it had to be on purpose. He found it harder and harder to believe Prowl was not deliberately ignoring him. Should he switch gears, work towards forgiveness instead?

He wondered, searching for what could have possibly upset him to the point he'd be so adamantly neglected. He could only recall his joke– joke? If it could even be considered that much, and even so he'd made it joors prior and it was in no way meant to offend.

Prowl hardly seemed mad when he'd said it, too. He could've sworn they'd ended off on good terms, he'd even gotten a smile out of him! (Even if it was awkward and absolutely not genuine, because Jazz knew what a smile looked like and Prowl's features better suited indifference.)

He straightened his back-strut, propping his servos onto his hip-plates, attention shifting back to Prowl’s form. 

Sitting there, unmoving, the mech almost looked like a drone. If not for the subtlest hums of his frame's inner workings, Jazz would've assumed he wasn't online at all. 

“Hey? Cybertron to Prowl? C’mon, mech, whatever I did, you know I'm sorry,” he tried, silence just as loud, as painfully awkward. He hoped no one took note of his begging, his brief moment of shameful weakness, especially when Prowl seemed just as unperturbed as before.

Reaching his limits on public humiliation for that orn, he turned, deciding to leave before it got any worse.

As he retook their rookie’s cube, he thoroughly considered offering it to someone else, if not an act of pettiness then to decrease waste. And it seemed increasingly more tempting as he made way back to his own division, but Prowl needed to refuel regardless– even if he'd prefer to do so when Jazz was long gone, for whatever reason. He'd figure that out later. 

So, as he stepped back from where he came, he'd nudged the fuel onto a working mech’s desk.

“Make sure that one over there drinks this, alright?” 

Said like a creator trying to reassure their mechling ate the proper minerals, he motioned to Prowl, half expecting to see him up and working now that he was gone.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” He'd received in response, and with a quick thanks, he'd departed.

———

Jazz must've looked as bummed as he felt, because the moment he stepped ped back in his sector, the first question that met his audials was–

“Isn't a big fan of yours, hm?”

Plopping his aft into a seat, he threw one leg over the other, sinking down further with a shake of his helm.

“Mech, it's been awhile since someone like this came around. Just gimme a klik, alright? I'll have ’em down in no time.” 

Mirage gave a low snort, field rippling with visibility as he tapered into view. Jazz took a sip of his energon, using his free servo to pat at the empty space beside him. 

“I'm certain you will, that isn't something I'd doubt.” Mirage took the invitation, politely slipping into place, leaned back with his servos rested across his lap. Jazz had plenty on his mind, and in the safety of their division, he was open to divulge.

“Ehh.. I wouldn't be so sure. Entertain me for a sec, will ya?”

“Do I have a choice?” He gave a dim smile, and Jazz knew it was encouragement enough to proceed.

“Lets see.. How about this one. What’re the chances the mech was just recharging sittin’ up– optics online and all?” 

Tilting his helm at the question, the noble gave it a moment's thought.

“...Not impossible? Though, I couldn't imagine it'd be willingly, unless he were guarding something– recharging in shifts, most commonly. It hardly results in satisfactory sleep, but it gets the job done.” Glancing to Jazz, Mirage urged him to continue.

Already over it, he’d just had the most hopeful of his assumptions inadvertently stomped on.

“Mm.. Nah. That definitely wasn't it, stupid question.” Taking another sip, he clicked his glossa.

“I just can't wrap my helm around it, then. Why was Prowl was ignorin’ me?” 

Offering a small ‘ah’, Mirage should have sooner assumed Jazz’s latest fixation would be their Praxian arrival. It always was.

“Any ideas?” Jazz looked to him for answers, not quite frowning but visibly unhappy.

“Depends. Are you looking for why he wouldn't want to talk, or why he wouldn't want to talk to you?”

“...Now isn't the time for trick questions?” 

With a huff of disapproval, Mirage shifted to better face him. 

“It wasn't meant to be.”

Jazz’s helm tilted.

“It might not be you, is all I'm trying to say. Some mechs are just… preoccupied, and assuming it was ‘Jazz’ in big, bold letters at the forefront of his processor is a little selfish, is it not?” 

Huh.

With a dimming visor, his lips parted, searching for a response. Mirage gave a slow nod, as if he were easing him into the concept.

When he said it like that, Jazz did feel at least a little bad for immediately assuming. Was Prowl's sole intent really to ignore him– was Prowl upset with him at all? It soothed him as much as it spiked his guilt, and he gave an awkward half-smile. 

“Well.. Slag, ya got me there. Guess it was none of my business, was it?” Uncrossing his legs, he rested his fuel on his thigh. “Mech had a job to do, and I'm pretty sure it didn't include makin’ friends with me.”

“You know that isn't true. I'm sure you'll manage, regardless.” He waved a servo in dismissal, pushing himself to stand.

“You can't stay away from things you don't understand, and I believe he qualifies.”

Jazz gave a roll of his optics, raising the cube to finish off its contents. Tossing it forward, the noble’s invisibility rippled, landing squarely in his palm.

“Trash it for me, yeah?” 

It clattered back at his side.

———

Prowl's spinal-strut was killing him.

He believed he now understood why he was stored standing, not sitting at a desk, and he gave a low grunt as he circled his helm, the act pulling at the stiff cables of his neck. It took him far too long to recognize he'd cycled himself into sleep mode, and that any normal mech would not have had a clue in regards to what that looked like– would not have known to command him back verbally. His shame at the realization burned bright, but his worries towards their perception burned brighter.

