Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prowl wakes up groggy from sedation. He is dreadfully disappointed in his coworkers, the childish pranks were long past frustrating. Drugging a mech’s energon so they fell into recharge was only funny the first time, and only if it wasn’t malicious. 

The other times he’d woken with his datawork ruined or worse proved the malice, and the continued actions even after he’d upgraded his intake to filter most drugs or poisons made it worse. 

He kept his optics offline for a too long moment to hold back an embarrassing keen of pure frustration and loneliness. Then he powers them on to darkness, and finds he needs to reassess his situation entirely. 

He was not at his desk. 

His ATS presses at the edge of his awareness, a glitch forming at the border of his sensitive systems and his shattered code. Prowl carefully tests his limbs and range of motion.

He has a pair of stasis cuffs on his wrists, baffles on his doorwings, and he has very little space before he hits walls on either side of his frame. The light is coming through a crack in the material above him, and Prowl doesn’t see a line of dark across it that would indicate a bolt or chain. 

He sets his ATS to ping unlock codes to the cuffs until they unlock, previous attempts at this have them unlocked in roughly a half joor, plenty of time to shift to a better position without cramped doorwings. 

The clik they fall away Prowl brings his pedes to his bumper and kicks out, the top of whatever he was in cracks loudly, and half falls in with him. No alarms sound, and Prowl carefully pulls himself out of the hole in the ground he had been locked into. 

Prowl hopes for the sake of his own code remnants that he’s been kidnapped by a gang, not his coworkers. 

A Polyhexian, short and streamlined stares at him from across the warehouse, visibly shocked. He is deep black with deeper red accenting, clearly meant to melt into the shadows. 

“Wha’ the frag?” He says, “Ya ain’t supposed to be outta stasis for another orn.” 

“Where am I? Why?” Prowl demands, and he tries desperately not to sway where he stands. His ATS is not pleased by the development, and the remnants of the drug are still running through his system. 

The mech snarls at him, clearly equally disoriented for different reasons, “You aren’t supposed to be awake! You are literally the only cop worth having, an’ I can’t keep ya alive if ya won’ stay put!” 

Prowl feels his ATS stall. He has been kidnapped, put into stasis, dropped into a hole, and not by one of his fellow enforcers, who hated his adherence to the law. Not by one of the criminals, or the gang lords, or the corrupt Lords of Praxus, all of whom likely wanted him dead for his sense of justice and ability to gather evidence to support it. 

No, the worst, most terrifying actions done to him in this accursed city beyond the slow degradation of his own code was done by someone who wished to keep him alive. It has to be a lie. 

Prowl increases his bandwidth and runs a query search in his deep files, facial matching and reference points. Meister. An assassin local to Praxus with no evidence of branching out, suspected of being contracted to one of the Lords, or gangs. Prowl’s running theory was Hydrauline, or the Scourge gang. 

This is unexpected, this mech has no reason to keep him alive. 

The ATS registers a cascade failure. Prowl locks his limbs and joints, his optics burning white. He cannot glitch, not here, not now. He ups his bandwidth, and his damaged code twinges at him. His precinct, who should be his cohort, would not keep him alive by mutual choice. 

An assassin would. 

 Prowl crashes hard. 

Jazz stares at the stiff frame of the crumbled enforcer who had climbed out of his hole a whole orn early. Half his joints are still locked, and the heat shimmering slightly over his frame does not bode well. Jazz sends a clip of the whole incident to Ratchet for review, for sheer lack of ideas on whatever that was. 

He’d gotten two sentences out, barely, and the mech’s optics had gone white before he locked up and collapsed in short order. A crash, certainly, but not one he’d caused on purpose despite his valid panic. 

Jazz gently poked the mech’s offline frame. It wasn’t graying, good. He gathered the cop bot up, and dragged him to a chair. He had chains, since stasis cuffs clearly didn’t work, and apparently he’d have to actually talk to him instead of catch-stasis-release, like he’d planned. 

:Jazz, he crashed, looks like a software glitch,: Ratchet comms back, :Cool packs on his joints to help unlock them, or he’ll have real stiff cables, and magnets on the stiff cables and sore helm when he’s awake, assuming you still want the mech alive.: 

Jazz pings acknowledgement back automatically and closes the line. He has cold gel packs, not many though, and he drapes them over the enforcer’s elbows, doorwing joints, and the last over his neck. 

Prowl groans lowly, rebooting, as Jazz begins trailing his magnetized servos over the taut cables of his back and doorwings. His left doorwing flicks hard.

“What,” he says in a rough, staticky voice, “are you doing?” 

“My medic said this’d be good for you post crash?” Jazz offers uncertainly. He wishes he knew why the mech was awake so he can fix the issue. 

“It is. Why?” 

The enforcer’s voice is hard, and pained, but the plaintive note underneath is poorly masked. Jazz rubs a little more firmly at a point of particular tension. The cables under his servos relax and tense in cycles. 

“You’re honest, th’ only honest cop here. I can’t let you die, but you were getting too close an’ one of th’ gangs put a hit out on ya. Ya were supposed to stay in stasis ‘til I got rid’a them, then ya could go back.” 

Prowl hums softly, “The Syklight gang.” 

It is not a question. Jazz hums an answering positive anyways. 

“I cannot just vanish. It would be noticed.” 

Jazz winces, “Mech, ya already did. Been missin’ an orn and a half already. I hacked your home terminal ta request leave for a virus an’ ya boss gave ya three orn off. He didn’ even try to investigate. Tha’s the timeframe I was workin’ with.” 

Prowl makes an odd sound in the back of his throat. Jazz thinks it might be a keen, smothered by pure will. 

“I will not interfere,” he whispers, his optics have bled white again, “You can keep me here, or confined to my home, but I will not interfere. You won’t be able to drug me again.” 

“I mean,” Jazz says, and Prowl snorts lightly. 

“You might be capable, but my systems will be on high alert since they just fought a strong dose off. It won’t linger in my system well.” 

Jazz considers that. An intake mod to do that sort of thing isn’t expensive, mainly uncommon. It's typically for fancy energon chefs who consistently test fuels and must be able to fight off cross effects. 

“I’ll check in,” he decides, “Randomly. An’ you’ll let me, no fightin’ or tryin’ to catch me.” 

Prowl nods his helm, with an unfair amount of regal grace for a mech still fighting the effects of a nasty crash, and trembling. 

“An’ you’ll let me drop you into stasis for transport home, I ain’t lettin’ ya know where I live.” 

Prowl agrees to that as well, and receives a free servo with a drugged cube. He sucks it down willingly. The cube has enough tranq in it to drop a tankformer and Prowl drops off with only a slight waver. 

Meister is indeed checking in, even if Prowl never sees the mech again. The chain on the balcony door is left different each time, and the single time Prowl leaves a batch of energon gels out to cool they are vanished quickly, a single one left behind for him. 

By the time that an all clear is left on a flimsy stuck to the balcony door and Prowl is able to return to work, Prowl has discovered that the mech has a sweet tooth, and likes to dig through Prowl’s home files. After the second time a mech in one of the gangs that was noted as particularly reprehensible in his file turns up dead, Prowl starts leaving the codes in riddles for Meister. 

He doesn't condone assassination or murder, but there are few enough options available in Praxus, with how high the corruption runs. When the head of the precinct turns a blind optic to bribes and crime, and the Lords of the city themselves are involved in the more heinous crimes, then there’s little else to do. 

That action had caused another cascade in his code failure, and Prowl had been glad of his off orns, so that he could dig through his code and patch it, laid up in his berth under a mountain of cooling packs. 

His enforcer code was all but gone now, broken and the patches were redirecting it in different ways. He had no cohort, and the empty supporting code there ached. His trust in his precinct, and in his commander had been so shattered that Prowl truly doubted he could ever realign his code to a commander again. 

The only surviving code fragment was the directive to protect his city, ironically the only part of enforcer code his precinct didn't follow. His only goal, the only thing keeping him on his pedes as his programming disintegrated was his desire to fix Praxus, all his remaining code hinged on that. 

It was that directive that drove him to seek Meister out after his safety had been confirmed and their deal ended. He traced several leads, a street performer called Jazz matched his frame specs, a registered dancer called Halfstep who had an unpredictable cred account matching both incomes, and a dead mech called Ricochet who owned a warehouse deeper into gang and leaker territory. 

Jazz was deemed the likeliest cover, connected with the dead mech’s warehouse, and Prowl kept a digital tracer on the mech through his ATS. Prowl truly did not need the information, but it had been deemed useful by his logic trees. 

By the time Prowl was embroiled in a new case, and over his helm he wasn’t considering Meister for protection, or even to point in the direction of a nasty gang mech. Instead he was passing Jazz the street performer to drop a credit chit in his bucket that held zipped files instead of creds. 

It was protected by the first password to his files that Meister had hacked. Then he was making his own meandering way to the dead mech’s warehouse, picking up fancy energon treats on his way. It was definitely alarmed, he’d know one way or another soon. 

His ATS was protesting loudly. Prowl shut it down. He did not need it to crash right now. He sits quietly, reading a novel from his subspace, as he waits for several joor. 

Then, Meister slips in the warehouse door, and is already glaring, the cred bucket from his time as Jazz, if Prowl’s theory is correct, is nowhere to be seen. There is an energy blade flickering on and off in his servo. Prowl puts his data pad back in his subspace. 

“Wha’ are ya doin’ here,” Meister snarls, “We agreed ya weren’t to track me down.” 

“Yes,” Prowl agrees, “We did. Then it was solved, you were no longer checking and the agreement ran its course. Would you like a silicon pastry?” 

He offers the box of pastries and watches Meister’s face switch expressions at an alarming speed, before it settles on confusion, “Wha’?” 

“Silicon pastry? It’s not drugged, you just kept stealing what I made so I assumed you liked sweet energon. Have you read the chit yet?” Prowl quietly mourns the fact that he is as chatty as his brothers without his ATS filtering. It gives away so much, but he cannot afford a crash right now. 

Meister doesn’t move for a far too long moment. Then in a flurry of movements he grabbed the whole box of pastries and retreated once more, “Wha’ chit.” He grinds out. 

“In your tip bucket,” Prowl says and he takes a bite out of the single manganese pastry he’d kept. Meister’s glare is piercing, but he pulls the same bucket out and dumps it on the floor, crouching to dig through. 

To his credit it takes him little time to find it, and less to have plugged it in and be scrolling through the data. Finally he looks up at Prowl with his visor dimmed in what seems like pure fury, “I ain’t lookin’ for a partner, and I ain’t for hire.” 

“Too bad,” Prowl says, and he takes another bite of pastry. Jazz snarls at him. 

Prowl flicks his doorwings dismissively, “Technically your premise is false from the start. You already have at least one partner, your medic. For you to have had a response that fast after my crash when you kidnapped me, you have to be pretty close, at least professionally. I could find out if I wanted to, but I haven’t dug into your medic.” 

Meister has shifted from fury to a mix of fear as well, “And wha’? Ya think I’ll just give ‘im away to ya?” 

“No, I don’t. If you want to trust me with that information that is your prerogative. I want your help with this case specifically as a testing ground. I don’t have your trust, even if you have a decent amount of mine purely for being the first mech in this city that doesn't want me dead.” 

“You’re certainly chattier than las’ time. Why ya want my help? Ain’t’cha know who I am, cop bot?” Meister presses into Prowl’s space, his olfactory ridge mere inches away from Prowl’s. 

“I turned my ATS off. This is a bad conversation for me to crash during,” Prowl flicks his doorwings at the assassin dismissively, “Yes, I know who you are. I know you target the mecha that need to be targeted, you’re not careless, or driven by anger. Why wouldn’t I want your help?” 

Meister scoffs, “When I said tha’ ya were the only honest cop in th’ city it were supposed to be a compliment. What’d’ja go and do this for?” 

Prowl clamps his armor down tight, his field flaring raggedly, “I am the only honest enforcer in the City, or was. It destroyed my coding. I’d like to help you fix the city I was assigned to before my coding being so ruined takes me offline. It’s all I can think of.” 

Meister stares at him, and shoves an entire pastry in his intake. It doesn't fit, and the first moment of chewing is obscene. “A’ight. I dunno what all tha’ means, I ain’t got enforcer coding, but I’ll help wit’ this job an’ we’ll reassess after. Wha’s th’ job, then?” 

Prowl cycles his optics, “Didn’t you read the chit?” 

Meister flicks his doorwing, “I ain’t that good. Your filin’ systems weird as slag. I got the gist o’ wha’ ya wanted, and then I dropped it.” 

“Oh,” Prowl fidgets, “The mech trade is, um, bad here.” 

Meister scoffs and gestures impatiently with a pastry. Prowl shifts. He’s better at succinct summaries with his ATS. He opens his bandwidth very slightly on it. 

“Right. There is a mechling one of my informants passed on info about. He’s been in the Praxus trade for a couple decaorns now, but I couldn’t get a location. I have one now, at the docks, because he’s about to get sold out of the city.” 

Meister hums around his second pastry, “Well, it’s a good job, I’ll give ya that. What’cha gonna do with the mechling when we done killed all ‘is captors?”

Prowl doesn't know. He’s pretty sure Meister can tell, especially once the mech snorts loudly. 

“A’ight. I’m interested now. First things first, I’m takin’ ya to my medic. Gotta getcha checked first, and get everythin’ settled b’fore we plan this thing out.” 

“Yes, Meister,” Prowl agrees easily and he earns the most disgusted look from the other mech. 

“Des’ is Jazz. Ya tracked me down, ya earned it. Meister is for missions, tha’s it,” Prowl nods agreeably and follows Jazz out of the warehouse. 

Ratchet is incredibly angry about Jazz’s acquisition of Prowl. Red Alert moreso, Red downright refusing to run comms that day for them. Ratchet still installs the nerve baffles on Prowl, in case Jazz has to use his sonics, and declares the mech in perfect condition to fight. 

It’s a little meanly said, and Jazz is pretty sure that Ratch is hoping that Prowl will get hurt on this mission. Ratchet seems to take a while to warm up to new mecha though, based on how long it took for him to trust Jazz alone with Wheeljack. 

That may have been the fault of illegal mods however, and Wheeljack’s eagerness to make and install them on a willing subject. 

Prowl himself is being remarkably agreeable for a mecha that should be fighting his base coding to do this. Jazz is admittedly a little worried about the state of his coding. 

Despite that, he is a very good tactician. The skill that led to his transfer to Praxus was not downplayed in the least. The plan is formed quickly, with variances and emergency backup plans. It has wiggle room if it goes wrong, and it has enough room for improvisation that Jazz can work with it easily. 

If it goes as well as the planning session between them did, then Jazz will in fact be keeping his new cop bot. 

The two of them are linked together with two-way comms, since Red is refusing for this mission, and Ratchet is covering cameras. Prowl is silent at Jazz’s back, with an acid pellet rifle clutched at attention as his doorwings flick with the air currents. 

Apparently a single mechling doesn’t require many guards, a large group of them had been downstairs playing traxis. There are far too many doors to pick however, and Prowl is stuck guarding Jazz’s back as they check each room. As soon as the mechling is recovered they’ll switch. 

Jazz has no qualms about killing every trafficker involved. He’s pretty sure Prowl doesn’t either, but until Jazz gets a look at his faulty code, he’s not letting Prowl actively make it worse. 

The last room unlocks to reveal a shaking ball of scuffed red and gold plating.  Jazz pulls his pistol out and arms it quickly, switching positions with Prowl to guard the door. This was going to be one of the hardest parts of the plan, Prowl wasn’t sure about his ability to earn the mechling’s trust, citing an inability to connect with sparklings previously, aside from his younger brothers.  

Still, Prowl slipped into the room and approached the mechling curled on the berth. 

“No, please,” comes from the berth in a tiny, staticky, broken voice. 

“Shh,” Prowl murmurs back, “It’s ok. We’re here to get you out. What’s your designation?” 

The mechling curls tighter, plating rattling loudly. Jazz tosses a dubious look over his shoulder. Prowl definitely looks nervous. They have a little time for this, but not actually that much to waste. 

“Mine is Prowl,” he offers to the mechling, “You don’t have to tell me yours if you’re not comfortable with it. Would you like a treat? I have rust sticks and energon gels.” 

There’s the sound of shifting from the berth and Jazz glances back to see the mechling peering at Prowl with one baleful blue optic. Prowl stoically offers both treats and the mechling cycles his optics at them. The mechling doesn’t reach for either treat, but he does snap his dentae around both, narrowly missing Prowl’s digits as the mech yanks them back. 

Jazz snorts from the doorway. The mechling scowls at him, adorable. 

“Who’s he,” he whispers to Prowl. 

“That is Meister. He’s going to make sure you and I get to safety without getting caught.” Prowl answers, and the mechling scoffs. 

“Yeah, right. Where are you really taking me?” Prowl flicks his doorwings at the indignant mechling. 

“Well, to a medic first. Then I suppose we’ll figure it out. I mostly planned to get you out before they sold you to another city and I couldn’t get you. They’re supposed to ship you tomorrow, and my informant only got your location today.” 

Jazz twists to look at the mech perched besides the scared mechling. He’s rambling again, he has definitely turned his ATS off again. They also make an interesting picture. Prowl’s nanites had been temporarily recoded for the night to prevent easy ident, and his dull yellow and orange compliments the mechling surprisingly well, even if it’s gaudy on Prowl himself. 

The mechling stares suspiciously at Prowl, “Promise you won’t make me do anything I don’t want to?” 

“No,” Prowl says, and Jazz tries desperately not to snort, “You probably need mineral supplements. They taste gross, but I will definitely make you drink them anyways.” 

The mechling giggles incredulously, “That’s it?” 

“No, you’ll have to stay safe as well, I won’t let you run into danger. And I will probably make you go to berth earlier than you want to. I think. That’s what I had to do when my youngest brother was a mechling, at least.” 

Jazz is biting his lip plate desperately to not laugh at Prowl’s stuttering assurances to the mechling. He suspects that the mechling is going to live with Prowl until they find a safe house for him, but the Praxian’s hesitance is hilarious, moreso for the mechling’s confusion. 

“Ok,” he says cautiously, “I’ll go with you. But you have to take my pede with you, I still need it.”

Prowl makes a confused noise and Jazz comes over to look as well. He really, really hopes that nobot cut off a mechling’s pede. It is in fact chained to the wall, and Jazz picks the lock easily, Prowl’s optics watching his movements sharply. The second the cuff falls away, Prowl scoops the mechling up. 

“Hot Rod,” he says into Prowl’s audio, and Jazz hears it over the two way comm clipped to the audio, “That’s my des’.” 

“Hello, Hot Rod, it's nice to meet you. We’re going to be running and fighting now. Don’t look, and hold on to me even if I let you go, got it?” 

The mechling nods into Prowl’s shoulder pauldron, and Jazz and Prowl take off. 

Mission success, Jazz will in fact be keeping the police bot. 

Hot Rod is looked at by Ratchet the second they return, slightly worse for wear. The mechling does in fact need mineral supplements, and Ratchet can track his base code to Nyon. Creators aren’t listed, and Prowl decides he’ll just have to host the mechling until they can find him a trusted foster. 

Jazz, hosting several blaster burns and a deranged smile, is as exhausted as the stressed mechling. Ratchet informs him that he’s not allowed to sleep under a bridge until the wounds have accepted the welds, or he risks a rust infection. He then kicks all three out, still miffed with the enforcer’s presence. 

This is what leads to the current situation of Prowl on his couch with a mechling on his lap, and an assassin leaning on his side, both in recharge. Jazz shifts further into his side, and Prowl considers whether Ratchet drugged the mech’s energon. 

Hot Rod had exhausted himself entirely earlier, refusing to drink the supplements, claiming they were bitter. He’d eventually gotten them down, but he’d glanced at Prowl the whole time, which had been odd. They’d been wary looks, mildly off put, as if he’d expected to be hit for throwing a tantrum. 

Prowl had just watched him until they’d been drunk fully, then offered a rust stick as compensation when Ratchet’s back was turned, much to Jazz’s amusement at the time. 

Right at the moment though Prowl is considering gathering evidence for the larger ring of trafficking in the city. His code is interfering with his plans. 

>>Cohort coding disconnected.<< 

That message has popped up multiple times now. Prowl genuinely doesn’t know if he can patch it. Cohort bonds are central to Enforcer coding. If you couldn’t trust your squad, your tac, your commander, then you were dead. Period. 

It ran the other way as well. All those mecha needed to be able to trust each other. As such cohort networks were the core of a precinct, maintained by ritual of the day to day. The cohort coding was built on a precinct level, and was initially connected by the enforcer coding linkup when a mech transferred or joined a precinct. 

It was maintained and strengthened by the precinct building on that trust, by shared energon, shared quarters during long orn cycles, shared washracks, even by shared command structures and the mutual trust between the rank and file. 

Prowl’s code had been carefully blocked out of his precinct’s and left to wither away from a lack of his trust in the precinct, and his precinct’s in him. His cohort coding was frantically searching for a network that wasn’t there, a network to protect and to be protected by. 

It didn’t exist anymore. It couldn’t. 

>>Cohort coding disconnected. Please Uplink.<<

Prowl dismissed the notification. 

Chapter Text

Wheeljack was peering far too closely at Prowl’s hip seam for comfort. Jazz was insisting on Prowl getting the same mod that allowed the seamless switch between Jazz and Meister. Prowl could see the value in it. 

The mod in particular was one that allowed minor preset frame shifts, and several stored paint nanite settings. It truly was an excellent mod for any undercover work, also a rather complicated one. Prowl would have the only other system from Jazz, and Wheeljack’s partial mod. 

Prowl’s Praxian frame was presenting issues for the install however, and Wheeljack’s increasingly frustrated muttering as he recoded and reshaped his plating was increasingly alarming. 

Across the room Jazz watched with his visor cycling between blue and gold, flicking through presets to be uploaded as soon as the mod was complete. Minor identities were also being set up to link to these presets, being coded from the data up by Inferno and Red Alert, the latter of whom was sulking on the opposite side of the room from Jazz. 

Red Alert, who handled security and any hacking needed by Jazz or Ratchet, was a very tetchy, very paranoid mecha, as Prowl had discovered. He’d just lost an argument with Jazz about whether he could bug the precinct in case Prowl betrayed them. 

Prowl wasn’t touching that one. He’d earned the tacit trust of Inferno, who had mated the suspicious wreck of a mech, and that was plenty of accomplishment. 

Ratchet was working the clinic attached to the front of the warehouse the rest of them had gathered, studiously ignoring the illegal mods being installed without his presence. 

There was a click-click-whir, then the plating Wheeljack had been focused on shifted into its new position, a sharper angle that jutted out in what would pass as lascivious to Praxian ideals. Wheeljack crowed victoriously, his servos raised and helmfins flashing a triumphant magenta. 

The last of the mod coding settled in his processor and Prowl accepted the handshake protocols to begin assimilating it into his systems. The presets could be loaded or edited at any point now. 

Jazz glanced up and grinned from his perch at Prowl, sitting there with his plating askew and multicolored as the coding integrated. Hot Rod, curled by Prowl’s pedes, cheered softly with Wheeljack and flared his spoiler in a decent imitation of a Praxian congratulatory position. 

In the three orn that Hot Rod had lived with Prowl, and Jazz intermittently, the mechling had practically attached himself to Prowl. The mechling would only listen to him, occasionally Jazz, and on the occasions that Jazz could not sparksit during Prowl’s shift, Ratchet. 

The mechling had taken over the spare berthroom entirely, and Prowl was heavily considering finding a bigger flat with the increasing frequency that Jazz was crashing on his couch. 

Now though, the first big mission was tonight, one they’d been planning and preparing for since the rescue job for Hot Rod had gone well. Mech trafficking was a massive problem for Praxus, but underground slave trade and competition was an issue planet wide. 

Senators got involved in the other City-States. Praxus didn’t have senators due to its independent stance from the Primacy and the council, but her City Lords were definitely involved. Prowl didn't have enough influence in how the city was run to prevent disaster if a Lord were killed, nor did Jazz. 

There were other ways to behelm a glitchsnake though, and one of those ways was to cripple the system. 

The past three orn had been spent securing identities, ships leaving port and willing to smuggle mecha out, and sympathetic gangs to provide chaos as backup. You could not run a slave based entertainment industry without the slaves to power it. 

Iacon was famously a haven city, something that Prowl could attest to from his previous assignment and precinct. Any slave they freed tonight would be sent there, unless they wished to stay. Adults had choices, and identities were apparently sparkling play for Red Alert to forge. 

Jazz swung down from his perch and approached to offer a dataslug to Prowl. He plugged it in without hesitation and uploaded the specs and color schemes for his diversion identities. He seamlessly switched from one to the other to test the mod. 

Jazz is still grinning and Wheeljack has retreated to join Red Alert and Inferno at the back of the room. Wheeljack doesn't have much of a role tonight, aside from installing Prowl’s new mod, but he had volunteered to match mecha with missing profiles. 

Red Alert had downloaded as many profiles as he could onto a data pad for retrieval last orn, and Wheeljack had been studying it hard. No one wanted this night cycle to fail, not with how many powerful mecha were involved in its continuance and protection. 

City Lords and enforcers, and several of the gang leaders had been connected to the access points Prowl had found in his research over the vorn. He’d been here for far too long without the abilities to fix anything, to fulfill his function, only able to gather and protect myriads of information and evidence for a system that wouldn’t acknowledge their need. 

Jazz slipped over to the table by the door, and Prowl followed him, a curious Hot Rod on his pedes. The weaponry laid out was inspired. Wheeljack had outdone himself. Even if four railguns was definitely excessive for two mecha who didn't use heavy guns. 

His acid rifle was there, as well as a basic sniper rifle, and several bandoleers of knives designed to be worn underneath plating to pass detection. Hot Rod attempted to slip one of the smaller pistols away, and Prowl handed it to Jazz without looking at the mechling. 

Hot Rod audibly pouted. 

“Ya ready for this?” Jazz asked, and Prowl raised his wings determinedly. 

“Yes. I am.” 

Jazz paused at the edge of the inactive arena, several sublevels lower than the sewers. Elevators and cistern drains were the only ways in or out, and the sheer amount of elevators with the capability to go this far down was staggering. 

Jazz had already slipped a slug into the system down here, Red Alert reported his full control of the elevator and camera systems. He’d also reported a PA system as available and allowed Jazz access. Jazz had a thought for that, but he was somewhat worried about altering Prowl’s careful plans. 

::Prowl:: he comms, ::What are your thoughts on musical accompaniment? Would that hurt the plans?:: 

There is a long moment of silence before Red Alert and Ratchet both groan deeply from the other end of the line. 

Prowl hums, ::Mmm. That should be fine. Pick a fast song?:: 

That is doable. Jazz cues up one of the songs he wrote years ago, one of the ones not meant for the streets or the public. He fiddles with the volume, and adds a soft automated tone underneath, the message Red Alert had meant for the PA to be used for. The message will be audible, both of them. 

The instrumental intro fades in as the message starts, on repeat. ”This is a rescue operation. Please make your way to the elevators once your cell is open, and check in with the assigned mech to lead you to the docks. This is a rescue operation.” 

We’re not gonna take it, no, we’re not gonna take it, we’re not gonna take it anymore. 

The music kicks in and Jazz darts down his end of the arena, lockpicks tucked away in favor of the faster option of a semipermeable acid pellet, one that burst when shoved in a lock allowing doors to swing open, as Jazz passed. The few rooms that had mecha with chained pedes or cuffs he’d duck into, and take a moment with the lockpicks. 

We’ve got the right to choose, and there ain’t no way we’ll lose it, this is our life, this is our song.

The massive underground arena was set up similarly to its counterpart in Kaon. Two corridors of cells split off beneath and behind the spectator seats, housing the different types of slaves kept for entertainment. During the inactive joors, every slave was locked up and guard was minimal. With Red Alert in the camera systems, any alarms shouldn’t be triggered at all. 

We’ll fight the powers that be, just ‘cause, you don’t know us, you don’t belong.

One corridor, the one Prowl had claimed, by dint of having better armor and size advantage, was for the gladiator slaves, the fighters and killers trapped in tiny spaces. Prowl was expecting to come back with dents, if it was anything like a Kaonite arena at least. Kaon starved their gladiators in order to encourage aggression. 

We’re not gonna take it, no, we’re not gonna take it, we’re not gonna take it anymore. 

The other end was for racers, and any undecided mecha. That corridor was the one Jazz was darting down in a circuitous route back to an elevator. Most of the mecha he’d freed were adults, only three mechlings in the lot, including a bright blue racer that had been limping badly enough that Jazz was simply carrying him. 

Oh, you’re so condescending, your call is never ending, we don’t want nothin’, not a thing from you. 

Red Alert had locked down most of the elevators, but the four still active were being watched and guarded by the two friendliest and most negotiable gangs they’d found. The Glades gang was mainly drug runners and messengers, and had been incredibly receptive to assisting when approached. 

Your life is trite and jaded, boring and confiscated, if that’s your best, your best won’t do.

The Westport warren on the other servo was not only receptive, but actively helping, running point and directing the surface evacuation routes to the ship they’d hired. The Warren was also taking records for Inferno and Wheeljack, matching old identities, assigning new ones, and running interference to distract the night cycle enforcers across the city with a loud territory dispute. 

We’re right, we’re free, we’ll fight, you’ll see. 

Prowl’s contact in the Westport Warren had proven invaluable as the shockingly competent network of minibots simply made it happen as per the terms of one night’s allyship that Prowl had requested. 

We’re right, we’re free, we’ll fight, you’ll see. 

Jazz grinned at Prowl, sharp and feral across the hall from his mecha filing into the other elevator. The plexiglass separating them was pristine, and Jazz raises his pistol to aim at the upper corner. It shatters, and the glass rains down with a crash right as the song crescendos above them, tinny and loud from the PA system. 

We’re not gonna take it, no, we’re not gonna take it, we’re not gonna take it anymore. 

The guard station was above them by two levels. Jazz’s last step in Prowl’s plan was to get rid of them. He crunched over the glass to pass the clingy blue mechling to Prowl. A massive gold mech hovered behind Prowl, and peered at the mechling. 

Yeah!

Jazz ducked into the third elevator, trusting Prowl to be able to finish the coordination of the mass escape with ease. It was mostly done, just the loose ends of making sure every mech got where they needed to go. 

Yeah!

He saluted his partner jauntily as his elevator began to rise. The second that both of them, and their hangers on were clear, Red would trigger the bombs. The arena was deep enough that structural integrity wasn’t an issue. 

Yeah!

There wasn’t something deeply satisfying about those mecha that liked to descend to see captive mecha fight to their deaths, race until their frames grayed, and watch mecha simply suffer for their own pleasure, only to find a crushed, rubble filled, remnant of a arena, no longer useful for so much as scrap. 

The final line of the song repeated as Jazz lunged out of the elevator, knives flashing, as he killed the guards equally complicit in this travesty. They’d rescued around two hundred mecha according to Red Alert. What a mess to have gone so uncared about, so protected. 

We’re right, we’re free, we’ll fight, you’ll see. We’re right, we’re free, we’ll fight, you’ll see. 

Prowl split off from Jazz in the second that the mech moved to saunter down his hallway. From Red’s intel his side of the hall would have fewer mecha, or at least fewer cells. It would have more chains and cuffs, to hold the fighters in. 

Jazz was moving fast and efficiently, in order to get to the guards before any alarms started on the surface level, since that was where the most interfering variables were. Prowl was moving slower, he’d have to lower any aggression for a safe evacuation. 

His training in Iacon on crowd control and deescalation were going to be his assets here, not his armor as he’d told Jazz. That sort of knowledge made the mech somewhat twitchy though. Prowl didn't quite trust Ratchet enough to show the medic his code, but Jazz had seen after a bad shift that had triggered a nasty crash. 

Jazz was very anti-enforcer as a result, and did not like to hear anything good at the moment about what Prowl could still use. 

