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Chapter Text

He shouldn't be here. He should be back home, in Praxus, working. But he was forced into a mandatory leave after his last patrol ended up in a firefight that got him seriously injured but ended with the perpetrators - a gang building up in the district at the time - all grayed. Admittedly, Prowl put himself into the position to be caught by them, but it had only been to obtain information on them and to hopefully dissuade them from their movements in his patrol routes, to show that there was still Enforcers on the lookout, but instead of keeping to themselves, they took offense to him being there. He had meant to use his frame as a deterrent, not to rile them up further. He had miscalculated.

Then again, Barricade adding into the mix, mostly unwelcome, probably didn't help either.

As much as he wants to blame Barricade, he won't. He should have taken all measures into account. Even the most unlikely of ones. Had he been more vigilant or paid closer attention to what exactly Barricade and his partner had been discussing before he went out on patrol, he would have known that they would be lurking in the area and would be compelled to intervene. With a young, inexperienced gang like that, Prowl should have known that they would be more unpredictable. They wouldn't be as cautious as far as Enforcers were involved. They would feel far more unstoppable. He should have been more careful, planned better.

But no. He made a mistake and got himself hurt and the gang killed. There had been solutions that ended in their apprehension, but he made a mistake and instead, they were all left grayed out on the side of the road and he was rushed to the nearest medbay under Enforcement guard. His lieutenant was not happy with him. His captain even less so. He had been honest in his version of the story, and it had done little to ingratiate him to the higher ups. They think he did it for glory. To get a pede in the door for the detective position that was going to be opening up in the upcoming decavorns. It hadn't been the truth. He lived close to that area, and he knew that he was responsible to helping his neighbors in need. He had only intended on helping, not causing any greater harm, and certainly not deactivating anyone. Not unless absolutely necessary.

And it hadn't been necessary, Prowl had admitted to his lieutenant, and then again to his captain. Had Prowl not been there and aggravated the situation, there was a good chance that the hooligans could have been caught in a more peaceful manner.

"You are a Primus-damned fool for admitting that," Barricade had told him after he was given a proper, and thorough, dress down and sent to his hab to recover once he was cleared by the medics.

Prowl did not respond, knowing the truth when he heard it. Any intelligent mech or femme would have known that lying was probably for the best, but Prowl didn't believe in not owning up to his mistakes. He had been honest - perhaps to a fault - and if he got in trouble for that, then maybe it was what was deserved. It wouldn't be the first time that a simple white lie could have saved him from both embarrassment and punishment, but it's not who he was. Even if his lieutenant looked at him with barely restrained sympathy.

He didn't really understand that, as he should be given reprimand for his actions, not sympathy. Perhaps it was because he had gotten hurt in the process? He didn't know. And he didn't ask.

After a chord and a half of sitting around his hab, doing whatever he could to keep from going crazy, he was given the approval from his medic to be able to leave his hab - but not to return to work - much to his chagrin. His lieutenant suggested that he get out of Praxus for a few chords, as he had enough paid time off to utilize and they would force it on him sooner or later so best do it now while he's not in the middle of something. He couldn't argue the merits of it, and neither could his tactical network computer, so he began researching where to go and for how long. He made detailed lists of pros and cons of areas, places of interest and maximized routes that would give his tacnet the most stimulation possible while he's not working. It grew finicky, otherwise.

After careful consideration, he came here, to Polyhex. They had some of the greatest applications for his tacnet, well known for their puzzles and nightlife. They had plenty of entertainment and sights to be seen, but most importantly, Prowl had never been to Polyhex. He had been to Iacon, which was a close second, but never to Polyhex. And if he was going to spend time doing new things - while he had to - he would make the absolute most of it before returning to Praxus. Plus, it didn't hurt that absolutely no one knew him here. He had some connections in plenty of the other cities from his work, but next to none here in Polyhex.

He made it there late into the night cycle, going to his hotel for check in, before settling into his room for some rest. He took transportation through the gate on the far side of the city, but drove himself the rest of the way, which aggravated his injuries. Nothing too extreme but definitely made him sore enough to need pain patches to make it through the rest of the night cycle, something that he usually reserved for when his helmaches got really bad. But he needed them to just make it through until the morning cycle.

He goes through his mandated physical therapy that his medic recommended he do, not skipping a single step to ensure that his right wing and arm were still in working order. His arm catches a bit in its rotation, but he carefully manages to work it back into order. Ironically, if he had to choose something to catch, he's glad it's his arm and not his wing. He can deal with discomfort for his arm, but not his wing. It is simply way too sensitive for any of that. Although keeping it hiked up in its normal position does tire him out faster than usual, but the medic assured him that it would regain strength in time, that he just needed to keep working on it.

After that was done, he fueled alone in his room, before heading out into the city. Prowl, and by extension his tacnet, enjoyed city sights. Prowl enjoyed looking around taking it all in, while his tacnet would monitor traffic patterns, count the number of buildings and streets he passed to get from location to location, and while he had readily access to the city's map, his tacnet liked to create its own. Like to fill in small things that could be found on a regulation map. Back alleys, damaged streets or road work. All sorts of things. It was useless, mundane things that Prowl usually never needed - especially in a city he didn't live in - but it kept his tacnet busy and allowed Prowl to just enjoy the life around him.

He spent most of his orn out in the city, seeing what it had to offer him. Praxus and Polyhex were very different from one another. Praxus isn't the gleaming jewel that Iacon is, with its massive skyscrapers and immaculate streets. Despite its splendor and beauty, every inch of Iacon is industrialized. At least Praxus has its massive crystal gardens so lovingly tended to by its bots. The songs of the crystals never leaving the air. Maybe that was a part of the reason for Prowl choosing Polyhex too, it was also very well known for its musical scene. And while not as gleaming or pristine as either Iacon or Praxus, there was a rustic, worn-in feel to Polyhex, making it seem more... lived in. More loved.

And music on every corner. Street performers with instruments or singing. They didn't hit the sensors on his wings the same way, but they were pleasant to listen to, nonetheless. It was all so different from Praxus. It almost made home feel more... stiff. Unbending. Which Prowl didn't all that much mind, he enjoyed structure and order, but it felt like Polyhex was a different beast, something he's not sure he would enjoy indulging in for the long run, but in small spurts, the spontaneity of it was appealing enough for his tacnet to drink it all in. Everything in the city, including the city itself, seemed to thrive on nonconformity. Like everything different was assured, and welcomed, even if it was a sight to behold.

And he was a sight, that's for sure. The good bots of Polyhex must not get to see many Praxians, as they optic him all throughout his path through the city. Bitties tug at their creators and point, asking if his wings let him fly, or ask why the Enforcer shield and decals are on his wings and not his chassis armor like the Enforcers of Polyhex have them.

As the night cycle drew closer, on a tip from a vendor he visited earlier in the day, Prowl hunted down a little bar called Seedy's. Normally Prowl wouldn't be interested in going to a bar - and that's on the best of days anyway, but especially not in a strange city where he has no contacts to reach out to - but he was promised half-decent drinks and a rumor of the best singer making his name out of Stanix, would be there. Stanix is a suburb of Polyhex, too small to be considered anything other than part of the greater city, even though it had its own ruling council, they mostly followed closely in the shadows of Polyhex. Like Protihex does. Technically they are individual states, but they are all so close together that they typically act in similar interest to one another on most matters.

It must have been a rare tip, because most of Seedy's bar is empty, but then again, it was a bit of a hole-in-the-wall, and had the informant not told him about its exact location, Prowl isn't certain he would have located it either tucked neatly between two larger buildings with a small staircase between leading down into said bar. No sign outside or nothing from the street level. The room wasn't massive, with the bar on one side, the stage on the other, and about twenty tables tucked in between the two with five different doorways - entrance to the building, bathrooms, backstage, supply room behind the bar and some kind of space reserved for the workers - and low enough light around the room to be cozy. Despite its name, Seedy's bar was very clean and just from his peripheral glance at the line of liquor bottles against the back wall of the bar as well as the updated permit proudly in plain view and no obvious violations or infractions of Polyhexian law, Prowl found he quite liked the space. Cool and dark, and unless someone was looking closely, they wouldn't know that he was an Enforcer.

Polyhex wasn't like the pits of Kaon or even Tarn. There was no obvious mugging on the streets, or buy-bots wandering around without a care, but no one liked it when an Enforcer came sniffing around, and while Prowl wasn't exactly screaming it into the crowd, it was obvious to any working optics that he was an Enforcer.

So, he found an empty table, not right in front of the stage but off enough to the side so that he can point his wings towards the stage unobstructed and waited for the show to begin but no one would be able to sneak up behind him. A waiter bot swung by to take his order before whizzing off. As the kliks pass, against Prowl's initial assumption, the bar fills more and more. The waiter drops of his simple high-grade to sip on without comment. He's sure that a bar of this caliber would be able to make some pretty intricate drinks, but he's not really an adventurous type. Or the spontaneous type either, even if this whole trip is in countenance to this point. He was going to enjoy his vacation and be back to work once he's allowed.

And considering the situation is still under investigation, he hasn't actually started his vacation time - which he's trying not to think about too deeply.

As the room fills, a bot comes over to ask if they can take one of the three other chairs sitting unoccupied at Prowl's table. He nods, waving a hand when the flick of his wing in acquiescence wasn't enough. Eventually, the low lights of the room dim even more until the brightest light is on the stage, amongst the many instruments there along with a stool before a microphone. A mech walks out from backstage, he's mostly black with silver trimming. He's definitely of Polyhexian descent, topped off with audio horns and speedster frame.

He pops up onto the stool, flashing a grin as a bright red visor scans the crowd. "Good orn, my mechs and femmes! I'm Meister. Welcome to Seedy's!" There are some whistles and cheering from the gathered crowd, interspersed with some clapping. "Now, without further ado, let's get this show on the road!"

Prowl quietly listens as Meister just... controls the crowd. Song after song. Going from one instrument to the next. It's like every instrument that he touches was an extension of him, and each of them used so perfectly. Prowl isn't an expert on musical instruments, and while they sound so nice to his processor, it's when finally, his derma parts and he sings that Prowl's wings tingle, the sensors in them vibrating just right. The sound that the crystals give off such a pleasant feeling to his sensors, but Meister's voice... is so incredibly soothing. And in the next song, the tone shifts and Prowl's spark spins as excitement floods through him. He straightens up in his seat, barely taking a small sip of his high-grade, optics focused hard on the bot singing in front of him.

It's the song after, the slow one that drops his voice into slow, seductive tones that makes Prowl's wings flare out wide and flutter. The motion seems to catch Meister's optic. He turns slightly, visor pointed in his direction, but there isn't a halt or a pause in his singing, although there is a strange curl to his derma. But Prowl doesn't mind it, he just leans forward in his seat, servo curling around his cube of high-grade, and listens song after song with fluttering wings, but only when Meister's voice lowers to that one note.

Song after song. Prowl has no idea how long he was enraptured with the rest of the crowd, enthralled by Meister's singing as he goes from instrument to instrument, until finally the final song comes to an end. The crowd cheers. 

"Ya been a beautiful crowd! Thank ya for sittin' through my set! Have a good night cycle, mechs and femmes!" With that, Meister stands up and waves his hand at the uproarus crowd, grinning at their request for an encore with the promise of many good acts to follow. He heads off stage and towards the bar.

Prowl leans back into his seat, right shoulder hurting and stiff from leaning on it, and his right wing sags from exhaustion from fluttering it like a wanton buymech trying to entice the fancy from a noblebot. This seat doesn't offer him the proper support for his wing, which makes him sigh. He reaches over his shoulder, running his fingers over the hinge a bit. It's warmer than the rest of his frame, enflamed with exhaustion, which makes Prowl sigh again. He lifts it a bit, feeling his wing tremble. He lowers both of his wings a bit, trying to rest them on the chair as best he can considering that it wasn't designed for it.

Now that his reason for being here is done, it's time for him to go back to his temporary hab for his stay in Polyhex.

As he was about to stand up, someone pulls out the chair next to Prowl and sits. Prowl tenses up, staring at Meister in shock, wings hiked up in confusion. He leans away in his seat, surprised that the main act for the night would suddenly appear right at his side, cube in hand discolored and sweet smelling.

"Mind if I sit?"

Prowl casts him a long look. "You already are."

Meister grins, red visor flashing in the low light. "True enough. I 'spose I could get up if it bothers ya."

Prowl tilts his helm a bit, slowly lowering his aching wing a bit so that it doesn't just fall and hurt more. "Will you really move if I tell you that it bothers me?"

The red of his visor gleams as a grin spreads over his derma. "I don' know. Ya don't look like ya really bothered." He turns towards Prowl, leaning onto a fist while twirling his cube with the other, his attention on Prowl. The Praxian turns so that his back is solidly against the wall to look at the other mech with a little frown.

He's... cornered. Whether Meister means it or not, he's got Prowl pressed back against the wall, and while normally he would be on edge - and he was - there was also something else. Something that warms his tanks with interest. And judging by the lustful brush of Meister's field against his own, the feeling is mutual.

Prowl recoils a bit, surprised at the forwardness of the act, narrowing his optics. "You're very rude."

"'m very forward," Meister disagrees, still grinning. "And that's the Polyhexian way, beautiful. Gotta let the intensions be clear. No confusion."

Prowl frowns a bit. "Beautiful? You need your optics checked." No one has ever called him that before. At least not without teasing him. His fellow Enforcers liked to poke fun at his more elegant features simply because he comes from a more prominent bloodline in Praxus. His sleek wings, larger and curved ever so slightly, and elegant chevron, the pinnacle of nobility. Beauty standards for Praxus are unrealistic for the rest of Cybertron. 

Meister shakes his helm, finally taking a sip of his fuel. "Nah, they work jus' fine, my mech. Neve' seen a mech like ya aroun' these parts. So, beautiful, where ya from?"

"Praxus," Prowl admits, seeing as his Enforcer emblem on his wing says it plainly. The next set begins as a new performer goes on stage. He's not nearly as good as Meister, but he does make for excellent ambiance.

Meister's field ripples in interest at his admittance. "Praxus, huh? Ain't never been."

Prowl is unsure of what to say to that, so instead, he offers, "This is my first time in Polyhex."

"Really?" Meister says, a smile pulling harder on his derma. "Need a tour guide?"

"Not especially," Prowl admits, voice even. "I have done well for myself thus far."

Meister's face shifts ever-so-slightly, towards Prowl's wing. The Praxian doesn't move, doesn't wiggle his wings like he was interested - and he was, but he wasn't about to show any signs of it. His field even, his posture slightly tense and mostly unwelcome, but that was typical for Praxians. For them, it was all in the wings. And while his were sore, it wasn't enough that he still had to fight the small tremor in them. The interest so clearly there. This mech was undoubtedly attractive, and while Prowl is no stranger to interfacing, he's also not so easily brought to berth.

But Meister doesn't know about Praxians, his tacnet informs him, reanalyzing the movement. Maybe it was because he's not used to winged mechs - specifically grounders. So, there could be some intrigue there. Or, since it was his fluttering wings that caught Meister's attention earlier while he was on stage, it could be that too. Or...

"You're staring at my wings," Prowl says, voice still even.

Meister's chin tilts just slightly back to directly facing Prowl again. "They're pretty."

Prowl frowns. "You're lying." He knows. He's not sure how. The field against his own is still flirtatious, poking and prodding suggestively. His posture is still open. His words perfectly sultry. And that smile unshifting. But he's lying. Prowl knows it. This mech - this Meister - is a very good liar. Unfortunately for him, Prowl is a living lie detector. His tacnet can tell, even if the data it feeds him on the why, doesn't make sense to him.

Meister shakes his helm. "No lie, beautiful." Something shifts; Prowl shuts down. His posture stiffens, his fields start to pull back and his wings, delicately resting on the chair, hike up. Meister straightens, analyzing Prowl's movements with incredible speed. The tacnet appreciates somebot with high intelligence. Prowl too, admittedly. "I mean it. No lie. Bu' not the entire truth."

Still tense, Prowl nods slightly. "A lie of omission, then." A lie's a lie. The tacnet can't tell the difference in that.

Meister hums, swirling his cube a bit. "Yeah. Jus' checkin' the decals. Enforcer, eh?" His entire posture is sunken once more, completely at ease. He's so... perplexing. Prowl is beyond intrigued.