From a brief glance around the room, he'd gathered nothing major had changed– panic was not yet warranted. Something as simple as this would not dissolve his cover.

It was hardly voluntary, but his childish curiosity had stunted any and all recharge designated for his travels, and his newly developed exhaustion had low-power alerts making room for themselves at the face of his processor. Each nagging ping made it harder to concentrate, and with every building distraction he risked putting out any less than perfection. 

He would have loved to disable their necessity altogether, he knew when his power was low and did not need it screamed at him with big, obnoxious reminders, but he still lacked that very control. He would need to step aside and truly impart the contents of his helm first, then sort and reorder every twisting wire, every path of function until he operated the way he desired.

He did not yet know his own intricacies, and though it worried him, he had no way to measure the extent of his freedom. Could he disable his own system's alerts on a whim? Or would he be met with another error, one reminding him that he is not in control, and it was only a real mech’s judgment that could toggle his features?

Prowl shook his helm to clear the thought, and the cables of his neck thumped painfully in protest. He could not continue like this, not with the irritating thrum of his outer sensors sending shocks of aching discomfort straight to his already crowded processor. Maybe, he’d proven himself enough to warrant a break— at least a brief one, where he could stretch his cramped connectors and maybe find someplace secluded to properly boot down. He’d need to seek out the charging station in his shuttle by the end of the orn as well; once he dipped beneath a generous 30%, his subsidiary features would begin to fall offline, leaving only his base protocols to assure optimal function.

He would much prefer to replenish his energy now, his efficiency would only decrease as the numbers crept lower with each moment he spent online, but there was at least another 6 joor until the night-cycle. He’d glossed over his power usage, scrunching his faceplate disapprovingly at the angry ‘400%’ beside his range of tactical networks.

Yes, he’d concluded, nodding subconsciously. 

He’d need to work his way into his secondary energy stores, provide himself with just enough to make it through the cycle. His logic centers helpfully pushed his inability to last until the end of his shift, and he was in no position to put faith into the remains of his steadily draining power. It would not reflect well if he were to fall offline before his duties were complete; he could concern himself with his frame’s exertion once he was dismissed.

Pushing himself upward, the seat knocked against the backs of his legs, an audible sound among the distinct quietness of the open space. He’d received only one glance, a mech who’s optics seemed to brighten as they met his standing frame. They moved from their own station, and much to Prowl’s dismay, they’d begun their approach, sloshing cube in one servo as the other swung absently at their side.

“Hey! Prowl, wasn’t it?” He called, voice friendly, bright.

“Affirmative, yes.” Came his response, stiff, almost uncomfortable.

Holding out the cube, he’d gestured.

“Nice to have you. Skids, if you were wondering.”

Prowl was wondering, and he’d filed the designation away with the rest of them.

“…This is for you, by the way.” The mech urged, after a moment of dull silence. Prowl craned his helm in return.

“For?”

And when Prowl did not reach to take the fuel, he gave a light sigh, lowering it so it was level with his desk.

“You’ve gotta be hungry. At least a little?”

Prowl gave an equally blank stare.

“Alright, well— Jazz brought it for you anyway, and I’d suggest taking a sip to get him off your tailpipe for the orn.” 

The idea of discouraging any mech from engaging him was a tempting one, but he was not optimized for the consumption of energon. A sip, as Skids had described, could very well destroy his internals. He’d known of drones shorting over less.

“Have you fueled?” He countered, a lazy attempt, but the safest one he could conjure.

“Well— no, but—,”

Prowl nodded dismissively, circling the desk and striding past Skids. “You may consume it on my behalf.”

Ah, well. He couldn’t do much but shrug at that.

With little desire to fuss and persuade him into taking the slag, Skids downed a defeated sip as he retreated back to his station.

———

Prowl’s knowledge of the base was far too minimal for his liking. He’d known only the turns and corridors from entrance to the tactical division, and any deviation would leave him lost and unsure. He could seek out a guide, but the prospect of putting forth effort into conversing on his own terms felt as if it’d drain him more than even the heaviest of tactical assignments. Demanding a transfer of the building’s layout felt easiest, but part of Prowl protested. Was that not outright suspicious?

He knew of his own intentions, and his logic centers pushed it as the simplest solution to his problems. But something far less satiable argued it was improper. That he would be seen as strange— unlikeable, even. And for an odd moment, Prowl did not want to be.

Stomping down the most unreasonable of his arguments, he moved to settle near a wall, leaving the walkway clear for any passing mechanisms. He needed a plan and he needed one soon, because the strength of his core had weakened to an unacceptable 41%, and the half-joor of recuperation he’d allotted himself was passing by far quicker than he anticipated.

As he moved to graze a servo over his chassis, above where his power module pulsed idly beneath too-shiny paint, a servo met his shoulder.

“Prowl?”

The use of his newest designation made his helm snap, optics searching in a short-lived panic. There beside him, touch warm against the metal of his pauldron, was Jazz. The recognition came easily; despite the forgettable, coordinated two-tones of his frame, his visor was bright and unmistakable.

“Yes?” He acknowledged, moving to stand straighter, settling beneath the mech’s proximity.

“Oh!— nothing. Was just wonderin’ what was up. You look a little lost?” 

Prowl’s optics shuttered, focusing down at his peds. The idea of meeting Jazz’s visor made his frame heat unpleasantly.

“Not lost, no.” He clarified, and his processor screamed now was a better time than ever to request the base’s layout. Still, his lips did not part, and he continued no further.

“Huh. Alright, then. Just wanted to make sure.”