The music’s lyrics started, with the announcement overlaid and Prowl twitched his wings in amusement. The acid pellets for the locks did very well, and Prowl pushed the first door open with a clang. 

“What’s with the tunes?” The gold mecha demanded through a thick Kaonite accent. 

Prowl flicked his wings again. The music wasn’t a distraction, it was even used frequently by enforcers as a timing tool or a distraction, but Jazz’s song choice was truly unique. 

“I believe that my partner wanted a time signature that was enjoyable,” he answered and he stepped forward with the lockpicks for the cuffs binding the mech to the wall. Prowl was not well versed with picks, had in fact only been practicing for the past few orns, but these were fairly simple locks.

”Partner.” 

Prowl shrugged his wings weakly. He really couldn’t have done anything on this scale on his own, and neither could Jazz without his little cadre of behind the comms mecha. Except that the golden gladiator is peering around Prowl’s frame and he won’t find anyone there. “He’s getting the other side.”

Prowl yanks hard at the stuck cuff. The lockpick is jammed in a rusty gear and Prowl hopes this isn’t setting a pattern for the rest of the mission. The mech huffs air out his vents hard, blowing hot dusty air over Prowl. 

“The locks all stick here. Too many fighters, too many deaths for them to care. The keys hang across from each cell in the light alcoves so the guards don’t have to figure out rusted keys.” 

Prowl yanks the pick out ungently, and darts back into the hall. Red Alert fills  his comm line with angry queries and Prowl mutes it. The keys are exactly where they’re supposed to be and Prowl shoves the first one in its lock without adieu. 

Golden huffs again, this time in amusement rather than scorn, and he stands to stretch his cables from the half slouched kneel he’d been stuck in, “Designation is Sunstreaker, not Sunny, just Sunstreaker. And your partners a real idiot to leave you on your own. Lab sides easy. Racers and half-scrapped experiments is all, ain’t no one over there gonna do nothing but follow orders.” 

Prowl grumbled as Sunstreaker follows him to the next cell instead of the elevators, “That was rather the point. Meister is an excellent fighter, but I have better armor. The plan was for him to be able to focus on any guards or such over there that might require finesse, whereas I’m perfectly capable of taking a dent or two in order to get a fighter out and calm.” 

“Stupid,” Sunstreaker mutters, and he blocks the punch thrown by the mech in the third cell they’ve unlocked. He leans forward and snarls in the mech’s face, just a rattling sound at first, then, “Just run. Get out, quit fighting.” 

The mech does, and Sunstreaker follows Prowl still, “I do not require protection.” 

“Too bad.” 

Prowl decides this is not the time to argue. 

Admittedly the rest of the hall is cleared much faster when Prowl is able to focus purely on the locks. His ATS pings him a code error requesting a cohort expansion. He still has no cohort, he dismisses it irritably. 

He reaches the end of the hall by the time Jazz’s song is hitting the wind down notes, even the chaotic music that Jazz enjoys and creates follows patterns and math, and Prowl appreciates the predictability of such. Sunstreaker is still hovering behind his shoulder like a surly frameguard, and he glares at the line of injured and under-fueled mecha filing into both elevators. 

Jazz grins one of his terrifying smiles and he shoots the glass between them, earning several yelps from the scared mecha behind him, and a startled upsweep of Prowl’s sensor panels. Sunstreaker starts to rumble a subsonic growl as Jazz steps across the glass towards them. 

Jazz honestly did look remarkably frightening if Prowl looked from a fresh perspective. His feral smile, fully at home when he looked himself in his colors as Jazz, was entirely alike to a sparkeater with his sharp black and red Meister frame. His posture was meaner in his Meister frame-shift as well, he looked as if he would stab Prowl, if Prowl hadn’t known he could trust this mech. 

Instead he walked up, handed off the limp, blue mechling with the broken, leaking pede, and sauntered to the last elevator up to the guard’s station with a sardonic salute. Prowl laughs outright at Sunstreaker’s blatant confusion, “C’mon. That’s the signal, we’re the last mecha down here, we’ll take the tail end of evac. Let’s get you out of Praxus.” 

Sunstreaker hums in response, “Sure, maybe.” 

Prowl ignores that and pings Red Alert the code for the final ascent from him. The elevator creaks in the alarmin half rusted way that most do in Praxus. The city was beautiful on the surface, pristine, but rusted to the core under its polished paint, right down to the infrastructure. 

The mechling whines lightly and presses his helm deeper into the crook of Prowl’s arm. Sunstreaker leans closer just long enough to press a battered pain chit at the mechling’s port. Prowl catches his servo only to get shoved lightly, just enough to need to catch himself on the wall. 

The pain chit activates with a low warble and the mechling goes limp entirely. Prowl jostles him lightly in alarm and Sunstreaker snorts, “Sparklings been passed around arenas about as much as I have. He’s a racer, and one of their experiments in seein’ how fast they can make a mech go. They don’ give him med care or pain chits, messes with their data, I think. He always looks like he hurts though, unless he’s runnin’. I got the chit for a win in the arena almos’ a decaorn ago, been saving it.” 

Prowl flicks his wings as the elevator thunks into place at the top, “And how long have you been passed around, as you said?” 

He leads the way out of the elevator, nodding at Habglare and Glimmershell as the two minis take up amateur flank positions behind them on the path to the docks. Sunstreaker is quiet for a too long moment and Prowl glances over. The gold mech is staring at the sky with open awe and wonder. Luna 1 is full tonight, with Luna 2 barely a half moon beside her, and the stars are bright as a result. 

Sunstreaker sucks in a startled gasp as Prowl pulls him forward gently and turns a small, almost shy smile on him, “Um. I really don’t remember anything but the arenas. I’ve been in lots, this is the second longest. I’m a good fighter and they sell me when they get bored, I think. I had a brother once, I don’t know what happened to him after they separated us.” 

“Why did they separate you two?” Prowl asks, as Sunstreaker gets distracted by a window box of crystals. 

“I dunno. They told me they’d give him back if I won enough fights, but I’ve been sold twice since then and I haven’t gotten him so I guess I’m still not good enough.” 

Habglare grumbles behind them and darts off to the left. Sunstreaker glares at his retreating frame. 

“He wouldn’t leave me behind, he wouldn’t,” Sunstreaker looks at Prowl with a fierce glare hiding pleading optics, “He’s lying. Sideswipe wouldn’t escape and leave me behind.” 

Prowl flicks his doorwings, uncertainly. He doesn't know this mecha, or his brother. He truly couldn’t say. Sunstreaker’s face keeps its angry glare, but his entire field rumbles with complete dejection. He teeks abandonment to Prowl with no filters whatsoever. 

Prowl’s spark aches. He knows abandonment, intimately. Instead Prowl points out one of the prettier sights in Praxus out to the mech beside him, a mural sparkling with inset mosaics and crystal mosses. Sunstreaker is just as fascinated by it, and his field swings wildly over to charm and intrigue. 

Habglare rejoins them at the dock entrance commandeered for the dark cycle, and holds the fence up for them. Ratchet has set up a tiny medic tent beside the ramp to the outbound ship. Wheel jack beside him is chatting amicably to several mecha with the wear marks of cuffs, and Cave-In from the Glades gang. 

Prowl leads Sunstreaker over to Ratchet and the gold mech immediately quails back and snarls as Prowl sets the mechling down on the collapsible cot Ratchet’s using. He allows Sunstreaker to yank him back obligingly as the gladiator stares Ratchet down. 

Sunstreaker shoves him back several steps and scoops the mechling back up, keeping himself interposed between the medic and Prowl. Wheeljack bursts into hysterical laughter and Ratchet growls, both out loud, and scolding over Prowl’s comm. 

“Yo, what the frag?” Jazz says from behind Prowl, and his wings shoot up in shock fast enough that he clips Jazz’s helm and he yelps in pain from the impact to his own wing. 

That yelp combines poorly with Sunstreaker’s own shock, and he whirls around and lands a solid punch on Jazz’s faceplates. Jazz reels back with the impact and stares at Sunstreaker. 

Sunstreaker’s systems are whining loudly with stress and exhaustion, and still he bares his denta at Jazz in a rattling snarl, which intensifies as he spins to snarl at Ratchet as well as he attempts to advance. Throughout he is attempting to herd Prowl backwards and cradling the still unconscious mechling close. 

Wheeljack’s laugh has not stopped. Sunstreaker’s systems are fast approaching a red line as they start to stutter and pop. Prowl carefully steps around and reaches for the mechling. Sunstreaker lets him, and stands there glaring at everyone else. 

Like a shot Prowl hands the mechling directly to Ratchet and turns back around to catch Sunstreaker’s forearms as he lunges to intercept. He takes his own turn to back Sunstreaker up and catches the mech as he his knees give out with a particularly petulant whine from his engine. 

“Shh, breathe. Ratchets a good medic, you can trust him, promise.” 

Sunstreaker shakes his helm frantically, “No, can’t- no. Medics hurt, that’s all they do!” 

Jazz kneels beside them, teeking  Sunstreaker’s frantic field, flaring misery and fear and protective rage in equal measures, “I’d hazard then, that ya ain’t seen a real medic. Why don’ ya watch what he does with the mechling?” 

Jazz triggers the micro-transformation for his frame, but not the nanites, and he carefully leans on Sunstreaker’s other side. They all watch together as Ratchet runs a basic medical scan on the mechling. The basic medical care afterwards stops the slow leak from his pede. 

Sunstreaker relaxes in increments, and as soon as Ratchet puts down the welder he makes his way over to offer the scanner plug to Sunstreaker for inspection. He is gentle in a way that Prowl has never seen the mech, and neither has Jazz from the faint surprise echoing through their fields. 

Sunstreaker whines lowly, offers his arm with the port cycled open, and turns his face into Prowl’s chassis. Ratchet plugs in to run the scan with a low hum. He curses quietly at the result. 

“Hey, kid,” he asks softly, leaning in at an angle to catch Sunstreaker’s optics, “You aware of your medical history?” 

Sunstreaker shakes his helm. Ratchet sighs deeply. 

“Right. You ever been through psych courses or processor programs?” 

The whine of confusion from Sunstreaker is answer enough and Ratchet rocks back on his pedes, his struts creaking as he gets back up. Prowl points out a patch of wild crystals a few feet away jutting from a crack in the docks. Sunstreaker’s attention is captured and Prowl looks at Ratchet expectantly. 

“These two are coming back with us. I am going to need more equipment and time to figure out what is up with the little one, and if he’s healthy. Most of the injuries here will hold until the boat docks, and the few choosing to stay and make a life here will be fine, but that one’s half slagged,” he says jerking a servo at the blue mechling. 

Jazz nods hesitantly, “I’m sure we can find ‘im a foster.” 

Ratchet snorts, “Sure. Or he can room with Hot Rod because I need access to the kids. That one’s coming too by the by.” 

Sunstreaker looks up sharply with an alarmed warble. Prowl offers him a rust stick out of sheer desperation, the mech’s calm is visibly fraying around the edges. Sunstreaker turns the rust stick over in his servos in confused curiosity. 

“He’s been force upgraded. From what I can tell he should be in his adult frame now, but barely so. He was probably upgraded as a mechling, or a youngling. Second frame, maybe third at most, and I’m leaning towards second. He’s missing key programming as a result. At this point he’s going to have to learn it the hard way, and needs a foster until then, one he trusts.” 

Prowl cycles his optics. He is going to need a bigger hab. 

Chapter Text

Prowl braced himself for his shift with exhaustion lacing his limbs. He cannot leave the precinct, both because it is an excellent source of intel, and because there are too many mecha keeping tabs on him. His brothers, Ultra Magnus, the Chief, various Lords and gangs that prefer his movements public so they might have him killed if he oversteps. 

It is far too much on multiple levels. 

He plugs into his console to open his assigned caseload, locking his joints for the cascade failure of error codes he must endure each cycle. 

[Uplink to server.] [waiting… waiting… failed.]

[Access denied, no cohort connection. Retry?]

[Y. Retry uplink. Manual override.] 

[Manual override accepted. Provide registered numerical code.] 

[Enforcer code 183210, manual override.]

[Uplink to server.] [override.] [error] [error] [error] [no network connection] [retry?]

[Y] 

[Uplink to server] [override code 183210 loading.] [rejected.] [Error] [Cohort unregistered.] [please connect to network] 

[N] [override uplink, code 183210, force link connected.] 

[override code 183210 loading.] [error] [error] [error] [loading] 

[override code 183210, registered Lieutenant Officer Prowl, Tactician Class.] [confirm?] 

[Confirm. Run override.] 

[confirmed. Override running.] [error] [error] [error] 

[Accessed granted.] 

{Good Cycle, Officer Prowl. Welcome Back to the Precinct of Praxus, the City of Crystals. Your Assignments have (Three) New Cases registered. Accepted?} 

{Accept.} 

Prowl unlocks his frame and grits his denta to prevent a whine from slipping out. It is increasingly difficult to fight a computer terminal. If his Precinct, his cohort, hadn’t begun locking him out of the network the first time he’d refused a bribe then he’d still have access. 

His cohort coding probably still would've failed. It might’ve been slower, though. The mercy of avoiding the cascade failures every cycle would have been appreciated had anyone asked. Or cared. 

Prowl discreetly sipped at a cube of coolant. He survived on the stuff here now.  Most enforcers relied on pressed energon and jet fuel additives to keep awake without recharge. Prowl had too once, even enjoyed it. Now he survived each shift on coolant to prevent his systems from overheating until he could disconnect and refresh his error log. 

He clicked through his new caseload apathetically. They no longer trusted him with the bigger cases, or the tactical he had been transferred for. They assigned those to incompetents, or to bribe takers. He had more traffic violations and appeals to sift through, joy. 

He had also been assigned to file the paperwork from the firefight between the Saber gang and the Cobalts. His last case was about a suspected fraudulent real estate mecha, and Prowl opened that one out of sheer curiosity. 

Switchwing, an agent working in compounds and reclaimed manors, has very unverified books and records. From a surface pass it looks like he is just incompetent, hence why the case got shunted to him. Prowl scrolls through the public listing idly, and the recently solved. 

One of the recent compounds, sold a decavorn ago, was broken into by Meister and is now on the market again. Prowl planned that mission, it was a basic mission with a tipoff from one of Prowl’s favorite off-the-books informants about an illegal brothel. 

Prowl goes back through the list, further back, cross referencing with Meister cases and known busts. Three were drug dens, one was involved in a shootout between a gang head and a Lord. Two more were brothels, and one was a siphonist den masquerading as a free clinic and Ratchet had made Jazz shut down two orn ago. 

This is actually a case he could follow through on, the real estate mecha isn’t working for anyone, merely selling and reselling after the property is reclaimed when something inevitably happens. If this Switchwing got arrested no one would care, or notice, for as much shanix as he has hidden away. He was nothing more than a leech on the system of crime in Praxus. 

Prowl flips back to listed properties. He bets he could make a temporary ally of this mech, for just long enough to get Red Alert in his files. This compound, if he and Jazz can get the property title, is in Westport Warren territory, which is well placed with how well connected the warren is. All of Praxus is decided into gang territories and Lord holdings, but Westport is definitely one of the more reasonable to negotiate with. 

The compound is also big enough to house them all with working space, something that is sorely lacking with all of them spread out, and Prowl stuck with three younglings and often Jazz in his tiny apartment. 

Prowl considers for a moment. The other advantage is that due to Praxus’ adherence to its crystal theme and pride the addresses are near identical. If he’s quiet about changing his address in his employment record, then it very likely will go unnoticed. 

He pings Jazz without a second thought. 

::Yeah, Prowler, what’s up? Ain’t’cha at work?:: 

::I am. I had a question for you.:: 

::Sure. Ain’t ya gonna get caught on comms at work though?:: 

Prowl wiggles his wings in consideration, ::No. They don’t pay enough attention, and when they cut me from the network they lost the chance to monitor such things. I believe I shall be fine.:: 

::Aww, mech. That sucks. Whatcha need?:: 

::First, are you busy?::

::Not really. Sunstreaker is watching Blurr and Hot Rod for the cycle, so I was jus’ gonna head to my corner to play for a bit. Need me to pick something up?:: 

Prowl packages the data up and flags the compound he was looking at. Then he pings the whole file to Jazz. The comms are silent for a long second. 

::Mech, am I gonna be doing a long job? This’s a big file for me to not have time to prep or contact Ratchet.::

::Have you opened it yet?:: 

He receives a blurb of audio back, static jumbles of raw data. Jazz has sent the digital equivalent of a raspberry. Prowl buries the laugh he wants to release in the error codes from his ATS, if he’s laughing on shift by himself he will definitely get caught on comms. 

::No, not a long job, just a pick up. I gave you information you likely did not need so that you would have less time to sift through it. I’m going to bring it to the Chief, this is a case I can actually close, but we could get something before I do that will be useful.:: 

Jazz hums into the comm, ::A’ight. I’ll open the file and take a look see. This ain’t gonna be dangerous?:: 

::No. Speed and stealth are essential, and while I may make a donation related to satisfy my coding later, this is just convenient.:: 

Jazz pings an affirmative back and the comm disconnects. Prowl slogs through the traffic logs while he waits. The second Jazz pings his safety back he’s shunting the leech's file to the Chief. 

Jazz is reluctantly impressed with Prowl’s find and initiative. The compound needs work, some construction for safety, stability, and security, but that’s made even easier with the Westpoint Warren offering their services in payment for allowing them on the arena bust. They’d gained four minis in that bust that stayed in Praxus under new idents instead of leaving. 

Switchwing had been arrested that same day, joor after Jazz had absconded with the file, and the mech didn’t keep good enough records, and certainly didn’t have the attention to spare to notice a single property title missing. 

The Warren had started construction same cycle, supplied by energon goodies baked by Prowl and an increasingly intrigued Hot Rod. Hot Rod was a surprisingly good baker with supervision, now capable of churning out a batch of rust sticks on his own, and working through Prowl’s strict course on gels. 

Jazz, conversely, was not allowed in the kitchen. Ratchet had consoled him by mentioning that Wheeljack wasn’t either. It didn't help, and he’d pouted to Inferno and Red Alert instead across the city in the secluded mill house Red felt safest in at the time. 

That had also not helped. Red Alert was in the throes of a paranoia attack, unable to find information about the project the Prowl and Jazz were working on. Jazz had barely escaped the interrogation via stressed Red Alert, assisted by a sedative wielding Inferno. 

All in all, Jazz was just relieved that move in day was today and he could stop indulging Prowl’s weird need for this to be a surprise. Inferno had been let in on enough information to pack the essentials and get Red here, likewise with Wheeljack. Red Alert, Ratchet, and the younglings were really who Prowl was trying to surprise. 

The mech had spent almost all of the bonus shanix from the jobs he’d run with Jazz, lifting from their targets bothered neither mecha, on setting up the compound post construction. There were cameras and security setup all neatly stacked for Red to play with on the table ready to see. 

There was a small art studio set up for Sunstreaker, who had shown both interest and talent in such things. There was both a playroom set up for Hot Rod and Blurr, as well as a common area set up for them all. There was a lab for Wheeljack on the bottom floor with extra reinforcement, and a small clinic for Ratchet not far off, set up for anything up to surgery. It was small, mostly for post mission, but serviceable for the ornery medic. 

Jazz had a weapons closet, and Prowl had his kitchen, and they each had separate habs, with Red Alert and Inferno’s being somewhat separated. Jazz was extremely proud of Prowl who had been both the primary director, and the driving force. If it had been up to Jazz they’d’ve moved in while it was still crumbling and rusted. 

Prowl nodded at Red Alert solemnly, “I got you cameras,” he says and Red Alert lets out a gasp bordering on reverential. 

He digs through the pile, “You got me trip wires and motion sensors too. Infrared! Inferno, I have infrared and night vision cameras! Ooh, and a siren. I bet I could wire some of these into a sleeping gas bomb.” 

Inferno looks suitably alarmed, and unsuitably endeared. Jazz really hopes that he does not in fact do that. Wheeljack’s ansibles light up a cheery warbling orange with glee. 

“I could help with that!” Red Alert chirps excitedly at Wheeljack’s declaration, clutching several cameras close. 

Ratchet grumbles loudly, “I’ll provide the gas if it comes to that, make sure it's safe. Good job, kid,” he pats Prowl’s shoulder roughly as he trudges past. 

Jazz turns his attention to the younglings, all three looking overwhelmed, in the doorway. He’s recording on a closed loop, for any albums later, and he gets footage of Hot Rod’s quiet glee as he spots the trabex table set up in the corner of the main room. The mechling isn’t very good yet, but he enjoys playing the tactics game with Prowl, and has been teaching Blurr in his free time. 

He is much better matched for Blurr, the blue mechling being a poor balance of extremely clever and highly distractible. The vid screen is a closed loop as well, but the player connected sits on a case of vid files big enough to make Jazz pause. He glances at Prowl warily. 

“Plenty of them are youngling shows, cheap. Several are from my own mechling hood, and my brothers’, and may be outdated but are still good. And I grabbed as many as looked interesting from the corner shop as well. There’s an interface for mission planning as well.” 

Jazz hums. That is useful. It isn’t suggested to simply sit younglings in front of a vid screen, but it is useful with injuries, hyperactivity, and programming failures, all of which the mechlings have to some degree or another. Blurr and Hot Rod are sharing a hab connected between Jazz and Prowl’s habs, and they both immediately start shoving the berths together. 

Sunstreaker scoffs and ducks out of the two mechling’s hab. The door across has his glyphs, but the mechling just eyes it uncertainly. Jazz wonders if he has his language protocols installed. He knows that Sunstreaker is missing quite a lot of programming and protocols, but Prowl has paid attention to that far more than Jazz has. 

Prowl ducks out as well with Hot Rod on his pedes, as Blurr attaches himself to Jazz. Prowl palms the door open to reveal a room with a wall of light pens and drawing pads by a desk with an aerobrush set on top. A file shelf is against the other wall, filled with a few reference files, and a row of crystals on the top. A berth is set in an alcove against the back of the hab and Sunstreaker throws himself at Prowl with a clang. 

“Oh, bitty,” Jazz coos. Sunstreaker brandishes his middle digit at him and Jazz cackles in response. Prowl really does dote on his little protector, Hot Rod as well, but he’s told Jazz how much Sunstreaker reminds Prowl of himself. It makes Prowl protective in turn. 

Jazz pings Prowl’s comm, ::So how much spending money did you have after this? You had plenty of untraceable from the arena, but, really wow.:: 

Prowl flicks his wings sheepishly. ::It’s fine. I have enough, and I’m still paid by the precinct.:: 

Jazz snorts loudly, and heads off to check out his own hab. There's a new sitar waiting beside a stand for his electroharp. He is increasingly glad that he botnapped this broken cop bot. 

Prowl steps pede in the precinct and immediately regrets it. He is getting snide looks and snickers from every bot in the building. Something has happened, and he doubles down on locking his mod, just in case. He can’t afford to have plating or nanites out of place. 

Slugger shoves past him meanly, and flicks his wings in condolences with a mocking lilt to his field. Prowl does not know what that means. He pulls his own field in, reluctant in the extreme to let anyone teek the fear and anxiety flushing it. 

“Officer Prowl,” Chief Barricade barks, and he jerks a servo at his office. Prowl swallows reflexively and follows. Mean snickers fill the room behind him, and the tell tale sounds of a video file start to play. It’s unfamiliar and alarming in its strange presence. 

Prowl sits across from the chief stiffly. The chief sighs, a facade of solemnity given away by the smugness in his field. He slides an image capture and a file across the desk to Prowl. He knows the mech in the capture. 

Rhodonite is his contact, his informant, his protected witness. It is all legal, by the books, every bit of datawork filled out and stored properly on his terminal, even if he hadn’t published or advertised it. Now the mini’s cheerful faceplates beam up from the contact capture that existed only on his terminal. 

Prowl reaches out and takes the file with shaking servos. He opens it as the chief watches, a facade of projected strength and support. His datawork on Rhodonite has been meticulously printed and compiled and stamped as invalid. 

He flips through. His wings are rattling lightly, held down and tight to his frame with stress. Witness protection, invalid. Contact credentials, invalid. Informant’s pay, invalid. Informant’s recall, invalid. Contact registration, invalid. 

On the last page, behind the contact registry, duly stamped, is a series of captures and an audio-vid feed tape. A cheap one, the kind meant to be passed around and downloaded. A transcript is attached. 

“I do apologize,” the Chief says, voice oily and full of false platitude, “But you’ve made your stance on bribes very clear, so I took the liberty of filing your refusal and your loss.” 

Prowl’s servos are shaking. Badly. A coding glitch looms, he shunts it to ATS processing, it fails and he tries desperately to backburner it anyways. He cannot glitch here. 

The image captures slip from his shaking digits as he numbly reaches for the transcript. It isn’t much better, and the chief has ever so kindly included the refusal message he’d sent, and the reply. 

There’s only five captures. One of the meetings he had with Rhodonite, at a local cafe where he regularly fed the street mech, the minibot grinning over a cube at him. 

The next shows the mini with the gang he’d fallen in with, the one he’d been reporting from and on to Prowl, the Scourge gang. He’s a runner for them, and the capture shows him taking one of the packages to transport. 

The third, fourth, and fifth are all clearly stills from a video, likely different stages from the tape. Rhodonite cuffed to a chair scuffed and dented, his denta bared at the video angle. Rhodonite, his optic shorted out and throat cabling sparking, tied into a hanging position off the floor. Rhodonite still tied and hanging, his windshield now shattered, and defiance cracked to pieces and hanging over a smelter’s pit now, fear visible on his faceplates. 

The Scourge’s never take kindly to snitches, and had earned their name partly by a rumored preference to go under the public scourge than deal with what they dealt. They have a particular talent, both in torturing mecha until their frames gray, and in drawing it out for ransom. Upon receiving the ransom they would usually release the bot, but if they didn't they would video the deactivation of their victims and send it to their target. 

They were well known for this enough to send a preemptive final time of death for any last minute changes of the processor, and ransom agreements. The Chief’s gracious refusal of the ransom, that he knew Prowl would have paid, never mind his own fondness, that was protocol for civilian informants, was included in the transcript. 

As was the final date for ransom agreements. The transcript was dated an orn ago, the final date was that night cycle. Prowl could not get enough credits together in that short a time frame to pay the ransom, not believably or legally, and the Chief knew it. 

Prowl clutched the file and stared at his shaking servos. He met Chief Barricade’s optics. They were smug, satisfied, filled with dark glee. Prowl hadn’t liked the mech, hadn’t trusted him for vorn now. Now, Prowl was pretty sure he actively hated the mecha. 

“I understand that you were attempting to extract this informant? For safety reasons?” 

Prowl nodded mutely. Rhodonite had been friendly, sweet even, he didn't fit where he’d ended up and Prowl had been working on extraditing him to Iacon for a safer functioning. He might have cautiously called Rhodonite a friend, save for the constant frisson of danger surrounding the meetings where he made sure the minibot fueled. 

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” the chief said, delight in his field, “You may take an orn of paid grief leave. You do not need to work your shift after such a thing as that.” 

“Yes, sir.” Prowl says and he rises to his pedes, willing himself not to shake from grief and the still threatening glitch. 

“And Officer Prowl?” The chief calls after him, and Prowl half turns in the doorway to meet his optics, “Next time, perhaps you’ll file your datawork properly. If you posted such things to the network your cohort might’ve been able to help before this unfortunate incident occurred.” 

It is a deliberate jab. Prowl can feel the rising mirth from the gathered mecha behind him, the chief had timed it so everyone would hear. He tucks the file into his subspace and strides for the door, deliberate and resolute. One of the monitors behind him plays a tinny scream that ends in a crunch of torn wires. The vocal codes match Rhodonite’s, his ATS supplies. 

His wings lower further and the entire investigations bullpen erupts with laughter. 

The second he’s out of the precinct he transforms and all but flees home. Sunstreaker looks up from the couch where he’s working through learning his glyphs with Inferno and pauses. Prowl stalks past the couch, wings low and plating clamped, heading straight for his hab. 

He will ask for Jazz’s help getting Rhodonite out of Praxus soon, but his glitch is making his vision staticky around the edges, and he really just wishes to mourn for a klick. 

He buries himself in the blankets on his berth with the hab door shut and he keens. 

The door swishes open for a moment, then shut again. The buzz of active comm lines fuzzes at the edge of his awareness, and that tips him over the edge. He offlines his vocalizer and lets himself tip headlong into the glitch, unable to truly fight it. 

His vision goes dark as his optics fritz and spark, and short out. His doorwings are spitting nonsense data at him, uninterpretable and overwhelming, over the edge of numb straight until it feels as if he’s dipped his sensitive panels in acid. 

His audios register nothing, a small mercy, and his protoform crawls with data ghosts and false readings as his temp-regulation takes itself offline. His entire frame locks itself into his curled position as he curls with agony and screams with a vocalizer that won’t make a peep. 

His ATS spits out error code after error code as the last of his core coding, his enforcer parameters that have defined his functioning, his cohort code and network access, all that remains of the code he’d successfully maintained for centivorn after centivorn before his transfer to Praxus, all of his coding that he’d held onto and patched and dug his claws into to keep, every last bit shredded itself. 

He screams again, a silent thing, as a servo carefully rests between his wings. Magnets activate on a low setting, tracing careful circles and lines. Jazz delicately gathers him up and clutches him close, rocking them both back and forth on the berth. Prowl is a helm taller, and still he curls close and lets himself keen silently into Jazz’s plating. 

His glitch flares again and he spits static past his offline vocalizer as his frame locks and seizes again. Jazz hums softly, still rocking them, and he taps Prowl’s wrist port in question. Prowl opens it without a second thought, he trusts Jazz. 

The second the glitch eases Jazz plugs in and slips through Prowl’s systems, an oil slick in solvent, dazzling and impossible to grasp. He resets error after error until he reaches the utter mess of Prowl’s core code. Even if Prowl transferred to another city he could never be an enforcer again. It had been a mess before, but one still able to be uninstalled and reinstalled if necessary. 

Now, the coding has disintegrated so rapidly and thoroughly that it damaged the surrounding sectors, and caused a cascade failure through his processor. He will always have permanent code damage. He is damaged now. 

He sobs into Jazz’s chassis. The assassin pokes the code gently, and nudges a loose sector back into a safer piece of jagged code. He can rewrite it, will have to in fact, but it will not be enforcer code. It will always be glitched. Jazz smooths the edges out calmly, clearly on comms with Ratchet as occasional worry spikes and smooths into determination. 

By the time they surface from his processor Prowl has dried coolant tears down his faceplates, and Ratchet is in the doorway with all three mechlings behind him failing to peek around the ambulance’s bulk. Prowl flips his vocalizer back on with a dull rasp, but says nothing. 

“Wha’ brought that on?” Jazz asks gently, and Prowl pulls the file out, drops it on the berth, and shoves the memory file at Jazz of his whole precinct laughing at the potentially inevitable death of an innocent mecha that had been engineered to fails, his entire precinct laughing at him as he failed to save a mecha that he’d been doomed to fail from the start, that he hadn’t been given the chance to try for. 

Jazz pauses, watches the memory through, flips through the file, and lets out a snarl loud enough to rattle through Prowl’s chassis. Blurr and Hot Rod squeak from the doorway and duck away, as Sunstreaker looms further in. 

“Right, that’s slagged. We’ll be getting him out tonight then, emergency rescue, all hands on deck. This ain’t gonna fly at all.” 

Prowl churrs and offers the information his ATS was able to compile from the captures and transcript through the hardline still connecting them. Jazz cycles his optics and looks down at their connected wrists. 

“Right. Let’s go plan this out, we’re gonna have to be fast and improvise well.” 

He disconnects and bounces out to the main room. Prowl follows, stiff framed, and planning a detour to the kitchen for as many cold packs as he can carry. He might’ve had the worst glitch to date, but there was work to do. 

He was going to get Rhodonite out, and one day he would shoot the chief himself. No way around it. 