"Yes," Prowl admits. There is no point in denying it. "Is that a problem?" Typically, even bots who have done no wrong still get apprehensive whenever Enforcers are nearby. And something about Meister; his attitude, his posture, his reactions, Prowl's not sure, but something about him strikes the Enforcer that this perhaps is not the first time Meister has been face plate to face plate with an Enforcer. So, his reactions are very much unexpected. Once again, quite interesting. A puzzle that his tacnet is eager to pick apart.

Still completely affable, Meister shakes his helm, sipping at his energon. "Nope. Jus' noticin' is all." He grins again. Then, as if having read Prowl's processor, he adds, "No' my first encounter wit' copbots."

Prowl leans forward, intrigued still by his reactions, wings spreading out and giving a little flutter before he locks them in place. Meister's helm tilts a bit, watching them as his grin spreads even more. "Meister," Prowl murmurs softly, field finally brushing up against the other, carefully, not reflecting the lust that deepens in the other but finally reflecting some interest. "Are you perhaps a criminal?"

He knows the answer before the question has left his derma. But Meister is unflinching. He moves in closer, shifting only his weight and yet, without any tell that Prowl can pick up outside of instinct, Meister says, "Nah. No' a criminal." Before Prowl can sag again in disappointment at the blatant lie once more, Meister's voice lowers to the same pitch as that note - that spark fluttering, wing caressing note - as he adds, "Never go' convicted."

Prowl's wings spread, twitching a bit as his field ripples in growing interest. Not in the lie. Not in the criminal activities. But him. He isn't reacting at all how he should. His tacnet can't properly predict his next move. It can't utilize the data it's gathering in order to make a quick understanding of what will come next and how to further proceed. And if Prowl and his tacnet like anything, it's puzzles. And Prowl has been told he is notoriously difficult to read, and in just a few kliks, Meister seems to have realized that straight lying would immediately shut him down. And that his voice does things to the Enforcer.

"Never got convicted," Prowl murmurs, trying to focus his processor. He is very, very intrigued. "Not something you should be saying to an Enforcer."

Meister, still leaning in, seems to peer through him without trouble. "'m not worried. If I ge' hauled in, it'll be wha' it is. At least it'd be betta than the las' Enforcer tha' came sniffin' around. He didn't have ya..." Meister sighs, gesturing to Prowl reverently. "He didn't have ya you."

Flattery doesn't work on Prowl, he doesn't care for it. But the way that gaze behind that red visor as the musician looks him up and down does something to him, that's for sure. "I see." Although not really, but he's sure that doesn't matter.

"Ain't neva been caugh'," Meister admits, smiling. Like he didn't just admit to breaking some law. And while the Enforcer does not appreciate that, something about the way he said it just makes it seem so... mundane. Like jaywalking, or something else benign.

"So, you do admit to breaking the law?" Prowl says, unironically realizing that this was perhaps the worst flirting ever. And he was flirting, he realized. His processor was so blindingly attracted to this mech. And so long as he wasn't a serial rapist, murderer, drug dealer or terrorist, was Prowl really going to get bent out of shape over this? No, probably not. Perhaps it was petty theft or something. But honestly, he doesn't want to know. He just wants to have this one night. Have a good interface and say goodbye. He was only going to be here for a few chord. He didn't need to get tangled in something.

It was already bad enough that Prowl believed him when Meister admitted to not being a criminal only because he was never caught. But the forbidden fruit is almost too tempting.

Meister throws back the rest of his drink and puts down the cube. "I'll only say yes if ya promise to use ya frame to hol' me down in case I run."

Prowl huffs, stupidly amused by the horrible pick-up line. Meister, though, seems pleased. "You would make me work on my orn off," Prowl murmurs, covering his lower face with a servo.

The look that Meister gives him is positively salacious. His rippling field full of desire and lust as it caresses Prowl's like a lover would another's plating. "Beautiful, I'll do all the work if ya let me. Ya just gotta lay back and let me make ya feel good."

Prowl's frame heats up more at that. His interface panels warm. His posture shifts, turning more towards Meister, opening up in interest. He would very much be willing to let it happen. He would be willing to spend a night cycle interfacing with this appealing mech before him. Meister is definitely attractive to Prowl's optics, objectively speaking, but it's his charming personality and his unpredictability that is far more enticing to Prowl.

"Ya got some beautiful optics, my mech," Meister says, unbothered by Prowl's silence. He leans back onto his servo again, looking the Enforcer up and down. "Ya plating is smooth and curved jus' right. And those wings. Oh Primus, didn' know I was gon be a sucka fo' wings, but they are definitely doin' it for me. Ya just abou' go' me off the stage in the middle of my set so that I could see wha' otha things make those beautiful appendages flutta like tha'."

Heat spreads through Prowl's frame as he leans in a bit more, tilting his helm, and thankful for the din in the room as the next act comes to an end and the crowd cheers, he informs the other, voice low, "Meister, if you lay me out on my back, it's going to be pretty hard to see my wings fluttering."

Meister groans, rubbing his face plates. "I'll beg ya, Beautiful. Tell me wha' I gotta do to convince ya to come to my hab tonight."

"You can tell me the truth," Prowl admits, still leaning into the arousal and desire from the other mech. "I just need to know if the crimes you haven't been caught for have anything to do with rape, murder, or terrorism."

Meister doesn't miss a beat. He simply shakes his helm. "Nah, Beautiful. Caugh' up in protests that mighta turned a lil' agressive. I split befo' it go' too crazy." A pause, then he adds, "Wit' some otha minor infractions."

Prowl stares at him for a long time, and despite the desire boiling the energon in his body and warming his plates, his processor very much interested in the idea of truly enjoying his vacation before returning to his real life, his tacnet is taking every bit of information it can. And despite his... perhaps questionable word use, he is being truthful - to some measure. Enough for the tacnet to accept it. To deem him safe enough - for a night cycle.

Prowl finishes his high grade, relishing in the pleasant burn of it, before moving to his pedes. Thankful that he knew himself well enough to not start a tab as he wasn't much for alcohol on the best of orn, let alone in a strange city. So, he was all paid up and ready to go. Meister follows him to his own pedes, fields pressing in on him intently, visor bright with interest. It takes a moment, but that grin spreads over his derma again, as if already knowing what Prowl is going to say before he says it.

"Lead the way."

He does. Meister moves through the throng of tables, clasping servos and waving goodbye to all of the patrons that stop him as he makes his way to the entrance to the bar, stopping fully only once to offer a two-fingered salute to the bartender that waves back before heading out the door. Prowl, following behind, lifts his aching wings up high to avoid those sitting at the tables. He doesn't want to knock them, admittedly, but he also just doesn't want them to knock against his wings either. They are sore enough as it is.

Once they make it outside, they climb the stairs and up onto the street level. Prowl takes a moment to look around the busy streets, still alive even at the late groon. It is a relief for him to be able to put his wings down again, despite him usually wanting to keep them upright but he's put them through the ringer this orn, so it's best he lets them rest when he can. He wanted to look around, to fulfill this sudden desire to better complete the map his tacnet was creating, but the knuckles of a servo gently running up his cheek is enough to turn to look over at Meister. 

The Polyhexian grins at him when blue optics meet a red visor. "This way." He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. "And besides, beautiful. I never caught your designation."

As the Enforcer follows the musician down the street, weaving through the still impressive throng of bots still milling about, he says, "Perhaps in the morning cycle." Even knowing, he has no intention of remaining long enough for a conversation to be had. Once the star rises into the sky, Prowl knows that he'll already be gone.

Chapter Text

Despite the heat flooding his frame, Prowl didn't allow his primal instincts to overwrite his ability to see to his own safety. He scanned each room looking for threats and seeking out possible escape routes. This isn't something he does - one night cycle stands that is - but he's not going to be caught more vulnerable than he's already making himself. He wasn't an Enforcer the last time he'd had interface with no strings attached. From the initial living space in the high apartment hab, with a balcony, past a kitchen, a closed door, one cracked open to show a wash rack, to the room farthest into the hab that was also closed he is sure to keep vigilant. He's not sure what is beyond the closed door, but so long as it remains that way, he's going to just keep his wonderment to himself.

They slip inside the last door deepest into the hab and the door closes behind Prowl as he takes just long enough to survey his surroundings to ensure that he isn't about to get jumped and murdered before he's on Meister, pushing him towards the berth. The other bot grins, falling back onto the berth and scrambling up towards the wall as Prowl follows. He attaches his derma immediately to Meister's neck, sucking and kissing away as one servo runs along the heated armor, their fields filled with lust and arousal tangle with one another. Meister lets out a groan as Prowl suckles at a spot right beneath the left side of his jaw, finding a particularly sensitive cable there.

"Can I kiss ya?" Meister asks, letting out a little sigh.

"No," Prowl says. "No kissing." It's not a rule or anything, but Prowl just simply isn't a kisser. He never cared for it. He didn't get any stimulation from it, most Praxian's don't. They have naturally pretty low libido, and Prowl is no exception to the rule. Normally, as crazy as it sounds, he plans the day in advance if he's interested in any interface. He has some idea in the morning cycle or the night cycle before that he would be interested in interfacing with someone. This is more spontaneous than he's ever been.

Meister doesn't complain, just presses into him more, sighing again.

As Prowl works on Meister's neck with his derma and sliding along heated armor with his servo, Meister is digging his fingers between the plates on his neck, and back, working down to his door wings. Fingers gently brush against the hinges and Prowl groans, panting as he lowers his forehelm to Meister's shoulder.

"Sensitive?" Meister teases, grinning in the low light. The window just a foot away from the berth is open enough for the light of Luna-1 and Luna-2 to shine through despite the clouds overhead. With it, Prowl's tacnet can easily make rapid fire solutions from items and places around the room to either get the advantage in an attack or to defend himself with in case of one, but he pushes the processing to the background for the moment, but lets it run. Just in case.

Prowl doesn't dignify the light teasing from the musician with a response. He does pause, though, optics flickering as he takes a moment to just feel those wandering fingers, growing bolder as Prowl goes from a soft sigh to actively panting when those fingers press firmly into the hinges, running along the inside that face one another. Meister's calloused fingers from vorn of playing all sorts of instruments just adds to the sensation. He's used to pressing harder on strings to make them sing and he's pressing just right to turn Prowl's spinal struts to jelly with each touch.

"Are the panels sensitive?" Meister asks softly, as if afraid to be too loud and break whatever control that this act has on Prowl.

"Sound... yes, very..." Prowl gasps, optics shutting off as heat pools between his legs. There is a crackle as charge jumps around beneath his plates. He feels Meister carefully kneeing his legs apart until Prowl is straddling him, their interface panels rubbing against one another. "Touch isn't as much... but..." he sighs, tipping his chin towards the ceiling. "...yes..."

"Sound?" Meister murmurs, amused. Then, he sang. Low and soft and Prowl just floated. His helm tilted back, hips swirling and processor blissfully blank as waves of pleasure shot down his spine turning to liquid heat between his thighs. His valve clenches, begging to be filled. Even the tacnet sinks deeper into the background as the forward processor in Prowl's head just melts into molten slag under those sinful fingers and that... that voice. Meister's voice is a gift of Primus, to that, Prowl will accept as nothing other than truth. The crystals of Praxus feel wonderful against his door wings, but this is someone's voice! Prowl has never experienced a voice that just... hits the right notes that makes his sensors tingle in delight.

Feeling a little flirtatious, Prowl releases the cover over his valve without prompt and fills his field with burning desire. Meister pauses singing, for only a moment before continuing, but his optics behind that bright red visor is focused intently on the weeping spot between Prowl's thighs. His fingers rub along the hinges of Prowl's door wings when the song comes to an end. He silently admires Prowl's valve and the dim blinking blue biolight at the apex of his thighs. His glossa runs along his lower derma.

"Let me get my glossa on you," Meister murmurs, voice rough in arousal. 

Prowl hesitates, feeling a little bad about rejecting Meister twice. He was very respectful the first time, not pressing the issue at all about no kissing, but he feels he should at least explain why he wants to refuse, seeing the intense look on Meister's face and the way his field just ripples in anticipation.

"Praxians don't do that," Prowl says slowly. His last attempt at this is still burned into his processor as more uncomfortable and a little painful than embarrassing. He can understand fumbles in the berthroom, so he's not too hypocritical, but this last - and only - time left his wings in agony and he doesn't wish to repeat it, especially with his right one already aching.

Meister blinks, tilting his helm a bit to look at Prowl. "You don't like the feelin'?"

"I... have not enjoyed it," he admits. "Praxian wings don't exactly favor this method of release."

Meister tilts his helm a bit more, a smirk curling one corner of his derma. "Well, Beautiful, I don't got wings to get in the way. Praxians might not eat delicious lookin' valves, but I sure do." Prowl hesitates, his wing already aches but Meister gestures him closer. "I need to loosen ya up, Beautiful. I promise, ya gonna like it."

Prowl sighs, already regretting this, even though Meister made a good point about not having wings himself. "Okay." He goes up onto his knees as Meister eagerly scoots down so that his face plates are positioned perfectly for Prowl to lower himself onto. They were already off to a better start as Prowl didn't have to contort his body to steer clear of door wings.

Meister welcomes his tentative weight, going right to work. He starts with a gentle kiss to the slow blinking biolight that makes heat return easily to Prowl's tanks, arousal spiking. Okay, definitely off to a better start. Prowl focuses on keeping his body hovering over Meister's face, not wanting to risk putting too much of his weight on the mech beneath him. As similar as they are in frame size, Prowl recognizes that his armor is thicker due to his position as an Enforcer which makes him heavier, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt his berth partner. Blunders in the berthroom is one thing but willful negligence is another.

Little flicks against his valve makes Prowl shiver. They go from little, experimental licks to long laving swipes with the flat of his glossa, switching between the two until he maneuvers a servo under Prowl, and he can probe a finger into the leaking valve. Prowl is panting, fighting to maintain enough focus not to just completely drop his weight on the face of the mech beneath him. Charge shoots through his back struts, licking between his armor plates, jumping between the face of the bot beneath him and Prowl's thighs and valve, heightening the heat. Their fields are a maelstrom of lust and desire and anticipation all whirling around one another, tangling and intertwining together.

Prowl's optics flicker off as he tilts his chin towards the ceiling, gasping softly as the glossa and fingers push into his valve, pressing at the nodes at the entrance there, turning his tanks into pure heat. He can feel lubricant leaking from him, but it is quickly lapped away by an eager glossa. Another finger presses in and spread out before he starts to thrust carefully into the warm, welcoming heat. It takes a moment of panting and gasping before Prowl realizes he's lightly gyrating his hips, thrusting down onto the glossa and the fingers. Meister purrs, kissing and licking away with his mouth, stretching Prowl with one servo, while the other servo goes from lovingly caressing Prowl's thigh, to sliding over his aft up his back and rubbing at hinges of his door wings which makes Prowl moan.

The heat pools in Prowl's tank as the charge crackles, skittering up along his armor in preparation for his overload.

A third finger presses into the wet heat, swiping across the nodes just inside the entrance as the glossa presses rhythmically against the anterior node, the flashing picking up more and more as Prowl's processor fights to focus. It's a losing battle as Prowl starts to pant out, "Meister... Meister... I'm about..." Waves and waves of heat washes over him. He feels Meister grin, pressing a kiss to the node before doing... something with his glossa that tips Prowl over the edge. He overloads with a low moan followed with a few gasping vents, trying to cool down his heated frame. Before he can completely lose his control over his shaking thighs and makes to roll off of the other bot lest he accidentally hurt him. His wings go from a little sway to fluttering like mad as his pleasure mounts before spilling over.

Meister, surprisingly, must have anticipated this action, for he joins the roll, keeping his glossa licking away at Prowl's quivering valve. Prowl, now on his aft leaning back on his servos, shakes and gasps not sure if he's pressing into the worshipping glossa or away from it, overstimulated. Those three fingers keep pumping away inside of him, soothing the trembling mesh inside, heightening Prowl's arousal, making it harder for him to come down.

"Meister..." Prowl gasps, optics powering on. "Too much..."

Servos hooked around Prowl's thighs, Meister gives a few, gentle licks to the Enforcer's valve, before kissing the anterior node and finally pulling back, cleaning the lubricant from his derma with that sinful glossa. The most salacious grin spreading over his face as he leans back enough between his thighs. Meister's servos run along the thinner plating of Prowl's inner thighs a few times before digging into the wiring between his cod piece and his thighs with skilled fingers, one set wet with lubricant that Prowl has to thoroughly clean later, he barely remembers to make note of.