And a klik after Jazz had voiced his satisfaction, he lingered. Prowl still felt the contact of five digits against his shoulder, could still sense the unreadable buzz of his field, reaching so close beside him.

“Did Skids give you the fuel?” Came, after awhile, and Prowl could not bring himself to lie, not when addressed with such a direct inquiry.

“I permitted him consumption, but the sentiment was there.” 

Jazz gave a huff, one more than likely indicative of disappointment. Had Prowl done wrong? An apology begged to leave his deepened frown.

“Well, you’re free now, aint’cha?” 

And when Prowl raised his helm, optics flickering almost fearfully to the operative’s faceplate, he was met with an easy grin. He wanted to speak, he knew what was expected of him, how simple conversations like this functioned. Even still, his vocalizer clicked, and his frame stuttered in irritating protest.

When the corners of Jazz’s intake faltered, more closely resembling Prowl’s own perpetual dissatisfaction, he swallowed thickly and forced a minuscule nod.

“You would be correct. I’ve permitted myself a half-joor of rest.” 

As his vision cycled, studying Jazz’s faceplate with the same dedication he’d use to examine a new dataset, he’d caught an odd dimming of his features. An expression he could not read, but between the anger-frustration-disappointment he’d known far too commonly, it eased him not to recognize it.

“That all?” Jazz’s servo, something perpetually noted throughout their interaction, had finally fallen from his plating. 

“Is there an issue?”

And Jazz normally would have assumed Prowl was being a smart-aft with his question, the twins had made him more than familiar, but the earnestness in Prowl’s tone was just as easily read.

“No, not at all— I was gonna ask if you wanted to come with me to the rec-room, actually. They’ve got dispensers there; we could grab somethin’ together,“ and at Prowl’s visible lack of excitement, he tagged on, “maybe I could show you around a lil’, after.”

He could not help the perk of his frame, the interest in Jazz’s words. It was not quite a floor plan but it was certainly something, and during their tour Prowl could more than likely find someplace to cycle down.

“Atta mech!,” Jazz was quick to praise Prowl’s regard, conclusive before he’d even spoken a true agreement.

“So, how’s about it? Give yourself some more time?” 

Even beyond the logistical benefits, somewhere deep within Prowl came a desire, a smallest hint of excitement at participation. So with a confident straightening of his back strut, he moved to step beside him.

“It would be agreeable.”

———

Prowl’s current situation was, in fact, not agreeable.

Jazz had finished off his cube more than a breem prior, and Prowl had done little more than wrap his digits around the body and feel the liquid slosh within. On occasion, he lifted it, pretending to sip as he brought the ledge to his lips, flexing his throat in a way he hoped was accurate, but the contents remained level. It was a repeated cycle, and Prowl had made a show of the lie every 2.2 kliks, counting down the nanosecond between each act. Jazz had not noticed— and even if he had, there was no mention of Prowl’s antics. So, perhaps, he was a greater pretender than he once thought.

At least, he would have lived his orns believing such, if it weren’t for the operative dragging a disbelieving servo down the expanse of his faceplate, lips tugged into a look that was anything but pleased.

“Really, mech? Are ya fraggin’ with me right now?” 

As the fuel gently clanked against the table’s surface, Prowls digits pulled away.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

At the flash of something that crossed the mechs distinctly friendly features, Prowl was more than quick to conclude Jazz was upset with him, and his performance thus far had been less than adequate.

He, too, moved to frown, a conscious effort as he angled his intake in a downwards curve.

“You should’ve just said no if ya didn’t wanna fuel with me, Prowl. I coulda spent my break with a mech who woulda respected my time ‘n effort.” 

When Jazz cast him a glance, moving to stand as he broke the contact, Prowl‘s servo tightened at his side.

“Wait.”

The word pushed itself from Prowl’s vocalizer quicker than he could’ve stopped it, and he could not decipher if he felt relief or dread when Jazz’s retreat faltered.

“I apologize. I have not— it isn’t—,” his processor stuttered and his glyphs tumbled out half-audible, feeling his throat tighten with another unpleasant warming of his frame. Surely, the ache of his cramped joints would have been much preferable to this.

“Please.” He settled, and when he urged himself to face Jazz, his displeasing irritation had entirely faded. 

It took only that for the mech to move, slipping back into place across from Prowl, one leg thrown over the other as he gave a shake of his helm.

“What the pit is up with you, Prowl? Really.”

Honesty was not the answer Jazz sought, this is what Prowl knew for certain. A confession of his status as an enigma, a drone who could act outside of an enforcer’s orders, would leave him significantly more dissatisfied, and would leave Prowl significantly more vulnerable. His secret was already frailer than a malnourished crystal garden, and anything regarding his time back in his home city could shatter too much.

Instead, Prowl pressed his lips into a thoughtful line.

“In Praxus,”

He was already failing, going against the preserving logic that screamed for him to cease.

“…It is a traditional custom to fuel at least a joor after your guest.”

Jazz stared. Prowl stared back.

“…We aren’t in Praxus, and I ain’t your guest.” He said, slowly, in return.

“It applies.” 

It absolutely did not, and Prowl had never once heard of such a practice, was more than certain he’d stolen it from that of an entirely different city-state, but Jazz gave him an affirmative hum. He must not know, he thought, triumphantly.

“Sorry for blowin’ up on ya, then. I had no idea, honest.” Yet still, his line of sight drifted between Prowls neglected energon and his seated frame.

Prowl could not say what possessed him, why his servo met the cube and the edge met his lips, or why the sickly feeling of room-temperature fuel sliding down his throat cavity was combatted so greatly by the pleased brightening of Jazz’s visor. But it’d happened, and it’d happened quickly, and the energon was half-gone before he could comprehend.