Chapter Text

Prowl is curled on the couch buried in cool packs and mechlings while Jazz raids his files. Jazz knows his systems, his passcodes, and every file he pulls is either on the Scourge gang or on Rhodonite. The relevant parts are projected on the vid screen for easy perusal by Prowl and Red Alert. 

They have seven joor until the projected death time for Rhodonite, which realistically means two joor to plan, one joor to get there and set up, and one joor to actually execute the rescue. 

Wheeljack is fiddling with a handful of bombs and detonated wires as he shows an unusual bloodlust and interest in the complete removal of the gang. Inferno is switching between balancing Red’s spiraling and noting the structural defects in this particular gang’s territory. 

Prowl’s insights are staggered, mainly on intergang politics and Rhodonite himself, but every tidbit he can force out of his grating vocalizer is ruthlessly assimilated into Jazz’s forming plans. Jazz solemnly notes the suggestions from the younglings as well, in a different colored light pen.

The only mech not planning is Ratchet who is switching a heavy glare between Jazz and Prowl. The medic agreed to hold off on his questions and examination until this mission was run, that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. 

“They all need to die,” Red Alert insists again, “And you have to stay disguised. Rhodonite knowing Prowl makes him a security risk. He can’t stay in Praxus.” 

Prowl twitches his helm oddly from his perch on the couch and nudges Wheeljack’s hip strut with his pede, “Hey. If we targeted the weak points that are making Inferno twitchy, how long would it take to collapse?” 

There is a long pause. Jazz swipes the notes to the side, pulls up structural specs, and hands the holopad to Inferno without a sound. 

“Respond,” Red Alert barked at Prowl. 

“Yes! Fine, I agree, Rhodonite gets rescued by strangers, he’ll go to Iacon thinking I abandoned him. Fine!” 

The room was silent for a long minute. Prowl wilted further, practically hiding under his cold packs. Sunstreaker gently patted the top of his helm, awkward sympathy clear. 

“Ya okay there, Prowler?” Jazz asked tentatively. 

“No.” Prowl glared at the room as a whole, his right optic sparking slightly, “I am not. My coding is still unstable. I am tricking my logic circuits so that they do not melt down and it is working, but only so long as I keep tricking my own code. It was illegal, for Rhodonite to be abandoned, for my glyphs to be used to do so without my consent or knowledge, it is illegal to do what I have been doing for the past several decacycles with you.” 

“Um,” Jazz managed, and Prowl barreled on, distress leaking from him in waves. 

“None of that even matters because of ethics and morality. Enforcers' ethnic codes are strict, tied to both laws of a city-state and to a decided upon standard, and mine are at such odds that they are rewriting, and it hurts. My moral code demands I get Rhodonite out, and my ethics demand that I keep my cohort safe, and my logic tells me I have no cohort! No, I am not okay, but I will recover. Can we please finish planning?” 

Red Alert hesitates, “You could imply that you and Meister were hired by Prowl, by you. If that satisfies your coding? Minis usually have recording functions, so just no hard proof.” 

Jazz watches Prowl relax in increments. He nods and Jazz grins, a small one, more for comfort than anything else. 

Prowl smiles back, one of his secret, barely there ones, softness in his optics and a flash of denta. Inferno hands the pad back to Jazz with a nasty grin. 

“I think that’ll work. Based on schematics, you could take the whole block down, but definitely the headquarter’s compound. Safely too, if it's done right. I’d suggest you get in, get the bot out, get him on the train and blow it remotely.” 

Wheeljack leans forward, his fins flashing a malicious violet. The Scourge gang has run afoul of Wheeljack before, menacing in on Ratchet’s clinic and demanding weapons from the engineer, “I can provide the bombs, all tied to a detonator. Leave the det’ with me and Red, and set the bombs where we tell you. I’ve got ones that are flat and sticky, they’ll pass as rust patches.” 

“That’s terrifying,” Prowl says, “Can you disguise them as other things? How many? Why?” 

Wheeljack shifts slightly, “I dunno. It's fun? I’m working on a series of bombs that work as an integrated speaker system when I’m bored right now. Why not?” 

“Promise me you’ll never become a domestic terrorist right now. You’d be my worst nightmare.” 

Jazz snorts at Prowl, and taps at his pede softly, “Not a serial killer? Ya just ain’t wanting him to be a terrorist?” 

Prowl flicks his sensor panels dismissively, “Eh. Technically he already is, by association at least. We’ve both used his weapons, with his knowledge and blessing, you even moreso. Everyone in this room could be tried for planned serial murder, successfully.” 

No one says anything. Red Alert’s horns spark just once, and Prowl shrugs again, “It’ll be fine. I’m the only one that could actually provide the evidence since I’ve been sabotaging the rest. Oh, slag.” 

“What?” Ratchet demands with more stress than Jazz had ever heard from the grumpy medic. 

“I’m going to have to set up permanent guardian datawork. All three mechlings are complicit now. Frag it all.” 

“Is that bad?” Sunstreaker asks, as Hot Rod and Blurr pull back. 

“No. I really wasn’t looking for a foster, anyways.” Prowl sighs loudly, “I’m not a Praxus native. I’m from Iacon, I’m a citizen because I’ve been here long enough, but because I’m also a citizen of Iacon the datawork will be in both State Records.” 

“So?” Hot Rod asks slowly. 

“So my brothers will find out eventually. Not a problem, I just won’t enjoy that conversation.” 

Red Alert wrests the holopad from Jazz to start tapping into the camera system, “I can hide it in the metadata for you, backdate it. That’ll actually help with security in general. That’ll mean they’d have to look for it.” 

Prowl hums an affirmative, and wriggles out from the pile of mechlings and cold packs to tap at the holo pad. He brings up a variable list, and Red Alert passes the pad to him with the plan layout. 

Wheeljack clatters down to his lab for the rust bombs, and Prowl sinks himself into the tactical planning he was good at. He was determined that this would go well, and Jazz hovering over his shoulder, was taking equal careful note of the bomb locations they’d need to place. 

Idly he pokes Prowl, and the mech shifts into one of his other persona frames. He’d chosen the identity Red had built as Sharpgear, and Jazz wondered if Prowl had looked at the background files for that ident. Sharpgear was supposed to be a registered prostibot, and Red Alert was always thorough. 

At least this would be interesting. 

It was the glitch that seemed to truly crack Red Alert’s walls. The safe place to live, and willingness to provide an avenue for his paranoias had helped, but it was the glitch that had cemented Red’s fledgling trust in Prowl. 

Inferno looked at his conjunx with pride as he ran comms and cameras with Ratchet for the first time without a reservation since Prowl had joined Jazz. He’d helped run the arena op, but that had been much more of technical assistance, than actively helpful. 

::Prowl, there is a set of guards around the corner to your left. Hang back, and cover Jazz.:: 

::Acknowledged.:: 

Red clicked through the camera system again, an anxious tick of the worst sort. The Scourge gang was arrogant, prideful in their violence and skill with such things. They did not feel a need for security or cameras, so secure in their pride in their abilities to fight were they. 

They were wrong, of course, but the lack of true visuals was still stressing Red Alert out. The sheer inability to properly plan for this op had them all on edge, and Wheeljack was occupying himself by playing with his speaker bombs behind them. 

He was connecting Jazz’s music slugs to them and playing them, attempting to play with the audio quality. They were currently very tinny and shrill, and definitely annoying Ratchet. 

::Standby,:: Prowl broadcast as he eased after Jazz, his rifle held at the ready. There was a dead zone ahead, and one more compound to get through before they reached the smelter at the center. 

Inferno leaned forward and tapped on one of Red’s screen to open the home systems in the corner. They’d sent the mechlings to berth a joor ago. Sunstreaker was watching from around the corner again, and Hot Rod was tucked into his side. 

Red Alert glanced over and sighed deeply. It released a static sound of gibberish over the open comms, and Jazz snickered back. 

::Mechlings up again?:: 

Ratchet stood up with a loud groan and Inferno watched both mechlings scramble back to their berthrooms frantically. Ratchet sat back down, his field teeking satisfaction and amusement. ::Not anymore, they’re not.:: 

Blurr had fallen into recharge half a breem ago, but the other two were not so easy. Inferno was beginning to consider the idea of Red’s sleeping gas bomb for a purpose it was not intended for. 

Prowl paused and plastered up another bomb. The klik its edges were pressed in, the whole thing went slightly melty. It was the last bomb before they entered the center of the compound, and that transition was the one stressing Red out. 

The center was the biggest building in the compound headquarters of the Scourges’, it had the living quarters and armory in addition to the smelter, and the most guards and fighters were going to be there. 

There was only one entrance. They could not sneak in. Red Alert did not appreciate testing his idents this way. Jazz shifted to the matching frame persona to Prowl’s and took the lead. 

Red tucked his pedes up on his seat and watched the one camera anxiously, Ratchet equally stiff beside him. Jazz’s current persona, Twincharge, was a registered dancer, and an unregistered prostibot, and had a reputation in several other gangs. 

Not a true one, but it would provide some validity if Jazz had to back Prowl’s up. The mech was stiff, and Inferno was just as dubious as the others about the enforcer’s ability to pull this off. 

Twincharge and Sharpgear approached the two guards by the door with open frame language. Inferno reached out slowly and turned up the volume on their end of the open comms, in lieu of a working audio-slug. 

“Well, hello. What are two pretty mecha like you doing here?” One of the guards purred. The other gripped his gun a bit tighter. 

“We was ordered,” Jazz purred, husky and with an affect of confusion. He’d done this before, and pretending like the guards should have been aware of his coming always worked best, “Mecha called Quartz?” 

Quartz was an actual mech in the gang, one of about middle rank, and the guard who’d spoken first shifted suspiciously. Inferno leaned in at the same time as he watched Prowl start to deliberately shift his frame language. 

“Fairly sure Quartz wouldn’t order you. He likes a good clang as much as the next bot, but, well,” The guard chuckled meanly. The comms clicked emptily. Prowl leaned closer to the guard, ignoring Jazz’s clear look of panicked worry. 

“I understand,” Prowl said, all low notes and a purring undertone that Inferno didn't know the mech could use, let alone fake. Jazz remained frozen beside him, clearly as unsure where he was going with this. 

“Yeah?” Said the second guard, speaking for the first time with far too much challenge, “Because there isn’t a mech here that would look twice at a ruster, even if there’s freaks in Praxus that would.” 

Inferno hurriedly slammed the mute on their end as Ratchet began snarling out nasty curses. Wheeljack was focused on the screen, his fins a deep indigo in furious disgust. Red Alert was frozen entirely, horns sparking and optics locked on the tiny Jazz on his screen, who was still frozen and shocked. 

“What’s a ruster?” Sunstreaker asked from behind the corner. 

“I dunno,” Hot Rod whispered back, and Ratchet snarled deeply, a grinding sound native to most Altihexians, of extreme displeasure. 

“I don’t ever want to hear either of you say that again, let alone call Jazz it,” he snarled, “You may ask Jazz and Prowl later, and that’s it. Go to your berths, now!”

The sounds of the two of them running for their rooms effectively drained the tension from the room that the hated slur had brought in. Jazz had been created in Praxus, raised here, albeit in an unusual upbringing. His creators may have been immigrants, Primus rest their sparks, but Jazz had never even left Praxus for that slur to even be accurate. 

The only claim Jazz had to the city his frametype belonged to was his frame. The Poly had never been to the Rust Sea, and the connecting rivers through Praxus were heavily filtered and monitored. Still, the slur blindsided the bot when he was called it, even if it rarely broke his stride. 

On the screen Prowl leaned forward, subtly tucking Jazz behind him slightly. “Even so,” he said, evenly, “We were asked for. Twincharge is my supervisor while I’m in training. If he didn’t come I wouldn’t be allowed. It is still a half vorn until I am cleared from training, I think?” 

Jazz grinned weakly at Prowl’s nudge and backed him up, with his usual grace and a played up streetmech’s accent, “We can knock off an orn if tonigh’ goes well, I think. But, yeah. Quartz is real particular, bu’ this one ain’t done wit’ training. I ain’t allowed t’ let him wit’ a customer yet, not without a watcher.” 

Both guards let out a mean laugh and step aside. The door swishes open, and the first fires a parting shot at Jazz’s backplates, “Best hope the rest of his training really is necessary. It’s not hard to kill a ruster to keep his little trainee.” 

They turn a corner and Red switches cameras, and the comms back on. 

::Sorry.:: Prowl says immediately, ::Sorry, I didn’t have confirmation on the purism rumors until now. That was awful.:: 

::That was well played,:: is Jazz’s response, ::I didn’t know you could act like that.:: 

::Are you going to laugh if I tell you that I was just channeling what I do when I play with Hot Rod and Blurr?:: 

::Yes, but I’ll save it for later.:: 

::My hero,:: Prowl shoots back dryly as Jazz takes a turn plastering a bomb up. They have a few to go to get to the weak points in the infrastructure that Inferno had marked as necessary, the rest were just extra. 

Prowl flicks his wings several times in rapid succession as they take a circular loop of the compound towards the smelter. They have three joor until the projected final time from Rhodonite’s last appeal, they are ahead of schedule. 

The second the last rust bomb has been smoothed down, Jazz leaps into the rafters to cover Prowl’s entry to the smelter. Prowl is planning on going undetected by using one of the side entrances, for deliveries if this facility were still being used for its purpose of production. 

Red switches cameras, and they all have a perfect view to see Prowl quietly step into the smelter room, which had almost triple the mecha they’d projected gathered around the whimpering form of the mini they’d come for. Jazz eases in after him, and they both freeze in the doorway. 

Every hasty plan goes to the pit at some point, but Inferno doesn't know how they’ll fight seventeen mecha without Jazz’s sonics without taking damage, or without damaging the mini. 

Prowl hums softly. The open comm line buzzes, a static comfort, and he reaches up towards Jazz with an open wrist port.. Jazz hard lines in without protest, the need to communicate without detection combining with a growing sense of urgency. 

~How good is your targeting?~ Prowl asks, and Jazz whickers his claws in and out again nervously. 

~Not good enough for this. I could hit everyone, easy, but it’d be exactly that. I ain’t got any target differentiation systems in place.~ 

Prowl considers for a moment. He needs to get Rhodonite, but his sensor panels are a distinct advantage here. His ATS is more than capable of running a targeting system, and the data from his wings will allow very precise algorithms. 

~We should do a system slave. Use my targeting and cover me,~ Jazz flips his helm down to regard Prowl calmly. He has switched back to Meister colors, even if Prowl remains in the pastel colors and sharp prostibot angles of Sharpgear. 

~Aight. You gonna have to actively flag you and your mini as not targets though, my instincts are to shoot.~ 

Prowl nods, and he agrees to every handshake protocol Jazz sends through. The targeting systems line up, and Jazz actively begins linking them as Prowl starts writing the active parameters and directives. 

By the time they’ve disconnected, Jazz is cooing about how much data he’s getting from the input from Prowl’s wings through Ratchet’s protests about Jazz getting more sensors. Jazz darts back up into the rafters, unseen once more save a shifting patch in the shadows. 

Prowl steps out, a beacon of pastel periwinkle and indigo, of all the color pallets, honestly Jazz. He gestures towards Rhodonite, and says, “I believe I’ll be taking him. Your demands were, what, again?” 

His only directive at the moment is to distract them and to negotiate Rhodonite away from the smelter so that any shots won’t result in his death. 

“Are you authorized? We sent the negotiation request to the cop bot, and got a refusal. I don’t believe you match the image capture in the least,” Dreadwire says, “Cute though, you’re certainly welcome to stay.” 

The head of one of the deadliest gangs in Praxus then wiggles his wings at Prowl in a particularly salacious invitation. Prowl steels himself and wags his own back in the gesture of acceptance and request. He can flirt, he just never sees the point in it. 

The burst of startled laughter down the open comm line is unappreciated. 

“First, let's come to an agreement. Authorization, or not, I’m here for a reason. No reason for fun if I don’t get paid for the job I'm here for,” Prowl cants his wings in the posture for playful mischief, and then settles them into professional stiffness. 

Dreadwire leers at him, optics tracing the jut of the modded structure of Prowl’s hip plates, and flicks a gesture at the mecha behind him. Rhodonite swings around with a static screech, suspended in a net of wires hooked through his plating. A series of clicking, crunchy sobs follow as he’s unceremoniously unhung and dropped to the floor with a thunk. 

The hooks and wires pool around his rattling frame and Prowl can’t hide his cringe at the wild scream forced past Rhodonite’s shredded throat cables as Dreadwire kicks the limp frame viciously and Rhodonite is rolled onto his back with the force of the kick. 

“You know, he really was so sure his cop bot friend would come for him. I read him the rejection and everything, for the whole orn he was convinced he’d get a shiny rescuer from the enforcers,” Dreadwing regards him, “Well. I guess you’re still shiny, I suppose.” 

Prowl hums, and meets the single flickering optic peering at him from Rhodonite’s huddled form, “Mmm. Prowl sends his regards, unfortunately your message reached other mecha first. I am here on his behalf, since he missed the window for extension.” 

Dreadwire cackles, “Aww, shiny and funny. We don’t give extensions. I’m willing to knock off a hundred creds, for the pretty aft to look at, but unless you got the remaining twenty-six hundred with you, then you’d better hope you aren’t squeamish.” 

“I am here on his behalf,” Prowl repeats, meeting the gang lord’s optics with his best facsimile of one of Jazz’s feral grins, “Not yours.” 

Prowl moves at the same time as Jazz, their targeting systems linked and easily fast enough for this one first maneuver. Prowl pulls his rifle from subspace and shoots Dreadwire through the spark in the same moment as Jazz drops from the rafters on one guard and shoots another three in the same movement. 

Prowl shoots forward and drags Rhodonite out of the line of fire by the clump of wires, the first thing he could grab, and he stands over the whining mini as he aims and fires, aims and fires, and fans his wings wide to provide Jazz as much data as possible. 

In a moment of almost uncharacteristically annoyed frustration, Prowl assigns a target track to the data ghost that’s been pinging his wings occasionally since they entered the compound. In all likelihood it is an air current fan, something designed to muddle wing input, running on a randomized mode. 

It is annoying to filter out, and the filter doesn’t stick regardless. He takes great satisfaction in watching Jazz shoot the empty air of his data ghost and immediately flip around to shoot another of the guards. 

Prowl crouches, rifle loaded within reach, and begins wiggling the barbed hooks out of Rhodonite’s plating. The whines from the mini are spark rending, but the growing pile of disconnected wires is worth the bot’s discomfort. 

He flicks a wing and snaps his rifle up to shoot at a couple of new gang mecha entering the room late. One of them is from the door guard, and Prowl shoots his vocalizer out first, then his spark. Jazz slides over, energon splattering his dark colors, and he drops a canister of spray sealant into Prowl’s servo. 

Prowl shakes it, sprays it on every slow leak, practically slathering the faster ones in a way that will definitely get Ratchet to yell at him later, then he abandons the canister on the floor. Jazz covers their retreat as he scoops Rhodonite up roughly, and they book it. 

The train station is a mere two blocks away, and Iacon is only a few joors ride. In addition, Praxus sheer ability to smuggle anything and everything in and out, makes this next step incredibly easy. 

A medical stasis pod isn’t illegal to ship, quite the opposite with how many are passed around as need for them shifts between city states. Occupied pods are very much illegal to ship, but it truly is the best way to get Rhodonite out. Ratchet has an Iaconite contact that regularly picks up occupied pods for medical care, and forged papers can pass the occupation off. 

Rhodonite struggles as Prowl tries to gently shove him into the stasis pod. A clicking grinding sound comes from his vocalizer as he entirely fails to talk. 

“It’s okay,” Prowl says, still using the lower vocal code of Sharpgear, “You’ll be fine. There’s a medic in Iacon, his des’ is First Aid, and he’ll make sure you’re safe.” 

Rhodonite abruptly stops struggling and simply stares with his one optic wide and flickering with astonishment. Prowl takes the opportunity to activate the pod and withdraw. The pod fills with the green stasis gel, and Jazz injects the repair nanites from Ratchet calmly. Rhodonite’s broken faceplate floats just below the viewing window, sporting an expression of calm serenity edged with pain. 

Prowl shoves the active pod into a crate labeled as medical supplies, nanites and welding wire, and gel conductors, and shuts the lid. The train leaves in a half breem, and he and Jazz escape just as the cargo doors slide shut. 

::You two want to find a perch? It’s about to get explosive,:: Ratchet informs them wryly. 

The explosion that tears through the city is nothing short of glorious. It is contained, with no injuries to surrounding sectors, and no survivors from the epicenter. 

The train rattles off behind them and Prowl lets satisfaction curl his mouth up at the corners. Jazz grins at him blindingly back, and they both shift back to their natural frames before they walk back. 

Jazz the street performer and Officer Prowl are publicly friendly, and it is the perfect time in the evening for them to meet for energon. Prowl waves at the enforcers from his precinct as they pass, the consistent amicable mask hiding his utter distaste for them still confusing every mecha he worked with. 

Cogshift flicks a rude gesture at him in turn, and Jazz laughs meanly as they meander onwards. There is an ominous cracking as the infrastructure issue that Inferno had noted reared its head. The call for immediate evacuation behind them heralds the inevitable sinkhole from the compound’s destruction as it starts to fall into its own smelter. 

There’s a reason for the regulations around smelters, and why they aren’t left constantly active. Too bad that one has been listed as deactivated for two vorn now, to mask its true use. A smelter sink can be fixed if it's caught early. 

Prowl flicks his own wings in an equally crude farewell as they turn the corner. 

It’s deserved. 

Chapter Text

Ratchet abandoned the interface med pad a joor ago. Instead he has plugged directly into Prowl’s cortex to poke at the coding with his medical protocols active. He curses intermittently and Prowl focuses on his game of Hax with Jazz. 

He knows the damage, he doesn’t need to see Ratchet’s disappointment. 

Hot Rod leans loser onto Jazz’s back to see the game board. Jazz is surprisingly good at Prowl’s favorite tactics game, and he hadn’t taught this one to the mechling yet. Prowl moves one of his towers two spaces to the right. 

Jazz curses in tandem with Ratchet’s most recent expletives as Prowl’s move cuts off one of his passes. Prowl takes a second to turn his meta towards where Ratchet is, Ratchet’s meta is sifting through the ruins of Prowl’s cohort coding. Prowl had asked for him to leave it for last, he’d be disconnecting soon. 

Jazz focused on the game board with a deliberate sort of determination that told Prowl that he was paying far more attention than he thought. Red Alert, curled against Inferno on the other couch, wasn’t bothering to hide his interest. 

Prowl swept several of Jazz’s pieces away in a needlessly aggressive move as Ratchet surfaced from his coding and disconnected from his cortex. 

“Really, mech?” Jazz said, staring at the board. He has just lost his best route for a western front on the board. Hot Rod snickers into his shoulder, and Prowl flicks his wings with stiff amusement. 

He does not look at Ratchet. Ratchet does not care if he looks. 

“Kid, you’re a fragging idiot. I can’t even fault you for it either, so much of this is malicious that it's ridiculous. Why wouldn’t you ask for help before this?” 

Prowl’s wings lower. He fiddles with one of the captured pieces, it's the set from Smokescreen when he’d transferred to Praxus with fancy fiddly pieces. Jazz makes his move, peering at him concernedly, and Prowl captures another piece. He has a tower with doors to open and shut in one servo, and a few soldier pieces with flicking gears in the other. 

“Prowl,” Ratchet says, low, even, warningly, “Why didn’t you go to a medic.” 

“I did.” The door snaps off his tower piece and Prowl drops all the pieces immediately. This was one of the few things he had left from his brothers that hadn’t been destroyed or tainted by his precinct. He couldn’t ruin it himself. 

They clatter to the floor and he flinches hard, his wings tucked as tightly to his frame as he can get them. Jazz slowly, telegraphing his every move, sets the board to the side gently. Hot Rod slides down and wanders over to where Sunstreaker is sketching beside Inferno. 

Ratchet slowly steps over to face Prowl, and Prowl keeps his helm down. Ratchet, instead of tilting Prowl’s face up or making him make optic contact, Ratchet simply kneels down and leans in to catch optic contact himself. Prowl darts his gaze away and Ratchet lets him. 

“Your coding is a mess. I can trace the damage logs and error notes, it has been for a while. Almost as long as you have been in Praxus.” 

“I know,” Prowl whispers. He doesn't want to do this. Ratchet had insisted, made enough of a stink that Jazz had backed him up. Now everyone was watching, worried and it was far too much. 

“Will you tell me what happened with the medic?” Ratchet asks. His voice is gentle, calm. 

Prowl opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He shuts it again and resets his vocalizer with a click. He tries again. “Mmm,” is all he manages. 

Jazz threads his servo through Prowl’s and pulses his magnets. It is unfairly calming. “Hey, what if we clear the room a bit? Would that help, Prowler?” 

Prowl nods jerkily, and Ratchet turns just slightly, “Wheeljack, take the mechlings out please. Inferno, do you think you could get a cube of coolant for Prowl, and a cube of energon with magnesium shavings for everyone?” 

The room rapidly clears and Prowl focuses on venting steadily as it does. Red Alert stays perched on the other couch, tapping a steady rhythm on his thighs, one of his own calming patterns. Jazz matches his mag pulses to the rhythm and Ratchet hums tunelessly along as well. It works. 

Prowl will have to remember that pattern he thinks as he takes the cube of coolant from Inferno. His servo shakes ever so slightly, and Ratchet pours the cube of energon in. It is taken from him to be swirled into silvery blue and pink and given back. Everyone else’s are the silvery pink of the supplemented standard. 

“Alright. What happened when you went to the medic, Prowl?” Ratchet is still gentle, it is an alien tone for the brash medic, but Prowl appreciates it anyways.

“She said it was fine. Nothing she could do.” 

Red Alert scoffs and Jazz snarls. Ratchet simply holds his gaze, “And?” 

Prowl leans into Jazz, taking a shaky sip of his cube, “I think she made it worse.” 

“You did not want me to look at your code, barely tolerated the checkup when Jazz first brought you.” Ratchet looks vaguely devastated, “Is that why?” 

Prowl wiggles his wings in an affirmative and clamps his plating down defensively, “You’re the third medic I’ve seen in Praxus. I think I trust you, but. I don’t know. I don’t -“ 

“You don’t have too. What happened with both? Details please? I want to help.” 

Prowl nods jerkily, “The first medic was Triage, she’s the enforcer’s medic. I’m not supposed to see non enforcer medics, no enforcer is. Because of the coding or any mods.” 

“Is,” Jazz asks hesitantly, “that everywhere?” 

“Yes. It was the same in Iacon too. There’s medics assigned to the precincts. It’s for security as much as anything.” 

Red Alert hums, “Huh. I suddenly like having Ratchet around much more.” 

“Oi!” 

Prowl relaxes slightly, “Triage said it was fine, flagged my, mm, my network connection errors. She-she said to try manually disconnecting and reconnecting. It, that, I-“ 

Ratchet huffs lowly, “That didn't work, it just let them cut you out of the network entirely.” 

“Yes. I- I think that caused my first cascade error chain when I tried to reconnect. I have to connect with manual overrides and relays at my terminal every shift, and there’s a delay.” Prowl grips Jazz’s servo tightly, taking an overly large gulp of his cube. 

“Was that faulty advice or malice,” Jazz asks, and Ratchet tilts his helm. 

“Any medic worth a street scrap’s grace knows better. Enforcer medics have stupidly high standards, I’d say malice. I’d go so far as deliberately preplanned malice, she was waiting for Prowl, and likely had someone monitoring their network anchor.” 

“That sucks slag,” is Inferno’s contribution, and its simplicity thrums wry amusement through the group. 

“That would get you killed. A delay in any networks mean warnings, or information could-“ 

Prowl cuts into Red Alert, “I know. I- when I made Jazz help me on that first job I told him this was going to take me offline, that was one of the reasons why.” 

Ratchet scoffs, “Well. Not if I can help it. Alright, tell me about the second medic.” 

“Mmm. Solflow. I went to him when my code had degraded enough that I could seek another medic. They were the highest rated that I could afford.” 

Prowl goes still and silent again. Jazz squeezes his servo and Ratchet leans in, “What happened with Solflow, Prowl?” 

“I- he identified the underlying problem as my disconnect from the network. He said it was causing cascade errors. I couldn’t maintain my enforcer coding without the uplink, so he wanted to reconnect my systems.” 

Ratchet’s entire frame flares with tension, every plate lifted and rattling with alarm, “What?” 

Prowl watches Ratchet like he’s a razor snake about to strike. Jazz tosses his empty cube at Ratchet’s helm gently, “Calm down and explain. Why’s that scarin’ you?” 

“If they deliberately cut Prowl out of the network, which we’ve already confirmed, then attempting to uplink him by force wouldn’t do anything. That explains why I could trace the damage so clearly, but I couldn’t find a direct cause. Prowl got linked to a ghost network, something that doesn’t exist. He’s been caught in a constant feedback loop of error codes for, frag, vorn now, I’d bet!”

Prowl hums softly, “He couldn’t find the network, only the trace of my cohort bonds from it. He based the network off of the web of empty bonds. I now understand why enforcers aren’t allowed to see medics that aren’t trained for such.” 

“What do you mean empty bonds? You’ve mentioned cohort in passing, but you haven’t explained.” Jazz says and Prowl grumbles a curse. 

“Cohort is the social structure of a precinct. It is bond based in a central network, not as strong as amica, not nearly, but a similar concept. It’s supposed to encourage mutual trust and safety in squads. You’ve got the Chief directing the network, and every mech below maintaining it.” 

Prowl can hear the wistfulness in his own voice and he doesn't bother to hide it. The central network and cohort bonds are an enormous part of how enforcers socialize and build references. Without it he was simply in a new city-state, with no cohort, no bonds, no friends or references, and building trust issues. 

He has been so incredibly lonely for vorn now. 

“It is a similar concept to the comm-bonds that soldier units have, or the gestalts and network-shares that rescue bots have,” Inferno offers, “I cut mine to bond Red, I don’t regret it, but I do miss it. There’s not a spark or processor deep connection like with a proper bond, but there’s a constant sense of trust and camaraderie. You can’t be lonely.” 

Red Alert makes a tiny sound of dismay and peers up at his mate. Ratchet grins, sharp and nasty and determined, “Excellent that you brought that up, because the best way to start balancing out the coding errors is to provide a passable network for Prowl’s code to latch onto. I don’t think it wise for the mechlings to join, but if you could it would help.” 

Prowl stares at nothing in particular, “How would you do that?” 

“I’ve dug in your code, and I’m a battlefield medic. I slipped through the cracks when the senate started deactivating everyone’s war code, but I was meant for a squad. I’ll cobble together a network, and Wheeljack will help.” 

“Ok, but until you have that network built there’s nothing you can do for Prowl?” Jazz asks, skeptically. 

“Of course there is!” Ratchet was loud with his offense, then it all drained out of him in favor of a gentle, disarming smile at Prowl, “But I can’t do any of it until Prowl trusts me, properly trusts me. Keep working on that code, kid, I’ll get that network up as soon as I can.” 

He heaves himself up and wanders out of the room. Inferno regards the two of them, “You should consider writing to your brothers. From what I recall from department relations when I was still a Firemecha is that inter-city precinct communication is not encouraged. I wouldn’t be surprised if you lost contact as your code degraded. Your brothers are enforcers too, right?” 

Prowl flicks his wings, “They are. Bluestreak is stationed in Iacon still as he finishes his training and forms a squad, Smokescreen has been stationed in Crystal City for several vorn longer than I was here. You’re right, I did lose contact. Inter city is supposed to be between Chiefs only, and I-“ 

He breaks off with a whine and Jazz snorts, “Well, a letter ain’t hard.” 

Prowl hums. He does not know where to begin; however, it has been vorn since he so much as saw his brothers. It is too much for now, he just wants to finish his game of Hax with Jazz. 