"Well? Better than your last tryst?" Meister asks, grinning.

Prowl leans forward a bit to straighten out his wings before lowering onto his back to try and cool down his heated frame, fans spinning. He looks at the bot between his legs, watching as the mech rests a burning hot cod piece against his oversensitive valve, giving a little tantalizing roll of his hips that pulls a weak, appreciative purr from Prowl's engine.

"Yes," Prowl admits, planting his pedes so that his thighs could remain open comfortably. He runs a hand down his chassis, taking a few vents. Over the spinning in his spark, he barely manages, "I... appreciate the effort you put in to making that a very good experience for me."

"I aim to pleasure." Meister grins, runs his thumbs hard through the wires making Prowl groan at the action. "I can't speak for any other Praxians, but you seem to have enjoyed that well enough. You are... a captivating audience," Meister purrs, looking up and down his frame appreciatively.

"I am privileged to a solo show," Prowl murmurs, rolling his hips a little invitingly.

Meister grins, finally giving the command for his spike panel to fold away and for his spike to pressurize. Prowl wastes no time reaching for it. He's gentle, running his fingers along the throbbing protoform that fits perfectly in the cage of his fingers, giving a few squeezes with varying pressure trying to locate the most favored by the musician. Meister groans, visor dark with arousal as they both watch the pumping servo draw a dribble of transfluid to the tip of the spike before swiping across the head with the thumb and continuing up and down experimentally. He rubs his thumbs against the nodes across the surface of the spike, applying direct pressure there eliciting soft groans and puffs of vented heat from his frame.

Carefully, Prowl runs his palm over his valve, scooping some of the lubricant still building there and return the servo to the other's spike, lathering what he can with it. Meister groans, hips jerking into Prowl's grip, venting harder. Purple biolights that line that weeping spike blink with increasing speed. A rapidly building charge crackles between Meister's frame, down to his spike and up Prowl's arm.

Prowl adjusts his hips, moving the spike down towards his valve, plates burning with desire. No longer overstimulated and ready to go for another round, Prowl guides the head of the spike into him. Meister takes it from there. He shifts his hips before bringing them together. As Meister's spike presses through the tight opening of Prowl's valve, he's immediately engulfed in a warm, wet heat that makes the Polyhexian groan as he pushes all the way to the hilt, making Prowl gasp and writhe. Just feeling that burning hot protoform gently force itself into the tight squeeze of Prowl's valve makes his insides clench.

"Our nodes, Beautiful," Meister gasps, venting hard as he tries to steady himself from just losing all control and start thrusting with wild abandon. "My spike and your valve... our nodes all line up perfectly."

And they do. The charge shared between them is enough to leave Prowl's processor fried. Never before had he had such a connection to another. Their nodes press right against one another, rapidly firing a shared charge, ramping the two bots up faster than Prowl has ever raced for an overload, even when he was a young, more hot-energoned mech desperate to give his frame release. Pulling out until just the tip of his spike is still inside the Enforcer, Meister barely waits a klik before pushing back in all the way to the hilt, smashing hard into Prowl's ceiling node. From there, it's like all rationale is stripped from both of them. Charge arcing from their frames, jumping back and forth between them and their nodes, they bring their hips together over and over and over again. Meister grips hard at Prowl's hips, thrusting as hard and as fast as he can, visor brightening in a lust induced fervor.

Prowl's wings flutter against the berth as his charge blinds him. The boiling heat in his frame - and Meister's - can't seem to be cooled with their screaming fans or their labored venting. The heel of Prowl's pedes hook together behind the lower backstruts of the bot thrusting into him, meeting each thrust with his own, gasping and moaning, supercharged by their nodes sharing every watt of excess charge with one another before Meister presses in as hard as he can as overload hits both of them like a convoy-class bot. The head of Meister's spike presses past the tight ring of Prowl's gestation port, swelling in place as the entrance to Prowl's valve swells. They lock together as their overload washes over them, again and again and again. Their compatibility is insane.

Prowl whimpers at the intensity of his second overload as Meister groans, lowering his helm to Prowl's, peppering his face with kisses, but respectfully avoiding Prowl's derma. Prowl, whose servo had been holding the wrists of the other bot as he pounded the prone Enforcer, moves them up his arms and over his shoulders, holding him close in a shy display of tactile affection. While one arm is locked around Meister's neck, the other servo travels up and down his chassis. Both shiver as transfluid pumps into Prowl's tank, warming him more from the inside.

"You're perfect, you're perfect," Meister whispers, kissing one optic, then the other.

"We're locked together," Prowl murmurs, surprise flittering into his field, so entwined with the other bot. Their frames press together as Meister rests against him without moving his hips too much, removing his servos from Prowl's hips and resting them on either side of the Enforcer's helm, lightly nuzzling the soft plating of his cheek.

A kiss to Prowl's jaw as Meister murmurs, "I've had my fair share of berth partners, but I ain't never had one I was so compatible with. I heard abou' lockin' together, but it ain't never happene' to me."

"Nor I," Prowl admits softly. He had partners as well, and he's not been nearly as compatible with them as he is with Meister, which is a surprise to him. A random stranger that he met on a whim. Fancy that. After a few kliks, while they cool their frames down a bit to prevent themselves from overheating, Meister stiffens, then groans. Prowl frowns at the sound, optics flickering. "What?"

"I got ya on ya back."

Prowl, perplexed by the statement, nods slowly. "Yes." No point in arguing. He was on his back.

"I didn' get to see ya wings fluttering," Meister pouts, pulling back enough to stare down at him.

Prowl stares back, tilting his helm, first in confusion, then a huff of amusement is punched from him, a tentative smile curling at his derma. "You are incorrigible." After the processor blowing interfacing that they just had, that was what he was thinking about?

"I have to see it," Meister murmurs, fields edging on lustful as he rolls his hips, pressing their nodes together. Prowl shivers, whimpering as a minor charge passes between their nodes, warming him up once more. "Please, Beautiful. Ya wouldn't deny me a chance to see ya pretty wings flutte' in pleasure, would ya? Please? After I jus' gave ya two good overloads?"

Prowl shivers at the prickling intent across Meister's field, in his rotating hips, and that look in his visor, as if wanting to eat him up. A shiver of excitement washes over him as their internals slowly unlock from one another, releasing them once more, as if giving permission for them to continue or go their own way. But instead of separating from one another, Meister pulls out about halfway before pushing back in, using their rubbing nodes to stiffen his spike more than the thought of continuing had already done. But he goes slow, giving Prowl's soft valve a chance to warm up again. Also giving him the chance to push Meister away if he wanted.

Prowl did not.

The Enforcer and the musician got locked together three more times as the latter seems awfully forgetful and however many positions they take, Prowl kept ending up on his back at the end. The final time ended with Prowl and Meister, chest to chest as Prowl pushed his aching thighs to get them both to their final overload of the night cycle. Meister's back pressed against the wall behind him, servos on the Enforcer's hips, helping to keep him balanced and from slowing too much as he mouths at Prowl's neck while the other pants against audio horns with servos on Meister's shoulders.

Meister watches Prowl's fluttering, but exhausted, wings with intense interest. Charge ripples over them as Prowl's valve squeezes down on the spike spearing into him. Meister suckles on the wires along his neck while staring over his shoulder intently, his fields whirling in anticipation. This would be the last time. Prowl drops down onto Meister's spike, giving his hips a swirl until the tip of the spike inside of him nudges his ceiling node then finds his gestation port to lock them together again. The charge forces a final, exhausting overload that drags on as the two mechs just rest against one another as they come down. Prowl lets out a little sigh, feeling the other mech's transfluid fill his tanks.

Prowl rests his cheek against Meister's, wrapping his arms around the other's neck. Meister's servos move up and down his sides, soothingly, as they lean into each other. Prowl's processor is blissfully quiet as he comes down from his high. Like the first time, Meister presses adoring kisses over his face, still keeping from Prowl's derma.

"Will ya tell me ya designation, Beauitiful?" Meister asks, nuzzling his cheek before kissing it.

"Yes," Prowl murmurs softly, looking at the other monochrome with dim optics, pressing their forehelms together. "I'll tell you in the morning cycle."

Meister grins, exhausted. "Keep me in suspense jus' a lil longer."

Prowl hums as they finally unlock from one another. Exhausted, Prowl pulls himself off of Meister and lowers his pleasantly aching frame onto his back on the berth, intentionally putting his frame between his berth partner and the door, letting out a long sigh as the stress of the strenuous exercise finally bleeds from him. Meister lowers next to him, groaning, leaving enough space for Prowl's wings between them. Prowl appreciates his foresight as that's the aching wing. He's already exacerbated what's wrong with it by moving it around so much, the last thing he needs is to actually yank it out of place. That would hurt like the pits.

"I aint had interface that good in a long time," Meister says, grinning up at the ceiling.

"Nor have I," Prowl admits, his field rippling a bit with remorse, knowing that he was going to have to walk away from this. He pulls his field tight to his plates as to not give anything away to the other bot. Meister is just radiating contentment, though, which Prowl can't argue. That had been amazing. There really was excellent chemistry between them - at least in their frames. And... maybe more than just their frames. In the small bits of conversation that they've had both during interface and in the space between each round, there is still so much about the musician that was intriguing to Prowl that he would be interested in exploring. If only the situation had been different. Maybe if Prowl had been different.

Prowl leans up despite the protest in his frame, as he turns towards Meister and gets comfortable. Meister shifts from his back to his side, mirroring Prowl, quietly. 

After a few kliks, he softly asks, "Are ya gonna purge ya tanks in the mornin' cycle?"

Prowl nods. "I had a contraception code for forced interface integrated onto my baseline when I joined the Enforcers."

Meister's red visor brightens. "Really? Is..." he stops. "Wait, does that happen? To Enforcers?"

Prowl nods. "Yes. Forced interface can happen to anybot." As true as it was, the part that Prowl didn't say, was that it was a stipulation by his creators for joining the force. Prowl was nobility in Praxus, he couldn't afford a forced conception. At least, his creators couldn't. He was nobility, and he would have a sparkling with another noble with a worthy pedigree. And as the only noble creation from the highest house of Praxus, he would be the sire. So absolutely no running any risk of a bastard emerging with Prowl as the carrier from a job he shouldn't have to do, nor do his creators want him to. Among their other, many stipulations. But he wasn't angry about the code. He saw the benefit of it. And the realism in its practicality.

But Meister didn't need to know that. Their relationship is coming to an end.

"I will purge in the morning cycle," Prowl says softly. "I'm too tired now."

Meister grins tiredly. His field and frame much more sedate and relaxed. They had both had a long orn and needed rest. "I'll help ya."

Prowl tilts his wings, making sure that the one that can is focused on Meister so that while he rests, he can remain alert, knowing that his tacnet when it came online once more it would demand that at a minimum. Prowl waits, watching as Meister's visor dims and the engine in his chassis quiets into a low rumble. Prowl counts until he's sure that Meister has dropped into recharge before he sets an alarm and falls into a deep recharge of his own.

Prowl awakens at his alarm a groon later. Not nearly enough recharge for him. But he doesn't fight it, knowing that it has to be. He slowly, carefully, removes himself from the berth. He had to carefully pull the servo resting on his waist off and lower it next to Meister's face plates. Then, stealthily, Prowl heads for the door. He slips out and is thankful when it whispers shut. He creeps down the dark hall towards the living room where he can see moon light pouring in. He pauses outside of the first door, the one that was closed groons ago when Prowl and Jazz got there, to hear someone moving around inside. So, there was someone else here.

Prowl moves forward a few steps before stopping. On the wall was a picture of Meister, and a near identical twin. But the twin had a purple visor and stripes of red on his chassis. Other than that, they were completely identical. They were side by side, an arm slung around the shoulder of the other in front of this very apartment building, both beaming with pride. Perhaps their first apartment together? After setting out on their own? Prowl didn't know, and it wasn't his place to pry. He takes a moment to take in what he could of the details of the picture, before moving on. He barely makes it to the door when he hears a sound behind him.

He tenses, turning to see a purple visor dim in the hallway behind him.

"Runnin'?" the twin says, tilting his helm as he steps into the living room moonlight. He looks at Prowl intently, face plates shifting a bit in surprise. "And wha' are ya?"

"Praxian," Prowl admits, turning a bit so that his wings flare out.

"Ain't neve' seen one before," the twin admits, crossing his arms over his chassis. He shakes his helm, then asks, "He know ya slippin' out?"

Prowl shakes his helm. "No," he admits. "At least, not for certain, I suppose." He's not sure what Meister knows. He was such an oddity to Prowl.

The twin nods, casting a long look over his shoulder down the hall where Meister is. He waits a beat before looking back at Prowl, a very familiar grin on his face. "Tired out my bro? He don't eve' recharge deep. Ya got him clonked out." He nods, as if proud. "Thank ya."

Thank you? Thank you? Prowl isn't sure how things are done in Polyhex, but to be thanked by the twin brother of the bot he just interfaced with seems a little... wrong. These twins were so strange. Maybe it was a Polyhex thing? Or maybe it was just a 'them' thing, and it was unfair to rope the rest of the city in on their strangeness.

"Don't mention it," Prowl says sternly, and means it. He's most definitely not the type to kiss and tell.

The twin holds one servo up, the other over his spark, but that identical grin doesn't faulter. "On my honor."

Prowl hums. Whether he means it or not is out of Prowl's control. And it's not like he's going to be sticking around Polyhex any more than another chord or two before he's going to return to Praxus. It is out of his servos now anyway. "Farewell."

A mock salute. "Bye."

Prowl ignores the action, slipping into the hall, being sure that the door clicks and locks behind him - even with the twin standing there, he's not going to leave somebot's hab unlocked for anybot in the world to just walk in on - before heading towards the elevator down the dimly lit hallway. It's bright enough for bots to see, but not so bright that it would inhibit one's ability to sleep just inside their apartment. Behind the sealed doors, Prowl shakes out his limbs, exhaustion pulling at every limb. Even his wings sag a bit. He's going back to his rental and fall into recharge the klik he hits the berth. Even his valve throbs, sore from the night cycle's activities, and his gestation tank is still full, sending him alerts that he shunts away.

Down three floors, he heads out into a little lobby and makes for the entrance of the apartment building. The light is a bit brighter here than it was in the hallways upstairs, but the bulbs hanging from the ceiling might as well be Hadean itself with it being pitch black outside the front doors. It's very late. Another groon or two and the morning cycle will begin. 

As he makes it out onto the barren streets, he transforms and follows his tacnet's map back towards his temporary residence, using the cool night cycle air to wash away some of the heat still radiating from his plates, and the quiet of the streets to organize his thoughts. It's...curious. What was Meister's twin doing up so late? Had he been there the whole time? Had he just gotten back? Did he know Prowl was out there? Had he made a sound to alert him? Was it just simple luck that he stepped out of his room and saw Prowl?

Prowl makes it back to his temporary hab. He makes his way into the hotel and up to his room. He didn't bother stepping into the wash racks to clean off the night cycle. He's too tired, too sore, to want to even bother. He'll deal with it later. He crawls into the fresh berth, curling up on his side, hiss steaming from between his plates. Exhaustion pulling at all corners of his processor and his frame. He has a fleeting though bounce around his processor before he drifts into recharge, missing a solitary servo resting on his waist.

Chapter Text

Prowl was violently pulled from recharge in the early evening the many groons later than he intended, by an insistent ringing in his audios. His recharge had been filled with the sound for what feels like forever, and he hadn't even realized that it was his comms system going off.

Missed comms. A lot of them. His creators. Barricade. And his captain. Check another for his captain as the ringing stops.

It's not unusual, fielding so many comms in one orn, but it's odd that he never even awoke from his recharge through any of them.

Prowl sits up, disoriented. His frame aches something terrible. His back, his wings - especially the right one. His shoulders, his legs, and oh Primus do his hips hurt. He can still feel Meister's grip on his thighs, holding them apart firmly for the whole night. Even all the loving caresses and the kisses to them isn't enough to ease the ache. Those servos that knew just how to hold him, hard enough to feel desired but not enough to warp his plating. That spike that was just... perfect. Perfect nodes, perfect size, perfect everything. And that glossa. The things that glossa did to him.

Valve throbbing both achingly and in mild interest makes Prowl frown. The Enforcer hesitates, taking a moment to study his frame's reactions. Did he... would he interface now if propositioned? He's... he's not sure. Maybe? If Meister asked? Yes. Yes, he would. And wasn't that something. Their connection - their chemistry - had been insane. Prowl has never had a berthpartner that has left him so satisfied in his entire functioning. And he certainly has never been so willing to have another go at interface so soon after having the itch scratched before.