He could feel it. The liquid soaked his unshielded components, began to drip between wires and open compartments, drenching his circuits as it flowed so free, so wrong between his delicate internals. And still, even at the undesired flash of alerts in his HUD, he offered Jazz what he could of a smile.

“Adequate?”

And Jazz returned it, painfully ignorant, the softest of laughter bubbling from his frame.

“Guess so.”

Chapter Text

“So, how’s about the tour?“ 

Jazz asked, words smooth and unknowing, offered only a few moments after Prowl had managed to empty his cube, fuel forced down in three too-thick gulps. He’d counted— he found it difficult not to, when each was steadily worse than the last, his inner circuitry plagued with a constant, sharp, protestant static.

He’d stalled all he could, and the smallest of tentative sips trickled so sickeningly, he knew forcing it down in mouthfuls was his only true option. He was hyper aware, could hear the subtle —plink of every droplet, and he was more than thankful the operative loved to speak.

Jazz’s voice took priority, a pleasant sound among the panicked whir of his own internal systems, the repetitive blink of violent, angry, disapproving alerts. The tour, he’d repeated, setting his jaw. That is what he was here for, wasn’t it? Since when had the parameters of his personal mission changed, from self preservation to an act of reassuring Jazz was satisfied with him?

Though he struggled to work his way through the cluttered bouts of information all but pelting his frayed processor, merciless and constant, he dove far enough to skim his power levels. 

A shaky 20%, ticking down to an alarming 19. His throat channel felt tight, an odd sensation when paired with the ration of energon, a too-loose liquid that slid down the untouched canal of his neck; Prowl wanted nothing more than to reach up and feel. He would not last, something that bore a decisive 100% beside his tactical systems— Jazz’s guide through the base would have to be postponed. 

Prowl found himself.. disappointed. Just barely, another emotion thrown into the messy concoction of his inner workings.

His helm shook, the movement dizzying, and Jazz gave him an odd look.

“Levels still low?”

Energy, yes. Fuel? He could only curse.

“I believe I overindulged.” An understatement, truly. His ideal consumption sat steadily between zero and nothing.

Though Prowl had never led an interrogation, he was not entirely clueless, he knew the barest tells of frame language. Jazz did not believe him, written clear as day over his too-expressive faceplate.

“My.. fuel tanks. They are not entirely aligned with that of an average mechanism.” He’d countered, speaking just as the thought formulated, a lifeline in his overcrowded processor. This was a half-truth, and so the most vocal segments of his lingering coding did not classify it as a spoken dishonesty— as incorrect. It came easily enough.

“Tactical work is not physically tiring, and my systems hardly burn enough fuel to need a full ration.” To need any ration, he emended.

Jazz gave a hum, one less than indicative of dismissal. Prowl was not yet clear.

“Checked the logs,” he pried.

“Your transport took a little under three orns to arrive in Iacon. You’ve got no dispensers in your cabin, just a weird lookin’ recharge slab,” he continued, shifting to sit straighter, both his peds planted flat to the ground as his visor locked onto the Praxian. Though he could not see, Prowl could more than sense his optics, bore into his carefully schooled expression.

As he parted his lips to speak, to explain, to protest, to lie, Jazz raised a servo, effectively silencing him.

”Ah, ah, ah! No single-use cubes in there, either. I’ve got access to security, too, y’know? A buddy of mine, real observant, already said yeah. You’ve not had a lick of fuel since the twins got you here.”

Prowl could not help his frown, the way his frame burned with shame as Jazz carefully laid out his evidence, unspoken accusations woven neatly between each glyph.

“You concern yourself too greatly. I function—,”

“And I’m tryna keep it that way, Prowl. You think I wanna fuss over you like this? Our tactical can’t afford another loss right now, ‘nd if you’re depriving yourself for whatever Primus damned reason, I gotta fix it.”

His voice was firm, only slightly angry but enough to make Prowl dip his helm.

“My mechs suffer if you do, same with every other overworked slagger in your division. So if you’re not gonna listen to me, at least take care of yourself in your own time.”

Prowl was quiet. Quieter than he should have been, for longer than he should’ve been. And Jazz was overtaken by guilt far more easily than he’d ever admit— he’d only said what was needed, what he felt Prowl should know.. yet, still. As Jazz reached forward a tentative, apologetic servo, Prowl had pushed himself to stand, quick yet remarkably unstable on his peds.

“I understand,” his words were swift, and he’d grasped the ledge of the table to push himself forward, hurried and ungraceful.

“Thank you.”

He was gone before Jazz could fully comprehend, optics ridges furrowed, arm still outstretched. As Prowl’s absence registered, it fell to his side, optics raking the empty seat before him. He would not force a return, yell a halt— Prowl was more than deserving of his departure.

He’d already chewed him out, and though Mirage had valiantly worked to disapprove any preconceptions regarding their rookie and his hatred, Jazz could no longer entertain the belief it was not present.

Slumping his shoulders, he gave a deep, troubled sigh. There goes his progress.

———

Prowl sought refuge upon the wall nearest to him, servos planted firm against the metal, keeping himself from stumbling as his peds moved in miscalculated strides. His power alerts were more like a countdown, a firm presence in the corner of his HUD, an angry, bolded text. 13%, 12%, 11%. 

When met with a corner, he’d obediently turned, further down an unfamiliar hall. He could not retreat to tactical, even if he so desired— Jazz had shown him the path to their recreational room, and he’d known little beyond that. Truthfully, it all looked the same in his frenzied, shuttering optics. The glyphs on the plaques stuck near to the center of most doors were hardly comprehensible, as he stumbled another corner.