Mirage wheezes in his private compartment, one he was meant to share with Bumblebee for their trip back to Iacon after his extraction. This has been the most painful, worst injured cycle he has had since the towers fell. 

He has a twisted metal slug lodged just to the left of his fuel pump, and half his chassis melted from the sample of the odd rust patches he’d taken. This was meant to be a simple mission to see how Praxus was in a requested check report on each of the states, then a simple extraction after that went wrong. 

Somehow a prostibot got involved, a pair of them that could fight, and Mirage couldn’t ask Bee how they were able to shoot him, or even so much as know to help, because Bee was more hurt and in stasis besides. 

This was an entirely frustrating cycle. Mirage could not wait to get back to Iacon, Hound was excellent at fixing problems like this, or at least making them seem manageable. First Aid was also in Iacon, and Mirage would welcome the friendly medic’s presence as well. 

The train rattled over a bump in the magrail, and Mirage bit down a shriek as the bullet in his abdomen made its presence known. What kind of prostibot even carried a handheld railgun anyways, what kind of anyone? 

For that matter, Mirage would love to know where he’d gotten such a weapon in the first place, it was marvelous. 

The ride to Iacon was thankfully quiet and without fanfare. Mirage curled into the seat and let himself drift. The compartment was secure, the only mechs with the codes were Hound, First Aid, and Bumblebee. He was still invisible, it was safer, especially when he still wasn’t sure how the Poly had shot him dead on. 

It was aimed, he’d been recording since he’d begun the extraction, standard procedure, and both of those mecha had perfect, deliberate aim, especially after whatever systems sync they’d done before the smelter fight. 

Mirage really needed that report from Bumblebee. 

Three joor later the train slows and the chatter of deboarding mecha fills the hall. Mirage does not move. Hound knows where he is, Hound has the codes. The door swishes open and shut again, and Hound himself sits on the bench across from Mirage. 

His gaze is focused on a spot just above Mirage’s helm, “I can smell half processed energon. Are you alright? Where is Bumblebee?” 

Mirage flickers back to the visible spectrum and watches Hound’s plating flare with worry, “I’ll recover. Injuries are mostly superficial. Bumblebee is in the cargo hold. The extraction went poorly, and in fact was conducted by someone else. Where is First Aid?” 

“An old friend of his sent a patient on this train for Aid, and some supplies. He’s picking them up.” Hound pulls Mirage’s servo towards him and starts wiping it off, “Who extracted Bee? We didn’t have any other agents on the ground?” 

“I think maybe they were contacts he made during the mission, but I haven’t been able to receive the mission report yet.” 

Hound hums and tilts his helm in the universal reaction of a mech receiving a short range comm. After a moment he focuses back on Mirage with an uncharacteristic intensity, “That was First Aid. The patient his old contact sent was Bumblebee, apparently he’s in stasis and Aid is transporting him now. What happened?” 

“Who is First Aid’s contact?” 

“He didn’t say. Mirage, report.” Very occasionally Mirage regretted giving his conjunx provisionally equal status to his rank. Hound didn’t pull rank often, and it was always blind siding when he did. 

“Do we have a file started on the enforcer contact Bee made while he was undercover?” Mirage asked instead. 

“Don’t change the subject,” Hound chided. 

“I’m not, that’s relevant. I don’t have enough information for a full report, I wasn’t getting anywhere on my end of it, Bee was. I’m trying to put a few clues together. Do we have a file started?” Mirage ended with a whine as Hound pulled him to his pedes. 

“Yeah, a basic one. Prowl, clean record, excellent stats, trained as a tactician and a beat cop under Ultra Magnus. He served in Iacon for his training period, and for five vorn after that before he transferred to Praxus. He’s been there since, for about seven vorn. He has one older brother, serving in Crystal City, one younger here in Iacon, both enforcers. Creators offlined during mechling hood, it's all standard. He’s a typical enforcer with a straight record and a recommendation from Ultra Magnus, why?” 

Hound half lifted Mirage as they stepped down from the train and he clamped his mouth shut instead of whining. The clinic First Aid ran that Spec Ops used wasn’t far from the station, and Mirage was really feeling the damage now that he was walking again. 

“I think,” Mirage began, “that Prowl hired either oddly skilled prostibots, or very skilled mecha with prostibot disguises to rescue Bee.”

”I don’t- what?” Hound let out a startled laugh, “Why wouldn’t he negotiate or go himself? He’s an enforcer? That’s what they do.” 

Mirage shrugged. He had recordings, data, and no reports. He could only speculate at the moment, his job in Praxus had been to field inquiry at the nobility level, talk to precinct chiefs, Lords, councilors, he’d been presenting himself as interested in a vacation estate in the gorgeous city-state for himself and his mate. 

It had not gone well. He hadn’t been made, but it had been a small mercy and the only one. The lords of Praxus were insular and unwelcoming, something typical to the caste, but the Praxian lords were open to Praxians and closed off to any from outside their city. 

Mirage had never been in a city-state so isolated and closed off. It was off putting, especially with the level of hostility. Bee on the other servo had infiltrated a gang effortlessly, and made a contact with the enforcers with ease. 

He reported corruption on the force immediately, and violence in both the gang he’d joined and several surrounding. The wars between the gangs were quiet, kept to negotiations at gunpoint, and loud with deaths and injury. Mech trafficking evidence was gathered up by Bee, in his gold and coral repaint, and for a decavorn Bee made the only progress. 

Then Mirage received an extraction request, and only two cycles later when he was scrambling to find the resources he didn’t have, the request ticked into emergency status. Then Mirage got the distinct displeasure of following two prostibots through one of the more dangerous gang’s central territory as they plastered rust patches up. 

Recalling how the sample of one of those rust patches had exploded in his subspace later, after those prostibots had shoved Bee in a stasis pod, and he’d boarded the train for sheer lack of other options, Mirage still couldn’t imagine a clean cop with a recommendation from the cleanest cop out there setting something like this up. 

“Smokescreen is a profiler, right?” He asked, “The older brother?” 

Hound nodded slowly, “Yeah, he’s a criminal profiler and psychologist, as well as an enforcer. He works in interrogations and investigations mostly, which is why he’s in Crystal City. Lots of high profile slag there, stolen idents and mnemo fraggery. Why?”

“I think we should bring him in on this case, if Bumblebee’s report matches my suspicions.” Mirage leaned on Hound as they watched First Aid bring Bee out of stasis, his vocalizer half wired back into place, half wired into a synthesizer. 

He cycled awake with a series of clicking whirs. First Aid hummed gently, and leaned forward to gently ease his damaged optic out. Bee focuses on Mirage and Hound with his undamaged optic and offers a wan smile. He’s clearly exhausted and in pain. 

“I can package my report, for data trans-sss-fer, but-ttt-t, I don’t thi-iii-ink I can give iiit verballyyy-y.” His voice clicks and warbles between the synth and his usable tones and he offers his wrist port up for a data slug. 

Mirage shrugs, “I’m injured too, may as well do this the interesting way. Hound, want to go grab a holo board we can wire Bee into for his report?” 

Bee flicks his gaze over irate and cycles his single flickers optic in shock, “Hoo-oow?” 

Mirage shrugs again. It is becoming the theme for this cycle from the depths of the Pit. Hound comes back shortly with a pair of holo pads, a projector, and several interactive light pens. It is short work for him to hook everything together and offer a connector to Bee and Mirage. 

Bee jacks in immediately and a slew of files, image captures, vid clips, and dozens upon dozens of analyses filled the holopad. Hound taps hesitantly at his interface tablet to bring a map up on the projector, Praxus orbiting around their helms from the towers to the sewers. 

Bumblebee starts linking known territories and highlighting gang routes. The riot of colors around them is impressive. Mirage slowly twists the projection around. There isn't a single unclaimed piece, there are more overlapped borders than shared even, as deep as the sewer levels. 

All of them had seen cities with gang structures, crime networks, they’d seen old holos of how claimed territories worked in war ravaged ruins, and the little color coded sector maps of real struggles broken down to visible data. 

Even the current data of Kaon, and of the Dead End of Polyhex, both of which were ongoing public efforts, were as complete and impressively filled as the sprawling city-state around them colored in as many hex codes as were streets in the city. More even. Even First Aid stopped to gape at the sheer amount of what would typically each be considered a caseload to figure out. 

Mirage cycled his optics. It did not change. He pulled up his clips file of the mecha that had extracted Bee instead. He didn’t want to look at the image of the city that was far too much for any mech to handle without much more help any longer. 

He’d been hoping to avoid getting the Primesguard involved, now he’d need the army as well. Bee saved image captures of both mecha, tucked them off to the side, and let the clips finish playing. The feral grin on the faceplates of the Poly mocked Mirage, it was the same smile worn when the mech had a slug right through him with his disrupter active. 

Bee studied the image captures and filtered through his uploaded files for three distinct profiles. The first was Meister, an assassin who had barely made it on Mirage’s radar whilst in Praxus as a ghost story amongst the elite, but had a decent file in Bee’s info. 

The second was Twincharge, a dancer and occasional prostibot, who was known in several gangs, but flitted between them with no real loyalty. He seemed connected to Meister, at least peripherally, before, but Mirage’s clip of the very impressive frameshift confirmed such. 

The last profile was Prowl’s, and he pulled a massive amount of image captures and clips for comparisons with the clips of Sharpgear. Markers for gait, frame height, posture, vocal codes, even behavioral and reformatting flags were tagged. 

“You think your enforcer friend disguised himself as a prostibot to rescue you?” Hound asked slowly, and Bee froze in his steady analysis. He wavered. 

Mirage grins, “It’s a possibility, isn’t it? That’s what I thought.” 

Bumblebee hums statically, then he grabs the light pen from Hound to scrawl notes across the data comparisons. He scrawls across the image of Prowl, ‘Stiff gait, deliberate posture; very economic movement; height same, but held to highest point, proud helm, no reformat flags; visibly trained by Ultra Magnus, similarities in pride and self assurance.’ 

Then he pauses, shifts the capture of Sharpgear over slightly, and switches pen colors, ‘Economic movement, more grace involved; comfortable with running or companion, unsure; wings looser, more movement, communication; height same, helm always tilted, angled, shifting constantly; comms chatter, talking, emphasis, all, unsure; pedes movement notable, walking, shifting, adjusting weight, ready to fight or move; much less stiff.’ 

“Huh,” Hound says, “So, not the same bot then.” 

Bumblebee shrugs. He pokes Sharpgear and shrugs again. There is no file, no profile, no matches for the mini who is notable for his ability to gather a vast pool of resources in unfamiliar places. First Aid looks up and focuses on the comparison holo from where he has been working on rewiring Bee’s vocalizer. 

“He definitely does have reformat tags,” he points at a few spots on Sharpgear’s frame that have lighter lines of paint and faint lines of sanded down welds, “Could be a medical reformat, that happens, but the tags are recent.” 

Mirage stares at the comparison in abject frustration. This was supposed to be a simple check in, report back mission. They still had other City-States to do. Now he kind of wanted to recruit these utter mad mechs that were running circles around his logic circuits. He couldn’t tell. 

“We’re putting the other reports off, this is big. I’ll start compiling to present to Prime next Orn, I know he’s only been in office for half a decaorn, but he’s gutted Spec Ops already, and I’m not giving him a reason to do the rest of us in. Not when he’s just starting to set his sights on the council where they deserve to get gutted out of corruption.” 

Hound snickers, “Won’t this distract him from gutting the Senate?” 

“Yes. All the better. Political reform should be staggered, lest it become commonplace.” Mirage sniffed haughtily, calling on every piece of Towers etiquette he knew, then he grinned mischievously at his mate, “Beside, that’ll let me ask his support on requisitioning Smokescreen. I really do think he’ll be useful.” 

Bee made a chirping sound of amusement and scribbled a message with his light pen, bright pink and sassy, “You’re setting a trap in case it is Prowl?” 

“Oh, yes. And it will go perfectly, just watch.” 

Chapter Text

Prowl carefully directed the motions of Hot Rod’s servos as the mechling folded silicon powder into the pastry dough. Sunstreaker, across the kitchen, studiously ignored the messy flinging of ingredients that was resulting as he focused on painting the finished pastries in colorful mica powders. 

Blurr, in an uncharacteristic show of patient slow focus, was watching the baking pastries in their kiln to make sure they puffed properly. The frenetic energy intrinsic to the mechling was being channeled through his hands, and the fidget toy he clutched, twisting and turning the putty in his digits in loops before he smooshed it and started over. 

“Done,” Blurr chirped, and Prowl spun over to ease the door open. The wave of heat was thick and Blurr took several steps back. Prowl poked one of the pastries with the graphite tester, it didn’t deflate, so he turned to take the hot pads from Blurr instead. 

He didn’t allow any of the mechlings to use the kiln oven unsupervised. Hot Rod could use the stove, as could Sunstreaker occasionally, but never the kiln. 

All of them were getting dragged into cooking skills with varying levels of willingness, from Hot Rod’s eager excitement to Sunstreaker’s downright apathy. Prowl refused to semi-raise any mechling that was as useless at supporting themselves as Jazz was fuel wise. 

Jazz had blown up the kiln at Prowl’s apartment during the planning period for the arena bust. By accident. While preheating it. 

He had attempted to fix the issue not by throwing flame retardant at it, like a sensible mech, but by tossing the prepped fuel he’d been going to cook at the fire. He had been surprised by the fact that a secondary explosion had happened, and more surprised when it had spread and caught the heat elements of the stove. 

Jazz was no longer allowed in the kitchen, to the point that Prowl had made it one of the rules that the mechlings would sound the alarm for if he broke it. The storage was moved to just outside the kitchen, there was no reason for the mech to even try. 

Prowl calmly slid the finished batch of pastries out and the new ones in, setting the cooling pan on the rack for Sunstreaker to pull from once they were cool enough to paint. The golden mech had been doing impressive work with the rest of them, an array of brightly powdered pastries with scenes of the solrise, and crystals, and of refractions surrounding him. 

The little bubble of calm on his last cycle of enforced grief leave was shattered as Red Alert of all the mechs burst in, cackling wildly, as he clutched a shifting and spilling pile of chits and slugs to his chest plates, perhaps forty of them, all the cheap easily found multipack kind. 

He ducked around the counter and dumped his armful of data sticks in an empty bowl, dirty with old silicon powder and cobalt gel residue, before he shoved the bowl in a cabinet. Jazz was snarling in the doorway, home joors ahead of when he’d intended too, and not progressing even a pededtip past the doorframe. 

Prowl cycled his optics in sheer bewilderment at the scene. Red Alert was sitting on the floor, still cackling madly, his vents hiccuping and stuttering with his mirth, and Jazz’s apparent rage was swiftly wilting into abject misery and embarrassment. 

“What-“ 

“Don’t ask, you don’t want to know,” Ratchet said, shoving past Jazz to reach for one of the pastries. He hovered his servo above them as Sunstreaker made various injured sounds and dismayed squeaks, until he picked one that had deflated and cracked the painting. 

“The comm, the comm is ringing-“ Red Alert sang, and Jazz stepped into the kitchen with a rattling snarl before he scrambled right back out as Prowl rounded on Jazz with his wings raised in an immediate threat display. 

All three mechlings finished the intro line to their one of favorite vid shows, “There’s a mechimal in trouble, we’ve come to save the day!” 

Ratchet snorted in time with Red’s howl of laughter and Prowl flicked his wings in sheer confusion. Jazz whined miserably and Inferno stepped up behind him, “I’ve got some clips loaded on the screen if you want?” 

Prowl flicked the kiln off. For curiosity’s sake alone, he did. He, with the mechlings and a still giggling Red Alert trailing him like dynametal ducklings, as he followed Inferno to the living room. 

The screen save was of Jazz on one of his usual performing corners, in a park that got plenty of traffic when the youngling centers were out of session. Inferno pressed play on the remote and Prowl watched with a growing grin as Jazz pressed his face between his sensor wings to hide. 

Jazz was performing mechling songs and intros to popular shows for an absolutely massive crowd of bitlets of various ages, all singing along, with their creators mingling behind them. The clips switched seamlessly to show just how long he did so. 

It was amazing. 

“They’re everywhere, the videos,” Red Alert clarified, “Which is hilarious but not secure so I have a program running to try and stop that. It's not fast, because the clips are already circulating outside of the city, but they’ll be gone eventually, at least from public servers.” 

Jazz whined as Prowl finally broke and began cackling as hard as Red had been. Blurr and Hot Rod were distracted by singing along to the clips, much to Wheeljack’s amusement, and Sunstreaker was smirking meanly at Jazz. 

“Wait-“ Prowl realized belatedly, “Wait, what do you mean the clips are out of Praxus already?” 

Ratchet wheezed, “Kid went viral for his music for the first time and it was a mechling concert. Poor Jazz.” 

“I don’t- viral?” 

Red Alert snickered and Jazz whirled away from him with a petulant huff and says, “Anyone in the performance industry uses the algorithms to generate business and popularity. Algorithm access depends on the common mecha circulating your data, by word of mouth, or by clips.” 

Red Alert cuts in snidely, “Jazz is self taught, so he doesn't have any debut algorithm entry’s from whoever taught him. He’s been recorded before, but it’s all stayed in Praxus, which is good. He doesn’t need to be in the algorithms for anything more than to maintain his cover, but it's funny that this is what would’ve otherwise kick-started his career.” 

“Huh.” Prowl considered that. There was something there that his tacnet had latched onto, an inkling of a plan floating in his ATS, too vague to grasp just yet. More importantly, “Do we have enough recordings to keep for ourselves?” 

“Prowl!” Jazz hisses at him, betrayal flaring his plating out. 

“Audio or video?” Inferno asks in lieu of an answer. 

Prowl considers. “Both. Several copies, please. They will keep Blurr and Hot Rod entertained.” 

Ratchet throws his head back and cackles as Inferno hands several slugs to Prowl directly, and drops several more into the file case beneath the screen. Jazz slicks his plating back down and just whines in dejection, played up and dramatic. 

Prowl flicks his wings at Jazz in a playful tease and he tucks the slugs in his subspace. He has been composing a letter to Bluestreak, and has mentioned his civilian friend who was a street musician. Perhaps Bluestreak would appreciate the slug of Jazz playing for mechlings more than the Sitar performance he’d been going to send. 

Prowl had needed to cut the vocals out of that one, poorly since Red Alert wouldn’t help him with the potential data breach, and Jazz’s lyrics tended to have somewhat seditious meanings. This would be much safer to send. 

He also needed to finish the pastries, since he’d be sending plenty along to Bluestreak as well. He hadn’t yet found the willpower to send a letter to his oldest brother, Smokescreen pryed too much, overprotective and nosy mech. 

It meant that Bluestreak got a bigger package to make up for the guilt Prowl felt for cutting contact for so long, and still not sending anything to Smokey. 

His soon-to-be makeshift cohort was supportive though, and Bluestreak’s box of goodies was near overflowing already. Prowl would send it soon. Really, he would. 

Wheeljack had helped Ratchet put this network together in record time, and anchored its source code on his own as Ratchet programmed an adaptive code from the bottom up for Jazz, and Red Alert if he wanted it, to be able to connect. 

The three orns of work, one orn of Prowl’s leave where they had the enforcer’s constant help and advice, and two where they didn’t, and it was done. Ratchet started the usual troubleshooting on his data pad, running predictions and statistics software before they booted it up. 

He’d find a few bugs, and they’d fix them, and the cycle would repeat until it was perfect, Wheeljack’s mate was far too meticulous. It was far easier to do it his way, just boot it up and connect, and fix the bugs yourself. 

So he did. 

It worked, the adaptive code integrated and functioned perfectly, and by the time Ratchet had stopped cursing him out and connected as well, Wheeljack had just about finished fixing the few bugs there were. He shoved gleeful mirth down his bond at his conjunx and received grumpy fondness back. 

They both pulled back out. Inferno was sitting on the couch watching them, Red Alert sitting stiffly beside him. Wheeljack’s yelp was reflexive, Ratchet’s thrown wrench was not. 

They both connected, Inferno with a relaxed field and release of old tension, and Red Alert with active stress that bled into a nervous calm. Sunstreaker connected, carefully, under Ratchet’s strict supervision, as the oldest of the mechlings and the only one able to handle the possible program strain. 

He did fine with it, and Wheeljack noted Sunstreaker’s looser plating and relaxed frame afterwards, something that had previously only occurred in Prowl’s presence. 

With each new connection the old strain in Ratchet’s meta, the hole left by his disbanded squad that had scraped the edge of his processor for centivorn, eased. Jazz was the last to connect before Prowl’s shift ended, all of them aware that the muddled coding may have to be adjusted by Prowl, metas laid bare and trust pushed to help in rebuilding his melted connections. 

Wheeljack was proud of their little group. They’d come together with the common goal of helping Praxus improve from the cesspool of depravity it had become in the war against the quints, and while it would take a miracle for them to succeed without more mech power and heavy arms than they had, they still worked. 

The network, the fledgling cohort bonds binding them with a squad structure from Ratchet’s code, and the camaraderie from Inferno’s, hovered at the back of Wheeljack’s processor for its missing piece, the cornerstone to the code. 

It was semi sentient, and Wheeljack was so incredibly excited to see how this would go, purely from a scientific standpoint. 

Prowl stared at the anchor point for the network, the thing that Ratchet and Wheeljack had been frantically working on with nigh constant input and advice asked. It looked different from either of the network anchors he’d seen at the precincts. 

Precinct anchors were pristine, perfectly maintained, with new parts and shiny outer shells hiding their inner wires. They were symmetrical and solid, immovable in their mass and were usually kept in the lobby as part of the focal center out of sheer necessity, massive from a need to support such an amount of mecha.  

This was lopsided, cobbled together, tarnished, and small. Instead of a steady hum it let out a soft thrum that occasionally spiked into a whine, and its outer shell didn’t fit and had been cut away in pieces to allow for loops of wires to extend out, capped off and closed in glass bulbs. 

Prowl loved it. 

It fit his little patchwork cohort, broken and fit together, all jagged edges and rusted parts. 

Prowl stepped closer to the anchor on the counter, small enough to fit in the crook of his elbow, and unspooled his cable with a glance at Ratchet. At the impatient nod from the medic he jacked in. The handshake protocols loomed in front of him and Prowl sank deep in his meta to do this properly. 

This cohort wouldn’t betray him, wouldn’t abandon him, wouldn’t make him leave. He wasn’t leaving a loophole out for himself either. He was never doing that again. 

Prowl chased the code deeper, connecting to every permission and setting up the bypass for emergency comms. He twisted his meta through the network with glee, the threads of his cohort weaving around him in a tapestry of personality. 

The deep ivory of Ratchet, caring and concerned, and so protective, tangled with the oil slick thin thread of Wheeljack’s opalescent black thread that thrummed with curiosity. The soft orange-gold of Inferno, protective and full of such deep seated warm consideration, twined with Red Alert’s glaringly bright neon yellow-red cord, all worry and caution and sheltering awareness. 

Sunstreaker’s scarlet thread blared through, bold and unafraid, a shield around the edge of the network, even as it tucked itself under the looping thread of Prowl’s own meta. Silly mechling. 

A soft blue thread thrumming with quiet anxiety and loud prideful inquisitiveness hid under the scarlet guardian, and protecting a spring green thread humming with energy and thoughts, and buzzing with joyful smug glee. Hot Rod and Blurr. They were not supposed to be on the network, Sunstreaker had snuck them on judging by how his meta was helping theirs hide. 

Such silly mechlings. 

A vivid silver thread rose up to twine into Prowl’s meta, rhythmic and deadly. Jazz. Prowl settled the code where it was supposed to go and let his ATS handle the protocols for integrating the base functions. Then, then he twisted and spun and tangled with Jazz, a two toned braid of silver and onyx through the network, playing and chasing and dancing like mechlings. 

When he pulled out and unplugged from the anchor he was fully connected for the first time in vorn and a true, honest grin was splitting his faceplates from audio to audio. Prowl faced his cohort and grinned through the coolant dripping down his face, and the ache in his spark, and the old fear in the back of his processor. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, and it was enough. It was perfect. 

Prowl’s tacnet was being very slow with whatever plan it had decided to build in the back of his processor. Something had triggered his ATS into gear when he had connected to his new network one of the guiding principles Ratchet and Wheeljack had coded in. 

Prowl had taken an orn to trace the principle code, and even now he wasn’t sure if it had been added on purpose or subconsciously. Ratchet had reluctantly admitted to coding most of the anchor on instinct and old memories, and letting the code build itself the rest of the way after each of them connected. Wheeljack admitted to experimenting with it to make it more adaptive to prevent any coding errors or glitches with cross code errors between any of the very different individuals involved. 

All in all, the one little principle, [too few for a difference, try anyways], that had stuck with his ATS, as had a stray thought he’d picked up from Red’s meta while they’d been connected about needing an army to fix the city. The tacnet was gathering pieces for his ATS to put together, but Prowl couldn’t tell where his tacnet was going yet. 

It was a novel feeling, to not know what he was planning yet, only that he was. It was like being a mechling all over again, when his ATS was new, and he followed the prompts of his tacnet without knowing what they meant in order to set up elaborate traps for Smokescreen that ended with his older brother covered in bright paints and smelly concoctions and their creators laughing. 

Those days had long since passed, but the feeling was familiar in all the worst ways for it. Thus far Prowl had been prompted to gather a small library of seditious and rebellious songs against various different institutions, a vast amount of contacts especially with mechling connections, which had admittedly come in handy for play dates, and now he found himself at the door to Wheeljack’s lab. 

He needed something from the mech, he knew what, but not entirely yet. He really hoped this wouldn’t blow up in his face. He stepped in and Wheeljack looked up, his blast mask closed, with the black amber bug-like glass optic covers jutting out above. 

He looked like a locustor, and Prowl deliberately did not shudder. There was a puff from the device Wheeljack was working on and then the inventor retracted his masks to reveal his usual easygoing smile. 

“Hey, Prowl? What brings you to my lab? Ratchet’s the only one that comes by typically,” his fins flashed cerulean playfully and Prowl grinned back. 

“I’d like to ask about a project of yours, use it if you are comfortable with its level of completion.” Prowl said and Wheeljack’s entire frame flared with ecstatic glee. 

“You listen when I talk about my projects?” He scrambled closer to Prowl, backtracked to sweep off a pair of chairs of various chemical cans and scrap pieces, then swept forward again, “What project? How can I help? Jazz is the only other person that asks.” 

Prowl sat in the indicated chair cautiously, trying to avoid the suspicious stain, and failing, and focused instead on the conversation ahead, “You mentioned a couple decaorn ago that one of your side projects was speaker bombs. Are these bombs that have the ability to act as a speaker, or speakers with the capability to be a bomb?” 

“Erhm,” Wheeljackslumped into his chair and fiddled with a bundle of frayed wires, “Both? Either? I haven’t pinned it down yet. I’ve mostly been working on getting the internal functions to mesh together. And I haven’t had as much free time recently, I was helping with the anchor, and the house before that.” 

Prowl turned that over, and felt his tacnet weighing options simultaneously, “If- If I asked for a very specific speaker bomb function, do you think you could do it?” 

Wheeljack focused on him with an intensity unusual to be directed at a mech, “Are you giving me a challenge? Because I’ve definitely been wanting a good challenge, I’ve been bored. Give me the challenge, with as many bells and whistles as you’d like, then get out, because you’ve made my orn.” 

“I would like a web of connected speaker bombs, with good audio quality, that do not look like bombs,” Prowl said idly, following the suggestions from his tacnet distractedly, “I want them to look like anything but speakers, hidden in plain sight. They can vary in intensity for explosion strength, but I need them all to be connected to a remote detonation web, and the speaker function as well, so I wouldn’t need to upload any songs. Doable?” 

Wheeljack stared at him with emerald glee radiating from his fins and his field. His wires lay still in his servos, forgotten. The slow smile creeping across the inventor's faceplates was terrifying, as was the slow crawl of the blast mask closing after it. 

“Out, Prowl. I have work to do.” 

Prowl got. 

True to form Prowl began receiving little labeled boxes of mundane objects from Wheeljack within the decaorn. Inside each box neatly labeled with Prowl’s designation sat an individual bomb that had to be linked to the master device that had arrived first that managed the web after they’d been placed. 

Prowl would pull whatever object Wheeljack had disguised it as, connect it with a soft chiming melody, and place it back in the box, inert once more. So far he had multiple small grotesques, drain pipe connectors, window boxes for crystals, acid rain covers, vent grates, and even innumerable street lamp caps. 

Prowl had begun a small trade of paying the gutter mechlings to hide activated speaker bombs wherever they could fit them around the city in exchange for energon goodies. He was beginning to see the skeleton of the plan his ATS was setting up, even if the outcome was still in the ether of his tacnet. 

For two decaorn it occurred like normal, with Prowl paying street mechlings to plant bombs around the city without telling anyone, and baking the treats to pay them with at night with his own mechlings. Prowl would struggle through his shifts and return to the warm companionship of his cohort. 

He’d dance around the living room with Jazz and Hot Rod and Blurr, and sometimes Wheeljack and Inferno, while Ratchet and Red Alert sat on the couches quietly. Some cycles if Prowl had a harder shift, or a minor glitch episode, he’d sit with them and watch Jazz dance. 

They’d plan missions, and sometimes Jazz ran them himself, clad in the harsh lines and blacks of Meister, and sometimes Prowl donned the dark pastels of Sharpgear to run with him. They were successful. 

By the time Prowl had built a web of over eighty thousand bombs, only thirty thousand of which had the speaker capacity, his tacnet was satisfied and had started sifting through the library of collected songs. 

Prowl set aside a day to focus on advancing his tacnet’s plan. It would be useful, he could tell. He could also tell that Jazz was getting suspicious. Red Alert as well, but Red Alert had already gone poking in his meta through the cohort network, and found the connection between current ATS behaviors and the complex pranks from his mechling hood. 

A day was all it took. His tacnet broke the city into sectors on the web data pad, and sifted through lyrics, rhythm, and popularity to pick several songs and assign them to sectors of the city. Then it began to filter traffic patterns and crime rates against times of the cycle. 

A song for each sector, a time set for all of them to start at once, and Prowl sat cross legged, meditating like Smokecreen had taught him centivorn back when he’d struggled with his temper in his mechling hood. Patience, wait, vent. 

He ought to teach Sunstreaker to meditate like how Smokescreen had once taught him. It was a useful skill. 

The time set was in half a joor. Prowl waited. He vented. The first strains of music reached his audios, the first playthrough was quiet, meant to draw attention before the next, which was meant to be heard. 

His ATS received the full plan kicked through from his tacnet, finally, and began running numbers. If this worked, and it might need one more push, they might just be able to use it. 

There would be casualties. He may need to work on some manual rewrites to prevent that sort of loss in his tacnet-plan variables. 

The second playthrough started and a low murmur started on the streets outside his window. By the third playthrough the songs had all become the same, synced and citywide. The murmur had become a grumble, then a roar. 

“All in all, you’re another cog in the wall, all in all, you’re another cog in the wall,” Prowl hummed along, as the chorus repeated again, the crowd outside screaming along to the speakers playing in the streets. The song would be illegal in Praxus by the end of the ‘cycle, the lyrics may have been tweaked slightly, but it had always been the wrong side of introspective.

The sound of glass breaking sounded, and angry screams. The distinct whistle of an acid gas bomb, not damaging, but incredibly difficult to vent through or see in, the sound of mecha fighting with their bare servos against electro truncheons and acid pellet pistols. Enforcers and gangs alike, every mech for themselves. 

Prowl picked up his data pad and hit the first layer of detonation. A majority of his bombs remained, he had been very selective. The lobby of the Precinct, minor damage to the anchor, the judicial building, the tops of the towers, and the edges of the Lord’s compounds. All cosmetic damage, looks ugly, loud explosions with lots of dust and shrapnel, but everything building and mech left functional. 