Something in Prowl hesitated. Could there be more to him and Meister? Had he made a mistake leaving without a word? Without at least considering the options of them maybe becoming something more? Without at least giving them a chance to even see if that was what they wanted?

No. It couldn't be. First off, they lived in two entirely different cities. And their lives were attached to those cities. Prowl in Praxus and Meister here in Polyhex. Prowl's creators, his job, his entire life, it was all in Praxus. While Meister's brother, his job, and whatever else was here in Polyhex. It was a pipedream to even muse about a life where perhaps they would be willing to move to one place or the other and start their lives over again with one another, but realistically, it would never happen. Meister would never fit into Praxus, and Prowl would never be allowed to leave.

Second off, it wouldn't ever work. Prowl's creators would never allow Prowl to start seeing a musician from Polyhex. Even if he was the senator of the city, he wouldn't ever be approved of. Prowl was to be bonded to a high house noble from Praxus. Somebot with a pedigree and a long line of cultivated breeding. With libido as low as an average Praxian, it was very easy for bonded pairs to only have a single creation in their entire lifetime which was a very hard hit to Praxian population control. Prowl's sire combated this with incentives to their people that only worked a part of the time. In Praxian royalty, most were able to force out two creations as one was to take over the family and one was to be married off, yet not even Prowl's own creators could stomach having a sibling for Prowl.

"You will lead our family, and there needn't be a spare to be bonded off to another," his sire had stated firmly.

Prowl rubs at his aching helm. He looks through his messages, responding back accordingly to his captain, who was requesting his report one more time. Offering that if he wished to make any more amendments to it that now would be the time to do so. Prowl responded that he had no alterations to be made and resent his report before moving on. His creators learned that he wasn't in Praxus and were currently insisting that he return to their family hab. That if he was going to have time off, then he might as well use it to assist the family. And by that, no doubt, they were referring to him reading over laws and taking more of the load off of his sire to assist in a transition that isn't going to happen in many, many vorn yet. But it would be "beneficial for everyone" if Prowl was able to do the job now while his sire was still able to oversee it.

Oh, and all those bonding contracts that they have been trying to force down his intake since he had his final upgrades and was able to leave his childhood hab.

Because he will bond with a worthy mech or femme, and he will sire at least two creations.

And they were worried about him being away from Praxus. They would like - demand - that he returns to the city quickly so that they know he's safe. While he didn't fully doubt such a thing, he did recognize the controlling tactic for what it was. Prowl isn't a fool; he knows that his creators didn't want him to break from their hold more than he already does. Prowl has always been a willful child - as much as a Praxian can be considered - but that was always the tradeoff for his creators. With the perk of his extraordinary talents, he has some... quirks.

He can't think about this. His creators exhaust him.

Prowl lowers back to the berth, throwing an arm over his optics as a series of harsh cramps in his tanks reminds him that he hasn't fueled since early evening the orn before, aside from a single drink at the pub Meister was singing at. Prowl's engine rumbles at the thought of Meister's singing. His voice truly was a gift of Primus. Softly, Prowl hums the tune of the song he sang the night cycle before. The one he sang while they were interfacing. The same song he sang at the pub. The words are already lost to him, much more focused on how wonderful it had made his wing sensors feel, but the tune stayed with him.

His frame throbbed. Every part of him hurt. Some of it is quite pleasant, but the rest leaves much to be desired. While lying there, trying to formulate a professional way of telling is creators that he has no intention of coming back for at least a chord and to respectfully leave him be without his tacnet - which has yet to come back online since the night cycle before - he wars with moving. He should get to the wash racks. On top of being filthy, he needed to go through a system purge. His tanks are still filled to the brim with Meister's transfluid and while it is being broken down into material for Prowl to utilize, it's not wise for it to remain in his tanks. It's probably already been in there longer than advised but Prowl can hardly think with the pounding in his frame. His frame has grown used to the heaviness in his tank and if he hadn't been reminded by his need to clean up, he could have easily forgotten to do it.

Especially since the mind-blowing overloads that Meister gave Prowl was apparently enough to knock his tacnet offline indefinitely, somehow. He's had overloads do it to him once or twice, but never for this long. There is a chance that without having much energon in his system he can't power it back on. Which would make sense.

His response to his creators is met with immediate rebuff, insisting that he return home. Prowl argues - politely - back and forth as he forces himself to his pedes, staggering a bit as he heads for the wash rack. Turning on the warm solvent, he waits for it to get to the desire temperature for his frame, all the while still arguing with his creators. He climbs under the spray, focused on his comms as he starts to wash up. He starts with cleaning his plates, working methodically, then moving on to his protoform. It's a practiced measure he's done his entire functioning. He can automatically go through the steps without thought, devoting his attention to getting his sire to understand that Prowl will cut his time here short and return in a chord and that he simply must be patient for his return.

Prowl didn't want to, honestly. He wanted to see Polyhex, but his sire seemed bent to the pits about him returning to help while he has the time. It was giving him an even bigger helmache and by the time he moved on to puffing out his plates to clean at his protoform, he was now arguing with his carrier, who suddenly had a thousand things he needed Prowl's help with too. Oh, and she missed him. But that was definitely an afterthought. And they both knew she didn't mean it. Prowl freaked her out and he understands and accepts that. He's emotionless even for a Praxian. He's unparalleled in his intelligence and she had always been the highly intelligent one in the pairing of his creators. She took pride in being smarter than all the higher aristocrats who looked down on her.

Until Prowl came around. He is intelligent on his own. But with the assistance of the tacnet? No one can keep up with him.

Prowl spreads open his thighs, cleaning in the creases of his plates, where Meister had put his fingers against his protoform when a message from Barricade makes his entire frame freeze. It's a link to a news article. Prowl reads through it once, twice, three times, his servos shaking with each passing read.

He turns off the solvent and grabs a metal mesh cloth to dry off as he steps away from the wash rack. He immediately calls Barricade.

//Finally got your attention, did I?//

//This isn't political in the slightest. I am not hunting down Decepticon sympathizers,// Prowl growls out. He walks into the berthroom, aching processor whirling with the implications of all of this. //I didn't know that they were even affiliated. They were causing a ruckus around Praxus.//

//I know, I was there,// Barricade says smoothly. //But the media is seeing it as a hate crime against the questionably peaceful movement. And bots are pissed, Prowl.//

Weakness overcomes him, so Prowl lowers to the berth, tanks clenching as sickness washes over him. //I... hadn't intended this. I was simply trying to... I was trying to help.//

Barricade rumbles. //Sorry, mech. The path to the pits is paved with good intentions. You fragged up. Bad.//

Prowl rubs hard at his helm, furiously trying to ease the ache so that he could focus. How could this have happened? He was just trying to keep the streets safe. He was only doing what he thought was right. He had never intended on anybot getting hurt and he certainly didn't intend on deactivating anybot. This was by no means any sort of direct assault on the growing dissenting voices out of Kaon. It had nothing to do with that. Surely no one thought that... no one would assume that he...

The captain reaching out. Everyone talking about him vying for the detective's job. Barricade's assured, "You fragged up."

//Look,// Barricade starts, quietly, //things like this? They'll blow over. Pretty thing like you? Not a bad bolt in your frame. Everyone knows that.//

No, they didn't. Because no one liked Prowl. Not really. He's not at all surprised by it or even overly hurt. He accepted long ago that he was a difficult bot to like. If his own creators couldn't like him, it made it pretty clear what the future held for him. Prowl had long since grown to accept it as fact. He could appreciate that despite Barricade not liking him - and was surprisingly nice recently, which was strange - that he would lie for Prowl's benefit, but all he was doing was making the pill more bitter. What in the world was he going to do? Why had his creators not said anything yet? He's only been arguing with them for the last thirty or so kliks about him coming back to Praxus.

Unless they don't know? Or maybe they are sparing his feelings? That last one just doesn't seem right. It would have to be that they didn't know.

Prowl pulls up the article again, skimming through it to confirm his suspicions. He stiffens, light blue optics drifting over to the window and the waning light of Hadean beyond, this dread bleeding into him almost suffocatingly so. He wasn't named. No one outside of the precinct knows that it's him. At least for now. But it's only a matter of time.

//Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,// Barricade says, but Prowl can barely hear him over the buzzing in his audios. //It'll all get sorted out. I know it. Just... don't say anything. Let the bots upstairs handle it. They've got this down pat. Like I said, this will blow over in no time.//

He doesn't respond and after a klik or two, Barricade disconnects. Prowl just sits there, stunned. It all went wrong. Everything. It was bad enough when it was just ruffians in the street - he thought that they were gangbangers - but to know that they were part of a larger organization of protesters against the mistreatment of the upper caste... and they were deactivated on the streets in a shoot-out with Praxus's Prince?

Prowl finds himself on his knees, vomiting acid from his tank all over the wash rack floor. An unfamiliar, overwhelming feeling of panic washes over him. Again and again, until there isn't even acid left in his tank. Then he sits back on his legs, staring at the tile on the wall across from him, desperately trying to calculate solutions. Every outcome bleaker than the last, and still without his tacnet to help him, it felt like he was missing so many more variables. He was aching, he was low on fuel, he was tired and now he was very upset. Instead of breakdown into a fit of tears or breaking something like is normal of others, Prowl just shuts down. He does the thing that his medic has always told him not to do; he turns off his emotional Quartex. Just for a little while. He just needs time to think impartially until his tacnet comes back online.

At that point that tacnet overrides the emotional Quartex anyway, stunting his emotions for him.

As the panic and overwhelming pressure drains from him, Prowl carefully moves to his pedes and turns on the solvent, just long enough to wash away his bile, before turning it off once more. Then he heads back into his room to dig around for both his pain patches, putting on more than is recommended but not enough to cause any damage, onto the greatest aches of his frame. One on his helm, his right wing, his lower back and one over his tank. Then he digs out a cube from his subspace and drinks it slowly, giving his frame the time to settle as he does. Not wanting his tanks to become upset once more. He drinks about half before setting it down on the berthside table and grabbing out a datapad connected to the holonet. He carefully alters his return orn to the next possible time, which is less than thirty groon from now. 

He sets an alarm and calls the front desk of to alert them that he will be leaving early before taking another sip of his cube. He then goes through the painstaking motions of his physical therapy for his right wing, being sure not to push it too much, before laying back into the berth and getting comfortable. He sets a second alarm in a few groon to turn his emotional quartex back online before curling up and falling into recharge, hoping that by the time he awakens, the tactnet will be online once more and he'll be able to function a little bit better.

As soon as Prowl returned to Praxus late into the following orn, he went straight to his hab. He told no bot that he was there. He went to his apartment, went to recharge, and while tossing and turning all night cycle, once Hadean began to rise in the sky, Prowl rolled out of berth, got cleaned up and headed for the station. By now the tactnet was operational, but sluggish. It was still computing at incredible speeds, but there was a lag to it that only the tacnet and Prowl noticed. But then again, Prowl hasn't fueled all that much in the last few orn and he's been stressed out for a while now.

But he would face this head on. Prowl never ran from problems. He would face them. He was a fixer. His tacnet loves to dissect problems, to work on solutions. Even if they aren't so favorable for Prowl, it finds fulfillment in uncovering the answers. So, sitting around and waiting isn't an option for him. He has to get involved, he has to do something, even if it's getting involved in something that is not advantages for him. And while even without his tacnet, he was able to appreciate the epic mess this situation had become on his own, his tacnet was now supplying the growing apocalyptic level of danger that this was becoming. The holonet was on fire in outrage, the Great Megatronus of Kaon has already given a speech to the masses about the injustice, and a spark-felt plea for justice to be served.

Namely, turn Prowl over.

As soon as Prowl was spotted in the precinct by the captain, he was herded into the older bot's office and given yet another dress down that was about a hundred times worse than when he had left the clinic the after getting hurt initially. He stood, shoulders back, wings arched up despite the pain, and optics forward as he was berated. He was foolish, selfish. He had a Primus complex. He jeopardized everything. He was a Prince. He was the only Prince of Praxus, sole heir to his sire's legacy and he was sullying not only his House, but also the Enforcers as a whole. He had the Senator and Prowl's own sire venting down his back for information on what happened.

"How am I to tell your sire that I let you make a fool of this entire city?" His captain snarled, steam shooting from his audios, wings tense. He is the only one in the precinct who knows exactly who Prowl is. It is custom in Praxus for the heir to be revealed only in the orn leading up to his ascension. Bots can tell by his white, blue optics that he is nobility but nothing more. No one knows. "I never should have approved of this. Never."

Prowl took it, standing silently. His tacnet was still just processing away. Every little bit of information that his captain spewed from his derma was taken and dissected, categorized into file folders marked 'useful' and not 'useful'. Luckily for it, Prowl was the only one of the two of them that got the heat to the correct melting point for his plates in that dress-down-turned- rant. A groon, he spends, getting yelled at before he's told to leave and not come back until summoned. Without a word, Prowl departs. It appears that most of the precinct aside from a select few seem to know all the pieces of what's going on. Every other bot just watches him curiously as he departs, and Prowl is thankful that the captain's office is soundproof.

On his way back to his hab, he takes a slightly alternative route that leads him to the cordoned off crime scene. There is other Enforcer there as well as the media, hounding them for information. Barricade is there, talking with a femme that acts as the face of one of Praxus's more prominent stations.

"...horrible tragedy," Barricade was saying, his red optics flickering up to see Prowl. There is a tilt to his wings in acknowledgement before his attention returns to the lime green femme before him. "I can't speak for all of Praxus, but I can speak for myself. This was a horrible mistake made by a rookie who misunderstood the situation. Without proper guidance and a more senior officer to help them gage the situation correctly, a horrible travesty has befallen not just Praxus but all of Cybertron. It is not a mistake that will be made again. As lead on this investigation, I can promise you and all of Cybertron that justice will be served." His optics flick over to Prowl, who stood at the back of the crowd.

"So, this isn't Praxus making a statement in regard to the growing tension in Kaon and Iacon?" The reporter asks, stepping closer to Barricade with wide blue optics. Her wings flutter in excitement as if she just got some juicy details that she was looking for.

Barricade shakes his helm. "Not at all. This was a simple mistake and has no connection to the social climate in the slightest."

Sickened, Prowl turns away, making his way back to his hab. There is a tenseness to his spark and a churning in his tanks as his helm starts to ache once more. His HUD alerts him of dangerously insufficient energy. That low priority systems will go into low consumption mode if he doesn't rectify it. He decides to stop and pick up some energon to bring home from the store seeing as there wasn't anything in his hab, as he expected to be gone for two chord. He puts everything but a single cube away and moves into his modesty living room to sit and sip his energon, tanks still churning.

His apartment is nowhere near as fancy as his sparklinghood hab. It's so much smaller. One berthroom and one office, as well as a living space, a wash rack that's private and one that's shared and a kitchen. Nowhere near the opulence that he grew up in, and he didn't mind. He was of a very militant mindset and had little vision for the extraordinary and the lavish that his creators showered him in as he aged. He liked his little hab. He liked the quiet and the independence and the simplicity. He had no antique vases or portraits or paintings or statues of any kind in his hab. The walls were bare, the furniture simple and everything was monochrome and clean. He didn't have the processor for colors and design and feng shui. So long as he had his shelves for his datapads and puzzles and his office were to his specifications, then he didn't care about anything else.

His hab is barely lived in anyway, as he spends so little time here. If he's not recharging or working in the office, the space is mostly unused. But it's still his. He used his allowance to pay for it, upfront, and then furnished it with his own shannix after getting a real job. It wasn't much - not for one of his station, anyway - but it had been his. He maintains it, he keeps it stocked and cleaned. He learned the life skills necessary to make it work. He was proud of this space that he made for himself and even though he didn't have leisure time, and even if he did have the time, he rarely actually spent it here as it is, this hab was a safe haven.

Prowl lets out a long sigh, rubbing at his forehelm as the ache pulses across his processor, hard enough to make him sick. He pushes the cube away and leans back into the couch, taking deep, steady invents to try and cool down his burning system. He's too stressed out, he recognizes. Energy consumption with the tacnet is a tenuous game that even throughout his entire functioning Prowl is still trying to figure out, but having been hurt, not recharging and not fueling these last few orn on top of his stress is doing nothing good for his frame.