It was brighter here, was Prowl’s first note, focusing on nothing more than the stream of whitish light coming from a pair of double-doors not too far forward. Prowl could taste the energon clinging to the back of his glossa, his intake feeling uncharacteristically wet.

His digits searched for purchase, reassuring he remained upright. He had little desire to skim his internal injuries, did not want to reveal which of his components was most damaged by his half-bit, illogical decision. Obligation held itself a step above Prowl’s wants, even now. If he did not carefully gather each line and detail of his ruin, offer a comprehensive debrief as was written in his coding, how would the enforcers know what to demand repaired?

His thoughts stuttered, for a moment. The enforcers were not here, and would demand no such thing.

Prowl was just barely assured by his willful ignorance, slowly inclining his helm. He moved, grasping at his abdominal plating, clutching his midsection as he pressed his weight against the wall.

He had yet to catch glimpse of any passerby. This base was too large, for the current headcount of 36 mecha. He begged this to be a better place than any, as a prompt moved to blind him.

[INITIATE SHUTDOWN?]

Shutdown?

The idea made his frame buzz, something he conceived as a dull excitement— it very well may have been the start of his interior sparking, burnt out and melting, but it left him with a tolerable, fuzzy feeling nonetheless. Internal temperature, core power, frame performance; nothing was as it should be, inclining levels, declining numbers, a mess of wrongs all fighting for priority in his mind.

Prowl was more than familiar with his towering, constant worries, could never seem to find himself in a position where the list had an end. Yes, he could always work himself down to exoskeleton just to correct the plight of his existence.. but being online was tiring, it was uncomfortable and he’d found increasingly less a reason to hold himself upright. His digits curled, a faltering grasp, as he guided himself to his knees. 

His troubles could plague him later, he knew they had no place to go.

[INITIATE SHUTDOWN?]

It prompted again, and Prowl gave a small, affirming nod. Proceed, he thought, the huff of his frame’s overexertion climbing to a peaceful halt.

His limbs locked, joints stiffening to hold his position as his systems booted themselves offline, orderly in their function as Prowl willfully gave his control. Only the most bare of his protocols remained, idle and few. With optics dim, sight darkening in a growing wall of noise, rolling in from the very edges of his red-tinted view, Prowl allowed himself to be overtaken by the familiar peace of an empty, partly-inactive processor.

He hardly had the capacity to feel in such a state, a serene acknowledgement, and an earnest smile would have tugged at his lip-plates if he could shift his body in any capacity.

As the final pieces of his wretched awareness bled free, he felt the subtlest of vibrations beneath his knees, the sensation rattling him to the edges of his doorwings.

“—e online?,”

“—on’t know—,”

Commotion. Mecha, he’d concluded, needing not a scan to tell.

“—en pick him up!,—“

“—atchet, calm—,”

The noise was quick to fade, and soon, there was nothing.

———

He felt and heard long before he saw. His optics were always slow to cycle back online, something that had remained true no matter the build nor state he resided in. His every movement felt impossible, the armor clinging to the expanse of his framework weighing oddly heavy. 

He shifted, sensing a dull, uncomfortable throb. His servo guided itself down, to brush along his abdomen. Soldering marks, rough and textured beneath the tips of his digits. 

[VISUAL FEED: INACTIVE.]

His servo migrated, rubbing at one optic as he permitted recalibration. It approached as a glowing wall of pure-white, and it was painfully clear the room was bright— brighter than he remembered tactical being. As his processor caught up, his external sensors feeding data and predictions back into his helm, he felt his plating clamp tight in panic.

He had been repaired.

He was offline, beneath prying optics and unknowing servos, his most vulnerable, and he could neither argue nor redirect the largest of his tells. 

The voices— the mecha— they surely knew.

Despite the weight of his plating he shifted, squinting to try and better ease his sight. The delicate welds across his middle sung with aching thrums of pain, discouraging the sharpness of his movement as he propped himself to sit.

“What in Primus’ name do you think you’re doing?”

The voice was stern, gruff and disbelieving. Prowl froze, craning his helm to properly face its origin, feeling himself shrink beneath the audible displeasure. Vision still half-there, he saw nothing but a silhouette, blobs of burnt orange accenting its expanse.

A servo met his shoulder, guiding him down with a gentle firmness, and Prowl did not fight it. As the back of his helm met the slab, he hardly discouraged himself from a nervous fidget.

“I have yet to complete this orn’s assignments.” Came Prowl’s response, the image of the mech before him clearing with each glyph exchanged. He’d received a snort.

“I’m saying this, and I’m saying it once. You will not be returning to duty until I give you clearance. Understand?” He’d sounded as if he’d dealt with Prowl a thousand times over. Was he really so tiring?

At the mech’s decisive, commanding authority, Prowl gave a subconscious nod, speaking a clear acknowledgment— ‘affirmative’. Realization dawned quickly, and he’d countered himself with a shake of his helm.

“Ah, no— unaffirmative. I am online and more than capable of work.”

Prowl would prefer keeping this interaction brief, would try with everything in his power to leave and return to his unchecked datapads. He had neither time nor desire for idle talk, especially with this mech; if he was not their Prime, not even a fellow tactician, he held no importance.

If he was permitted clearance, swiftly returned to his duties with little more than a dull mark on his files, then it would confirm the most ideal of his assumptions; he had yet to be exposed in his entirety, something that steadily morphed into a foolish hope with each klik he remained. 