For a long moment Praxus stood still. 

Then the entire city rioted. 

Chapter Text

Bluestreak was officially having the best cycle. Not only was he graduating training this decaorn, but he’d gotten picked for a specialty squad early. Neither of his brothers had managed that, not that poor Smokey had much of a chance what with doing training and academy around raising him and Prowl after their creator’s accident. 

Not only that, but Smokescreen had also been pulled and was back in Iacon for a case. He was helping the Primeguard, who hadn’t even been active for centivorn, and black ops, none of which he was supposed to know, but Ultra Magnus believed in transparency concerning officers, and especially officers he considered family, if distantly adopted ones. 

Even if Bluestreak wasn’t officially an officer yet. 

The cadmium on top of this utterly fantastic cycle was that Smokescreen was in Iacon, staying in Bluestreak’s apartment, and could open the package he’d finally gotten from Prowl with him. Bluestreak wasn’t stupid, he knew he was the bitty of the family, he kept in contact with Smokescreen even though he was an adult and they were in separate cities. 

Prowl might’ve been a little more socially stupid than Bluestreak remembered because it had been almost seven vorn since Prowl left, and he hadn’t so much as commed either of them in all that time. He wasn’t dead, or injured, they’d’ve been notified, but still. Stupid brother. 

Bluestreak sat on the floor package in front of him, grinning across at Smokescreen across from him, also on the floor. It was how they’d opened gifts every festival, even back when it was just the little wrapped pastries and trinkets Smokey could afford. 

His two squad mates sat on the couch behind him, feigning disinterest, and trapped by the fact of living there as well. Knockout delicately ran a buffing cloth over his digits as he quietly talked with Sideswipe beside him. 

The field medic graduated his own training in a decaorn, but was pegged for Blue’s squad by pure dint of getting along with Bluestreak and Sideswipe. All three of them had a reputation for driving off teammates in training, and their trainers had stuck them together the astrosec they worked together well once, and focused their energy on developing better teamwork between the three of them. 

It wasn’t any of their faults really, Smokescreen was very firm on that point when they commed. Bluestreak had been raised by his brothers, and his social skills were slightly underdeveloped. Not everyone had the patience when he was in the mood to ramble. 

Knockout was vain and defensive out of what Smokey had once called the weirdest protective instinct he’d ever seen. The mech had the ability to be a full medic, even planned on the training, but he wanted to be a field medic on a squad, with the eventual goal of a specialty team because he wanted to do work that wouldn’t get him involved. Not like his creators had, with dozens upon dozens of medical files about mecha they’d failed to save. 

Sideswipe had an aggressive personality, plain and simple. It was trained into him from his mechling hood in the gladiator pits in Kaon, before they attempted an expansion into Iacon and immediately got busted. His adoptive creators, Ironhide and Chromia had tried, but they had relatively aggressive personalities as well, one in Primesguard, and the other in the army. 

That only went so far. 

“You going to open it?” Smokescreen asked, patiently sarcastic, in the playful way he used to do when Prowl had avoided doing the washing up after cooking, “It is addressed to you.” 

Bluestreak rolled his optics and flicked a rude gesture at Smokey with his doorwings. Smokescreen snorted at him, and Bluestreak flicked a claw along the sealing line of the crate. The distinct smell of Prowl’s baking filled his flat, silicon and zircon and cobalt gels. Both of his squad mates leaned forward, interest piqued. 

Smokescreen leaned forward himself and dug an absolutely gorgeously painted pastry out and bit it with a puff of mica powder. Bluestreak stared at the pastries left behind. They were amazing, clearly servo painted, solrises, and crystal refractions, and each one an individual, unique, colorful scene, delicate and pristine. 

Smokescreen’s optics crossed as he looked at the pastry he’d bitten in abject confusion. They were clearly made by Prowl, their brother was an amazing cook, and a better baker. They knew the taste of his pastries, having grown up with both the failures and the increasing successes. 

Prowl unfortunately did not have a singular artistic strut in his frame, and either left his goodies plain, or he let Bluestreak, equally bad at art but far more enthusiastic, butcher a paint job. 

These were almost professional. 

Bluestreak reached for the bright blue stationary chit Prowl always used for his messages to Bluestreak. There wasn’t one for Smokescreen, no silver-grey in sight anywhere but a dab here or there on the pastries. Bluestreak rolled to his pedes and went for an external screen reader, silent for once. 

Knockout reached for a pastry and was smacked harshly by Smokescreen. Blue didn’t even have the capacity to be amused, he was just confused. Probably he had just made a friend that could paint. Prowl could make friends, he had Ultra Magnus. He also had Blue and Smokey. 

Maybe he couldn’t. Hmm. 

The screen reader blipped as the letter scrolled back to its start. Bluestreak started reading through it again with a slag eating grin stretching across his face. 

“What?” Smokescreen demanded. 

“Did Prowl really accidentally dye you bright purple right before your second frame upgrades?” Bluestreak asked with sheer delight. His brother had realized that with each of them in different cities that he could tell the technically contraband stories from before Bluestreak had been sparked, and Blue scrambled back as Smokescreen lunged for him in response. 

Blue whooped and threw the screen reader at a startled Sideswipe as he blocked the first blow from Smokey. It wasn’t a real hit, it never was, but they devolved into mechling tussling on the floor complete with insults in a half klik flat, so that hadn’t mattered much. 

It ended with the two of them curled together where they started, by the box from Prowl, Bluestreak giggling faintly, and Smokescreen propped up on one elbow to smile down at him. 

Sideswipe is reading the screen reader himself, then he passes it to Knockout next to him to reach for the box and dig around. Four data slugs are pulled out. Bluestreak untangles himself from Smokescreen and grabs another reader. He’d read the letter, he knew what these were. 

The bulk of the letter really had been that mechling hood story for Blue to hold over Smokey’s helm. The rest had been platitudes, miss yous, and I’ve made this friend and had these encounters, and how have you been’s. The most interesting part had been the friend. Prowl had acquaintances at the precinct in Iacon, but had been closest with Ultra Magnus. 

His new friend in Praxus was apparently a street musician. Prowl had sent a slug of music from his friend, a compilation from one of his more popular performances. It’s mechling songs, two of the other slugs containing the full versions, and Smokey plugs one in to play in the background as they unpack pastries. 

Knockout and Sideswipe have relaxed, nibbling on pastries on the couch, while Smokescreen and Bluestreak flip through the last slug on the floor with the reader. It was just image captures, not even truly personal ones, Prowl had never been a selfie mech like Smokescreen was. 

Captures of crystals and baking projects flitted by, interspersed by occasional captures of the requisite embarrassing accidents or situations any patrolling officer took when they encountered them on patrol. 

At the very end was a single selfie of Prowl, austere and stern with a small quirk of a smile, with his helm pulled down beside that of a shorter Polyhexian, grinning wildly, both in black and white on opposing ends of the energy spectrum. 

On the second scroll through of the floating holos of image captures there was a loud authoritative knock at the door, followed by a high access ping request. Bluestreak scrambled up as Knockout and Sideswipe frantically attempted to wipe mica powder off of where it had puffed onto their plating. 

Bluestreak and Smokescreen did not bother to try. Mica powder looked gorgeous, and was the only edible colorant, but absolutely did not come off without solvent. 

Three mechs were at the door for access, a large red plated military mecha stood in the back, heavily armed and obviously on guard. In the front stood a slim white and blue mech, lightly armored and heavily modded, with the bearing of a noblemech, and a yellow minibot, moderately armed and armored. 

The noblemech offered a blankly professional smile, “Hello, Bluestreak, yes? I understand your brother is staying with you for the duration of his recall?” 

Bluestreak nodded slowly and twitched a wing as he sensed Smokescreen coming up behind him. There was a shocked gasp from the flat behind him from Sideswipe, and Bluestreak silently stood aside to let all three in. 

“Thank you,” the noblemech acknowledged politely, “I am Mirage, head of Special Operations under the Prime, this is my first Lieutenant Bumblebee. Also along is General Ironhide, head of the Primesguard who will be both helping and supervising this case for several reasons. Smokescreen, I presume?” 

Smokescreen took the offered servo and flicked his gaze over all three mecha assessingly, “Yes. I was under the assumption that the case wouldn’t be starting for another few cycles? I arrived early to settle in.” 

Ironhide barks a laugh and sets a device against the door to Bluestreak’s flat door. It whirs ominously then erupts in cables that latch to the frame preventing the door from any further use, the center dimming to a deep red glow, “Yeah, we were under the same impression. Case wasn’t time sensitive until it really was. Hey, kid, you got a vid screen that can connect to the news outlets?” 

Sideswipe meets his adoptive creator’s optics at the question and swallows jerkily with a nod. He hands the remote to him and skitters back to perch next to a very tense Knockout. They are both positively smeared with blue and gold mica. 

“What is the case?” Smokescreen asks with more hesitancy than Bluestreak has ever heard from his confident oldest brother, “I’ve done plenty of consult cases for years, even ones with clearance levels above my own, but I’ve not been pulled from my precinct until now.” 

Bumblebee snorts, not rudely, but almost a sound of sheer frustration and Bluestreak retreats to sit with his squad mates as Smokey shifts to work mode entirely. The minibot pulls out a holoprojector, a much nicer one than the one Blue owns that is still projecting a floating image capture of Prowl and his friend. 

Bumblebee sets it up efficiently and plugs in a pre-prepped chit. This is clearly above clearance. They’re gonna have to sign NDA datawork. Chits only come out in government and enforcer work when you're worried about information leaks. 

The image projected is a screensaver, Cybertron as a whole floating in holographic detail in the living room floor casting them in a gentle amber light. Bluestreak snags a pastry and crunches a bite out of it. This one has a cobalt filling, most excellent. Bumblebee looks mildly jealous and Bluestreak gestures for him to take one. 

Prowl sent a whole crate filled with pastries. That was like six dozen pastries. It was a lot, he could share. Bumblebee pulls one out, turns it over critically, and very delicately takes a bite. 

Bluestreak is very impressed with the lack of a mica puff. 

“This tastes like Prowl’s,” he says, and Blue’s wings shoot up at the same time as Smokescreen’s. 

“What?” Smokescreen asks, “How would you even know? The only time Prowl bakes for anybot other than Blue or me is if he was bribing Mags to get extra recharge.” 

There’s a long moment of silence before Ironhide confusedly says, “Ultra Magnus? Ultra Magnus doesn't take bribes, why would he take one to give an enforcer extra recharge? I know him, he’d tell the mech to time his off joors better.” 

Bluestreak snickers, “No, Prowl used to bribe Ultra Magnus with energon goodies so that Ultra Magnus would get more recharge. They had a stakeout once, and Prowl was alert longer, and still in training. I think it was mostly a running joke.” 

Smokescreen snaps his digits in the same gesture for attention he used when Prowl and Bluestreak were mechlings, “I’m still confused on how you know Prowl. Explain?” 

Bumblebee and Mirage exchange a look and Bumblebee directs a look of cool professionalism at Smokey, “He was my main contact on the Enforcers while I was undercover most recently. My cover was as a street mecha, and he made sure I was fed, sent goodies back with me whenever we met for an info exchange. They were never pretty though. Held out on that, these are beautiful.” 

“Yeah, on us too, for our entire mechling hood. Pretty sure Blue’s a better painter than Prowl,” Sideswipe winced at Smokescreen’s flat words and Knockout tossed a surreptitious glance to the butchered paint job on the door frame. 

“Ah,” is the response from Bumblebee, which explains none of his thoughts, “Hmm. Well, anyways. The case. Mirage?” 

Smokescreen’s wings are quivering, very slightly at the tips, he’s mad but hiding it, and Blue presses into Sideswipe’s side nervously. 

“Mm.” Mirage focuses instead on the three of them on the couch behind Smokescreen for a too long moment. Bluestreak wonders if they’re about to get kicked out of their own home, “You are set to be a specialty team, yes?” 

Blue cycles his optics, “Er, yes? I’m a sniper, Sides is close combat, and KO is a field medic, or will be when he passes his exam. Why?” 

“Useful. You are already here, will already need to keep this under wraps, may as well stay and learn it all, and we shall see if you can be of use.” 

Smokescreen snarls very, very quietly, and Ironhide shifts uncomfortably behind the couch, squeezing Sideswipe’s shoulder pauldron gently for a moment. Knockout just shivers, and Bluestreak grabs his servo and holds it closer. 

Bumblebee sighs deeply, “‘Raj, tact.” 

“Ah,” the noblemech flickers his optics for a moment. Bluestreak thinks that’s what he does. It really looks like his optics had just blinked out of existence for an astrosec, but that was stupid. 

“Apologies, that was intended more as an attempt not to disclude you in your own home, especially since we have already shared some information as yet.” He turns to Smokescreen, “We pulled you from your precinct because the skill set needed may end up more than a simple consult requires. Thus far we have identified a need for psychoanalysis, profiling, interrogation manipulation, analysis forensics, and criminal psychology and forensics.” 

Smokescreen stared blankly, “What. I realize those are all my specialties, technically, but, like, separately. I have never needed to combine more than three of those in a single case. What in the pit are you working on?” 

Mirage nodded at Bumblebee, and the minibot began flicking through the holo projector to pull up an empty map of Praxus. The yellow bot looked around, “Every mech seen a gang territories map? Even just in academy as an example?” 

The snort from Smokescreen was a good reaction to sum up the room’s reaction. Three of them were studying for finals, those maps were in the room on study guide data pads. The fourth had come from Crystal City, a city practically famous for its loud gang warfare and fascinating crimes. 

“Good. Keep that in your processors. This is accurate as of four and a half decaorn ago, when I was extracted from Praxus when my cover was blown, badly,” Bumblebee taps a final program and the holo fills with color. So much color. Bluestreak has never seen a territory map this full. 

“I don’t-these can’t be gangs, the territories overlap, there’s no civilian spaces.” Mirage smiles grimly at Sideswipe’s exclamation. 

“And yet, here we are. Some of the overlap is current contest, some is where the gangs are sharing territory with each other. There are no dedicated civilian spaces, not one. At least not that Bee could find in his nine decaorn undercover.” 

“That- that’s bad, and I don’t like that my brother is caught in the middle of it,” Smokescreen admits, which is an understatement with how tight his voice is, “But it’s not time sensitive. Why is this suddenly time sensitive?” 

Ironhide lifts the remote and turns Bluestreak’s vid screen onto global news, Praxus focus, in the same instant that Bumblebee shuts the holo down. 

The city is crumbling is Bluestreak’s first thought. The screen shows dust and rocks falling, the distinct glitter of crushed crystal growth trailing through the camera trail. Then the whine of a blaster cuts over the audio followed by the streak of pink through dust, and the camera shows a mech taking the shot on the shoulder. 

They look civilian, light armor, dust covered blue paint, high, righteously angry doorwings, and they take the hit in stride and shoot forward in a run, shooting back at the first shooter. The camera swings back around to show the enforcer who had shot the civilian fall, only to be pulled back, covered by others in his patrol as they retreat. 

“It’s a rerun,” Ironhide rumbles, grumpily, frustrated, “This aired a couple joor ago. Praxus has cut off its own media presence for now, we’ve sent some mecha from the army to hold a few border points open.” 

Smokescreen stares at the retreating enforcers. He’s doing the same thing as Bluestreak, trying to see decals and faceplates past the dust. Hoping none of them are Prowl. 

“Praxus is an independent City-State.” Smokescreen rasps out, “I told Prowl when he transferred. It’s one of four cities that doesn’t acknowledge the Primacy.” 

“We’re aware,” Ironhide says, bemused, “Kid, relax. I toldja, the clips are all reruns. Nothing new. We checked, your brother ain’t been spotted. Ain’t mean he’s safe, but it probably means he wasn’t on shift. We had pretty good coverage until the second wave.” 

“Second- seco-“ Bluestreak has to vent and try again, his vocalizer does not wish to cooperate, “Second wave of what?” 

“Bombs.” 

There’s a whine of distress. Bluestreak doesn’t know from whom. Sideswipe and Knockout are squeezing his servos tight though, and that helps. Grounds him slightly. 

“We have reports back, from the Precinct Chief, and the council of Lords,” Mirage offers, “The bombs were structural only, no lasting damage, no casualties, minimal injuries. They aren’t requesting any outside emergency assistance, so that’s a good sign.” 

“What- what is the case?” 

“Information, a possible recruitment and extraction, and we would like to resolve this issue of the city being as bad as it is. You’ll be working with Spec Ops as your main directors on the ground, and I’ll be around as well. Primesguard is going to be providing some mech power as needed, and we’ll call the army in as a last resort.” 

Smokescreen met Ironhide’s steady gaze with his own distressed one and Bluestreak, watched his oldest brother steel his sensors, “Recruitment?” 

Mirage tapped the holo active again and two mecha floated up, a dark pastel blue Praxian, and a black and red Polyhexian, “These are Sharpgear and Meister. As far as our intell tells us Meister is an assassin local to Praxus, focused on improving the city more than shanix. Sharpgear is a confirmed associate.” 

Bumblebee broke in, “They’ll be useful assets for the case alone, but Spec Ops as a whole if they’re interested. More of note, they were hired to do my extraction, we believe, after my cover was blown. They are skilled, very much so. We have questions.” 

“Well, pit, I’m in. I’ve got to get Prowl out at the very least,” Smokescreen said. 

Bluestreak stared at the holos. They looked oddly familiar. The Poly had a wide smile, slightly feral, the Praxian wore a similarly feral smile, smaller and almost reserved. He’d definitely never met either, though. He glanced over at the still floating holo of Prowl and his street musician friend. 

That was probably it. He’d just seen an image of a Praxian with a Poly. The news rerun showed the second wave and cut to static. His friends both nodded at him. 

“We’re in too,” he said. 

It was a step in the right direction anyways. Their ultimate goal had always been the elite guard. Bluestreak wanted something his brothers wouldn’t have to worry so much about, Sideswipe wanted to be able to travel to find his brother, and Knockout just wanted to stay with them. 

Bluestreak tried not to look at the screen when the reruns started again, the cameras stuck on an auto loop until new data input. He hadn’t known that riots preceded the bombs. It was a nice song, if he ignored the fact that the enforcers were shooting first. 

Prowl wouldn’t do that. It was illegal, he was so by the books, that was why he got along with Ultra Magnus so well. Bluestreak hoped his brother was okay. 

He’d see him soon, then they’d get him out of Praxus. He could come back, and share a flat with Bluestreak again, and play hax and trabex with Ultra Magnus like the boring introverts they were. 

It would all be fine. 

Chapter Text

“I’m not even mad,” Wheeljack says, faintly as they watch the city start to wind down, the music having cut off joor ago, “I just want to know how you did it.” 

Prowl flicks his wings embarrassedly, “Honestly, I’m not sure. I was just following my Tacnet prompts, the complete plan didn’t run numbers until a few kliks after it had started.” 

The silence that follows that admission is absolute. Jazz slowly turns to look at him, his optics bright and shocked. Red Alert has begun sparking at the horns and is staring at a distant point of nothing. 

Ratchet is quivering with rage and Prowl does not know why. 

“You-“ Wheeljack vents and resets his vocalizer, “You started riots, cut off the entire City’s media presence, and they’re already starting to shut the border, and it was an accident?” 

“I-“ Prowl shrinks nervously, “Yes? Mostly? The ATS had the numbers at pretty low predictive rates for this much of a response. The tacnet was predicting riots, and kicked the plan to the ATS which predicted at most a temporary media blackout.” 

“The blackout is still going,” Inferno observes wryly, flicking through news filters. 

Surprisingly this is the tipping point for Rachet’s fury, “What. Tacnet.” 

Prowl cycles his optics and shuffles his pedes, “Mine?” He answers, hesitant and unsure. Whose else would the numbers and plans be picked up by when communicating with his ATS? 

“What. ATS.” 

The entire room has gone still. No one moves. No one vents. In a very small voice Prowl says, “Mine?” 

“Why. Do you have both?” Ratchet rounds on him, swinging around to stare straight at the Praxian with only a couch between them. 

“Should-,” Prowl resets his vocalizer nervously, “I not?” 

“No!” 

“Oh. Well, I do.” 

“Who cares?” Red Alert demanded, “It worked!”

Jazz tips his helm back cackling which sets everyone else off laughing as well, Ratchet giggling faintly too. 

“”Yes,” the medic admits, “Clearly it does. Are they still communicating much of a plan?” 

Prowl shrugs and busies himself with fussing with Blurr’s polish. The mechling whines at him and Hot Rod leans away from him, optics spiraled wide, in anticipation of his turn. The night cycle is quiet with fraught tension and the sound of patrolling enforcer squad and Inferno dims the compound lights. 

“The Lords are going to try and leave until this settles down,” Jazz offers. 

Prowl’s tacnet latches onto the tidbit of information. He has a disappointing realization, “I don’t have enough bombs on the docks or the magtrain  stations to cut off any escape routes,” he mourns. 

Wheeljack wheezes, “That’s fixable. I can make more bombs, especially if you’re willing to figure out a way to let Jazz into the precinct’s artillery for materials. How are you getting them everywhere anyways?”

”The mechlings.” 

“Huh?” Sunstreaker says, as every other mech in the room stares daggers at Prowl. 

“The street mechlings,” he clarifies, “I pay them with energon goodies. It makes sure that they fuel, without compromising their pride. They treat it like a game.” 

Red Alert starts giggling hysterically and he doesn't stop. Inferno looks at his mate in concern, and pokes the mech gently. “He has a network of mechling accomplices. He-oh frag. Hey, Prowl, how much could you blow up Praxus if you wanted to right now?” 

“A lot. I could do a lot of damage. I have the bombs separated into city sectors, and damage levels though. We should probably figure out some shelters for mechlings and creators that don’t wish to fight though.” Prowl considers that, “I hadn’t thought about that until now. That’s… not really my usual area, actually.” 

Prowl rubs the polishing cloth over Blurr’s shoulder strut one last time and releases the mechling to snag Hot Rod instead. Hot Rod didn’t mind sitting still as much as Blurr did, but absolutely hated the feel of the polish itself. It was needed for healthy nanites though, and so he sat very reluctantly for the bare minimum of a polish necessary. 

Inferno sinks into the couch beside Red Alert with a loud spark felt groan. Ratchet is rubbing the bridge of his olfactory with a pinched expression, and Jazz has a petrodeer in the headlights look dawning on his own face. 

“Don’t you agree?” Prowl asks, and a series of strangled agreements travels the room. 

“Prowl,” Jazz starts, “I think we need to plan a little more seriously tonight, before your shift tomorrow.” 

Prowl hums and and pulls the broken tower piece from his subspace, the Hax piece with the missing door. He rolls it over in his servo, Hot Rod leaning back into him, the mechling’s spoiler tucked into a nearly Praxian posture of comfort. 

“I don’t know where to start on shelters or evacuation routes, I think Inferno and Ratchet should plan that out. I can execute it if necessary, but the most I can contribute to that is my knowledge on crowd control.” 

Jazz nods slowly as Inferno sinks into Red Alert with a grumble, “Good to know, wasn’t what I meant.” 

Prowl sighs and tosses the Hax piece at Jazz, “We need to cut off access to the city, coming and going. The Lords are going to try and leave, and the Chief is going to try and get backup from the Torus states and Kaonite Alliance. Best next move is going to be to go on the offensive and blow the dock and the stations, but I don’t have bombs there.” 

“You mentioned.” Jazz says, dryly, “If you get schematics I can raid the precinct while you’re on shift tomorrow. You should try and find some sort of a big case we can use as a distraction though. Like the arena level, if we’re going to pull this off.” 

“Bigger,” Red Alert interjects from underneath Inferno, “Praxus doesn’t look to be planning to be lifting the media blackout anytime soon, so the chance that this will need to be a distraction to anyone lacking past firewalls is high.” 

Prowl catches the piece as Jazz tosses it back, “We still don’t have a plan.” 

“We have a direction, and next steps. It's enough.” Wheeljack says, “Now get me that artillery to play with.” 

Red Alert and Prowl had holed themselves up in Red Alert’s sanctuary the second the enforcer had come back. Inferno had entered once bringing fuel at Red’s request, and a package at Prowl’s. It was a joor before he came back looking vaguely alarmed. 

The package had apparently been a massive package of stim cell additives, and Red Alert and Prowl were entering a mutual project fueled mania. Having seen one of Red’s project manias before, and still cleaning up Prowl's Last Project, Jazz would not be touching that one. 

They could come out on their own, when they were done. 

Wheeljack entered Red’s sanctuary on the second cycle of their shut-in, and stayed for several joor. When he came back out he had a list of both objectives to do and obtain. He brought an armful of stim sticky energon cubes back and stared at Ratchet, visibly haunted. 

“So,” he started, to the medic’s apprehension, “how many stims before you go in to tie them both to a berth? I saw easily two dozen empty stim shells in there.” 

Jazz startled hard, “What are the two of them doing? I know Prowl had that slag heap excuse about his chief assigning a case that required a lot of datawork but this list is, well, it’s something.” 

“Crimes, mostly.” Inferno said, as he sipped a cube calmly, radiating strained serenity, “And I think that they are building off of each other at the moment. Whatever happened on Prowl’s last shift triggered his glitch and his tacnet, because he has cool packs in there with him from Red’s supply. Red’s glitch is going full blast as well, and they’re hiding out to solve the problem with terrorism, because you asked them to plan it better and now Prowl’s stressed.” 

“Oh,” Jazz’s voice was small as he looked back at his list of tasks. Most of these would have him out of the compound. Ratchet groaned as he heaved himself up to wander over and read over Jazz’s shoulder. 

“I’ve actually got to add to that list, kid,” he said, and Jazz looked at him betrayed, “I’ll talk to Prowl while you’re out. I don’t think he’s hiding from you specifically, but he may well be glitching.” 

“He is,” Inferno hummed, taking a larger gulp. His energon looked like it had a double dose of magnesium additives. 

“Who is the medic here?” Ratchet demanded.

”You are. I asked him though. He glitched once, and is actively pulling back from the edge. The network is helping, he said, but Red Alert being so close to the edge from the particular news from his shift isn’t helping so he’s trying to resolve the issue,” Inferno drained the cube and stared longingly at the cabinet of additives and flavors, “Primus, I want high grade so bad.” 

Wheeljack hesitantly edged between Inferno and the kitchen, “Yeah, well, you don’t need to be overcharged or drugged when your mate is committing crimes.” 

“No, that’s just why I do.” 

“Inferno, no.” Wheeljack maintained his gentle voice. 

“Inferno, yes.” 

Sunstreaker cautiously raised his servo, “Is that a usual problem?” 

“Not anymore. It hadn’t been. Apparently we’ve backslid a bit.” Ratchet eyed the standoff between the loose plated Inferno perched on the counter and the very taut cabled Wheeljack in the kitchen door. 

”Does anyone know what the news was yet?” Jazz asked, as Ratchet pulls the list away to scribble several last things at the end. 

“Nope,” Inferno drawls, “Fine, no high grade, how about a cygar?” 

“No!” Wheeljack practically shrieks, “Do you even have any? Set a good example for the mechlings!” 

Sunstreaker hums dubiously, “I was a gladiator, Blurr was an illegal racer, and Hot Rod was an underage prostibot slave. We’re all being raised by an assassin cult group. Is there a worse example?” 

“Primus above,” Ratchet says, “Just go, Jazz, I don’t even know where to start with that one. Do you want to go over the list before you go trawling through tasks and scavenger hunt shopping?” 

“Uh.” 

“Scavenger what?” 

Ratchet snorts, “Jazz, fourth item down, what is it?” 

Jazz trails his digit down the flimsy that was covered in Red’s shorthand scrawl, Prowl’s elegant loopy glyphs, and Ratchet’s blocky servowriting, “The street mechling that goes by Dearcy’s book of safehouses.” 

Jazz cycles his optics. He vaguely wonders if he’s supposed to negotiate the book away from the mechling or just bring the mechling here. Ratchet clears his vocalizer to the backdrop of soft giggles from the other mecha in the room. 

“Excellent job, Jazz. Eighth down, now, eleventh after that.” 

“Uhh, the eighth is a list of locations and addresses, it just says scout these locations and pick the best three to be turned into bomb shelters by Inferno and Wheeljack,” Jazz pauses as Wheeljack gives up after a brief scuffle and lets Inferno into the kitchen, “The eleventh is a list of people to give certain datachits to. They’re labeled.” 

Wheeljack leans on the wall and stares at him, “What did Ratchet add?” 

Ratchet swings around, “Ask me yourself, coward.” 

“What did you add? What are you giving poor Jazz more to run around after?” 

“Hot Rod needs his third frame upgrades soon. I can do it, but it's not my specialty, and I’d much rather assist. He’s going to pick up my contact book from the clinic, as well as my equipment so I can interface with them once it’s scheduled to get his frame specs settled.” 

Jazz freezes by the door as Sunstreaker makes an odd sound, and Hot Rod squeals loudly. Sunstreaker’s sound sharpens into a snarl, “You can’t! What if it goes bad!” 

Hot Rod clearly does no care, and has different worries entirely, “Can I have sensor wings like Prowl’s? Please, please, please?”

Ratchet looks harried by one hyper excited mechling, and one overprotective one, and Jazz takes that as his cue to leave. 

Sentinel Prime is dead. He was assassinated by an unknown mecha, almost two vorn ago. The new Prime ascended, backed by the Primesguard and theoretically the Matrix, but not the Senate almost immediately, even if none of it publicly. The tour of duty to announce the new Prime is going to begin at the start of the new Vorn, starting in Iacon with the Festival of Light. 

These were all facts, new ones that Prowl had learned when he had gone to the precinct. His current assignment was to work from his home office and on the beat to track down whoever had set off the bombs that had set off the riots. 

Even if the enforcer coding had been in place Prowl would have been hard pressed to do that. He had started the riots with well timed and placed music long before he made the bombs go off. It was like a petrol souffle, every step placed right or the whole thing went flat. 

His first thought had been to cover his tracks, so he’d gone to Red, the Chief didn’t want to clean house for the Prime’s visit during the tour of duty, just make it look shiny, but he’d be perfectly fine with killing those making the mess. 

Red Alert had hit the roof with paranoia. Primesguard meant army, which meant scrutiny, which meant buried evidence was more suspicious. Red wanted chaos, closed borders, a panicked tour of duty. Red wanted Praxus to be the fastest stop as the Primesguard hustled their Prime back out again. 

Upon second thought Prowl could see the sense in that. Praxus was an independent state. They were not strictly beholden to the Prime’s edicts or the Senate’s laws, but they were still under Cybertronian judgement on the occasion that the Prime, the Senate, and the City Lords agreed. It was a very rare occasion. 

So Prowl had ordered enough stimulant cells to fell a predacon, and he and Red had planned, and detailed, and made backups, and contingencies, and had gathered evidence upon file upon probably illegally obtained record. 

The cohort network between them buzzed with reflected stress and pride as they worked to get this absolutely perfect. 

On the fourth cycle, surrounded by the files and supplies Jazz had gotten and Inferno had delivered, curled together on Red Alert’s fold out berth, exhausted and jittery, they had their master plan. 

“It’s going to work,” Red Alert said, as Prowl held the data pad with the activation sequence on his lap. Prowl hummed, leaning his helm on Red Alert’s shoulder. 

“I know. We’ve run the numbers dozens of times, with as many variables as we can think of,” Prowl taps his digits nervously along the back of the pad, “I ran the numbers last time too.” 

“Didn’t you do that subconsciously?” Red Alert drawls, sarcastically. 

“So?”

Red Alert snorts and shrugs to jostle the Praxian slightly, “Either way, you should hit it now so we can get a couple joor of recharge in. Hot Rod gets his upgrades today, and we promised we’d all go to the market as a cohort to celebrate with him. If we want the timing right,then now’s best.” 

Prowl sighs deeply, taps the button, and tosses the data pad across the room. There’s a case, it’ll survive. He really does need a joor of charge before Jazz and Inferno come in to drag him and Red off to meet Hot Rod at the market. 