Prowl opens his optics and looks down at the cube of energon, warring with his helmache and churning tanks on if he has the strength to just lean forward and drink it. He knows that he needs to. And just as he's leaning up, a bright red warning flashes across his HUD warning emergent, immediate shut down. Before Prowl has time to process it, he falls into a forced recharge.

Prowl's optics boot on to a heavy throbbing in his helm - boom, boom, boom - that makes his intake fill with lubricant, threatening his churning tanks. He takes a few vents, looking around the pitch black room. He was still on the couch, twisted just slightly, but it's enough to put agony on his right wing as he slowly leans forward to adjust it. He hisses as it straightens out and flexes a little, pulses of pain running the length of the appendage. He leans forward, reaching his left servo over his shoulder to rub tenderly at the right hinge, trying not to further aggravate it.

He looks at the large windows beside the couch, that had been filled with Hadean's bright light as it rose to the highest point in the sky, but now it was completely gone, and looked to be for a long time. Now all he can see is the twinkling lights of Praxus's skyline. What happened?

Pain from his win travels down his right side, making him hiss again as he uncurls himself and just lays back against the couch. He had fallen into recharge at such an angle that his wing was leaned on for way too long. According to his chronometer, he's been out for almost fifteen groon. He rubs at his throbbing processor, trying to will away the agony of his frame.

Boom, boom, boom!

Prowl jumps, optics flying around the room, trying to understand what he was hearing. Why it felt like his pounding processor was shaking the entire hab.

"Prowl! Open. The. Door."

Prowl looks over at his darkened door, optics flickering. He stands slowly, swaying and just barely catching himself on the arm of the couch before walking over to the door, flicking on the light to the room as he does. He flinches and nearly vomits at the intensity of it but manages to stop himself. He takes a few invents before glancing through the peephole to see his sire on the other side, wings arched up in anger. He lifts his servo to pound on the door again when Prowl opens it, staring dumbly at his sire with a frown.

"Sire?"

"There you are," his sire growls, identical white-blue optics narrowed. "I have only been trying to reach you all orn."

He pushes past the slightly shorter Praxian and into his hab. Prowl nearly fell over but just barely managed to stay upright as his sire launches into a tirade, pacing back and forth in Prowl's modest living room as the black and white bot moves back to the couch, tenderly sitting as to not jolt his helm or wing any more than they already are. As his sire goes on about the mess he made and how big of a disappointment he is and what Praxus is going to have to do to get out of it - including what Prowl is going to have to do in order to make up for it - Prowl just sits there numbly, barely able to retain a word of what is being said. It's good that his sire would much prefer to hear himself talk than Prowl because the younger bot can't for the function of himself understand what was happening.

Silently, he looks through his many missed messages, many of them from his sire having learned he was back in the city and was irate that he said nothing. The at some point about a groon or so later, learned that Prowl was the reason for the incident that had just so happened to have been what he wanted help in dealing with. Then it just became message after message about Prowl needing to come to his family hab that very instance, and he wasn't kidding, and to not make him look for Prowl, so on and so forth for groon leading up to now.

"What is wrong with you, Prowl?" His sire demanded, optics burning in rage but doesn't wait for a response which is a good thing because he has no idea.

It takes Prowl an unbelievably long time of just trying to sort through his system, vacantly noting a single message from Barricade that he doesn't care to read at the moment, to look through his system alerts. And there is a lot of them. Right before he shut down there was a low energy alert, an overtaxing power consumption alert, a massive shut down of nonvital systems, and then a cascade failure as his processor decided that his tacnet was one such feature and his tacnet retaliated by taking his entire system down with it.

And it took him groon to reboot from that. And his tacnet is offline again. Which now explains his disorientation.

His optics lower to the lightly sipped cube of energon still sitting on the table in front of him. He leans forward and drinks it all down in one go. The energon is luke-warm and slightly stale from just sitting open for groon on end, but it does help. It does nothing to help his aching helm or churning tanks, but he does register energon in his tanks that will hopefully prevent his entire frame from having another meltdown like it did earlier in the vorn.

"We are doing damage control," Prowl's sire says, pulling Prowl's bright blue optics to his sire's. "You are going to clean up the mess that you've made." His engine growls as he shakes his helm, looking at Prowl in blatant disgust, "I can't believe you did this. It just goes to show that this farce of freedom that you're holding too is not meant for you. I am so incredibly disappointed in you, Prowl. I can't even look at you."

The sting lingers as his spark pulses heavily. He nods, though, not necessarily disagreeing.

"This was all a mistake. You ruined everything. Have you nothing to say?"

Prowl swallows around a dry intake, trying not to let the pain of this conversation affect him. His sire isn't wrong. Prowl did screw up - more than he realized. But there was no point in him getting upset about it. No point in him getting hurt over the truth. He had to accept it and move on. It's pointless otherwise. Pointless. 

He swallows again and feebly admits, "I am sorry, sire. I was just trying to help - "

"No one asked for your help, Prowl," his sire snapped, stomping to a stop in front of the younger Praxian. Even with the table between them, it didn't feel like enough to separate them. And those words, they hurt. They hurt more than they should. Because they're true, Prowl knows that, but he can't help himself.

"I-"

"Stop," his sire hisses, wings flaring out. Prowl's jaw snaps shut. "You are going to come back with me tonight as we are going to get started on damage control in the morning cycle. You are going to fix this mess that you've made and pray that this doesn't blow up into a bigger problem than it already is. Now, let's go. To the pits, I can't even look at you right now." Prowl's sire turns to head for the door.

With shoulders slumped and wings low, Prowl pushes to his pedes to follow. Shame burns hot in his spark, but Prowl doesn't utter a word. He shunts away all the warnings across his HUD, he ignores the pain and shame in his chassis, and follows his sire to the elevator, down to the ground level and out into the street. It's late enough now that hardly anyone is there aside from his sire's escort. None of them so much as look at Prowl, content to pretend that he was invisible - as they had his whole functioning - and simply fall into step around him and his sire, transforming around them and guarding them all the way back to Prowl's sparklinghood hab.

His transforming was slow and sluggish, matching his walking, but thankfully no one commented as they travelled in silence. They sped all the way back but were never stopped by the Enforcers. If Prowl turned on his radio, he would probably hear the Enforcers making note of their pathing through the city, taking back routes and unexpected turns to deter anybot that could be following them, before making it to their destination. They went through all the security checkpoints and all the scans to make sure they were who they say and were no danger to the palace or the royal family before being allowed entrance.

Prowl is dismissed with an angry scoff and a wave of his sire's servo as the older bot marches through the foyer towards his main floor office. Prowl didn't utter a word the whole trip back or now and just makes his way up the winding staircase and down the west wing, not even bothering to see if his carrier might be watching from the shadows or not, as she tended to whenever his sire was angry at him, before heading to the wing reserved only for him to his sparklinghood room. It's just as spartan as the hab he just left. As it has always been. Servants haven't tended to it in at least a few orn as there is the start of a thin layer of dust on any flat surface, but Prowl pays it no mind. He simply walks over to his berth and sits down. His wings burn in protest, and he digs out another pain patch - his last one - and places it over the hinge of his right wing before moving up to the pillows and lying down.

Prowl stares at the ceiling, servos folded over his churning tanks and just wars with his self-hatred. This hadn't been what was supposed to happen at all. This wasn't what he had intended. What he had planned for. And he doesn't even have the tacnet to help him run scenarios and probabilities of this being the outcome. He must have gotten low quality energon because he is already burning through more than he should. But he can't be bothered by that right now. He can't even bring himself to really think about it with how upset he is.

How, for just a moment, he wished he was back in Polyhex, resting in Meister's arms, his spike throbbing and spurting into Prowl's gestation chamber, nice and warm. How they stared into each other's optics and Meister just thought he was beautiful, told him so. They fit together so perfectly and the moments that they were there, watching one another, the musician so deep inside of him, that they were connected on so many levels. Even resting in each other's arms, forehelms pressed together. They were perfect for a just a single night cycle.

His spark aches, missing a bot that somehow offered so much comfort, so much connection, so much lust-induced-love for a few groon. What he wouldn't give for one more klik. Just to not feel like he does right now. To not feel so worthless. So pathetic. So disappointing. What he wouldn't give for a moment to not let somebot down.

The anger and the shame for this situation that he was in is one thing, but thinking about Meister now, Prowl felt a deep sense of regret. Regret for promising something that he had no intention of giving. And admittedly, he felt like he could fool himself into rewriting a wrong done to a bot that probably has already forgotten about him. But in the silence of the night cycle, where no one was around to hear it, and not even his tacnet could overanalyze his words, Prowl whispers, "It was a privilege to have met you, Meister. If ever we are to see one another again, you may call me Prowl."

Chapter Text

Damage control alone is fine. Prowl's tacnet is designed to problem solve. To run calculations. To make decisions based on information gathered. So, he just sticks to what he's used to. In the following morning cycle, thanks to another horrible night cycle of recharge, he gets to work. He chugs down energon that makes him feel sick and just keeps stoic. No one is interested in him saying anything other than spitting out whatever solutions the tacnet offers. His carrier watched him quietly from where she was leaning against the threshold to his sire's main floor office, meanwhile his captain and sire spoke over him whenever he wasn't directly answering their questions.

She doesn't say anything, though. She just watches them - him - with this look of barely contained contempt. Like he intentionally brought this bad luck down upon them. That he really did what the other Enforcers accuse him of. That he was an attention-seeker. That he was trying to get a big promotion. At least... those that know what's going on. Enough is going on in a big city like Praxus, so it was easy to find another shitty situation to blame on Prowl while this even bigger mess was given to another. There was a cover-up, someone else was blamed under the radar. Some old mech that has been a pain in Captain Spoiler's aft for a long time, apparently. He's a convenient fall-mech, to Prowl's horror. He threatened to come clean, to tell the truth. They showed him documents upon documents of dirty dealings by the other mech. They've been building a case against him for a while, but he's been on the 'Force for a long time. Long enough for a long list of commendations and recognitions for all of his "good work" by senators and even Prowl's own sire.

He has nothing but his dirty dealings. No creations or mate to speak of. Only a single life ruined with this, and not even a good bot either. As if that somehow made all of this okay.

Yet he was the perfect fall mech. It makes Prowl sick. But no one is interested in listening to him. He'll create a bigger fuss, a bigger problem by going behind their backs and revealing the truth. It will strip the people of Praxus their trust in their own Lord. In their Enforcement. In the law. Prowl will destroy everything by going out of his way to "pretend to be noble".

Prowl used his disgust to step away for a klik - long enough to vomit up his early morning cycle energon - before running the numbers a dozen times through the tacnet only for it to come up in agreement every time. The stability of Praxus is worth so much more than Prowl's soul, and his ability to recharge at night.

For the next chord, Prowl, his sire, and his captain make a gameplan to do damage control. A formal apology from Praxus, from the Enforcers, about temperatures running high, but that there were issues in that particular district for a while along with young mechs and femmes that were causing an uproar in the area, terrifying the neighborhood. That this was merely a misunderstanding that elevated into a tragedy. That this was in no way a political move by Praxus or its Enforcers, but simply an overzealous Enforcer that was trying to protect their streets. No designations, no true ownership, and no one really knew it was Prowl.

Yet it felt like everyone did. 

They would imprison the mech for his long list of crimes and cram those in there with the rest. Further justification that this mech needed to be taken off the street now and thrown into a hole forever sort of deal. The only bots that needed speaking to was Barricade and his partner to ensure their silence on the matter, yet Spoiler seemed confident that everything was handled in that regard. With some pushing, Prowl was able to release a statement on the other mech's behalf - "If you think such a thing will clear your guilty conscious, Prowl." - even if he felt like a monster for letting someone else take responsibility for his own actions. He needed to apologize. He needed to take ownership in all the ways that he could.

Prowl wrote up a statement, perfectly contrite and excellently worded, but it all felt like ash. It was almost entirely lies. He hadn't been seeking glory. He hadn't been overzealous or overconfident. He hadn't gotten ahead of himself. And he certainly wasn't a poor representation of the Enforcement in Praxus. But what he was... is sorry. He's sorry for all of the problems that he caused. He's sorry for all of the people he's let down. And he's sorry that his actions reflected so poorly on the Enforcers, his home of Praxus and his family. Scratch that last one. No family to speak of, right?

And he is sorry. It hadn't been his intention. He hadn't wanted anyone to be hurt. He had just wanted to make sure the neighborhood was safe. He had just wanted to help. He didn't mean for any of it to turn out like this. But no one cares about that. Not really. So, he whispers into his spark his apologies, and just goes back to how he was long ago, when he still lived under his creators' roof. He made himself small. Quiet and unassuming. He was content to become a ghost in his own life for a time, knowing that eventually he would be able to slip back into what he had made of himself before all of this. His tacnet had properly planned out that despite the blow up of the situation, eventually it would all blow over.

But before then, Prowl contracted... Silverwing.

Silverwing is... an aid for Prowl. Seeing as he wasn't foreseen to be going back to working in Enforcement. He's chipper and eager to please and Prowl doesn't like him. He's an aid that is really like a servant. He's to go everywhere Prowl goes and see to his every need. It's no different than when Prowl lived in this hab for the majority of his functioning, but this mech wouldn't leave his side. So, while, peripherally, it's nice to have someone to run errands for him should he need it - which he doesn't because he would much rather do it himself - Prowl knows the actual purpose of having Silverwing with him. He's a spy for Prowl's sire. To "advise" him on how to keep out of trouble. And it burns him. He does not need a sparklingsitter. He does not need an overseer. His sire knows that. Knows that he's been independent his entire function.

And this bot is all up Prowl's aft. He is always there, always hovering. He's nice enough but Prowl isn't. Prowl doesn't like others butting into his business. He's already tense enough as it is. He doesn't need to add the pressure of someone always looking over his shoulder to the mix. Always questioning his actions - reporting them back to his sire - and just... hounding him. Rationally, Prowl understands that it isn't Silverwing's fault. He's from a lower noble house in Praxus, who is only noble because of his family's name and that's it. One of those dwindling families that are doing whatever they can to crawl back up from the pits they are sinking into. He understands that this isn't malicious, but he can't help but just hate every part of this situation and blame Silverwing for it. In part, at least.

Prowl wasn't outright mean or rude, but he was cold, dismissive. Then again, maybe that's not so different from his usual attitude. But Silverwing is persistent, nonplussed by Prowl's chipped demeanor. He just keeps on smiling, keeps on following Prowl around, and keeps on monitoring. Always watching. Always.

This life is so similar to the one that he used to live before he escaped this hab with one defining difference. No longer is this place the cage it once was. Now it's a prison.

Prowl's expression sours, trying to keep his churning tanks from rebelling more than they have for the last groon that he spent in the wash rack vomiting until his intake was raw, and his frame was shaking from the strain. He had the solvent running so that no one who might have been paying attention would notice that he was in there for a long time. He's been back at his family hab for two chord now and he's suffocating. He's been keeping busy doing whatever work that his sire sends his way, as well as paperwork from his work as an Enforcer, not willing to give up hope that he's going to be out of this place soon and back into his own hab, in his sire's upper floor office while his sire keeps the ground floor office for his own work. Prowl misses his hab. His office. His space.

He just hasn't had a single orn to calm down from the growing strain on his frame, and when his carrier finally noticed that he wasn't really fueling at their mandatory meals, she gave him a look and asked, "You aren't sick again, are you? I swear, your firewalls have always been so unreliable. Best antivirus shanix can buy and you've spent so much of your time as a youngling so sick. Helmaches, throwing up, fatigue." She sighed, pushing around her fuel, before sipping at her cube. "I know our frames aren't the sturdiest by Cybertronian standards, but yours has always been so... delicate."

His sired sighed, rubbing his forehelm. Prowl didn't argue. He just threw back his cube and excused himself, leaving the rest of his plate nearly untouched.

Then he went to the wash racks to vomit for a groon, tanks rolling in disgust. And now here he is, nearing midorn, having just exited the wash rack to see Silverwing waiting patiently for him. The bot was pretty by Praxian standards. He had sleek silver plates with accents of blue and red. He didn't have the delicate curve to his wings like Prowl did, but he did have a helmcrest, even if it was smaller and smoother than Prowl's much more pronounced one. He had the traits of nobility, even the lighter optics, but all of it wasn't quite to Prowl's level. Not as bright, not as crisp, not as elegant. But appealing to the optics, if the gazes that followed them whenever they were out together was any indication.