He would not return to his city and the enforcers, he would not yet be claimed as faulty and recycled. 

But first, as was typical for not only him but any appointed tactical mechanism, he needed to think.

He would never again allow himself to be swayed by urging words and too-good propositions. Jazz had taught him enough; he was careless. He needed to further reel in his time with Praxus, protect both himself and the messy turmoil within his malfunctioning helm. He’d allowed his careful logic to be overtaken by inclination, an intoxicating taste of treatment beyond his worth as a station's equipment. Treatment not as a drone, as a mechanism, one who functioned upon their own accord— any sense of pitiful normalcy he could think to apply. But there was simply no room, not in this life. Prowl was anything but typical, a reluctant concurrence; he could not uphold this facade forever, not as things continued to unravel, slipping so easily between the gaps of his digits.

“Bust those welds and I’m not fixing them again.” Prowl’s optics searched, focus regathered as they settled on the mech. “I’ll give you the soldering gun and ten kliks before sending you off.”

Prowl was sure he could manage, though he had little desire to test his theories.

“You’ve repaired me,” attempting to gauge a reaction, his optics cycled, slow and mindful.

“..Yeah? That’s usually what a medic does. Got some untapped processor damage my scan missed?” the mech countered, and Prowl would have forced himself to stand, if it weren’t for the medic’s firm touch against his right pauldron.

“No— no, my processor functions ideally.” He felt an uncomfortable, twisting weight as he spoke. But the medic pressed no further, bringing up a servo to rub at his temple.

“I’d sure hope so. If Praxus sent us more of their defectives—,”

“Defective?,” the word felt like venom on Prowl’s glossa, burned in a way nothing ever should, and he had to bite down the wave of panic that’d been lovingly interwoven with the concept.

Prowl was not used to his emotions being so easily read. Strictly on account of the fact the misfortune of emotion had only plagued him for the latter half of his time online. But Ratchet took only a glance before his features gave way to a small, irritable frown.

“A joke. It was a joke, Primus. You lot don’t have the best track record— running on-base gambling rings and slag like that,” 

He was no more assured by the medic’s words, and his optic ridges bunched in too clear confusion. 

‘You lot’? 

Prowl’s mind jumped to drones, the most prominent case of discrimination he’d faced thus far. Except, no, drones did not have the privilege of seeing medics— they were machines, who were handled coldly by engineers and put back to work.

If that were not the case, what other troublesome indicator did Prowl have that could lead to such a sorry preconception? 

He’d begun to rack his processor, feeling a familiar buzz as his frame’s power was redirected to his tactical systems. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone— almost. But the medic was near enough, the irritant twinge of a field huddled too loosely from his frame, enough to keep Prowl from getting lost in the mazes of presumption and percentage in his helm.

“Keep that up and you’ll fry your own motherboard.“ 

Prowl’s optics brightened a fraction.

“At least let the welding heal before brooding yourself offline, would prefer the last two joor didn’t go to waste,” the medic tapped a digit to Prowl’s helm, a dull thunk clearing his worries just enough.

“Keep that up?” Prowl repeated, servo moving to graze the warped metal along his torso, small flickers of discomfort rising from the contact.

Ratchet gave an indignant huff. “You’re stressed. Overthinking, probably. All three of those sorry mechanisms over in tactical have that problem too. See them more often than ops— and their whole job is glorified suicide missions.“ He moved to cross his arms over his chassis.

“Send themselves into a meltdown running calculations, get caught in a loop and I have to manually reboot them. Can’t keep them off duty for more than a cycle, work will build and toss whoever’s left into the same spiral,”

The words only heightened Prowl’s concerns. He was no longer shouldering his duties, lazing about in the medical wing, syphoning their medi-bots time and supplies when he’d hardly earned a break, let alone the repairs. 

He did not sit up, not fully— he knew the crease of his abdomen would bust the delicately textured bonds, and he could not justify disobeying the medic’s commands. His awkward half-lay was a display of defeat, submission.

“An estimate. Exactly how long will I be confined to this slab?”

Ratchet’s expression shifted.

“Was waiting for that. We need to talk— there’s some stuff that doesn’t match up in your medical files. Too much, really. What kind of slacker medi-bot oversaw your frame calibrations up until now? Couldn’t even bother to send me the right one,”

Prowl wasn’t sure if the following requests were earnest; demanding his medic’s serial number, his designation and place of employment. Prowl was not lying, when he withheld such information. He had no doctor.

“It’s of little importance, now. I was assigned to this base indefinitely, and I can assure you I will not find myself in this wing again,”

Ratchet gave a snort, disbelief palpable.

“Hardly. Your self repair nanites may as well be dormant— don’t know how you managed that, but I couldn’t override it. Do it on purpose?”

When Prowl did not respond, shy under the medic’s expectant optics, Ratchet willfully turned his helm, gaze settling elsewhere. The thought eased him just enough, further settling.

“I don’t care why you did it. I just need to know if it’s deliberate, or if it’s a problem.”

Prowl did not have nanites, all of his repairs were done consciously, by third party mechanisms. He pressed his lips into a line, shifting heavier against the medical slab.

“..Yes,” he’d chosen, giving a small, subtle nod of his helm.

Ratchet hummed, turning on his ped to grab a data-pad perched nearby.

“Alright,” he’d begun to log Prowl’s testaments, movement pausing briefly. “Then, any medical reason behind your lack of a fuel tank?”

Prowl took longer to respond than he would have preferred— than was believable. He cursed the medic’s insistent tabulation of his status.

“…Yes?” he’d repeated, servos snaking together, an absent fidget.