It’s the last mechling upgrade, the next will be his young adult frame. Hot Rod is insistent on fancy fuel out to celebrate, all of them, even though it stresses Red Alert out so badly. The compromise that Inferno had negotiated from the mechling was that they’d get fancy fuel to go and eat it at the market, and they could get a present for him as well. 

It was a good compromise, especially since Red Alert now got to look forward to the fruits of their labors on the massive public screens over the marketplace later, it was scheduled for a joor into the little celebration. 

Jazz would be mad. Hot Rod would adore it. 

Indeed, several joor later, clutching a sharply bitter bismuth and strontium froth fuel, the screens over the marketplace screeched away from the various ads they showed all at once. Red’s self satisfied smirk was a direct counter to Prowl’s blank faced sip of his fuel. 

He may have been out and about as Sharpgear at the moment, all of them in disguise save Hot Rod this close to the riots, but that was no reason to lose the facial control he learned as an enforcer. 

Jazz glared at them both, Ratchet just as fiercely, and Wheeljack surprisingly. 

“What did you do,” Wheeljack hissed, his helm fins flared a nasty orange, “This is Hot Rod’s celebration, what did you do.” 

“I don’t mind! This stuffs super cool! Will there be bombs?” The mechling in question chirped out, and Inferno sighed deeply. 

“Why,” he began, “Did the two of you meet again? You’re chaos entities, both of you. I thought Jazz and Red were bad, now I’ve got Red and Prowl to worry abou-“

”Hey-“ Red Alert protested, and Ratchet shushed them all. The video playing overhead was an absolute influx of information, audio tags, video clips, file capture scrolling across to musical accompaniment, all of it acknowledging the fact that the common mecha were being lied too. 

That Sentinel Prime, a mecha that had actually been fairly hated for his pandering to the diactorial senate, was dead, killed, for vorn now, and replaced, and no one had known but the senate. 

That the senate was planning on starting the Tour of Duty soon, but only after sending spies into the city and to talk to the precincts and the Lords of each city on behalf on secrecy’s sake. 

That the new Prime had been an archivist, a librarian, an unknown who had been attempting to replace parts of the senate, before he had been announced, before any records were public, before anything could be protested or revoked. 

The video file that that Prowl and Red alert had put together, had spent cycles on, voiced by a friend of Red’s and sent back in a chit via Jazz, and presented by a animated mask of no mech in particular, was playing all at once on every channel, in every city, globally. 

Every mech on Cybertron would see this, both due to Red Alert’s skill in hacking, and due to a favor Red called in from an old friend from Kaon. There were facts in it, presented without bias, intended to expose the truth and let the watcher draw their own conclusions. 

In peaceful cities that trusted the senate and their Prime, like Iacon, Kalis, and Crystal City, the common mecha would watch it and move on with their day. 

In cities like Kaon, Tarn, and the Torus states, where fighting and tension against the senate and the Primes was already so high, this would make their already tenuous balance more unstable. 

In Praxus, which was a powder keg ready to blow, this would be a match to the fuse. This was yet another thing the enforcers and the Lords had held back, that would result in hardship, in trouble. 

Prowl grinned at Red. 

His smile faltered as he saw Jazz’s faceplates shift from amused tolerance to sheer fury as he lunged for Prowl. 

He hadn’t known to run the numbers for this. 

There was a sedation dart in his neck cabling and he was being yanked back from his cohort ruthlessly, his wings squashed and twisted painfully against his captor’s chest plates, as one steel blue armored arm crossed his chassis, and the other raised a shimmering wall between them. 

Jazz bounced off of it with a howl of fury. Prowl’s systems stuttered. 

“Sharpgear?”was asked into his audio, and without thinking Prowl nodded as he activated his relay comm for Red to record from, “Excellent. My boss has a few questions for you and an acquaintance of yours. I don’t suppose you’d point me towards Meister?” 

Prowl clicked his vocalizer uselessly and dropped into stasis hard as the sedation dart fully kicked in. 

Chapter Text

Prowl flexed his stiff joints as he stared at the two mechs on the other side of the cell bars. They were in the old Primesguard compound, the Praxian one in particular had not been opened, used, or updated for any of the centivorn that the Primesguard were inactive. 

It meant that physical bars seperated them, surprisingly well maintained, or perhaps well restored, vibro-steel bars, instead of the typical energy constructs that had become much more common place in their place. The vibro-steel bars had been replaced due to the tools to cut the bars being smuggled in, but that had been so long ago. Prowl did not have any on him, even if he was sure that Jazz or Wheeljack might have some at their compound. 

The young framed adult with the field medic symbols shifted in place, “Sharpgear, right? Do you mind if I ask a few questions? There were some irregularities with your apprehension and I’m concerned on a professional level.”

”I glitched,” Prowl rasped, “It happens. The tranquilizer triggered it.” 

“Alright. I’m Knockout, by the way, a field medic on call with my squad right now. Is this part of a preexisting issue?” He tapped on a med pad, shifting nervously, clearly following references that Ratchet had long since memorized. 

“Yes,” Prowl replied, as his tacnet finished rebooting. He’d been taken as Sharpgear during the direct aftermath of the reveal video. They’d all taken great care not to connect Sharpgear and Prowl, as much effort as they put into keeping Jazz and Meister seperate. 

In all likelihood this had something to do with some recording from Rodonite’s rescue. Red Alert’s caution was warranted. That investigation was almost a vorn overdue now. 

“Oh. Um. Were you emerged with it, or was it trauma, or developed?” Knockout glances between his med-pad and Prowl, as he flicks his digits nervously. Prowl just want his cool packs from home and a stim cell. The tranq is still glitching his systems slightly. 

“Developed due to trauma. If we might skip your questionnaire, I’m not interested in being your fresh-from-the-academy test bot,” Prowl drops one pede to the floor off the side of the berth in a purposely lascivious movement, he is in a prostibot guise after all. 

The boxy mech next to the medic stiffens and crosses his gray arms defensively and shifts back, “He’s a medic, he’s trying to help. You could be nicer.” 

“Uh huh,” Prowl drawls, and decides that he’s having plenty of fun playing right at the moment, “Well, I can be plenty nice to you, Shiny. But you lot did take me right out the market. I was havin’ a nice day out. My mechlin’ had her frame upgrades an’ everything. She’ll be spitting mad.” 

Boxy Mech’s fields blanches to pure mortification and a hint of charge around the edge and Prowl outright cackles, the feral sound he’d picked up from Jazz. His ATS is offline right now, will stay that way until the tranq is all the way out of his systems and he’s fully fueled, and his inhibitions are lower than usual as a result. 

His intake filter can’t process a dart to the throat cables. Mores the pity, now he’s high. Too bad for them. 

They disabled his outgoing comms, and incoming, no connected systems, but the tapped line that Red uses is intact, so he can slip as many hints as he likes to them, and hope they understand, and the cameras here are to old for connected audio. If they leave him alone he can talk directly. 

Until then, he’s a menace and it’s everyone’s problem and entirely Jazz’s fault. 

Knockout stares at him. He twitches slightly glances at Boxy Mech, then looks back at his med-pad as if it has all the answers in the universe. It doesn’t, and he looks back at Prowl with a blank face of sheer exhaustion. “I need my questionnaire. I haven’t memorized anything yet. Glitches aren’t usually a field issue.” 

Prowl sighs dramatically, “Well, if you insist. Can I guess first though? If I get it right would I get a prize?” 

“I don’t- sure?” Knockout shrugs bemusedly, “I don’t really know what you’re trying to guess, or what prize you want, but go for it.” 

“No, I’m not actively glitching at the moment, I’m post-glitch entering the after effects. It was a nasty one, eight out of ten intensity level, I was unconscious for the majority of it due to the triggering tranq. No new error codes, or damages incurred, and any old coding errors are holding repairs well. Currently functional, restriction level three. Was that what you needed, do I get a prize?” 

The field medic taps frantically at his med-pad and looks up awed, “How’d you do that?” 

“Eh,” Prowl shrugs, “I have a regular medic, one I trust. That’d be the spiel we go through every time.” 

“Yeah, ok,” Knockout agrees, “Prize. What do you want?” 

Prowl’s optics gleam and he watches both of them freeze. He rolls himself upright in slow, methodical, graceful increments. Boxy Mech swallows dryly. He lowers his sensor panels to drape behind him on the berth and leans forward, elbows on one knee, the other still splayed open off the berth. 

If Red has already tapped into the cameras like Prowl has suspected then this will join his album of blackmail captures, he just knows it. 

Knockout clutches his med-pad to his chest plates nervously, digits fluttering against the back of it in half formed chiro-linguistic protests, and Boxy Mech’s equally nervous posture features bubbles of energy forming and popping repeatedly on his knuckles. One of them squeaks. Prowl smirks slowly at them both.

“I would like cool packs for my joints. Energon, and a stim cell, and a magnesium supplement would be wonderful. Even the after effects of a glitch aren’t pleasant,” he watches the fans kick into high gear on them both, “I would also like to send a message to my mechling, Dearcy, so she knows I am alive.” 

Boxy Mech releases a high whine from his engine and relaxes slightly. He tenses all over again as Prowl leans forward slightly more, wings bouncing up high to push his bumper forward in a posture of excitement. Boxy Mech releases a new sound, a squeaky sound of escaping air and sanity. 

“I would also love some blanket meshes, and Shiny Mech over there’s name. Shiny medic’s name is Knockout, fitting, absolutely would love to, but I don’t know yours?” Prowl looks at Boxy Mech expectantly. Boxy Mech stares back, field flushed. He does not have a medical pad to hide behind. 

“Trailbreaker,” he squeaks, barely louder than Blurr’s recharge talk, then he flees the room. Knockout stares longingly after him. Prowl arches slightly. 

Knockout clutches the med-pad tighter, “Stimcell, energon, magnesium supplement, blankets, cool packs are medical, I can get those. Trailbreaker will ask about you sending a message to your mechling. Bye.” 

The distinct sound of an anchor lock clicks into place after the medic’s rapid escape and Prowl laughs as he settles back into a natural posture on the berth. He looks up at the vent cover above him. A mischievous blue faceplate leers at him. 

“Dearcy reporting for duty, under direction from Jazzy an’ Sunny-Streaks!” She chirps, and she drops an unwired comm line through the grate followed by a screwdriver set, “Gotta, say boss-cop, Totally mode to be crawlin’ through the vents of’a antique frag’all place t’ do slag for your songbird. Do better. Don’t get caught.” 

The tiny street mechling blew a raspberry at him and Prowl pulled a face right back at her. The femmeling was Sunstreaker’s best friend, and frequently over at the compound when Jazz was out, mostly because the oldest mechling wanted to hold that one over Jazz’s helm. She also coordinated all of the remaining street mechlings for Prowl, which let him keep a better separation in place. 

“Good to see you, Dearcy, I was hoping they’d get that message, seems they may have thought ahead instead.” He grins sharply, she typically interacts with him in his Prowl frame and has seen him as Sharpgear perhaps once before in a holo,and twice on the street, never in person, “Well? Different enough?” 

“Boss-cop, ya seduced the poor suppressed Iacies.” She deadpans, and Prowl stretchs with the hip juts that Wheeljack had worked so hard to perfect on full display, “Oh la la, a prostibot! But seriously, they were about to combust, it was hilarious.” 

She curls herself in the vent so she’s contorted halfway through and hangs her hands and helm by Prowl’s, watching as he takes the cover off his audio to wire a temporary comm line in. It won’t have a long range, or many connections, but it’ll do. She sways back and forth in practiced motions, stilted off of her performance mesh-silks from the underground clubs she earns her energon in, but graceful still. 

“Any instructions, boss?” She whispers into his audio, in the same seductive, airy tone he’d used with his requests, and then, switching back to her usual brash confidence, “Or anything I should tell your Songbird?” 

Prowl twists until he’s olfactory to olfactory with her, then he smiles. The femmeling is cut from the same wilding protomesh as Jazz, and the same crystal roots as Sunstreaker’s unrelenting ferality and wonder at the world. All three of them are as wild as the most untamed crystal jungles and bold as the deepest oil seas, but all three are also as loyal as they come, like a magna burr to a pole. 

Not to people, but to concepts, to ideas and ideals and dreams, and to the mecha that uphold them. Prowl hopes he’s always one of those mecha. 

“I’m a little curious. This is a Primesguard building, staffed by a field medic on call with his squad, and an unknown, amongst others. That’s fascinating. He’s also a field medic just out of basic if I’m not mistaken, which is unusual. They’re following protocol, technically.” 

Dearcy leans closer, her blue faceplates suddenly serious, “Boss, you don’t get slagged, got it? Sunny-Streaks’ll be devastated if’n you get hurt.” 

Her little wings were clamped tight with distress, one of them lined with little jeweled rings to decorate its edge distracting from the missing sensor platelets, the other missing a chunk entirely, capped with nothing more than a plasteel cast Sunstreaker had painted. 

“I won’t. Promise. Like I said, protocol. Even Spec Ops and Black Ops follow the same basic protocols as enforcers do. The first interrogations are to get a feel for it. They want a feel for how I operate, and they want me to relax and feel like I’m getting the hang of it before they’ll switch tactics. I won’t stay past the first.” 

Dearcy nods sharply and ducks back into the vent, pulling the grate after her, “You’re not staying past the first one.” 

“No.” Prowl agrees, “We’ll have a plan figured out by commlink by the time the actual interview happens, and from there, I really am just curious. As for messages for Jazz, tell him I think we need to work on mutual value for times like these if he has thoughts.” 

“What, like bonding?” Dearcy says disgusted, and Prowl freezes. 

“Yes, that, ah, that’d work. Tell him I’ll ask more romantically later if we’re already doing everything backwards anyways.” 

“Ew,” Dearcy says, and the sound of her retreat coincides with the reentry of his two guards from earlier. 

Jazz will know what he means. They’ll actually talk about later, seriously talk about it later, but he’ll laugh first. Mechlings, then bonding, then asking, then courting, all before meeting his brothers really would be backwards though, and it technically would be mutual value. 

He sits nicely as the little package door is unlocked for his parcel of blanket meshes, cool packs, fuel, and a empty data chit to be set in his cell. Oh, his captors really don’t know what he’s capable of. Excellent. 

“He was with a mechling,” Bluestreak grumbles again, from his position across the table where he’s been pouting for the last joor. Smokescreen just sighs. 

“He was with several mecha,” Bumblebee says, “which rules your brother out, which, I thought would make you happy. Also, you made the shot, we got him, not Meister yet, but we’ve got one of them. It’ll be fine.” 

Trailbreaker knocks at the doorframe, “Hey, uh, he’s awake?” 

“Is he ok?” Bluestreak asks immediately, and Smokescreen wondered why he wouldn’t be. Bluestreak tranqed him, not a bludgeon to the helm. 

“Not really,” Smokescreen takes it back as the whole planning room focuses on the poor mech assigned to help guard the prostibot, “He, um, he had a medical condition? He didn’t react to the tranq well, I don’t think.” 

Mirage clicks his glossa sharply, “Details, Trailbreaker. What medical condition, what reaction, why, how.”

”Uuuuh.” The mech’s fans roar for a second and his optics dart to Smokescreen, then to Bluestreak, pause on Bluestreak’s wings, then he stares at the ceiling intently, “Uuuum.” 

Smokescreen snaps his wings froward into an aggressively protective position automatically as Bluestreak ducks his down, self consciously. Trailbreaker continues to stare at the ceiling. 

“Uum,” he says eventually, his vocalizer crackling nervously, “I know the possibility was tossed around about the prisoner and your brother being, um, contacts?” 

“The… same mech?” Bumblebee clarifies quietly, “Because that’s Mirage’s theory. No one else thinks it.” 

“Oh good.” 

“Why?” Smokescreen asks, hesitantly, and he isn’t sure he actually wants to know. 

“Um. Details are that he reacted poorly because he has a prior trauma developed glitch that was triggered by the tranq, and he glitched when we, um, captured him. He told Knockout after prompting, and volunteered information after, erm, deciding that Knockout was, um, too, um, inexperienced. And how is because he um, he, um, he-“ 

“Trailbreaker.” Hound said, gravely and solemn, “The cameras may have no audio, but they have visual. Would you prefer to clarify a verbal synopsis to what we can observe from the angle we have running at the moment?” 

Trailbreaker nodded, and Smokescreen maneuvered around to get his first real look at this Sharpgear as well. The camera angles were slapdash, the building was still getting back to functional, and the angle they had showed the berth with the prisoner, and the two guards, and the door. Nothing else was visible, which boded ill for if the mech decided to pace. 

That- that was definitely not Prowl. Prowl couldn’t detect flirting to save his own life, much less do it so effectively with nothing more than frame language. That was actually impressive. It was also probably not a professional prostibot, this was an actor, a good one. Those were angles, poses, not something well practiced or fluid. 

Might be a porn prostibot though, performers made a lot, and they didn’t have to screen for corrupted code nearly so often. With a preexistent glitch, that was much more likely. 

“Right.” Mirage said, with an odd finality, “Right, anything else Trailbreaker?” 

“He’d like to contact his femme youngling to assure her of his status,” he replied, and Smokecreen watched Bluestreak wilt. That hadn’t been a femmeling with the group when they’d tranqed him, had it?

Ironhide barked a laugh and tossed an empty chit at Trailbreaker, “Get gone then, kid. Tell ‘im we’ll read it afore we send it off, and, try not to fall fer a performer, yeah? Bless yer spark.” 

Trailbreaker scrambled out of the room, still avoiding optic contact with Bluestreak and Smokescreen directly. 

No matter, Smokescreen had an interrogation to prepare for, the first one, and introductory could be a make or break session for an interrogator and interviewee. This mech was already proving skilled at basic manipulation, and this was important, both in general and for Smokescreen’s career. 

It would only be Smokescreen and Sharpgear in the room, all the others would be on limited comms across the observant glass passing questions, concerns, and observations through a linked pad. Planning this would be necessary for each encounter, doubly so once they had Meister in custody since Mirage’s ultimate goal was recruitment. 

Smokescreen wished for the first time that he wasn’t so good at his job. 

A few joor later he sat across from Sharpgear in the interrogation room, the prostibot sprawled lazily in his seat, sharp optics watching him over his cuffed servos. Smokescreen vented deeply and began reciting his rights, modified for the structure the Primesguard and Specops had given him, even as it grated against his enforcer code. 

It’d be fine. No different from abiding by a different Precinct’s operant codes. 

>>Jazzy, They brought my brother in to do my interrogation.<<

>>Do you think they know?<< Prowl smirked, and watched as Smokescreen vented sharply and repeated a modified right on freedom of speech. 

>>No, I really don’t think they do.<< There was silence over the comms for a long moment, then Ratchet of all mecha broke in. 

>>Kid, mess with him. You are never going to get a better chance.<< 

Prowl agreed, and let his grin grow to unholy proportions, as Smokescreen slowly trailed off, looking at him, disturbed. 

“Oh, are you done?” 

Smokescreen visibly loosened his plating and Prowl snickered, “Yes, do you have any questions for me at the moment?” 

“Do I get a lawyer? Am I arrested, or free to go? What am I arrested for? Why? Are you sure Shiny Bot can’t ask the questions?” 

>>Are you channeling Blurr?<< Jazz commed incredulously.

>>Is it working?<< Prowl pinged back.

>>Just so you know the answer is yes, and this earns you the fact that I’ll give you the fancy post-bonding proposal. This is amazing.<< 

Prowl watches Smokescreeen wilt slightly, “You didn’t listen to a thing I said, did you?” He asks. 

Prowl shrugs, “Didn’t listen, didn’t care, what’s the difference really? I heard it all if that helps.” 

Smokescreen stares, processes that, and visibly gives up. Prowl turns his own attention to his cuffs, and sets his Tacnet to figuring out the combination. He can click them back shut again, but the opening power is useful. 

>>The Frag are you both on about,<< Ratchet interjects grumpily. 

>>Nothing! Don’t worry about it!<< Jazz trills over the comm to the sound of Red Alert’s hysterical cackles, and Prowl has a truly wicked idea. 

The mecha interrogating him have cameras, but no audio. They dont need it yet, they’re tapped in, so it’s fine for them. Prowl’s cohort has audio from their tap, but only cameras wherever Red can hack them, and he can only align them if Prowl is with the camera. 

This means that they will see this terrible idea in full color and audio courtesy of Red’s splicing skills, but no one else will. 

“No lawyer, you are detained not arrested, at the leisure of the Prime not the courts so you have different rights. Any other questions?” Smokescreen says, and Prowl wonders how much chaos this group can deal with at once. His brother raised him and Blue, he is well versed in mayhem. Who he’s working for however may be a different story. 

Prowl has a limited comm spliced into his helm. It has three channels. He switched to the second, cutting off the brewing fight between Ratchet and Jazz. >>Dearcy?<< 

>>Yeah, Boss?<< 

>>Plan Old boom is a go, set it up, please.<< 

>>On  it Boss.<< Prowl switches back to the first line, its quieter, anticipatory.

“Not at the moment,” Prowl thinks he doesn’t want to flirt with his brother, but, he might try it just watch him squirm later when he remembers, “Unless you want me too? I could. I’m real good at instructions, you know.” 

Smokescreen stops, glances at his communipad, and sighs, “No, we’ll not be doing that.” 

“Yes, all the better. I mostly don’t do that sort of thing. My mate really does get just so possessive, you know,” Prowl leans forward, crossed servos tucked under his chin, wondering how long it’ll take to notice the missing cuffs in his subspace, “It’s fun to watch him get that way though.” 

Smokescreen stares at nothing in particular for a very long moment, before he starts frantically swiping across the communipad. Prowl has just falsely linked an easy dozen Meister cases to manipalated jealousy. His comms explode with noise. Jazz’s voice is easily picked out. 

>>Mech. Mech, I have a reputation, you just guaranteed your safety for a time until they can confirm.<<

>>Like I said, mutual value<< 

Smokescreen looks up, “And where is your mate, if he’s so possessive?”

Prowl grins sharply, “Closer than you think. Say, what did you shoot me with? I think I need to get it on my medic’s list of substances to potentially ban.” 

”It’s safe for use,” Smokescreen assures, and Prowl rolls his optics with a dramatic toss of his helm. 

“On my medical record, aftport, not globally.” 

“Ah.” Smokescreen tapped at his communipad for a second, then, “It’s a sodium-glycinate compound. I can read the whole compound, or I can send it directly to your medic?” 

Prowl stares at him scornfully, “I ain’t stupid. You can read it off, this bad a reaction and I’ll record you sayin’ it so I don’t forget. A glitch as bad as mine, where I can have medical restriction levels anywhere between one and six any given day, and I don’t play around.” 

Prowl could hear himself slipping into the street talk that Jazz and Dearcy used so fluently, and Smokescreen rattled off the compound. Ratchet’s comfirmation a moment later was what made him really relax. 

“Alright, so why am I here?” Prowl asked, and Smokescreen straightened back to an enforcer’s posture as he refocused. 

>>All set, boss,<< Dearcy pinged, and Prowl smirked. This was an introductory interrogation. This was to feel each other out. Thus far he’d thoroughly caught Smoksecreen off guard. He would give this maybe another breem. 

“We are investigating Praxus, and found some… irregularities. In the course of our investigation you and another mecha of interest, likely your mate, by the name of Meister, came to our attention.” Smokescreen was a picture of professionalism. Prowl slouched further, really tucked his chin in his arms, just to pose an opposite. 

“Mmm. Really wonder how that could’ve happened. Tell me, is Rhodonite alive? Got a mutual friend what would be all kinds of slagged off if you lot dug that out of his processor after all the work we put into getting him to safety. That friend even sent ‘is brother’s commlines as a safety net to help establish ‘itself in Iacon. A Smokey and a Blue, if’n I remember right?”

Smokescreen stiffened considerably, his wings high and stiff, a stressed and unsure position. He was definitely pulled to work with black ops. He glanced at the communipad and relaxed very slightly, “Yes, Rhodonite is confirmed alive.” 

“Didn’t contact you though.” Prowl said, schooling his face to be solemn instead of the knowing smirk he wanted, then gave up and let them balance together, “Because those wings don’t lie. You’re either Smokey or Blue, an’ you never got no comm.” 

“Your mutual friend is my brother,” Smokescreen snapped, and immediately looked stricken. You were not supposed to be involved in an interrogation emotionally at all. It had ended for the day, if this hadn’t ended at all with Shargear. ”You could be less accusing about it. I’m not Rhodonite, I don’t know him.” 

“Nah, but you could’a sent you brother a package a long time ago. A comm. A glyph. Even a curse to know he ain’t been left to rot, the poor slagtard.” Prowl may be quoting an old rant directly from Inferno, the mech himself crowing in the comms, “Don’t know ‘is friends, don’t know ‘is city, don’t know ‘is haunts, don’t know ‘im.” 

Smokescreen stares, his wings low and devastated. They’d grown up in Iacon. Prowl had to learn Wing language, Proper Wing language and manners after moving to Praxus, fast and hard, but elsewhere no one cared, and now his brothers were open books. 

“I didn’t-“ 

“Don’t matter. It happened.” Smokescreen’s face crumpled and Prowl nodded, he’d made his point. Now, now it was time to go. He had a bond to do, so that his mate could propose, and mayhem to wreak now that their timeframe had moved up, “I’ll be going now.” 

“I don’t- what? Where?” 

>>Now, Dearcy.<< 

A series of explosions rocked the building as music began to play, loud and disruptive, an old Altihexian dance song. They were centered in the server room, the entrance, and along the corridors. The intent this time wasn’t structural damage, but to blow the doors, the powers, and to make enough dust that a fair fight was never on the table. 

This was Prowl’s city, Jazz’s city. The fight was their favor. 

Smokescreen lurches backwards, catching himself on the wall, and he watched optics bright as Prowl rolled to his pedes gracefully and stepped to the door, waiting for his escort, the observant’s window was cracked, and a missing section revealed a rapidly emptying room behind it. Full turnout for a supposed prostibot. 

Maybe they were smarter than Prowl thought. 

He darted in close to Smokescreen for just a moment and stabs him with the dart from his subspace, the one shot into his cables mere joor before, “I’m not staying, and you can’t keep me. This is my city, Officer Smokey. You say I’m detained at the leisure of the Prime, but I see no Prime here, and Praxus doesn’t recognize his authority alone besides. I do not need to stay. I’ll give you this though, free of charge. Look at the enforcers. They’re not telling you everything. No one is.” 

Then the door opened to reveal Sunstreaker, with his preferred knives, pouting in his temporary recoded paint, with Dearcy beside him, vibrating with manic energy, bombs in her servos. 

“Darlings,” Prowl drawls, “We’re neither bombing nor stabbing this one. He’s special.” 

“Ugh, why? Boring.” Dearcy complains, before she darts off to cause chaos elsewhere. Sunstreaker, resplendent in scarlet and deep orange, takes position behind Prowl as they stalk down the hall knives held ready. There is very little incident. 

At one point a group of three rounds the corner in front of them. Bluestreak and Knockout are familiar, both of them looking oddly flustered at the sight of Prowl, still in his prostibot guise. The third is not, lithe and deadly, bright red and armed to the hilt as he goes on guard immediately. 

Knockout skitters back around the corner, and Bluestreak immediately starts shunting together his rifle, at a disadvantage short range, and panting short vents with the realization. Prowl will have to find an excuse to mention it in as letter later. 

“Smokescreen’s down, I drugged him,” Prowl says lazily, and Bluestreak drops his rifle to dart past him with a gasp, Knockout on his pedes, shooting a nasty glare at him as they pass. The third mech looks lost for a moment before he rallies admirably and throws himself forward, pistol in one servo, and knife in the other, snarling all the way. 

Sunstreaker throws him through two walls and he lands in a heap, groaning. He is in one piece, albeit with one limb backwards, and several armature plates shorn straight off. It’s repairable. Eventually. 

Prowl steps forward and Sunstreaker follows him. They’ve plenty to do. Besides he rather likes the nickname that Dearcy used. He has a songbird to bond, for mutual value, no other reason, no, not at all. 

The sensor ghost drifts across his net and Prowl whirls around to throw a knife that he slips from Sunstreaker’s bandoleer. The white and blue mech that fades into view with a choked sound of pain is immensely satisfying. That much moreso for the knife lodged in their shoulder. 

“You were watching that farce of an interview, I should assume,” he says, all pleasant tones as Jazz steps up behind him as Meister, “Know this, I am equally possessive. You wished to know where my mate was? Here he is, now, do tell, in as few words as possible, why did you need to know?” 

“We would like to talk,” Hound says. 

“Wrong answer, he didn’t ask ya,” Jazz chirps, “Hit it, Dearcy.” 

The speakers on top of each building, in each gargoyle, grotesque, and crystal guardian’s mouth’s that Prowl has spent several decaorn bribing street mechlings to place activates at once. Prowl, Jazz, and Sunstreaker turn and run, they’ll drop into the sewer to get back to Westport territory that way in a few alleys. 

Dearcy and her crew have long since vanished. The rescue crews were already converging on the sight when Dearcy activated the Old Boom Protocol. The Speakers’ message would ensure the rest. 

“Please evacuate all areas surrounding Block SteelCrystal, Please evacuate all areas surrounding Block SteelCrystal, Please evacuate all areas surrounding Block SteelCrystal. Make your way to the nearest Shelter, friend, family, or hotel.” 

The cameras showed the panicked scramble from the building and surrounding areas clearly. The second Inferno commed an all clear, the building crumbled. It was a historic piece of Praxus, a piece of the old regime of ages past, it was beautiful. The camera view of the enforcers approaching the group was unwelcome, but the group heading instead for an outer perimeter city check point was ideal. 

It was unlikely that they’d driven them fro Praxus for good. But for now, they had no base of operations, and Prowl had certainly sown chaos. 

”So,” Jazz said, “I heard you gave a couple of Iacies some crisises about ‘facin.”

”Maybe.” 

“Wanna try me?” 

Prowl barked a laugh, “That had better not be your romantic proposal. No, I don’t. I don’t like interfacing. Bonding seems better, but interfacing is…mmm.” 

“Trust issues?” Jazz guessed. 

“Yes!” Prowl crowed, “Not that I don’t trust you, but, it’s, well, it’s weird.”

”Nah, I getcha. I can do it, but I don’t for similar reasons. It’s all the same. Bondings good. Mutual value, right?” 

“Yes. Then you give me a proposal worth writing home about, even if I won’t.” 

“You challenging me?” 

“Yes.” 

Chapter Text

Bonded life seems no different to Prowl than before. He is more settled perhaps, shares more conspiratorial looks with Jazz as they toss shreds and pieces of his plans back and forth along the bond instead of the cohort network. 

Bonds were often formed in private now, the couple taking time off of work to hole up and bond privately after a public ceremony with friends and family, and confirming its strength and change in status with a medic afterwards. Praxus as a whole was old fashioned, and Prowl and Jazz’s cohort was odd in general besides. 

Prowl and Jazz decided to keep the bonding to the cohort alone, ceremony and bond alike, as public as Jazz was as a performer, and friendly as Prowl was with his network of street mecha, they were both relatively private with their own lives. Sunstreaker had been disappointed with them both, along with Hot Rod and Blurr, all three mechlings wishing to throw an extravagant masquerade ball for a bonding ceremony so that everymech could come and disguises could still be used. 

Instead they had a small masquerade in their compound courtyard where it was walled off, catered by a few of their more trusted mecha from the Westpoint Warren, and attended by some closer friends. The only ones that stayed the whole ceremony to attend the bonding itself were Whirl, the clockmaker friend of Jazz’s, and Dearcy. Sunstreaker led his younger siblings in creating the masks, and they all wore the well crafted, over-glittered, and sloppily glued creations with pride. 

This followed Praxian tradition, old fashioned to hold the bonding ceremony to a private venue, or a home, instead of a Primal Temple, or public place to be observed, but that really wasn’t the Praxian way. Prowl liked it better. 