Prowl honestly wouldn't know. He can recognize attractive traits in other mechs and femmes - physical traits - as it's all math. Optic shape, mouth dimension, plushness of derma. Sire partners tend to look for slim waists and strong hips in their carrier partners so that they can emerge multiple strong sparklings. And carrier partners look for sire partners with strong upper chassis and arms so that they can support the needs of both carrier and sparklings. That's generalizing, of course, and not the same for Praxians. For Praxians, it's all about status. About noble or regal traits. Light blue optics, helmcrest, curved wings with sharp edges, things like that. Silverwing fits neatly in both categories. He has the traits looked for in a Praxian, but he also has good dimensions fit for the attraction of other frame types.

Oh Primus, didn' know I was gon be a sucka fo' wings, but they are definitely doin' it for me. 

There is a hollow ache in Prowl's spark, thinking about it. Whether Meister truly meant it or was just saying it to get Prowl to interface with him, a bot, for a moment didn't just see him as this hyper-intelligent that could process circles around even super computers. For a moment, it wasn't about what his dual processors could do. It was just him. It was just Prowl. And it wasn't overly deep or complex, it was simple. He was, if only for a night cycle, beautiful. Even if it was only because Prowl was exotic to Polyhexians or Meister just so happened to rapidly develop a kink for wings. But either way, for a night cycle, Prowl was beautiful and desired and that was a nice feeling.

Prowl and the tacnet can understand the conventional mathematics that is appealing to the processor, but beyond that... well, Prowl's had enough time to consider it, and his type of preference for partners has always been very fluid. Physical looks play a part of it, he supposed, but not nearly enough for him to notice because his few partners have scattered across a wide spectrum.

His most appealing partners has been the intellectuals. The ones that make his processor focus intently. He generally enjoys his time with them more than the arguably better-looking ones that don't stimulate his processor as much. Except for Meister. Meister has both good looks and what bits of conversation they were able to have been appealing to Prowl and his tacnet. And while Prowl remembers easily what Meister looks like, it's not physical traits that he thinks about often. It's his words, his voice, his actions. It's how he does things and how he feels them. And Meister is arguably attractive.

He will make a good partner to another lucky bot one orn, Prowl knows it. Whatever seedy history he has, hopefully it won't prevent Meister from finding someone who suited him - complimented his complex characteristics.

But back to the present, while Silverwing was arguably attractive in the mathematical sense, as far as Prowl understood it, there was just something so ugly about him to Prowl. Not in the looks department, he supposed, but in everything that he represented. Why he was there, what he was doing. All of it was so ugly to Prowl - like an offense to his better sense. It's not him personally, Prowl doesn't think, but his actions, what he's doing, why he's even there.

With that sour expression still in place, Prowl swallows around a raw intake, watching as Silverwing, who was sitting on a settee a few feet further down the hall past the nearest door, pops up to his pedes and makes his way over, smiling brightly. "Good afternoon, my prince!" He bows respectfully, wings lowering in deferance to one of higher station. "I heard from one of the maidservants that you didn't finish your meal because you feel unwell. I brought you a cube with some additives to help settle your tanks."

"No, thank you," Prowl says stiffly, moving past the slightly taller bot holding the proffered cube out to him. 

"Oh," Silverwing says slowly. "Okay. Well, I'll hold onto it in case you change your processor." He quickly catches up, data pad in servo that he passes over to Prowl. "I have the agenda here for you."

Prowl takes it, mutely, and heads for his borrowed office. His sire had a long list of things for Prowl to do. Documents to look over, speeches to plan, bills and laws to organize, etc. Prowl didn't say anything. He didn't complain, he didn't question, he just took the list and went to work. When Silverwing wasn't hovering or running errands for Prowl whenever he couldn't stand the presence of the other, he was sitting in the corner of the room on one of two couches facing one another with a table between them, working on whatever busy-work Prowl couldn't be bothered with. Nothing too crazy, just organizing information, making sure everything is in order before passing it over to Prowl for review.

While they're working into the late evening, Prowl remains bent over the desk, moving as little as possible to conserve energy. He opted to skip the evening meal, despite being low on fuel, simply because he couldn't bring himself to face his creators. He didn't want to hear his carrier bemoan his "frailty" as she often had when he was young. As if he hasn't been sick since he was a newspark. And Prowl knew that while in part it was his frame; Praxian frames tend to overheat easier, and his tacnet was evolving rapidly as he aged. It thirsted for knowledge and stimulation and consumed so much energy and energon, it hadn't been unusual for Prowl to just drop into recharge while in the middle of talking or walking around. One time, he had been heading to his room and took a full tumble down the stairs, scaring the spark of his nursemaid. He had been only five vorn old. She saw to him, sobbing in fear for what had happened to him while the medics saw to his frame while he recharged. Two and a half chord later, when his creators returned from a business trip, he was back on his pedes again, good as new.

But it wasn't entirely that. Prowl spent countless orns, day and night cycles, as a young mechling working desperately to impress his parents. Doing everything that he could to be extraordinary so that they would be proud of him - but alas. He wasted so much time and energy. For nothing. What Prowl was... well, that was impressive, who Prowl was... isn't. They made that clear long ago.

Despite Prowl shooing Silverwing away, the mech was persistent, even offering the cube from earlier again, to which Prowl denied over two groon ago, but now he was really hungry and has offered the cube more than a single thought since then. He could go down to the kitchens and get something, but he would either have to go the long way, or risk passing his sire's office. There is a good chance that he's still awake at the time and working. And Prowl is his sire's creation - stubborn to a fault. So, he continues on, ignoring the protest of his frame and the looks that Silverwing sends his way every once and a while.

"You can return to your hab at any time, Silverwing," Prowl says stiffly, ignoring the light blue optics burning holes through the top of his helm. He hasn't looked at the other bot since he turned down the cube last. "You don't need to wait for me to give you permission."

"If you're working, I'm working," Silverwing says, then smiles. But Prowl doesn't look at him, just barely catching the action in his peripheral. He waits a moment, maybe two, before Silverwing turns his attention back to his work, letting his shoulder droop a bit as his smile falls.

Prowl pays him no further attention. About another groon later, Prowl deems that he's in a good enough place to stop. He puts the data pad into the correct pile and leans back in his chair, stretching out all of his limbs while they crack and creak, steam hissing from his protoform. He's tired, his helm hurts and he's low on fuel. He knows he has to consume something, or he might not be able to pull from recharge in the following day cycle. At some point, somebot will notice he's not showing up for meals or to work and will call for the medic. He's not interested in someone having unfiltered access to his frame. He learned a long time ago to always remain conscious. To always be alert when the medics are near.

Silverwing casts him a curious look, watching as he slowly makes his way to his pedes, trying to keep the room from spinning as he orients himself.

"Can I get you anything, Prince Prowl?"

"No," Prowl states firmly, casting a look at the older bot. "Go to your hab and rest, Silverwing."

Silverwing watches him with a stiff smile. "Are you -"

"I'm sure. Good night cycle."

Silverwing swallows his words, nodding. He gathers up all his data pads, putting them on the small table in front of him to resume the following orn before standing and stretching. His wings spread out and bend at an odd angle, something that Prowl, had he less control of himself, would have cringed at, as they crack and pop before returning to their correct place.

It's not normal. His tacnet analyses the action, slower than what had been the norm up until recently. He probably could only do that if he trained his frame for many vorn to bend like that, or if he sustained injuries to his wings at some point and that was needed to relieve pressure. Had his family been doing well, an injury to cause that would have been rectified without incident but seeing as his family is losing power and renown quickly, it might explain an injury to the wings not being properly overseen by a medic. The worst of Prowl's wounds to his right wing and frame have since healed up for the most part, but that had sent a ghostly throb of pain across the appendage.

Silverwing smiles at Prowl, who doesn't return it. "Okay, I suppose I'll head out then. Have a good night cycle, my Prince." He presses a servo over his spark and bows respectfully. Prowl nods and watches him leave. He waits, counting under a vent before following the other into the hall and to the massive double, winding staircase in time to see him hit the bottom step. But instead of going straight, out the front door to the hab, he goes between the double staircase towards Prowl's sire's main floor office. Something ugly and twisted coils in Prowl's frame that he doesn't give voice to. He just waits until he hears the sound of the door locking before sneaking down the stairs and into the kitchens to try and find something that he can keep down before returning to his sparklinghood room for the night cycle.

It burns, like his spark is overheating in his chest. Prowl knows it's rage, but his frame alerts him of danger to sensitive systems. The constant orange pop-ups on his HUD, consistently flashing for three chord now, since he came back to Praxus, are shunted away. He's too angry to focus on them now. Or ever. He has to see a medic, he knows he does. But now isn't the time. He hates going to see the medics. But that doesn't matter right now.

He marches into his sire's office. He's only marginally surprised to see his carrier is there. Somehow the idea of them spending leisurely time together is a surprise to him. But no matter. She's sitting across from his massive desk in one of the two plush chairs. Her legs crossed, leaning her cheek on a fist as she and his sire spoke. Both of them glance at him as he storms in, breaking his usual respectful decorum in his outrage. Her optic ridge quirks up while his sire frowns at the intrusion. It's early afternoon, and they had all just finished a meal that Prowl is barely keeping down as is and while he should be going back to work, he just received a message from Barricade and had looked into it himself.

And now he's here.

Silverwing, who followed Prowl from his office, takes a single step into the office before stopping. He folds his hands neatly in front of himself and tips his helm respectfully before making himself small, and silent. Prowl and his creators ignore the other bot as Prowl marches to the massive desk, looking at his sire in disbelief.

"You lied to me."

Unbothered, his sire asks, "About?"

"He wasn't put in prison."

His sire stares at him, blankly. "Who?"

"Crankshot," Prowl grinds out through gritted dente. His servo curl into fists at his side, but they are thankfully hidden by the desk from his sire.

His sire stares at him for a long moment, optic ridge now ticking up as he asks again, "Who?"

Prowl sucks in a vent to keep his anger in check. His carrier huffs softly, amused, as she covers her intake and rolls her optics. "The bot who was to be imprisoned for the attack on the Decepticons," Prowl growls, wings hiked up in anger.

There is a klik, a single one, where Prowl's sire looked as though he had no idea what Prowl was talking about. But just before Prowl could punch a hole into the desk with his fist in an indignant rage unbecoming of Prowl both as nobility and as the bot that he is, his sire seemed to finally realize what they were talking about. His optics light up and he nods. "Oh yes. I'm assuming you saw the news? Yeah, Megatronus - Megatron, as they call him now - executed him about three groon ago in the gladiator pit. Ghastly display, really."

"Pretty barbaric," Prowl's carrier says, running a servo down the arm of the chair, disinterested. "Made the old fool fight for his life. I heard he begged. Pleaded that he hadn't deactivated those Decepticons while the Champion of Kaon tore him in two. Literally, I think." She shivers again, shaking her helm. "Uncivilized."

Prowl couldn't believe his audios. "He didn't," Prowl says, in disbelief. He swallows around a dry intake, shuttering his optics rapidly. He looks between his creators and their unimpressed, uninterested looks. "He didn't deactivate them." It was Prowl. Prowl had been the one to deactivate them. It should have been him who was facing punishment. Not some random dirty Enforcer that no one wanted to deal with. It was wrong. Everything was so wrong. But what could he do? He couldn't take anything back. He couldn't tell the truth, or he would bring even more trouble to his people. But this was wrong. This was all so very, very wrong.

And Prowl let it happen. He's no better than his sire. Than his captain. Than even Megatronus - turned - Megatron.

"But he did Prowl," his sire says evenly, looking at him with the coldest blue optics - Prowl's. "He was scared to meet the crowd's justice, which is fair. I wouldn't want to meet that beast in the pits, that's for sure. Especially for deactivating his underlings."

"You lied," Prowl whispers, unable to believe how all of this could have happened. "He was supposed to go to prison..."

His sire nods, heaving a sigh as if this conversation was dragging on. "Things change, Prowl. The gladiator wanted energon. And energon he so wrought." He considers, staring at Prowl for a long moment. "What is wrong with you, Prowl? Why are you so upset about a murderer getting dealt the servo of justice?"

Prowl wasn't sure which part of this was worse. The question itself, the audacity to ask it, or the fact that his sire seemed genuinely confused on why any of this was bothering him.

There was so much wrong with all of this. It wasn't justice. It wasn't even mob justice. It was one mech proving to all the others that he was superior. That he was able to frighten a powerful city of prideful people like Praxus into turning over what is a bot innocent of that particular crime, over to him to appease his need for bloodshed. His need to prove that he is strong enough to demand a life, and Praxus was willing to offer it. Just to keep the peace. To satiate a need for bloodshed. An optic for an optic in a needless tragedy.

The tacnet spits out all sorts of dark pathways that this opens up for them. If they are willing to bend once, they are expected to be able to do it again. Prowl and the tacnet are of like assessment in this matter. This situation, this acquiescence to what is basically a government funded murderer/entertainer, was a dangerous precedence to set. And the fact that either his captain and his sire were too blind to see that, or actively chose to ignore it were both terrifying realizations to come to.

"You lied to me," Prowl could only whisper again, unable to fathom the full repercussions of this, even with the tacnet crunching out horrible scenario after horrible scenario to him.

"Come now, Prowl," his sire says, leaning forward on his desk, steepling his fingers. "A lie couldn't pass your tacnet. Things changed after we spoke, not before. I don't understand why you're upset." Prowl couldn't speak, face completely blank. He just looked at his sire, then his carrier, before numbly turning away and walking to the door. Silverwing steps aside, watching him with a pinched expression as he passed.

"I can never read him," his carrier murmurs to his sire.

His sire sighs. "Silverwing, shut the door."

Prowl is half-way up the stairs when Silverwing returns to his side and one step back. They make it to the top and down the hall to the office in silence. Its only once Prowl is seated at the desk, staring blankly at the room, watching the tacnet fill his processor with one nightmare and then the next, that Silverwing finally pulls him from his spiral.

"My prince?" Prowl's optics drag over to the other mech, standing in front of the desk, servo kneading at his tanks. When Prowl doesn't respond, he quietly asks, "Is there something I can get for you? Anything?"

Prowl shakes his helm, turning his gaze towards the feed from his holoprojector on the desk replaying on a loop of an orange and red Praxian mech, begging and pleading for his life - thankfully with the mute on so Prowl can only hear the hollowed echoes in his processor - as he's caught by the massive silver champion of Kaon's pits, held up high over his head one servo under the arm and the other on the hip, claws biting into the metal as the Praxian screamed and flailed. The champion looks across the filled stadium of sneering and screaming bots, his red optics burning brightly as they cheer. His derma part, he speaks, but even without the sound on, Prowl remembers.

"We cannot and will not be silenced!" And then with strength befitting a gladiator and of a mech of that size, he tore the Praxian Enforcer in two. Energon, coolant, oil just sprays in all direction. Loose and torn shards of fuel lines and organs go flying like shrapenal. Sparks rain down around the champion as malicious glee reveals his maw of sharp dente as vitriol just burns in his optics as he discards the pieces of the sputtering, dying bot to the dirt as if he was nothing but trash. The Enforcer lives for a few more kliks, a measure put in place to offer a chance to save Enforcers on the streets. To give medics time to hopefully save them. But locking down all his energon lines, trying to preserve the flow as much as possible is only prolonging his suffering.

Prowl doesn't need the volume up to remember what it sounded like for the Enforcer's screams of fear and agony to suffuse into roaring, thunderous applause.

Prowl fights the scowl trying to spread over his face, warring to keep it neutral. He has been in a horrible mood - worse than usual - since the execution of Crankshot, and while he's trying not to let it affect his interactions with the staff, he doesn't so much mind unleashing his displeasure on his creators. Not that either of them seems to care.

"Don't look at me like that, Prowl," his sire says, turning cold wintery optics away to look at the data pads on his desk. "You want to go back to your little hovel, this is how it's going to happen."

Prowl swallows down the biting remark about his hab. He takes a moment to compose himself. His creators always had this uncanny ability to twist at his wires enough to bring out his glitch. He can feel the helmach throbbing across his whole processor. It's been a persistent thing for the last five chord, over a whole decacycle - coincidentally the same amount of time that he's been back to his family hab, fancy that! The stress is making him sicker now than it had back when he initially lived here. He can only recharge when his frame and processor is simply too exhausted to keep him operating, being around his creators makes him sick enough without always vomiting up his energon, unable to find a blend that doesn't make him immediately sick but found a few that he can tolerate for a time. That persistent helmache that won't alleviate no matter what medications he takes. And his creators just stress him out. They always have. They make him feel horrible.