“Wrong answer, smart-bot. Total replacement of a tank is a million times safer, more ethical than total removal. How do you even fuel yourself? Inject it straight into your lines? Primus, what’ve they got you running on back in that accursed city?”

He did not know where to start, and he held the fear that once he did, he would not know when to stop. So he pressed both halves of his jaw together, a firm, decisive action, and proceeded with strategic silence.

Ratchet gave only one, stand-alone glance between him and the data-pad. His dismissal was confident as it was effortless, leaving it forgotten someplace far to the left. Prowl almost envied his decision making.

It took only three steps for him to be back at Prowl’s berthside, looking down at him with something Prowl couldn’t quite read, swirling in his optics and painting his features.

He was not entirely comfortable, could not find himself fully soothed by the medics paused cataloguing. This mech was not mad, yet he still looked at Prowl as if he’d done something terribly wrong.

Even now, knowing he had done little wrong, Prowl felt the need to remedy his displeasure. He needed to go.

“You do not understand— would not,” pressing one elbow-joint against the surface of the slab, he’d eased himself up, negligent of the searing pain that reeled his processor, continuing to pressure his frame to sit.

“It’s a private matter, incredibly so. I request of you only to leave it be, to not pry,” despite the heat of throbbing strain, a terrible ache that lit the expanse of his midsection, he’d still attempted to haul his too-heavy peds over the edge.

“No— slag, what are you doing? Lay back down,” Ratchets servos were on either of his shoulders, firm but not quite forceful, as he’d attempted to coax the tac-mech back.

“Please,” Prowl managed— pleaded, a pitiful sound in his throat as he turned his helm, optics searching with purpose, to meet the medics.

Ratchet frowned as silence befell him, his throat cables rippling as he swallowed down nothing. He did not release Prowl, but he did ease the pressure guiding him, his own gaze intent as they met.

“I need you to calm down, before anything,”

Prowl was not feeling particularly panicked, no more than normal. His core was always strung with ripples of anxiety, worries that continued to pile the more his systems ran. But he’d allowed the mech to ease him back into lying flat, his servos curled at his sides.

“Confidentiality, you slaghead. You could tell me they’re running an illegal turbofox fighting ring back at your old station and I wouldn't speak a word of it— could name a few mechs who’d die to place a bet, though.”

Prowl was not reassured, but the medic spoke too earnestly, and Prowl had thoroughly known the legality of doctor-patient confidentiality. Truth be told, he was not as inclined to fight as he had once been. Should this mech betray his trust, he would fault only himself.

He pressed his backside flat, a sorry attempt at making himself less conceivable. But this mech, Prowl could accredit him to being phenomenal at his function. He was not so easily deterred.

“…I have no recollection of a fuel tank. Not once, not ever,” The admission was low as it was truthful, and Ratchet did not speak for what was far too long. 

“I would not think to lie to you, not now, medic,” Prowl tried.

“Never accused you of lying,” Ratchet smoothly assured, his servo finally leaving Prowl’s shoulder— and Prowl did not betray him by sitting back up. “Just trying to figure something out.”

He halted his fidgets, optics recalibrating as he picked apart the medics every word.

“I could be of assistance, if this curiosity pertains to me and my.. deficiencies.”

“Defects,” Ratchet corrected. “If you emerged with a defect as slagged as a lack of a fuel tank, how’ve you managed this long?“

“I was manufactured accordingly.”

“A construct, then?”

Prowl shook his helm. “No. I was built— from ped to helm.” His teeth grazed the inner lining of his intake. “As all drones are. The only anomaly is, as you have observed, my.. unique perception”

“That isn’t possible,” The medic said, dumbly. Prowl felt a scoff rise in his throat.

“Yes, it should not be. The most likely scenario is a critical error in the course of my production. Due to a severe lack of.. sentience, disclosed in known drone error logs, I am led to believe it was not a fault shared among my assembly batch, or even others in the span of our creation. I am a unique case—,” Prowls expression fell. 

“Which means, there is no overt remedy to my malfunction. I am bound to dissection, wherein they will uncover the cause to better future models, and repurpose my core.”

There was no true pause between Ratchet’s acknowledgment and his response, which Prowl had not expected. Such a revelation was for certain abrupt, and for Ratchet to not so much as shutter an optic was strange… if not tremendously valued.

Prowl knew he was unusual, illogical and wrong— but Ratchet seemed less than phased.. Regarded him almost as if he weren’t.

“Alright, then. New line of questioning. How long have you been.. You know,” he gestured forward, “.. Aware?”

The subject of his status as a drone being so forwardly pursued made his vocalizer spit static. A fear for his livelihood, miles less abundant than that of his time being shredded by terrorcons, yet still very much apparent.

“Will you be disclosing my current circumstances with my home station?”

Prowl knew the answer should have been yes, absolutely. But he’d found himself threading his digits between dull strings of hope, dangled before him at the medic’s immediate, mortified expression.

“You said the moment the jig’s up, they’re going to— what, chop you up, run some experiments and recycle you?”

“..Yes, as you’ve so eloquently described.”

Ratchet’s servo met his faceplate, dragged down in a presumed act of stress.

“Then no, mech. I won't be telling anyone, and you won’t, either. But you’ll have to work with me here. I’d prefer keeping my medical license, and you’d prefer to stay online and functioning,”

Prowl’s relief was prompt and boundless, and he’d felt his joints strung taut with tension, with dread and constant unease finally release their own clamped rigidity. When Prowl simply stared, Ratchet quirked an optic.

“Right?”