Then they broke from both tradition and modern habits. Instead of retreating to bond in private, Prowl and Jazz curled together in the center of the courtyard. Inferno and Red Alert took a position facing away, guarding, defending them, at the Eastern point and the Western. Ratchet and Inferno took North and South. 

Two long since bonded couples, with strong, established bonds to protect the newly forming one behind them, in the cardinal directions. Whirl and Dearcy, in the role of witnesses, took Northeast, and Sunstreaker as the guard, took Southeast. Hot Rod, representing Prowl’s clan, took Northwest, and Blurr took Southwest representing Jazz’s. 

It was an ancient tradition, from a time before even the Quintesson war, from old writings and data scripts that weren’t able to be viewed outside museums. They called them Compass bonds, or magnet bondings, since the couple aligned themselves with Cybertron’s poles. 

It was also semi public, even with all but the witnesses and the guard faced away, and so it had fallen away from favor when security and privacy began to go hand in servo as ideas. 

The moment they were all in place the two couples around Prowl and Jazz both lifted one pede and slammed it down in a stomp. They’d told the Westpoint Warren just enough of what was happening for them to get the signal from this. Red Alert and Wheeljack, surprisingly competent singers would sing the first song, then the Warren had a button to play through the city a bonding playlist that Jazz and Prowl had selected, both for while they bonded, and for after. 

They stomped again, and Red launched into the fast paced stomp song he and Wheeljack had chosen, Wheeljack’s higher tone lilting along with Red Alert’s timbre. Ratchet and Inferno stumbled along to the chorus and mangled the Old Altihexian words on the verses proper but matched the stomps perfectly. 

It was perfectly imperfect, and Jazz laughed warmly as Prowl beamed at his mate, his Jazz, and they both opened their chest plates. Sol set, and Luna two joined her sister in the night cycle sky, and they spiraled their spark chambers open. They leaned forward, arms tangled around each other, legs tangled together, neither knew where one began nor where the other ended. They simply were. 

Their Cohort’s, their family’s song ended, and the Warren started the playlist without missing a beat. The song that Jazz played to dance around with Prowl to, the only one he was allowed in the kitchen to do so with, was first. 

It fit. His Jazz, chaotic and wild, loud and characteristically, wonderfully, unabashedly unique. Come down to the Rust Sea, indeed. 

The checkpoint they’d set camp at while they regrouped was held by an uneasy truce between the army and the Praxian Enforcers. Ironhide had perhaps underestimated how much Praxus valued their status as an independent state. This was a bigger mess than he’d thought, and he had a sneaking feeling that they’d gone and mucked it up worse. 

He tapped gently at Sideswipe’s monitor again, his mechling had woken once already. Logically he knew he’d be alright, logic had no place for pulling your broken kid from the remnants of multiple walls and carrying out of a building to the accompaniment of an evacuation order. 

Chromia leaned in, “He’ll be fine. You’ll wake him up.” 

“Good. You should’ve woken me when he was awake last time, I can’t stop seeing him there so limp,” Ironhide rumbled back. He didn’t truly wish Sideswipe awake before he was rested, the mechling was moving even now, always a restless recharger. 

Bluestreak shifted across the room, careful not to disturb the exhausted Knockout passed out on him, “You could. He wouldn’t mind. He was worried too.” 

“What was he worried about?” Chromia cood softly, she’d practically adopted Bluestreak and Knockout the astrosecond Sideswipe had first started bringing them home, and she rose to join them instead of Ironhide at the sound of Bluestreak’s little sniffle. 

“After the video, I was already in my perch, they’d been in the market, we were scouting, but the video was, it-“ Blue made an odd hiccuping sound and Chromia cringed alongside Ironhide. The video itself wasn’t bad. It was masterfully done, very factual, full of information that shouldn’t be available. 

Half the planet was now rioting and Optimus was on the move sooner than they liked, out of sheer necessity. The other half hadn’t cared before, the video was simply interesting, but the riots were new, and were only now starting to look. The tensions were mainly pointed at the senate now, but that could change on a dime. 

“After we brought him back, and Knockout was guarding him, they didn’t need me. So me and Sideswipe got to hang out in the break room. It’s very dusty. Was very dusty,” Bluestreak pauses and scrubs hard at a patch of charred nanites, Chromia carefully folds his servo into hers instead and tucks him partially under her arm. 

“Darling, why was Sideswipe worried?” 

“He was guarding me in my perch. He saw someone with Sharpgear’s group. He said he was probably a guard, or a slave, or a mix. But he moved like a gladiator.” 

Ironhide very carefully did not vent the sigh he wanted to. Sideswipe was a challenge to spar, and a challenge to train. He had been as a youngling, and he still was now. It was why he’d gone for the enforcers first, on Ironhide’s suggestion, to get some standardized training from the academy. 

A large part of that was due to his upbringing as a gladiator before Ironhide had helped to bust that particular slave ring, and kept the little mechling that had scandalized his social worker by cursing her out in six languages. 

“Same. Mm,” Sideswipe rasps out, and clears his vocalizer with a ragged cough, “Same mmecha.” 

Ironhide does not appreciate Chromia’s laugh as he jumps a foot in the air as Sideswipe speaks up. He hadn’t realized his mechling was awake. 

“How do you know, fierceling love?” Chromia asks, and Sideswipe’s nasal ridge scrunches at the nickname like it always does. Bluestreak snickers, as if he doesn’t fake-hate his own Chromia assigned name just as much. 

“Twist throw. Arena move. Tears plating, loose limbs. Designed to break fake sets. Lots of broken plaster walls.” Sideswipe whines slightly, “Easier as a mechling, hurt less with armor on. Oil? Please?” 

Ironhide leans back, “It’s a showy move, you’re saying, more than damaging.” 

Sideswipe hums, “Both,” he decides, “It’s both. Twist as throw, dig claws in, to rip at plating. Loose plating catches at limbs, when throw is released, hold and flick twist. Shears at momentum. Go through walls like drill, with jaggy edges.” 

Chromia looks at Ironhide with the look on her face she usually gets at times like this, when the trauma that their youngling has in spades makes her spark hurt and she wants Ironhide to ask her question for her. 

“Kiddo,” he starts, “Did you, or your brother, ever get hurt doing that?” 

“Yeah, tons. It’s a super common move, but it’s hard to get right. I never finished learning it properly before you got me out. I can slam someone into a wall, but definitely not through, and I definitely can’t shred any joints or break any struts. Why?” 

Bluestreak makes an odd giggling sound, and Knockout snuffles into his shoulder, still fast in recharge. Chromia stares daggers into the side of Ironhide’s helm. 

“No, Sideswipe, did you ever get hurt from that move before this. Do you know the difference between, say, a professional, and what your brother may have practiced on you?” 

Sideswipe turns luminous indigo blue optics on him, bright against the cherry red of his faceplate, and he looks oddly devastated, “Oh. No, that was definitely professional. Sunny and I never got past fake arenas before they separated us. He was a good fighter, maybe better than me, but he wasn’t as interested in finesse, in getting stuff right. That was done right. And well, they could've killed me.” 

Ironhide feels his energon run cold in his lines. “What.” He whispers. 

“Yeah,” Sideswipe says, nonchalant and unconcerned, “He started with telling Blue that his bro was drugged, so Blue and KO run up to check on Smokescreen, because they’ve gotta, right?” 

He pauses, and looks up at Ironhide with a familiar little anxious look, the one that wonders if he’s doing this right since everything else hadn’t been, from his mechling hood of correcting social behaviors of slavery. Ironhide nods reassuringly and Sideswipe relaxes. Mirage is undoubtedly watching, this, at least, can be useful. 

“Right. But the guy with him, it's the orangey-red gladiator guy from the market, I saw him. It’s hinky, Blue isn’t great at close combat, sure, but Prostibot is giving all kinds of weird looks to both Blue and KO, so I dunno, I didn’t really want Blue to double back.” Sideswipe attempts to imitate one of the weird looks and only manages to look vaguely wistful. Ironhide files it away anyways, it’s an interesting image. 

Chromia clicks her glossa impatiently, “Sides, fierceling, what does this have to them not killing you when they could’ve? Logically they should have, and while I will alway, always, be glad they didn’t, I am confused.” 

Sideswipe groans loudly, dramatically, with a crackle in his vocalizer that leaves Ironhide scrabbling for the earlier requested oil, “I don’t know the why. I’m not them. I’m a close range fighter, with a defensive specialty, a tactics and weapons subspecialty, and a history with that slag in particular. My job is to clear the way for the way whose job it is to ask the why.” 

Mirage rises from his own berth in his cot across the makeshift medical tent, assisted by Hound, and he leaned in, mindful of his injured shoulder, the knife wound still only half welded, “Then do please, share the how.” 

“Oh. Uh.” Sideswipe slid his optics to Ironhide then back to Mirage, all three of the young specialty group finding the noblemech somewhat creepy, passing around instances of Mirage’s partial uses of his generated like ghost tales of a Cheshire Cybercat, “It was a professional throw. Claws in digit deep the second I made contact, which meant that it was an offensive move not defensive. He could have torn my plating right off, and did in patches, but not in any vital spots. 

“Also, the plating twists were lined to snap my struts, which isn’t great, but it’s a faster repair than a shearer or an amputated limb, if he’d lined them at the joints. The throw itself put me through two walls, and midway into a third, which is a lot of impact damage, but I should have hit some of the supports, or building struts, and I didn’t. Just, right through.” Sideswipe shrugged, “I definitely could’ve died, I don’t think they wanted to kill any of us, except maybe Mirage.” 

Hound jolts at the same time as Ironhide meets Mirage’s suddenly interested focus. That's an interesting perspective, even if it fully seems to be putting the mech in question’s mate on edge. Chromia is mouthing bits of Sideswipe’s verbal diagram to herself as if painting a picture of a fight none of them had seen. 

“What do you mean?” Hound snaps at Sideswipe finally, and Sideswipe cycles his optics in what seems to utter bewilderment at Ironhide. 

“Kiddo,” Ironhide says, with full amusement as he watches Hound’s stress level ratchet up, “Why do you think Sharpgear was trying to kill Mirage, especially considering you were both unconscious and being pried out of a wall at the time?” 

“Because he threw it?” 

Ironhide sighed deeply at the same time as Hound did, and Chromia let out a hoot of laughter. His kid. His wonderful, clever, energetic kid. Who did not know how to articulate apparently. 

“Threw… the knife?” Mirage clarified, “Yes. He did, I’m aware. I’m the one who had to sit with it, stuck in my shoulder because it wasn’t safe to remove it until I could get medical attention, which wasn’t until you were stable.” 

Sideswipe rolled his optics, so reminiscent of his third frame that Ironhide snorted quietly, “He’s a prostibot.” 

Smokescreen, looking up from his nest of data sheets, image captures, and files, elaborates himself, “Prostibots have jobs that got south pretty often actually. I pegged Sharpgear as a performer more than a player on the scene, which almost makes more sense with how the gladiator went right for him. Performers are hard to train, harder to find, so you train them to defend themselves, and they usually do have a guard.”

Sideswipe nods rapidly, “When I was in the arena Sunny and I had a Prosti friend, Moonturn, who was a dancer primarily. She did knives, and could throw a knife to slit a mech’s throat cables from across a room, but they don’t train for a distance further than that. That’s for what a guard is for. Or a gun.” 

“You had a distance of about a room and a half, and your disruptor was going. I’m impressed Sharpgear hit you at all,” Smokescreen said, and Ironhide sucked in a vent between his denta, “Besides, he pulled that knife from his guard, and it was a vibro-steel blade, not an energy blade, like a gladiator would use. I’d lay money that those knives were being carried for Sharpgear.” 

Hound stared between the two unnerved, “How did he know that Mirage was there?” 

Bluestreak and Smokescreen both wiggled their sensor panels at the same time, and Smokescreen set aside one file in favor of another dismissively, “I have more experience than Blue since you haven't really used it around him, but I can tell you that it’s freaky to feel and sense the displace air, and know you’re there, and have every other sense tell you otherwise.” 

Ironhide realized belatedly, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his fuel pump, that this was an entire city-state of door-wingers, and sensor panels, and sensor horns, and generally high abilities to discern beyond the laymecha, due to a long tradition of cultivating singing crystals in the impressive gardens. 

Mirage’s greatest strength, his ability to go unnoticed in order to gather what was needed, was about to become a distinct liability. 

“Kind feels like a ghost. Really just weird.” Smokescreen flicks his wings hard, as if to rid them of a phantom sensation, and never looks up once from his files. 

Jazz swings his pedes cheerily where he sits on the edge of one of the taller buildings along the edge of Praxus. Prowl, perched behind him, sways slightly with the wind in his doorwings. Modern Praxians can’t fly like their seeker framekin, or glide like the first Praxian frametypes could, but they still hold the capability to read the winds as if they will scale the crystal cliffs, or the sheer face of a quartz structure at a moment’s notice. 

The army camp outside is growing more at edge with the enforcer checkpoint they’ve been coordinating with for the past decaorn. It is the last official checkpoint open. Technically, legally, it has to remain open, both for tourists, and for the Prime and his entourage. 

Tonight it’s probably going to be shut down. The lords were indeed using the docks, checkpoints, and stations to smuggle themselves out of the city. Inferno had wanted to give them a chance, for the sake of the citizens, and they’d failed. More than failed. 

Lord Emberfrost had left early on, they’d used him in their lobby to Inferno as to why they should set the bombs up. Now he was back. The despicable mech had left, not to escape, as they’d thought, but to restock. He had gotten drugs, noss, syk, boosters, weapons, as well as several mechen from the slave trade in Kaon. 

His reentry had sealed both his fate, and the fate of Praxus’ trade routes. They’d do it in stages, Jazz was equally curious what would happen if the circle of rapidly closed off city pinched closed on the little encampment outside. If the bombs closed in on them, if the exits shut and enforcers turned. 

Would the army shove them in, or keep them back, or press along aside them? Would the army hold this one checkpoint, a bastion against the storm, until the Prime came and passed? Would the enforcers pull them in and let it shut after them? Or would they shove them out to allow a siege? Would they push back in, regardless of army or enforcer, in pursuit of some nebulous goal they simply wish to speak of? 

The city hums for a long slow second, quiet, louder, louder, then all at once with a boom the first dock blows far off at the other end of the city, and as if the orn previous had been a teaser, the hum starts into song all at once. 

Come down to the Rust Sea, Swimming with me, ah-ooh, ooh, Go down with me, fall with me, Let’s make it worth it, ah-ooh, ooh. A thousand nights have passed, Change doesn’t happen overnight, Not visible at first, No, It’s important to hold on, hold on. 

It’s deafening, thrumming through the city, and the next two docks both blow at once, sinking into the lapping oil, with licking flames in the far distance. The camp below them has flung into motion. 

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, Inject your advice to me, Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, Incinerate our shackles. Come down to the Rust Sea, Swimming with me, ah-ooh, ooh, Go down with me, fall with me, Let’s make it worth it, ah-ooh, ooh. 

The little group of newly freed slaves meanders through the gate, the Westport Warren had bribed it open easily, if there’s one thing you can count from Prowl’s coworkers, it was that. They’re carrying a case with them with the severed, still leaking helm of one Lord Emberfrost. 

You rise, I fall, I stand, you crawl, You twist, I turn, who's the first to burn? You sit and stay, I don't obey, Where do we land in the Rust Sea? Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, in the Rust Sea, Where do we land in the Rust Sea? You're giving up, I'm tired, oh, The tug of war that we're playing, playing, I'm not giving up, I'm trying, To tell you, to tell you, to tell you, to tell you

The next series of explosions tears through the city, hitting the edges of hostile gang territories, without the forewarning of Prowl’s street mecha, only given to those who the network trusted, screams began to sound from those sectors of the city. Sirens in the distance sounded and Jazz smirks up at him, Inferno gets to have fun now, playing redirect with the rescue bots, and enforcer units.

Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, Inject your advice to me, Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, Incinerate our shackles. Come down to the Rust Sea, Swimming with me, ah-ooh, ooh, Go down with me, fall with me, Let’s make it worth it, ah-ooh, ooh. 

The next group gets let out and beelines for the same encampment as the first, carrying a similar case. Lord Emberfrost may have been the first Lord to return, but he wasn’t the only, and the information Red Alert had managed to track from their little conversation on Mr. Noblemech from Prowl’s capture last orn, painted not so fine a picture. 

You rise, I fall, I stand, you crawl, You twist, I turn, who's the first to burn? You sit and stay, I don't obey, Where do we land in the Rust Sea? Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, in the Rust Sea, Where do we land in the Rust Sea?Grip your hands, I’m tired of what’s your worth, Watch yourself beg hanging onto Earth, Love, war, pain, life, Everything’s the same to me.

Around the time of Rhodonite’s capture by the scourge gang, the noblemech that had now captured Prowl and expressed an interest in Jazz, and somehow, gotten the help of both Prowl’s brothers, that noblemech had been dining with these fine upstanding noblemecha. 

So, Come down to the Rust Sea, Swimming with me, ah-ooh, ooh, Go down with me, fall with me, Let’s make it worth it, ah-ooh, ooh. 

Lord Mirage, of the Crystal Towers, Glassthorn clan, who had been meeting with each and every Lord of Praxus that they’d spent the night cycle liberating slaves from. The last two groups of slaves left and the final bribe took effect as the enforcers at the door simply up and left, the gate unlocked, and unattended, for the duration of their half joor breaks. 

You rise, I fall, I stand, you crawl, You twist, I turn, who's the first to burn? You sit and stay, I don't obey, Where do we land in the Rust Sea? Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, in the Rust Sea, Where do we land in the Rust Sea? Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, Inject your advice to me.

The last explosions, the trains, gates, and river dams, all blew in rapid succession, one after another, until the final two blew at once timed with the final note of the song, one on either side of the camp, each a distance away, but it was clear what they were. 

The four groups join, the four spokesmecha carrying the cases and the letter of instruction for whoever is in charge from the army, in front. Jazz lifts his pad, linked to the audio feed under one of the cases. The music thrums back to a fading hum behind them, then out entirely. There are sirens in the background, and screams in the distance, and Jazz activates the linked audio. 

”We’re supposed to be talking to whoever is in charge from Praxus, from the army, and to, um, to a Lord Mirage?” 

The silence broken by faint whispers is awkward, moreso by the clear nervousness on the wrong things. From Praxus is alarming, the army is confusing, but the unknown Lord is terrifying to the speaker, and the confusion from the camp is palpable even through their screen. 

”I’m General Chromia, fourth division, holding this checkpoint in preparation for the Prime’s arrival. I can coordinate. May I have the honor of your designations?” The lithe blue femme that steps forward is professional, scarily so, and Moor-rig, who had been speaking before stepped back confidence gone. 

Another mech steps up beside her, and Prowl sneers at the feed over Jazz’s shoulder, Red Alert laughing at him through their linked camera feeds. The grey and black frame of Roadcoil is one that still haunts Hot Rod’s night cycle fluxes even now, and Prowl would dearly love to tear his spark out himself. 

”My chief is still at the precinct,” he says, oily toned and sly, even as General Chromia leans away from him slightly, “I speak for Praxus.” 

The blue and white noble delicately steps out, favoring his shoulder, and while Prowl had been aiming for his arm, he does wish he’d missed a little worse than he had, “I am Mirage, though, I should like to know you knew me to be here.” 

Starbine, carrying the third chest, shrugs, and takes point, “You, Praxus, your’s is this. Meister says t’ tells ya tha’ y’ve got three breem, long ‘nough to see, an’ get gone.” 

”And then what?” He challenges, smooth, salacious almost and Starbine bares his broken denta at the enforcer. 

”Then boom goes th’ anch’r.” Starbine leans forward more, “An’ th’ Triage femme. ‘E don’ like ‘er, I gather.” 

Roadcoil considers this, “Two and a half breem, and me and mine will be inside Praxus proper.” 

”Aye.” 

Chromia snickers, “Know this Meister, then? The one scaring these enforcers slagless, and taking the rest of these ones on a grep-goose chase?” 

Starbine shrugs, “On’y as much as th’ rest as th’ nex’ mech. Tha’s common knowledge, tha’ is. Not a hit out, but a smack sure. A order fo’ in’co’venienc’in ‘er. You ma’am, you’s got a different issue.” 

”Have I?” She sounds delighted, and this earns her a side optic from the noble mech, an impressive glance of sheer distaste. 

”Ay’up. I hear’s that you’s can provide some sanctuary’s slag’all? We’s got a letter. Meister just broke our bonds o’ capt’vity, as it t’were.” He passes the chit over and she plugs it directly into her arm port to read amidst loud protest and from all surrounding mecha. 

She looks back up, optics blazing, “Yes, I certainly do. We’ll be escorting you to Iacon forthwith, the army that is. That lot has another job.” 

Starbine nods firmly and drops his chest. Moor-rig sets hirs down and skitters back into the group. Jumpdrive and Hazard set theirs down as well, and as one the group retreats. Starbine calls over his shoulder, “Those’r f’r th’ Lord Mirage, courtesy of Meister and his mate. Said, they’s said t’ tell him tha’ he shoul’ pick better friends t’ fuel with when ‘e’s in town. I agree.” 

Mirage slowly steps forward, a green mech behind him, solid and supporting, and they unlatch all four before they open any. Then they open all four in rapid succession, and tense, half crouched, as if they’ll have to run. Then, the noblemech leans over and purges. 

He purges again and gags hard, and the green mech turns him away. Chromia darts forward and knocks them all shut. Jazz is giggling softly to the sound of cursing from the background of the camp, and utter panic from the enforcer end of the foreground. Prowl hooks his chin on Jazz’s shoulder as the feed flickers. 

”The four most influential Lord’s of Praxus, and look at them.” Prowl grins sharply, “No match for you with a knife and a stealth mod.” 

Jazz sighs deeply, “Aww, c’mon mech, save the flirting for when we can freak the mechlings out, it's funnier. Wanna watch ‘em panic instead?” 

”Slow boom?” 

”Slow boom.” Jazz, as Red attempting to get control of his giggles from the other end of the feed, again, taps the activation code into the screen. Several smaller booms echo through the feed as they relay from the camp below them. The gate below them is built into a wall much higher than the gate itself, and it’s inset. A few well placed, small, controlled bombs can simply block the gate for a time. 

Repeat the trick and you can keep it blocked off. 

Truly, the speed at which both the enforcers, and the mystery group from crazy noble, were able to pack up and book it through the gate was remarkable. The answer was found, the army stayed, the group was through, and the enforcers seemed not to care one way or another. 

“Prowl,” Jazz began, “Would you care to bond, now that we’ve blown up the city border and trapped both your Chief in here to be killed, and your brothers where we could protect them?” 

Jazz turned to see his beloved’s mischievous smirk dancing in his optics, “I don’t know Jazz, there’s supposed to be a final, or first in this case, courting gift, and I seem to have helped a good deal with this one.” 

Jazz reached into his subspace and pulled out the tower piece from the Hax set his beloved’s brothers had gotten him. He’d painstakingly repaired it, as it now featured a hollowed center beyond the hinged door. Prowl opened the tiny door and wiggled out the real proposal. A teeny tiny lever flipped out, Wheeljack having helped extensively with this. 

Prowl pulled the lever back and watched it spring back in. The gargoyle sitting in the hollow space opened its miniscule maw, and instead of music, or a beat, or a melody, it simply kept a steady rhythm, seven pause, seven pause, pause, seven pause. 

It was the pattern that Red Alert used with his glitches that Prowl had picked up, mostly because it did work. Prowl clicked the door shut. The rhythm kept. Prowl looked up at Jazz, “Bonding proposal is accepted entirely. Now we’ll just have to court backwards if we’re actually doing it this way.” 

Jazz grinned, then they rose to go back home. They’d been out all night cycle, busy, so very busy, and Sol was already rising. Prowl had a shift in a mere few joors, even. It would be a busy one with four active murder investigations. 

Chapter Text

Bumblebee led the group after the enforcers towards the precinct. Praxus felt different from when he’d been here before, looser, more free, almost rebellious, as the City chafed at its seams. It meant something he was sure, more than he would have found out even as Rhodonite the immigrant mini. 

Smokescreen, confused by the message even now, had passed on the tip from Sharpgear not to trust the enforcers. They hadn’t, even before then from Bumblebee's experience prior, but Prowl was hopefully a different story, a trusted contact before, and a known one now with recent contact with his package recently. 

Mirage was leaning into Hound, his gaze straying to the chests transported by the enforcers periodically as they walked through the massive city-state, rattled by the events of the evening. The mech wasn’t close to his fellow Lords, not truly, but he knew them, and he wasn’t nearly so incurred to death as Bumblebee, or even Hound was either. 

Mirage, as excellent as a commander as he was, mainly did administrative work aside from his own spy work, coordinating agents and missions and data, as well as utilizing his own talents to gather data of his own. Mirage had never been trained for anything approaching wet work, or even undercover work that might approach similar. 

It was a large part of why he was pushing so hard to recruit these two, Bumblebee knew. Spec ops needed them. A well trained wet works agent was incredibly difficult to source, and harder to reign in. Too many spec ops agents of that nature had become indiscriminate serial killers. 

Primesguard hadn’t been active for centivorn beyond the skeleton crew needed to maintain structure, now every mech involved was scrambling to get aspect back to full functionality, and spec ops had been nearly gutted all those centivorn ago, not even basic structure left behind for Mirage to pull from. 

Bumblebee ground his denta together, stubborn and determined, as the other trooped behind him. They had no base of operations, no funds, no plan. His best option, the way he saw it, was to go to the precinct and talk to the chief. There should be accessible funds assigned to the Primesguard, but they required an approval for access, and Bee didn’t think Prowl had enough spare room for the lot of them as the back up option. 

The precinct came into view, large and imposing, all clean lines and pristine architecture contrasting with the graffitied walls around it. Those were new as well. The borrowed enforcers among them twisted and turned as they approached, reading the graffiti quietly, incredulous and upset. 

It was all accusatory, calling the Praxian enforcers murderers, thieves, spark rapists, traitors. Even the city crest wasn’t exempt, a massive red symbol dripping down it in dried globs of messy paint. The gear overlaid with a crystal bud matched none of the gangs from Bumblebee’s memory files. 

Bumblebee tore his optics from the red paint and stepped into the precinct. Hopefully Mirage would be able to pull himself together enough either to help take point, or at least enough for Hound to help Bee instead of needing to support his mate, but until then, Bee had to be the talker. Joy. 

Prowl really wished his chief would stop fragging him over so thoroughly. He sat at his terminal, his chevron pinched between two digits to stave off a helmache, as his chief stared smugly down at him from the forefront of the group of idiots containing both of his brothers. 

“Sir,” Prowl ground out, suddenly far too exhausted for only being a joor into his shift, “I don’t think I understood that request.” 

There is a chit in his servo that Prowl doesn’t want to plug in, undoubtedly requesting the actual details of what chief Barricade wants, something manageable, the chief knows better than to ask Prowl to put his brothers in harms way, but he doubts its a legal request regardless. 

Prowl plugs the chit in and shunts the entire program to Red Alert along the network comm as a data burst as the chit shreds its data. He reads what he’s sent afterwards, it's the only way to read a chit more than once, and unreliable without cohort networks or similar structures. Pirated chits are common for a good reason. 

They’re nigh untraceable when you can only read them once. Apparently the actual assignment is to find out why the Primesguard is here. He has been supplied with the basic public profiles given to the chief, and told to figure out why they were poking around Praxus at all. 

It still didn’t explain the first request. He drops the empty chit on the desk and meets the chief’s optics, “Sir, is there no housing available? If I recall correctly there should be free hotels in the area with spaces reserved for exactly this.” 

The chief graces him with a mean sort of smile, “There are some issues with verification. Praxus is independent, as you know, and it has been ever so long since those records were needed. The funding and access for such things is, well, ongoing, lets say.” 

Prowl grinds his denta. There is a leak somewhere, or the chief is being particularly nasty. His old apartment technically had a guest room, he’d added Jazz to the lease as a housemate for public record for maintenance to cover the Compounds acquisition, and they still held the lease, using the apartment mainly for storage. 

It still didn’t have nearly enough space to host an additional nine mecha to Prowl and Jazz, who would have to live there to maintain cover, or shell out to cover hotel costs. The chief was aware that neither of them should be able to afford that, and would be watching. In addition, while Prowl’s three mechling’s were public record in Praxus, the only mecha that it wasn’t advertised to was the enforcers. 

They were still aware of it, it had become the one thing they’d tease him for in the precinct with a friendly aspect to it, taking in street mechlings, which was the general assumption, was incredibly Praxian, and had actually broken a few shells with friendlier coworkers. Not much though, mostly enough to swap stories and ask advice with the other creators on the force, while Prowl listened in and they didn’t make him leave. 

Which meant a grand total of fourteen known mecha in his old apartment, monitored, and they’d have to be watching what they said, without the benefit of their disguises. Prowl really needs the chief to clarify, if they have a leak somewhere, in the Warren or his network, then the chief means the compound, which is doable but almost worse. 

“That’s-sir,” Prowl goes with the safe option even as he watches both of his brother’s faces go tighter with tension at his perceived unwillingness, “Sir, I have housemates. And this is short notice. I- do you even have basic necessities?” 

He spins to pin the group of interlopers with a sharp glare at the last bit and watches the lot of them flinch. That is a no. He is being asked to host because they have no access to the funds they should have, that the chief undoubtedly could give them but won’t, and they still need to buy basic amenities. 

Panic presses at the edge of his processor, sharp and heavy and intoxicating in the worst way. Prowl looks back at the chief, his face and wings stiff and schooled into sternness, and clearly only hiding his panic from everyone else as the chief’s smirk widens into a grin. 

Jazz sweeps along the bond, cool and collected, to press the panic back down and assess the situation from recent memory files. ~Oh, slag, Prowler, what the frag?~ he whispers. 

~Fragging help. We don’t have space at the apartment, it's full of stuff, and wouldn’t fit fourteen mecha anyways.~ Prowl vents deeply. Mirage is fidgeting at the head of the group, the lordling grating on every nerve Prowl has, and he has the increasing desire to just hit some mech. Mirage, the Chief, a gang member on the street, Prowl isn’t picky. 

“I could spare some funds from the precincts monthly budget to help cover your costs for housing them, I suppose,” the chief concedes, reluctantly, “And there is a spare meeting room if your roommate has time to spare to coordinate ahead of time. If you’re insisting?” 

Prowl pings Jazz with the option to plan ahead, and Jazz pings back that he’s diverting to meet at the precinct. Prowl sighs deeply, ”Very well. It really isn’t ideal, my apartment is small, and full, but I’ll see what I can do.” 

”Of course you will,” Chief Barricade picks up the empty chit and tucks it away, easily, “Any other concerns, Officer Prowl?” 

Prowl truly hates this mech and his manipulative voices, even now sounding as if he truly just wished to help the best he could, “If you could have the funds set aside on the earlier end I’m going to need to get some level of camp bed at the very least, sir. Also, do you know if Officer Verilight is available?” 

”She is, I believe she’s running traffic incident reports at her terminal,” the Chief looks stymied by the request, but Prowl is acting two fold here. Verilight handles conference room holds and reservations, and currently has a soft spot for Prowl considering the recent play date between her twin mechlings and Blurr. 

If Prowl wants to actually have the conversation with Jazz in private then he needs one of those rooms, while the chief still has it confirmed as available for Prowl’s use. It also serves as an example of false camaraderie to hold a pretense of a cohort that never formed in front of not only his brothers, but the other two enforcers with them. Even raw recruits knew the network, and joined a cohort. 

Prowl nods sharply at the chief, “Then I’ll go make sure I get that room to hammer out the details, I suspect the logistics alone will take some time. There isn’t much space to utilize.” 

He abruptly stands and walks off, leaving both the chief and the group at his terminal to find Verilight. Smokescreen chuckles behind him, “Oh, he hasn’t changed much at all then.” 