He can't stand being around them. Not when he already is wracked with guilt about the situation that he's in. The situation he put himself in. About everything that happened. All of it.

Five chord. Five. Since he was enjoying a vacation that he didn't deserve in Polyhex. And he thinks about Meister a lot. Thinks about his singing, his little apartment hab, his smiles, his fascination, his intoxicating presence, his everything. Prowl wished more than once over the five chord since last he saw Meister that he could go back and see him again. Sneak into Seedy's bar and hide far from the stage night after night until he can hear that beautiful voice again. Even if Meister didn't see him, didn't speak to him, didn't even acknowledge his existence, it didn't matter. Just a moment. That could be enough to make him feel more than the horrible slag that he is. Praxians weren't like Meister. At least, not in Prowl's experience. And no one has ever treated Prowl like Meister did for that single night cycle. Worshipped his frame, called him beautiful, looked at him as if he was something more.

Mesiter was perfect - for a single night cycle. Surely nothing ever could have worked out between them, personalities aside. Their lives were so different. And Prowl honestly never would have had a choice in the matter even if he had been interested in seeking out anyone who wasn't Praxian. Meister was perfect, like a dream. Meant only for a single recharge cycle. And for another bot. One that could understand his life. Could offer him more than Prowl ever could. The attention and dedication and support that Prowl would be unable to. Prowl wasn't a romantic. He wasn't a supportive bot or enough of an extrovert to go to all the shows. Meister would need someone who would be that bot for him.

He can't think about it. He doesn't want to. The whole experience, as beautiful as it had been, is souring because of the looming negativity with the situation with the Decepticons. He has been trying to keep his composure since having learned the truth of what his sire and Captain had done with their fall-mech, even if it hadn't been the initial intention. He has been trying hard to reconcile the warring emotions inside of him. The anger, the guilt. But he can't. He can't seem to find some way of managing it anymore, at least, not with his creators venting down his neck. He can't do it. He'll find a way to cope, just not here.

But even now, they won't let him leave. Not alone, at least.

"I don't have the room for Silverwing," Prowl says, keeping his tone even. He was hoping that his weak practicality would be enough even though he already knew that it wouldn't.

"Then stay here," his sire says simply, shrugging and returning to their evening fueling. Prowl bristles but tries to keep his composure.

"We do enjoy having you back, Prowl," his carrier says, primly. She levels him with an even look. He holds her stare for a long moment until she glances away, snuffing a bit as her optics travel the room as if she hadn't seen this place before. Even though this is the decor of the decacycle. It's different for Prowl, who doesn't alter or change much of his interior on the worst of times, but his carrier is constantly changing and redecorating every common room, and even her private rooms on a rotating schedule. Prowl could never.

"I need to get back to work with the Enforcers," Prowl grinds out, wings stiff. "I have already spoken with Captain Spoiler."

"Yes..." his sire muses, giving him a long look. "Prowl, your carrier doesn't want to put you in any more stressful situations. You haven't been well since this incident occurred. You are refusing to see the medic, but it's obvious that you are sick again. But you're too stubborn."

Prowl doubts his carrier is actually worried, even as she nods away. His derma press together as he wars with indecision. He can't stay here. He can't do it. He has been arguing with his creators nonstop for orn and he can't do it anymore. He left for a reason, he came back for a reason, but he can't stay here. Five chord is five chord too many. Living with his creators has always been tough on him, and it's no surprise that there hasn't been a single klik since he got here that he hasn't felt like utter garbage. That's no coincidence. 

"You haven't waxed your plates recently, Prowl," his carrier says. "You can't neglect that sort of thing. You're looking very..." she pretends to struggle with the barbed word. "Frumpy. Homely. Unkempt." Or three.

At this point, he doesn't care. He doesn't care what Silverwing does. Whether they share a berth, he sleeps on the floor or the couch, or on the dining room table, it doesn't matter. He can't stay here.

"I will be returning to my hab this evening. Thank you for your hospitality," Prowl somehow manages to choke out, ignoring his carrier's words. She pouts but he doesn't even spare her a glance. He respectfully tips his helm and his wings before leaving the room. He came here with nothing and like the first time, he'll leave here with nothing.

Out in the hall, Silverwing is waiting for him. Prowl closes the door, managing to do so without slamming it, before marching quickly towards the exit. A klik longer in this hab is a klik too long. Silverwing follows at his side, keeping pace.

"You're returning to your hab from now on?"

Prowl nods. Once he's out into the fresh air, he sucks in a deep vent. This overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia wanes like Hadeen's light. He hadn't realized just how trapped he felt. He hadn't realized how sparsely he stepped out of his sparklinghood hab in the last five chord. But this was good. Very good. He needed to get away.

"Yes," Prowl says, moving down the long driveway to get through the checkpoints so that he can leave this place without looking back.

"Would you like me to -" Silverwing started but Prowl cut him off.

"I don't care what you do, Silverwing. I don't have room for you in my hab. If you stay with me, it'll be on the floor or on the couch." He was kidding about the berth. Heat of the moment and all that. "If you don't, I'll send you the address and you can just make the commute every morning cycle, like now, or make other arrangements for yourself."

"Yes, my Prince," Silverwing murmurs softly behind Prowl as he walks swiftly through one checkpoint and into the next, freedom so close he can practically taste it.

"And another thing, you can't call me that outside of these walls," Prowl says, still not bothering to look at the other. He can hear Silverwing's pede steps and his wings are picking up both his sensory information and air displacement so there is no wonder to if he's following or not. The guards at the checkpoints give him scrutinizing looks but nothing more. Once he's deemed harmless, not stealing anything from the royal family, despite being one himself, they go back into their perfect sentry stances, looking through him as if he's nothing. "You're nobility, you know this."

"Of course," Silverwing says quickly. "I can't call you that. I know. Its... I... what would you like for me to call you, Prince... uh, I mean..."

"Prowl," Prowl states firmly.

"Right. I'm sorry, Prince - I mean, Prowl."

Prowl doesn't bother sparing him a glance as he transforms into his alt mode. "I don't know what you'll do later, but for this night cycle, I want to be alone. Goodbye." He doesn't wait to hear a reply, just speeds off in the direction of his hab, trying to shake off what feels like chords of unending stress on his limbs and chassis. To drown out the overwhelming feeling of just needing to scream, he turns on the radio, spiraling to a random channel. It's all static, which was almost the bolt that broke his back strut, before he switched one up and the sound of a radio personality fills his audios.

"... and here is the hit single straight out of Polyhex. It's a song about a lost love disappearing without a trace. On now is Meister's Smokescreen."

Prowl almost swerved off the road as soon as the tune started and his voice filled every inch within the Enforcer. The hollowness in him was filled with a numbness as he listened. Meister's voice was beautiful, low and smooth, speaking of a love found and lost. It tore Prowl to shreds. He listened in silence until it was done, then set his tacnet to work searching the holonet to find the next channel it was playing, and the next, and the next. Once he should have made it home, he kept driving around, listening to Meister's voice, again and again and again. Feeling everything and nothing.

It was only when there was a break too large for Prowl to justify waiting for it to come back on that he finally made it to his hab. He transformed out front and dragged himself inside. He doesn't know how he looked, but the mech that passed him in the hallway on the way to his door looked surprised before diverting his gaze.

Once inside his hab, door locked behind him, Prowl just... looks around the darkness of his place of solace. Everything is as he left it, even the cube sitting on the table in the living room. Even the darkness is similar with only familiarity with the space and Luna-1 and Luna-2 to help him. Yet it feels like a lifetime since last he was here. Prowl heads for one of his data pads charging on the counter in the kitchen. He grabs it and connects to the holonet, locating Meister's song on a legitimate website to download straight onto the data pad, being sure to pay for it so that Meister gets the shanix. Then he cranks the volume up and puts the song on repeat. He just stands there, listening. Over and over and over again. At some point he realizes his fingers are drumming lightly against his thigh. But only the part that Meister sang to him while they were in berth together.

It hadn't been part of his set that night cycle. Had he made up the tune then and there with Prowl? The words were different. Maybe he altered it to fit them? Then again Prowl wasn't really listening to the words, at that time. It's not the words that get him. It's Meister's voice.

Meister's voice fades as the song comes to an end again. He sings about a lost love. About how one night wasn't enough. About two bots pretending it was nothing. It was just a night. And that it wasn't enough.

Prowl sinks to his knees and for the first time in more vorn than he can count at the moment, he cries.

Chapter Text

Prowl listened to Meister's song on repeat for the entire night cycle. It both hurt his spark deeply and brought him some level of comfort. For as silly as it sounds, for just that short amount of time, Meister had made Prowl happy. Even this song, as mixed feelings as it offers him, makes Prowl happier than it makes him sad. So, he will accept the good with the bad. And it was nice to feel like the grand space that separates them isn't enough to prevent that beautiful voice from reaching him. Even if a recording of it doesn't set his wings ablaze like it does in person.

Silverwing commed him early the following day cycle while Prowl was in the wash racks, letting him know that he was both on the way, and he was bringing fuel. Prowl didn't have the energy to argue. Notwithstanding the fact that he didn't exactly have any fuel on standby anyway. Having been away from his hab for chords, it was a given that he was going to need something, and he's sort of grateful that the other mech thought about it ahead of time. Prowl sent him affirmation and the address to his hab before continuing to wash up. He was tired and lethargic this morning cycle, as was becoming his norm, but he was extremely low on fuel, so it was easy to locate the cause.

There was a bit of excitement about being able to go back to work, even if he wasn't allowed to go out into the field just yet, it was good that he was able to leave his childhood hab and not have to worry about his creators venting down the back of his neck cables about everything that he was up to while he was out. He was once more given the illusion of freedom, which is more than he could ask for.

Now they can only rely on whatever it is that Silverwing tells them. And he can just forget about it.

Yeah, right. As if he actually could.

Silverwing was a flurry of excitement as soon as he was let into the hab, chattering with glee about being able to go to the Enforcer station and see how it all works, "behind the scenes!" Prowl just let him romanticize what is no doubt going to just be busy work for him - both of them - until he can prove that he's capable of being allowed back out on the streets. He does still have field time in metaforensics. Somewhat. Someone else looks directly at the scene and brings him back information, but he makes them make a lot of trips and he knows that there have been plenty of complaints already. It's only a matter of time before he's allowed to go back to see the scenes of crime himself. Prowl is a perfectionist. He's extremely particular and gets excellent results because of it. And for his dedication and hard work, he is recognized as the best at the station.

So, he will hold everybot retrieving this information up to his standards whether they like it or not. At some point, they'll let him back out there. Until then, he will comply with their demands. Prowl can be very patient when he wants to be.

It might be some time before he's let back out onto patrol, though, but he's willing to take what he can get. He'll be sent whatever work his sire wishes for him to do and complete it alongside his work in the office. It's just nice to be out of his childhood hab. Out from directly beneath his creators' olfactory senses. At this point, Prowl will take simply sweeping the streets over continuing in his creators' hab as he had been.

Prowl and Silverwing sit at the former's modest kitchen table, sipping at their morning cycle fuel. Prowl noted the additives to his. The tacnet compiled a list of the ingredients together to find that it's a remedy for upset tanks. Prowl cast the happily chattering glorified secretary a long look as he sips at his fuel, hoping against hope that he's actually able to keep it down. While listening to the idle chattering of the other mech, his tacnet plans out the fastest route to the station with the allotted time they have to ensure they make it on time.

Or as Prowl has always preferred it, at least fifteen to twenty kliks early.

Once finishing his cube, Prowl gives himself a few kliks, just to make sure he won't need to pull over on the side of the road to puke, before he deems it to be time to leave. Silverwing has no complaints, but he does watch Prowl closely to see if he too will keep the fuel down. And when Prowl doesn't rush to the wash rack but instead heads for the front door of the hab to make their way to the station, Silverwing smiles brightly.

"I'm ready when you are!" He chirps, happily.

Getting back to work at the station was a little strange. His fellows cast him long looks at being back so suddenly from "medical leave" even though he's been working from his - his creator's - hab for a few chords now. They whisper about him where his audios can't hear, but his tacnet reads the motion of their derma, pieces together bits and pieces of their confusion, their criticisms. He was hurt in the line of duty "glory seeking" and they believe he's not worthy of his decals.

Maybe he's not. But not for the reason that they think.

Getting to his office and getting to work was easy. Even in as stable of a place as Praxus, crime will always dig its heels into any society. No one is safe. No where is ever truly safe from crime, petty or otherwise.

They fall into a routine for a time, about two decacycles. At this point in time, he's inching closer to it having been four decacycles since he had been to Polyhex. Since he met the musician with the voice box blessed by Primus himself. Every orn, Prowl and Silverwing meet up at Prowl's apartment hab. They have fuel that the latter makes for them, all of which has been kind on Prowl's sensitive tanks - more often than not, which is a relief and his sole reason for not going to the medics with any concerns as he's tipped over to the side of keeping fuel down more than he's not. Silverwing has lightly expressed concern and offered to make Prowl an appointment to see the medics, but Prowl is in no way interested.

He's getting better, as far as he's concerned.

There is a tentative trust forming between Prowl and Silverwing. It's small, but it is there. It is fresh, new, as just a few orn earlier, Prowl learned that there were things, small, benign things, that Silverwing wasn't saying to Prowl's sire. Like the in-depth information about Prowl's movements. Yes, that Prowl is feeling better, and doing better, but little more than that.

It's silly. It's as simple as saying nothing, but Prowl is grateful that he did. His creators didn't need to know everything about him. It wasn't a lot, but if Silverwing was willing to respect his privacy, even if only a little, then it was more than his creators ever did.

What a silly thing to be happy about.

But Prowl is willing to offer more than the (not so) casual brush off if Silverwing is willing to be more respectful to his desires. 

It's tentative, but it works for them. Or at least it works for Prowl.

It was another full decacycle later that Prowl was notified that he would be assisting overseeing a conference with a bunch of medics from out of town that have come to teach Praxian medics more efficient field work. From Prowl's understanding all the cities participate, sending a medic or two every vorn to a new city to spread medical knowledge amongst one another. This vorn its surrounded Enforcers and what sort of injuries will likely to be seen out on the streets. It's a medical conference and one of those hoity toity shmooze fests that Prowl could never stand his creators' dragging him too all his functioning, all in one.

So, Prowl would be there as security. It's customary, as there are representatives from all over Cybertron, but this vorn, two of the most prominent medics in Iacon will be present. Prowl wasn't upset about it. He was just happy to be able to still have his job and to be able to stimulate his tacnet. Sparklingsitting a bunch of medics isn't exactly his idea of mentally stimulating, but it was better than nothing. He was excited just for the minor shift in his work.

And because Primus is punishing him for some reason, in the three orn leading up to the event, Prowl has spent all night cycle tossing and turning, grasping a groon of recharge here and another there, and hasn't been able to keep any fuel down. Even the special brew that Silverwing has been making for him. He can feel the flagging of his systems as he stands security outside in the boiling heat. They've manages a swift, orderly line, trying to get bots through as quickly as possible as this orn happens to be the hottest of the chord, and everybot appears to be feeling it. 

They set up two separate checkpoints. The outside one, checking weapons and identity, and then another on the inside to ensure that they were on the list and one more additional check for weapons. With tensions rising all over Cybertron and so few bots with the mindset to be a medic, they are cared for and cherished. Best not to let some psychopath go walking in with a weapon to start killing one of Cybertron's most valuable resources. 

So, while Barricade, who keeps coming out to check on him, touching between his doorwings before Prowl can shake him off, gets to help watch over the inside checkpoint, Prowl gets to stand outside without anything to block the burning rays of Hadean overhead. But he won't say anything. Nope. Nothing at all.

His punishment isn't over, he recognizes. He's the only supervisor that doesn't get to cycle out in the same shifts - but as lead, it's expected, his captain had informed him. But wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't going to let them know that they might just be getting under his plating. He's tired. He's nauseous. And his helm feels like it's splitting in two in this heat. But he's the supervisor watching over the outside checkpoint. And he has always taken his job seriously. Even if his fellows whisper about him, or give him side optics as he oversees, they do their jobs and they don't complain, which is enough for Prowl to ignore the rest. They don't have to like him. They just have to respect him enough to listen to him when he is in charge.