With a single nod, Prowl’s vocalizer gave a lagging crackle.

“Affirmative. Though I have but a single qualm with that statement,”

Urging him to continue, Ratchet mirrored his nod.

“My energy stores have been thoroughly exhausted. My frame is currently initiating shutdown.”

———

Once Ratchet had succeeded in smuggling Prowl to and from his charging station, he’d permitted his clearance to continue work not long after. As much as he would have liked to keep the drone for longer, ask a few more questions and reassure such a scare would not re-emerge, tactical needed him. 

As Prowl stepped down the hall, a simple one-way map detailing the path to and from his division sprawled in the farthest left corner of his display, he’d felt the vibration of fast approaching footsteps.

“Prowl!” Called the mech, voice strikingly familiar. Jazz, his subconscious offered in return.

“Heard you got admitted to medical,” his steps moved in tandem with Prowl’s own, and Prowl was thankful he was not urged to stop and speak. He had tasks he must tend to, who’s importance were held far above menial conversation.

“You alright?” Jazz continued, and Prowl could feel the same irritant buzz of an EMF reaching out, a fruitless attempt to mingle with his own. “I wanted to apologize, too. I’m sorry about what I said earlier— no reason for me to be so hard on you. I know it ain’t an excuse, but things have been tough lately, for tactical. I didn’t want you lot shouldering anymore.”

Prowl hummed, a low acknowledgement. His earlier interaction with Jazz had hardly plagued him. In fact, he hadn’t harbored any ill feelings towards the opsmech at all. At least, not for the direct calling out of his presumably self destructive habits. The chances of their earlier interaction being Jazz’s sole motivation were nearly one hundred percent.

”It’s quite alright, I understand your sentiments. And I was managed by Ratchet, who assisted with amending outdated  notes in my medical files,”

“Ah,” Jazz said, understandingly. “Ratch is real thorough with slag like that. No wonder you were off for the whole orn,” 

The whole orn? A jarring reminder of the duties awaiting him.

“..Yes. Your medic is exceptionally keen. I could not have lied to him, even if I so desired,” 

The mech beside him gave a laugh, the sound amused and strangely pleasant.

“Could say that again. Anyways, I figured you’d appreciate this more than me just springing it onto ya later— I’m going out with Cliff in a klik, mission led by one of those fancy little strategies you wrote up earlier.”

His tactics were already being put to use?

“Was wondering if you’d want to finally have that tour around base, once I’m back and debriefed. Maybe grab some fuel, celebrate your first success,”

“You are embedding a dangerous level of confidence in my tactical ability.” Arrogance, was Prowl’s first thought. But Jazz was not only the head of his department, but has kept himself online long enough to solidify himself as such— so, rationally, his expertise was not entirely a front. “May I ask what backs your faith?”

“You seem like a smart mech, is all. We’ve got a Prime writing up a message himself asking for a good tactician, I doubt Praxus sent us some glitched half-bit,”

Jazz’s praise arose a strong conflict within Prowl, for reasons he was not entirely sure of. As valued as commendation had grown to be, as warm as Jazz’s honest compliment painted his core, Prowl was.. Nervous. 

As willing as he was to continue debate, search for the true cause of his clashing inner emotion, a third mech had shouted to join them, another too familiar mechanism.

“You!” Both had turned their helms, searching for the source of such an accusatory exclamation.

“Step away from that mech, Jazz. You’ve caused enough damage as is.”

Prowl felt something swift pull at his features, an awkward cringe, and he’d fought to keep his neutrality.

“Medic—,”

Now, Prowl had slowed to a stop, his return to tactical briefly paused. He raised a hand to speak, overtaken by Ratchet’s doctoring anger. He would not— they had discussed, agreed—

“That cube you gave him almost gunked his systems for good. I spent half the cycle clearing tacky energon from his internals!” 

“Prowl?” Jazz looked to him for confirmation, concern marring his easygoing smile.

“Ah.. well, the energon..” Prowl’s words did not flow as smoothly as he’d hoped, refusing the order determined neatly in his processor. He stumbled, an awkward stutter.

“—did not react well with him. His frame rejected it, and when it wasn't broken down in his tank it was administered outside of his lines. Then we had a bot on low fuel with energon in places it shouldn't be.” Ratchet scolded, stern and confident and wholly believable, if it weren’t for the fact Prowl was there when the lie was formulated. 

Jazz’s guilt was immediate, and it looked out of place in a way that made Prowl want to ease his worries, correct the lack of cordial grins. But he feared the truth would jeopardize more than he could afford, and Ratchet was the only mech he found himself willing to trust— even if born of necessity.

“I’m sorry about that too, then, mech. If I’d have known the standard rations frag with you, I really wouldn’t have been all pushy with your fuelin’ habits,” he moved to rub at his neck cables, to which Prowl spoke.

“Do not worry yourself, Jazz. It was a simple misunderstanding, one I should have sooner been truthful about,” 

The opsmech was not entirely convinced, shown in an awkward half-smile to Ratchet, who oversaw their conversation with crossed arms.

“We can continue this when I'm back, sorta got a tight schedule. Don't go finding a new guide while I’m out, clear? I’ve got knowledge of this base other mechs could only dream of.” Jazz’s trouble dimmed, replaced by the upturn of his intake and the brightening of his visor.

Prowl, too, found himself offering the barest hint of a smile. A surprise, the action far from something he thought to do, void of conscious effort and stiff upholding. It pulled at his intake like instinct, and Jazz's words brought about the return of an odd, not entirely irksome warmth.

“I can assure you, you are the best mech for that job.”