It's a trial. He fights for the groon it takes to check in all of the medics from around Cybertron. It's boiling hot, the Enforcers are working in shifts going in and out of the air condition, aside from Prowl. His relief was almost there and then he could spend the rest of his shift in the cool for the last groon or two before he's allowed to head out for the day. It's fine. He's fine. It's almost over.

Luckily, Silverwing just so happened to ask if he could have this orn off to visit his family as his sire is unwell. Prowl was more than happy to send the other bot on his way.

A transforming bot on the street level blinks Prowl when the light hits her windshield just right. He almost staggers, helm splitting at the pain as he squeezes his optics shut. He vents slowly, using his wings to help him both keep balance and ensure that the line of bots continues to move. He takes a few, shuttering vents, forcing his frame to remain upright and stiff so he doesn't fall over.

"This way, Doctor." A pause. "Doctor?"

Prowl powers on his optics, meeting the study gaze of one of the doctors next in line to go through the weapons check. His decals speak of his position of his position in Iacon's Grand General. But there was something else about him that immediately caught Prowl's optic, and that was that he, as well as the mech at his back, were both of Praxian descent, but separated enough that both have only the chevron now. The Iaconi's chevron is large and pronounced, while the one behind him has a slightly smaller, smoother chevron.

The further mech's decals show he's native of Praxus, serving as one of their own representatives. And when Prowl's gaze tries to meet the unusual visor of the other, the medic looks away, bowing his helm respectfully to his obvious nobility. The first mech, though, the one from Iacon, stares through him, derma pressed tightly in displeasure. Prowl meets the gaze of the older mech from Iacon and while he doesn't care about the decorum of a respectful bow, he is unhappy at being watched so closely, chaffing even after so long out from under his creators. He still feels this incessant itch from under his plates.

Prowl's doorwings hike up and he frowns at the Iaconi medic. He gestures towards the weapons checkpoint, stiffly. "Please proceed, medic. We still have many more bots to make it through. Do not hold up the line."

The younger mech from Praxus, leans closer, softly murmuring, "Ratchet, please..."

After a beat more, and the Enforcer at the checkpoint nearest to Prowl sends him a look, the Iaconi medic moves on through the checkpoint. Prowl doesn't turn his helm to follow the movement, even though he can feel blue optics burning through him. He just lets his servo fall back to his side and keeps as vigilant as possible, while ignoring the pulsing in his helm and frame from orn without proper rest and unbearable heat.

Thirty-two-point-one-five kliks later, Prowl's relief appeared. Fifteen kliks late. He came up the steps, laughing about something that Prowl couldn't muster the processor power to care about even a little bit. He simply passed off all relevant information before heading inside to finish up his shift. He barely gets three feet in when his captain snags his elbow pulling him close to hiss into his audio, "Prince Prowl, I understand it has been a trying time for you these last few vorn, but please do try to keep to my schedule. You're late."

It takes what little self-control he has left to say absolutely nothing in his own defense. He hadn't been late. He had been at his post the entire time. He never came inside to cool off, because it would be seen as unprofessional, despite the fact that his HUD is full of alerts for overheating. He shunts them away, nods silently to Captain Spoiler, and heads for the massive banquet hall. Speeches with slideshows is just background noise as Prowl makes his way over to the end of the line of Enforcers watching over the crowd, sucking in a small vent of relief to find that he's positioned right under a vent blasting ice-cold air down on him. It doesn't nothing for his helm and frame ache, but he is able to carefully, minutely, flare out his plating so that the burning hot protoform can get some relief.

The banquet hall was set up nicely. Decorated sophisticatedly in monotoned colors. Only dark blue tablecloth set upon standing tables broke up the white, grays and blacks of the decor. Prowl has seen those tablecloths used before in other banquets that he had come with his creators with. He couldn't be with them, even having been too young to fully grasp the etiquette needed for such an event, unless he treated his own creators with reverence as rulers of their people, but indifference - like strangers. Prowl hated that. He hated that he couldn't ever just... be with his creators. No one was allowed to know who he was as per Praxian tradition. No one would know he was crown prince. He was just another of all the other creations of noblebots waltzing about in a place and party they had no business being part of.

The nice crystal plating and flutes were brought out, with waitstaff waltzing around the room. One walked past Prowl with a fully trey, offering energon, but his tanks rolled and while he was parched, he would wait until he got back to his hab, lest it all end up at his pedes. He feels optics on him. When he glances around the low-lit room, he doesn't see anybot staring at him, so he just turns his attention to a different, much haughtier, Iaconi medic up on stage, sharing anecdotes of his incredible saves out on the streets. 

Now that he was no longer boiling his frame and processor outside, his tacnet kicks on at a very low level, running scenarios going from likely to grossly unlikely. It doesn't help him cool down all that much as now both his processor and tacnet are now operating on independent tasks.  The tacnet is just running itself on autopilot in order to get some kind of stimulation while Prowl himself is focusing on the space around him, ensuring that he's not distracted in case he's needed. Ever vigilant, even when it likely will not be needed. Prowl would waste more energy that he doesn't have trying to reign in the tacnet rather than just let it run free. It's operating on an alarmingly low level, as the warning along his HUD keeps warning him of significant energy divergent to other systems.

After half another half a groon, while Prowl is carefully counting down the astroseconds until his shift ended when another staffbot steps up to him, offering a half dozen flutes of multicolored energon. He shook his helm dismissively but as soon as they passed by him, something hit his olfactory like a punch. He gagged before he could stop himself. He stiffened, locking his jaw in place to stop from purging as nausea washed over him. His processor stutters, tacnet glitching mid scenario. Prowl sways ever-so-slightly, servo coming to place against his tanks as he warred with his frame on whether to purge or not.

He takes a few, shallow vents, trying to calm his racing spark, keeping his pedes under him. That's when it a bright red warning flares across his HUD: Systems Overload. Emergency shutdown imminent. 

Prowl is moving before he realized. Out of the banquet, away from the few remaining Enforcers loitering about by the front entrance. He goes down one hall, then another. Somewhere quiet and secluded, a place he used to go when he was young to get away from the crowds when his creators used to bring him here. A little side hall that once led to the electrical room, but when Prowl was looking over the floor plans in preparation for this orn - "And wasting your time, Prowl," Barricade snickered, placing a hand on his shoulder while he poured over the building schematics, "the captain is not going to go for all this extracurricular." - he knows that this hall is basically dead space at the moment until they find another purpose for it.

He turns the corner, purging hard enough to burn his intake with just acid from his tank into a trash bin that was placed there to get it out of the way, before his entire frame shuts down. He's out before his perspective can shift from bent over to twisting to the side to fall over.

Prowl onlines his optics just enough to blearily see somebot checking him over. Connected to the port on his left wrist, a blur of white with touches of red was inspecting the small screen on his display, humming displeased. The sensors on Prowl's wings pick up another bot at his back, pressing one cold pack to his forehelm and the other between his doorwings, which is odd. Standard practice for overheating is against the spark. It's an intense pain that eases quickly, but it's massively effective. He's overheated and passed out enough times to be relatively familiar with the process. It takes a lot longer to cool down his chassis from his back.

"...low," a deep, angry voice growls. "Way too fragging low. Enforcers, I swear!"

"There's no fuel in his system, the tinged energon is full of healing nanites," a softer voice murmurs. The other bot growls. "His plates are practically hanging off of him. That's not right. How... how did he not know?"

"Well, according to his logs, he hasn't had maintenance done since he was a youngling," a scoff. "I swear, Praxians are by far the worst patients."

"Get out..." Prowl murmurs, trying to muster the strength to shake them both off, but he can't seem to get them to budge. "I... am... operational..."

"No," snaps the blur in front of him, turning orbs of blue light towards him. "You're gonna get yourself deactivated, sergeant. You should see your states. You're in the red all over the place. Have you ever heard of 'irreparable internal and frame damage?' Because that's what you're doing. You have all sorts of burned-out circuits and wires. Coolant, energon and oil levels are practically burned out. Amongst a host of other issues you have. And that's just what a preliminary scan of you is showing me. Never mind about the little one. What were you thinking?"

Prowl hard resets his optics a few times trying to work through the helmache before they activate and brighten enough for him to be able to see. The medic in front of him is the one from earlier in the orn. The one that was staring at him so intensely. A tinge of annoyance burns his already overheated frame. "I will persist."

"Not shutting down like you just did, you won't," the Iaconi medic snaps, his optics burning in rage. "You haven't seen a medic in more vorn than you've been functioning! You have no idea what's going on inside your frame."

"The blackout is normal for my tactical suite." He heaves a sigh, trying to vent out the heat from his frame. He reaches for the cold compress on his forehelm and brings it to his spark, not caring that he was holding the other medic's servo to do it.

"No!" The one at his back pulls it away. "You can't yet, Sergeant. The sparkling is too delicate right now. It can't handle the massive shift so quickly."

Without his tacnet operational, he takes a few astroseconds trying to clear his processor. "I...what?" He can hardly glance over his shoulder to look at the other medic. A band of blue staring back at him, nervous and anxious. "What did... you say?" He didn't hear that correctly. Certainly, he must not have. His audios sometimes act up too after a blackout.

"Your sparkling, sergeant," the medic from Praxus murmurs softly, dipping his helm a bit to avoid his optics. "It's in critical condition right now. We need to get the two of you to the hospital."

"No," Prowl gasps, trying to understand what he just heard. Sparkling? Sparkling? That can't be. Surely... surely something is wrong. No, they must be mistaken. He pushes away the servos touching him. "No, no. I... I need to return to my hab. I have to rest. Operating after a blackout is taxing. I need to get some... some recharge. I may -"

"Stop," the Iaconi snaps, anger radiating through his field. "Your aft is going to the hospital now. I don't care what you say. Your sparkling is dying, Sergeant. Are you hearing me?"

Sparkling... sparkling... Prowl has a sparkling? But... but how? Who could...

Meister. It had to be Meister. Prowl hasn't... he... but... how can this be? How did..?

"I... have a sparkling..?" Prowl whispers, optics blown wide.

The enraged sneer on the medic's faceplates stiffens slightly, then shift, studying him closely. Then, almost in disbelief, he says blandly, "You didn't know." Prowl stares back at him, processor finally starting to really piece everything together without the help of the lagging tacnet. "By the slagging pits!" The medic snaps.

"Ratchet!" The other medic chides with a warning. "He's nobility!"

The Iaconi medic - Ratchet - glares over Prowl's shoulder. "I don't care if he's the slagging Prime himself, First Aid!" Then to Prowl. He reaches out, grabbing onto the Enforcer's servo and bringing it to his spark, pressing against the superheated metal. "Your sparkling is readying itself to shed from you. But it's weak. It's drawing as much energy as it can from you, probably has been for chords, but you aren't taking care of yourself either." Stunned, Prowl couldn't say anything as Ratchet moves his servo to his side, then manually releasing the locks on his abdominal plating enough to slip both of their servo underneath it. His armor is looser than it should be along his sides, which he somehow hadn't noticed, but along the sunken edges toward the center over his gestation tank is a clear distension. It's... small. Too small. Ratchet guides his servo to rest over the too small bump. 

"And this," Ratchet continues, voice softer now. "This is where your sparkling's frame is being constructed. And unless the sire is a minicon, it is far too small to be a midframe like yourself. Not if it's already trying to descend. It should be at least twice this size." Prowl swallows around a dry intake, optics flickering in shock just... trying to absorb all of what was being said. "Do you know what this means, Sergeant?"

Prowl mutely shakes his helm a fraction of an inch, but it's enough for Ratchet.

"This means that either one; their frame is very little," Ratchet explains softly. "Or two; part of the problem with its descent is because the frame isn't ready for it yet." He leans in close, keeping his optics locked onto Prowl's. "Listen to me closely, Sergeant. Your sparkling is weak enough as it is. If it descends into an unfinished frame, it will offline. Do you understand?" Prowl nods mutely, a shake slowly overtaking his frame as he palms the tiny bump over his gestation tank. "Do you want your sparkling to offline?" Prowl doesn't know. He can't think. It's all so... it's all so much. Too much.

"Do you?" Ratchet asks intensely, watching his features. There is no aggression now. No rage or judgement. "Do you understand that you are beyond simply reabsorbing it? You will have to have it surgically removed. Do you understand? If that little bitlet's spark fizzles out at this point, then the frame will start to disintegrate inside of you. You will get an infection that will overcome your own frame in a matter of orns. You will get sick, very sick, and then it will offline you for certain if you aren't treated. Do you understand what I'm saying, Sergeant?"

It's... it's...

Prowl's optics wet as he looks at the white and red plated mech before him, a tear sliding down his cheekplate. "My...My sparkling..? I...have a newspark... and I'm deactivating it..?"

Something complicated washes over Ratchet's expression, even as his fields remain steady. Instead of the cold truth that hangs in the air between them, Ratchet just softly says, "It's not too late. I can help you save it."

Prowl sits up, brushing away the servos that reach for him. He curls up into a ball, not caring about the cord in his arm or the sick a few feet from him, at war with himself. Sparkling. His sparkling. His and Meister's... they made a sparkling. And it's deactivating in slow motion because of Prowl. He's doing this. He's his sparkling's greatest threat. If he hadn't been so stubborn... if he hadn't been so overwhelmed... if he hadn't been so fragging weak and pathetic -

"Sergeant?" Ratchet asks, his voice still tender. He reaches out to gently touch Prowl's knee. "You need to really think about now. Really take it all in. Your sparkling needs you to be strong. They need you to make a decision, right now. It can't afford for you to wait. For you to come to terms with what happened. Keep it. Save it. Or come with me to the hospital now so we can take care of it."

"No!" Prowl snarls, wings flaring out in rage. He brings one servo over his gestation tank to protect the tiny protoform forming inside. "No hospital! They will register me in the system. My creators will learn of my carrying. They can't! They can't! They will kill them..." he gasps, chassis heaving as he stares panicked into Ratchet's steady gaze as his voice drops to a whisper. "They will deactivate the little one. Deactivate my newspark." The true horror. The beautiful night cycle with Meister... gone. The only proof beyond memory files, gone. All because Prowl was their carrier.

"You're a high noble," the other mech, First Aid, says in quiet understanding. His fields bleed compassion that Prowl shrinks from.

"Yes," he gasps out, pleading for Ratchet, clearly the ore experienced of the two medics, to understand. Surely he must. He has Praxian ancestors, even if he lives in Iacon now.

"It's difficult to tell a mid or low ranked house procreating with a high house if the CNA of the later is strong enough," First Aid offers after a beat of silence. "It will probably look unmistakably from a high house..."

"Their sire isn't Praxian," Prowl whispers, as if his creators were around the corner, listening in. Their silence is almost dawning as they too come to realize the full bredth of how fragged Prowl is. All that he did wrong.

But it didn't feel wrong at the time. Even now, Meister didn't feel like a thing done wrong. He was beautiful and wonderful and perfect. Prowl can't regret having been with Meister. And he can't fully bring himself to regret the bitlet struggling to survive in the hostile environment of its carrier's frame. Well, he can regret that part, but having the bitlet there is not the part he regrets. He's afraid. He's confused and overwhelmed. Without the tacnet to start spewing out scenarios to start calming his processor, he's left to imagine it all on his own.

But the thought of having this bitlet, this tangible piece of happiness, is already a soothing balm to Prowl's spark despite his uncertainty. He wants it. He wants to protect it and love it and be the best creator he can be to it. He's not sure he's capable of being anything more than what he is, but Prowl wouldn't dream of backing down from that challenge. For his bitlet, he would do whatever he had to for the little life inside of him.

"No hospital then," First Aid says slowly. He looks over at Ratchet, a tinge of anxiety in his field. "We can use my clinic. I can file you under a psudenym but if I dont have what we need, I might not have the credentials to get anything from the hospital."

Ratchet shakes his helm. "I have full credentials to practice all medicines in six of the city states, one of which is Praxus. I will be able to get what we need." He turns his intense gaze to Prowl. "Are you going to come with us?"

"Do you think..." Prowl trails off, coming to realize just how bad he was taking care of himself since he went back to hab with his creators. He let them get to him. He let them upset him enough that he would just rather pretend nothing was really wrong. He didn't want them to be right about him being sick. He didn't want to give them reason to think they know better even though they do. And it burns him. 

Quietly, he asks the Iaconi medic, "Do you think you can save them? After everything I've done to hurt them?"

First Aid makes a soft sound while Ratchet frowns at him. After a beat, he says with absolute certainty, "All I can tell you for certain, Sergeant, is that I am your best bet."