The conference room is reserved in remarkably short order, and Prowl gets to simply chat with one of the few coworkers he’d call a friend, even tentatively. Verilight accepted bribes gladly to put her mechlings through academy, and allowed certain mecha to walk after minor offences, rather than dragging street mecha in for stealing fuel. 

Of all Prowl’s coworkers she was the most tolerable. She was also a chatter in the extreme, which meant that by the time the group had made their way over, Prowl was already deep in a conversation, partially one sided, as she rambled on about the recipe he’d shared with her for chromium gels, which had helped with Blurr’s picky fuel habits. 

It was an excellent time waster, for the group of eight Primesguard and adjacent associates to hang awkwardly back while their host’s coworker rambled cheerfully about how her mechlings were so picky they’d purge their fuel. No mech wanted to interrupt that. 

At least not until Jazz came careening through the door to the bullpen, Sunstreaker wandering after him nervously, to throw himself at Prowl in a hug. 

”Hi, Verity,” he chirped out, “How ya been?” 

She grinned at him, equally cheerful, “I’ve been well, busy. Bombs, surprisingly, make traffic worse. You’d think mecha would think, ‘oh, there’s a bomb threat, I should be careful,’ but no, they don’t. Oh! Hi, I’m Officer Verilight!” 

Sunstreaker shook her servo cautiously and stepped closer to Prowl as he eyed the energetic femme, “Hi. Dearcy says I should tell you ACAL.” 

The collective silence that swept the area was unforgiving, before all of the Praxians broke into laughter, Prowl leaning on Jazz for support as he giggled hard enough to snort just once. This set Jazz and Verilight off again until all three were holding onto each other and the desk for support as they laughed like maniacs in Sunstreaker’s increasingly confused and frustrated face. 

Tailspin leaned over from his terminal to glare at the group, he worked in homicide and had no patience whatsoever for Prowl or any associated with him. He glares at Sunstreaker, baring his denta in a snarl that puts Prowl and Jazz on the defensive immediately, “So what, brat? Whatcha gonna do about it?” 

Sunstreaker looks between Tailspin and Prowl with an air of desperation. Finally he whispers, “I don’t know what it means. Dearcy just said I should tell it to whichever officer I met first.” 

Verilight, having just regained control, loses it all over again and has to sit back down at her terminal, wings quivering high in sheer mirth and shoulders shaking with her howls of laughter. Jazz on the other hand has sobered along with Prowl, eyeing the vicious smirk on Tailspin’s face. 

“Chroma, darling, no.” Jazz says, “Dearcy was serious when she said it to you but she’s coming from a wildly different situation. It means all cops are liars, if you’d said it to one of Prowl’s coworkers when he wasn’t here to act as a buffer, then we’d be picking you up from the detention center, if you were lucky.” 

”No, no, that’s not right, not protocol,” Sideswipe, the red mech blustered outraged, “Protocol for something like that would be a- a warning, a fine at most! That’s basic law, that’s first vorn stuff at the academy!” 

Verilight stared at him blankly, Tailspin, still leaning over the terminal partition reached forward to poke Prowl’s doorwing sharply, “What’s with the Iacie? Little weird to care about stupid slag about that.” 

The Primesguard member introduced as a supervisor, Ironhide, sighs quietly, “He had trouble with his first vorn classes at academy. He’s very proud of knowing the law now. If it’s a law you don’t care about then you would think you’d let it slide, not step up the consequences?” 

His optics are sharp, boring into the group, conveying the horror on all four of the visiting enforcer’s faces for them. Smokescreen in particular looks entirely blindsided. 

“Some of us do,” Verilight says, “Bless your spark though, you must be really fresh from the academy, Iacie. That’s barely in my own files anymore. There’s actual protocol?” 

She twists to glance between Prowl and Tailspin, and hums as they both nod at her. Tailspin grumbles, “I don’t ignore it. Talk slag, get slag. Keep talkin’ slag, get shoved further in. Burned servo and all that.” 

Prowl sighs and jerks a servo at Tailspin, “That would be why you don’t listen to Dearcy. Jazz, did you manage to get ahold of Red on your way over? Can they help?” 

Jazz grins easily, “Oh, yeah! They’re actually grabbing Whirl on the way, they’ll shove slag around, see if they can figure out sleeping arrangements before anything. Is Deax still tryna find a lease for the flat across the hall though? We might be able to figure a short term lease out that way, few less mecha all crammed in.” 

Sunstreaker fidgeted, “How many?” 

“Well, five o’ us already livin’ there,” Jazz says, “and Prowler’s boss makin’ ‘im host nine mecha. How many is that?” 

Sunstreaker stares for a moment then starts counting on his digits, “Fifteen?” 

”Close, try again. Start with the nine, take from five to make ten, then put them back together,” Prowl holds his servo out for Sunstreaker to manipulate, and the mechling looks up a moment later. 

“Fourteen.” Jazz nods proudly, and Prowl beams at him. Verilight coos behind them, Tailspin dropping back down, no longer interested. Smokescreen steps forward and holds his servos out in a request to pause. 

“Hold up. Can we go back to all of you apparently cadmium picking the law?” He looks imploringly at Prowl, and Prowl can deny it in front of his coworkers and guests, but Jazz and Sunstreaker will know he’s lying, “Also, while we’re on the subject, who are either of you? Jazz, a roommate apparently, and Chroma, who is who, and involved how?” 

“You can’t call me Chroma. It’s Jazz and Prowl’s name for me, it means color, and I like it, but its theirs, not yours,” Sunstreaker is indignant, and Verilight snorts as she pegs the claws that the mechling has released. She gently shoves the three of them in the direction of the conference rooms. 

”Time for that later, family reunions are best done not at my terminal. I’ll entertain them, go figure this out. Don’t take too long.” She abruptly switches gears to start firing questions about the law at the group, whether she’s quizzing them or increasing her own knowledge is unclear. 

Prowl snickers and leads Sunstreaker and Jazz off to the conference room. Jazz undoubtedly has a holopad they can set up to coordinate with the cohort and Whirl, but the actual planning still has a ways to go. 

Jazz sets the holo up, and expands it easily, before connecting the first call back to Ratchet at the compound. He looks up, sighs, drops his armful of squirming, paint coated, whining Blurr, and goes to connect the others in. 

Inferno, at the apartment stacking crates in the entryway, waves to the camera held by Red Alert, Whirl across the room holds up a massive bazooka and wiggles it greedily towards himself. Jazz barks out a short laugh. 

”Sure, Whirl keep the thing. It’s ridiculously difficult to reload, I’ll probably never use it again,“ Jazz looks sideways at Prowl, before he looks back at the holo, “Hey, Red? I need you to check on something for us. Prowler remembers his landlord havin’ a flat’s lease run out next to his unit. Go see if we can negotiate a short term lease?” 

Red Alert sets his holo down and darts out determinedly, he is shockingly fond of negotiations of any sort, and ruthless at them besides. Until then, Prowl pulls out a screen reader and a blank slug to compose a shopping list. At some point, while Prowl is arguing with Sunstreaker over whether solvents and polish were necessities, Juxtapoint brings the credit slug from the chief to help set them up. 

It is nowhere near the amount it should be, for a mecha who is starting ground up, it should be similar to a refuggee allowance, per mecha. It is still more than Prowl had expected, at the same level as a visiting dignitary. It would cover hotel cost for perhaps an orn, but no one is quite sure how long the chief will have ‘lost’ their funds. 

It will definitely cover the camp beds and necessities, as well as part of a starting lease amount. Prowl pulls part of the holo screen over to start assigning price points to the shopping list from market tabs for budgeting. 

Red careens back into the apartment on the other end of the holo and kneels with his entire faceplate in the camera view, “It was a family style flat, your landlord was holding it for you, because of Jazz and the mechlings. I got you a major discount in order to lease both until your first lease ends, congratulations, you’re welcome, I accept all gratitude. Go shopping, bye.” 

He shuts down the holo-call, and Jazz snickers slightly. He and Prowl both know that Whirl will be sent to set up the other apartment for a half joor while Inferno and Red work that out of their systems. 

Neither of them have any room to look at Prowl and Jazz like that when the two of them start flirting, not when things like Red being a mean negotiator get their fans going. 

“Ew,” is Sunstreaker’s contribution. 

“Right!” Jazz says, clapping his servos decisively and gathering up the holo, “Shopping! Big group, lets go!” 

“Too much excitement,” Prowl snarks, “Yuck.” 

“Blech,” Sunstreaker agrees.

”Gross,” they say in unison and Jazz gives them a derisive side opticed glare. He still shoves amusement down the bond though, and Prowl grins at his mate. 

Smokescreen finds himself wishing he had more information. Normally Prowl is the one to hoard data, keeping old mechling shows and case files, even abandoned slugs on the street, but this, this is entirely unexpected. 

“The plan is going to go like this,” his brother announces when he reappears fro the conference room with his musician roommate and the strange gold mecha as well, “Pick three from your group to come with the three of us shopping, we’re going to get all your necessities and some camp beds.” 

Jazz grins and leans on Prowl, something his stoic brother would never have allowed before, “The rest of ya are gonna go ahead and head back. We figured out a cheap short term lease on the next door flat, couple’a ya look injured, so’s you’re gonna head back and help set up what we have delivered, ie beds and furniture and fuel, an’ rest.” 

“Once the shopping is done then you should all be able to get some rest and time to regroup before dinner, and since I already usually cook, you could all just come over at any point you’re hungry at that point.” Prowl continues, as he idly tugs the gold mech back away from where he was wandering off. 

“We don’t talk work during dinner, but we typically play games after, and we can talk then.” Jazz finishes. The two of them stare expectantly, gold mech now drawing on his own arm in a carmine red light pen. 

They all glance around, and Smokescreen shrugs. He’s not in charge, not even close, nominally, but he knows what makes sense, “Bumblebee, Ironhide, and myself. The rest will go set up and rest. Will you be guiding us there to drop them off or…?” 

There is another silent coversation between his brother and Jazz, composed of facial expressions, jerking helms, and fast wing movements. Sharpgear was right, he really had missed far too much. He didn’t know his brother nearly as well as he used too. Prowl was still Prowl though, and he could relearn. 

“Whirl will meet the rest of you here, he’s gonna be like half a breem, we can even wait for him, he was helping set up,” Jazz says, and then elbows Prowl sharply, “Hey, can we get some of the stuff delivered now? Fuel slag is on auto, right? We gonna have to order more anyways, should we adjust that now?” 

The curse from Prowl catches Smokescreen off guard. His straight laced brother has only cursed once in his functioning that he’s aware of, and it was the singular time he was in the medical bay for nearly an orn from a nasty case back in Iacon. Bluestreak looks equally shocked, and they both stare as Prowl digs a data pad out of his subspace, battered and wrapped in a paint-messy case to tap away at. 

Even that is different from his brother of seven vorn ago. Before, on the rare occasion that Prowl deigned to carry a personal data pad, it had been either blank, or wrapped in a professional, neat case, the kind that exudes dignity. Now he held a data pad with a cracked screen in a case covered in splotches of dull gold and reds, and bright blue glittery stripes, splattered with bits of orange. 

Bluestreak pokes him, “I want to come. Why did you pick that way?” 

Prowl’s wings lower and angle oddly, and Smokescreen notes that his brothers wings are significantly more mobile than before, more than his and Blue’s. 

“A couple reasons. I know Prowl, possibly better than you do, since I raised him. That’s going to be useful. Mirage and Sideswipe are both still recovering from injuries, which knocks them off, as well as Hound and Knockout, in case they’re needed. You need to stay with your squad, and that leaves Lieutenant Bumblebee, Ironhide, and Trailbreaker.” 

“I don’t want to go. Praxians scare me a little, I think,” Trailbreaker offers in a whisper, and a collective laugh rolls through the room, far past where Smokesceren would have thought a mecha able to hear. Abou two thirds of the room away whispers and giggles start, as apparently the enforcers at their terminals eavesdrop and gossip instead of working. 

Smokescreen nods slowly, “Right. Well, my thinking from there was that Lieutenant Bumblebee would represent Spec Ops, like I am the visiting enforcers, even if I’m a consult, and Ironhide could do likewise for Primesguard.” 

“It’s clever,” Ironhide says, “Sides, are you good to transform when this Whirl gets here, or do you need fuel? A pain chit?” 

“I’m ok,” Sideswipe says, and Smokescreen tosses a look at Bluestreak, one that tells him just how much he really does still need to be with his squad, helping monitor his injured friend with Ironhide about to leave him unattended. 

“Whirl’s here,” Jazz announces suddenly, and he and Prowl are expertly herding them all outside. A large blue mech is waiting below the Precinct, staring at the graffiti on the walls. 

“They done covered some of it on up,” he says instead of a greeting, “Oughta tell Darce, let ‘er fix it. Used t’ be names in case any of the cops was willing t’ investigate they’s own.” 

“They aren’t,” Prowl says, and Smokescreen snaps his helm around to gape at his brother. At least his brother has the sense to look frustrated. They’d been told there was corruption on the force, but half these accusations were heinous. Internal affairs should be involved on principle. 

“Oh!” Says Bumblebee cheerfully then, “I know you, you gave me a chronometer that flashed colors for an alarm instead of ringing, its really very cool.” 

Whirl squints at Bumblebee who has the good grace to look sheepish along with grateful, as every other mech stares at him aside from the confused Praxians themselves. 

“Oh, yeah!” Whirl trills happily, as proud of his clocks as Wheeljack is his every tinkering project, “Rhodonite, right? Ain’t’cha used to be pink and yellow not yellow and black? Repaints nice and all, but pink suited ya, fit the name.” 

Smokescreen sighs deeply and puts his helm in his servos. They’d gone this long, and then in one instance, blow tha particular wireworm can right open. 

“Heh,” Bumblebee chuckles nervously, “Yeah. About that.” 

All pit breaks loose then as Jazz, face twisted in rage lunges for Bumblebee, clawed digits outstretched, as Prowl leaps to catch him and drag him back. The gold mech, still unintroduced and now sporting soft red doodles up his arms and across his servo, is snarling loudly at Bumblebee, held back by Prowl’s servo at his scruff bar. 

Bumblebee stands stiff, frozen, his optics locked on Prowl. Smokescreen follows his gaze. 

He has never seen his little brother’s faceplate so furious, so twisted in sheer, spiteful rage, and the rage seems to grow even as the other two calm slightly. 

”Weren’t you dead?” Whirl asks, and a deep feral grumbling snarl emanates from Prowl’s engine, his grip on Jazz loosening. 

“Ah, so, funny story, maybe I can tell it another time, when I’m not going to be killed on the steps of the Praxian precinct?” 

“I fed you, considered you a friend, my first one here in this city, and I got you out, at the risk of my own career and life if I’d gotten caught, so that you could be safe and happy. It was all a lie, fake, a pretense,” Prowl hisses darkly, and Smokescreen watches with growing unease as Jazz slips from his hold to guide gold mech back by several big steps. 

“Traitor. You were never actually a friend at all were you?” 

Smokescreen swallows thickly as the heavy field of anger twist sharply to sorrow and a spark deep hurt, and Prowl’s face crumples as he buries his helm into the top of Jazz’s. Then his field pulls in sharply. No one moves. Bumblebee looks devastated, having wanted to reconnect with Prowl during this, and now he’s blown his chance. 

“Change of plans,” gold mech announces, “Ratch says no more stupidity, so stupid mechs gotta go take naps. We’ll go shopping, have everything delivered. You’re all going to go set up and rest, and we’ll recoup before dinner too. Frag off, all of you.” 

Whirl whistles lowly, “Damn. Prowl’s a good friend to have, loyal and protective and slag. I’m closer with Jazz, but I’d still consider it a cryin’ shame if I lost Prowl’s trust, even the little I have. Sorry, li’l mech.” 

Smokescreen glances back over his shoulder. Prowl is actively shaking now, curled in a sitting position by Jazz, with gold mech hovering protectively. 

He hopes dinner will go better, with more explanations. 

Chapter Text

Dearcy really likes Officer Prowl. She likes him more when she watches him become Streets-Treats, and then Sharpgear, and she likes him the most when he looks at her, not past her, not over her or down at her, but directly at her and tells her to call him Prowl. 

She’d watched him from back when he’d first gotten to Praxus, back when she was saving for her second frame upgrades from a back alley hacksaw doc, scrimping from stolen creds from unsecured subspaces and back alley interfaces with mecha who had fewer scruples than creds, and sometimes the other way around. 

She’d watched as he went from a confident, straight strutted enforcer, a Iacie through and through, to a Praxian, even a proper Praxian, disgusted by the state of their city, but living in it anyways. She watched as the first apartment he’d leased turned to a smaller one in worse area, and another, until by his fifth vorn he was in a two room, and a junk heap area, and was bargain binning fuel. 

Admittedly he could do things with that junk fuel she’d never seen from a club chef that did fancy slag on the regular, but she’d still watched him pull it from both the half-price expired bin, and from the waste bin on the same cycle once. 

She’d watched as he’d lost his proud bearing and stiff struts, only holding himself like he’d used to when he was on shift, like he’d put on the theatre masks that Dearcy was learning to dance in. The only time she really saw the mask of prideful enforcer become any stripe of true, was when he was meeting contacts, or helping mechlings. 

Off shift he was run down, tired, prone to blending in to the rest of Praxus purely by dint of being as loose limbed and empty opticked as the rest of them. Dearcy always noticed him though, and she took note of the things that put more life in his step. It became a game for her and her crew, to find the things that made him happy and leave them. 

A can of bismuth sprinkles that had been binned was left with a whole tin of iron paste that Panhandle had scrounged, barely used, by his flat door, and the next day Prowl had subtly handed rust sticks rolled in the colorful bismuth to any of the street mechlings that crossed his path. 

Soon Dearcy was directing weekly drops of whatever fuel scraps they could scrounge at Prowl’s door, and he had a reputation he probably still didn’t know about. The astrosec he’d asked for help with something they’d been happy too, placing random things around the city was easy enough, and it didn’t come close to what they all owed him. 

It was also easy too see who made him happy, and to try to help, quietly where they could. There were depressingly few at first, just Rhodonite, the pink and yellow contact he’d met on his fourth vorn in Praxus, who he fed, that apparently reminded him of a turbopuppy. 

Then Jazz had blown into Prowl’s life like an acid storm, and almost as much damage. Acid storms were good though, they killed off any parasites on crystal growths and encouraged further branching. Likewise, which was a fun word, Dearcy liked it, likewise, Jazz encouraged regrowth and new interests in Prowl. 

Dearcy had watched, with utter fascination, as Prowl had filled with life again, determined, spiteful, angry life. He was fierce, he was wild, he was burning, and it was Dearcy’s new job to make sure he didn’t burn out. He didn’t need her protection anymore, he needed support and was getting it, and she’d provide what she could from the background. 

She failed. Rhodonite was caught, betrayed really, by Prowl’s own people, his first ones that he barely even tried to claim anymore, his enforcer decals chipped and peeling. She couldn’t get a message to Prowl about it either, and he’d had to fix it himself. 

Sharpgear had entered her list of names then, twisting and graceful in all the wrong ways, seductive, but with a fighting edge that made most clients nervous. He’d done what she couldn’t, and by the time she’d put it together she’d been too late. Sharpgear had been making moves, and her crew had beat her to it, accommodating her snack broker. 

Then he’d looked at her and asked for help, and she knew, just as she’d discarded her masks in favor of face paints and rings through her wings, that she couldn’t be content in the shadows. 

She didn’t need a creator, hadn’t since her own had left her behind to seek circuit boosters instead of fuel, had raised herself. She liked watching Prowl with his though, with Sunstreaker, and Hot Rod, and Blurr. She realized belatedly, that she didn’t need a creator, and Prowl had mecha now, but she liked having him as a friend. 

She liked Sunstreaker as a friend even better, he’d sit and practice glyphs with her, struggling just as much, and they’d read the book files together, slow and broken by dictionary references. 

Eventually they discovered that Dearcy, with her masks and voices and loud expressions, loved reading out loud, and Sunstreaker would sit quietly and illustrate what she was reading. Sometimes they did it to the the sound of Jazz’s music, or Prowl playing trabex with Hot Rod. 

She wasn’t part of their weird little family, she didn’t want to be really, but she was close enough. 

That was why when Whirl had passed her performance on the corner, fidgeting with a tiny chronometer like he usually did when he was nervous, and nervous about a Suspicious Jazz Request specifically, she’d scooped up her credit basket and cartwheeled after him. 

Whirl was Jazz’s friend, not Prowl’s, and he didn’t pay attention to a lot of things. He didn’t blab, but he wasn’t good with details when they weren’t in his hands with a toolset. He knew Dearcy though, so he told her the details, nervous, his digits tick-tick-ticking like they were chronometer hands themselves. 

Dearcy set her crew to being fetch and carry for Jazz and Prowl, and then she assigned herself to watching the new threats. Brothers were bad news, she remembered that. Sunstreaker, Hot Rod, and Blurr were ok, nice enough to others and each other even when they did fight, but she was pretty sure they were some of the exceptions to that rule. 

Sunstreaker’s brother had abandoned him, he was insistent otherwise, but everyone else knew he’d gotten out of the arena pits somehow, and never looked back once. Prowl had searched records, he was always thorough, hoarding data like a predacon. 

Prowl’s brothers had abandoned him the the Pit of a city that was Praxus, and hadn’t even bothered to check in, write, comm, anything. They hadn’t cared when Prowl had started dying by inches, a slow forsaking of life itself by way of loneliness and despair. 

Dearcy’s brother had tried to kill her once, as an initiation to a gang. There was plenty to say on that alone. 

Primesguard was worse news, they didn’t need more gun happy mecha around to shove everyone in cells, or suck the city drier of creds and fuel. The whole nonsense being hosted through Prowl’s slagheap of a boss was the cadmium on top, no mech trusted him, the ones who listened to Free Clinic Medic’s rants even moreso. They lived together, that was common knowledge. 

That was how she got to the point of directing a group of absolutely useless Iacies in putting camp beds together in the three room across from Prowl’s storage flat while Prowl’s other friends settled Hot Rod and Blurr in. She stared down the idiot noble with full judgement as his collapsed. Again. 

His conjunx, visibly choking on holding his laugh back, leaned over to help. Honestly, sometimes she wondered how the other cities even functioned at all. 

The younger brother tried to go for the door again, and Dearcy leaned against it, palming a knife from her subspace. He froze and she bared every denta she had at him. It wasn’t a smile, it was a blatant warning. They’d heard Prowl and Jazz get back a mere breem before and she’d pulled in the last delivery of slag for the burdens on collective sanity pretty shortly after. 

There had been frequent attempts from various members to go over and bother them since, and Dearcy wasn’t having it, “You can go for dinner. That was what they said, Whirl passed it on. I can check on them, get an estimate of when that is, but none of you slaggers are gonna be bothering them.” 

The absolute unit of a red mech nods from where he’s hovering like a creeper over the Sunstreaker lookalike, “That would be good. Or simply an estimate on when we may visit, Smokescreen and Blue are eager to reconnect.” 

Dearcy snorts wryly, “Yeah, bet they are. And Rhodonite is eager to get stabbed in the spark, showin’ up like this. My crew watched for ages, made sure he didn’t cross the wrong leaker, just because he was Prowl’s friend.” 

Rhodonite in question shrinks a bit, one of the others, Dearcy actually doesn’t care about any of their names, puts a supporting servo on his arm. Grey supporting mech is an enabler she decides as he whines, “That’s not Bee’s fault! It’s his job, Prowl’s an enforcer, he know what that stuffs like!” 

“Uh huh,” Dearcy drawls as she kicks off the wall to swing through the door, grabbing a block bar as she does, “Once a traitor, always a traitor. This is Praxus, trust is currency, honesty is wealth, mech is a fragging siphonist. Should’ve left him to die. Shouldn’t’ve bribed the chief to actually tell Prowl, then you’d been smelted. Good riddance to bad rubbish, smelt what can’t be salvaged, no trust, no life. How it goes.” 

She swings the door shut on their protests, uncaring of the defensive horror writ across their faceplates. They chose to come here, to come back. They can suck it up. She drops the block bar in place with a flourish, trapping them as effortlessly as stagemaster’s curtain call. 

This really is a terrible area, only the worst ones have block bar slots on both sides of the door. 

She bounces into the much smaller flat of her favorite mecha, and has a wicked thought as she does. She’ll save it to blindside them in a few kliks. For now she can already tell that the lot of them are going to need a joor or two to recover first. 

She eyes the nervous doodling tracing up Sunstreaker’s arms in the same shade as Prowl’s chevron, something he did to create the connection everyone else saw as obvious. She eyes the too precise vicious force being put into Prowl’s gathering of sparse ingredients. She looks at the idle flipping through of music files, and flipping through again by Jazz who she’s never seen indecisive before. 

Three joor before they all start showing up and a distraction is her diagnosis. She retreats to pass the timeframe on, she’ll unbar the door when she’s ready for that, and goes to talk to her crew. A proper distraction on short notice requires supplies. 

Prowl likes cooking, and baking. His mechlings do too, or maybe just like the activity time with their creator. Jazz likes loud music and dancing around the kitchen, dragging his mate and mechlings in. This is a good distraction, Dearcy knows, but the tight plating and fidgeting she’d seen suggest a dearth of ingredients. 

Dearth is a fun word too, rhymes with the name she’d chosen. A lack of necessary something’s, or a famine. Best fixed quickly, with a good reason for Prowl to really cook a lot and loose the tension of his frame. 

Her crew has a stash of ingredients stashed for times when the waste bins are low. She knows that the other mechling crews do the same, all of them working on a schedule of donating one item per crew a week to Prowl’s use. She tells her crew to raid their stash for as much as they can carry, and to pass the word. 

The landlord of Spirequartz flats, where Prowl’s renting is a coward of the highest order. She can threaten him into allowing them the use of either a common area or the rooftop for a night. Prowl’s going to feed all the crews, all the street mechlings. 

She’s gonna make him prove to them all how much better he is than the useless Iacies. Fraggers. Come into her city, and invade her routine, and scare her mechs, would they? Please. 

Prowl appreciates Dearcy, he really does. Sometimes though, his snarky street mechling friend gets it in her helm to be a micromanager. The majority of the time it was fine, useful even, she’d rally every street mechling in the city to bring him groceries, or intel, or to plant bombs with a scary efficiency. 

Sometimes it meant the kitchen and shelving of his unit was filled with an alarming amount of groceries, far more than enough for a feast in cobbled together amounts and varieties. Sometimes it meant a puffed up mechling, proud as she told him of his voluntold status of providing for for a potluck of every street mechling in the city because cooking helped with his mood. 

Sometimes it meant Jazz howling with laughter as Prowl faced down a mountain of ingredients with growing dread and determination as Dearcy flounced back out to set up on the roof. Of all the places. 

It had been one joor of settling the mechlings in with explanations, and checking that Blurr had actually turned his homework in that cycle, and making sure that Hot Rod wasn’t sneaking weapons out of Jazz’s vault again, thanks Jazz for teaching him to pick locks. 

Then they’d had a single joor to properly relax, the whole lot of them curled together on the couch, cohort bond in full active glory, and Red Alert slowly loosing his tension as Prowl quietly processed options with Jazz and Inferno. A joor of calm before the storm, because Prowl would start cooking soon, which meant someone would have to unlock their flat to let their guests in. 

Because Prowl certainly didn’t want too, brothers or not. 

Then Dearcy, wonderful, feral, frustrating Dearcy had stormed back in followed by her lieutenant, a mechling host-carrier called Blaster that idolized Jazz almost as much as Dearcy did him. Six more mechlings followed them each carrying crates nearly as big as they were and sporting excited grins. Blaster’s tiny wirelion symbiote wove between their collective pedes. 

“Oh, what the frag,” Inferno had bitten out sharply. 

“Oh, no,” Prowl murmured, “Oh, no, no, no. What? No, Dearcy, what?” 

Jazz untangled himself to look in the nearest crate, patting a vibrating Blaster on the helm as he passed. The mechling ran errands for Jazz frequently, and danced his fingers along to every street performance, as if teaching himself the movements without the instrument to do them on. 

Dearcy straightens, proud and triumphant, a performer drunk on her victory, “Prowl feels better when he cooks and Jazz dances, so I made sure he could cook lots and lots, and feel all the way better. All the crews are going to the roof, we have some crystal light strings, and everymech is bringing pillows, and we’ll have a party. None of us have ever had a party before.” 

Prowl very slowly leaned forward to peer into the crate that Jazz tilted obligingly towards him. It was filled with raw energon, crystals of flavor, gels, and micas, and powders, and as much as the mechlings could scrounge. There were four more crates, for a total of five. There really were so many possibilities for what to do with them. 

Prowl sighed deeply. He had one joor before they unlocked the door for visitors. A smile crept across his face, “Sunstreaker, Blurr, Hot Rod, start unpacking the crates, sort everything into like kinds, and further into sweet and savory, please. Jazz? Music.” 

The three mechlings lunged for the crates, chatter filling the apartment as they began their task. Jazz spun to the case of audio files that Infero had brought, not nearly as big as the one back home at the compound, but it had excellent variety. There was a jukeplayer on top of the case and Jazz immediately cued the first file in and cranked the volume up. 

Dearcy and her crew darted back out with a parting cackle as Prowl strode into the kitchen of the flat he hadn’t cooked in since the last time Jazz had started a fire. It was his one concession when he looked for a hab previously, a big kitchen, and the remodel had made this one better, at least for a junkyard flat. 

It wasn’t anywhere near as nice as the one he’d designed in the compound. Still good though, he decided, as he flicked the kiln on and spun the stove flames to low. Inferno and Red Alert quietly left for the night as Jazz began shoving at the couch until it hit the wall, blocking the hall to the two berthrooms. 

Then he began rearranging the rest of the furniture as well, pulling the empty crates in against the wall as makeshift chairs, draped in cushions and meshes. Dearcy’s old practice silk-meshes were pulled from the closet to drape from the ceiling in the same setup she’d use to dance. 

Then Jazz carefully climbed the walls, mags clinging to lock him in place as he secured the silks at the edges of the ceiling, dropping pilfered crystal lights from the mechlings’ room in them to paint the room in soft, alternating glows of pink, deep purple, and dusky orange. 

By the time they were on the third song, dancing like wild things as Prowl spun around with Jazz, mixing bowl in one servo as he whipped a bismuth laced zircite custard, Prowl had to begrudgingly acknowledge to himself that Dearcy was right. They’d been going to order fuel delivered, this was much more fun. 

There was a knock at the door eventually, hesitant and soft, and Sunstreaker opened it, propping it open with a conveniently placed bowl, long since abandoned and still coated in sticky silica batter. 

“Wake me up before you go, go,” Jazz was singing, as Prowl passed another batch of rust sticks and tin soufflés to Sunstreaker to be sprinkled and mica powdered, “Take me dancin’ tonight! Ooh, ahh, yeah, yeah!” 

“Uh. What?” Bluestreak managed, Smokescreen frozen behind him. 

“Oh, hey,” Jazz chirped, pulling out the file and rifling through the case again, “got any requests?” 

Prowl glanced up to see his brothers’ complete confusion and rolled his optics, “Shut Up and Dance, Jazz,” he called and watched as Smokescreen’s wings pulled up with shock.

”Prowl, I know I taught you better manners than that,” he started even as Bluestreak cringed and edged away from him, making straight for the couch, his squad mates a step behind him, “I really don’t care what his profession is, that was uncalled for.” 

The fast beat of one of the more popular club songs in Praxus pounded from the speakers to a sharp rejoinder from Jazz, “Good choice, Prowler, Shut Up and Dance is a fun one.” 

Smokescreen snapped his mouth shut and joined Bluestreak on the couch. The rest of them stayed frozen in the doorway. Blurr, shorter than the countertop by a helm and a half, attempted to climb Sunstreaker to see them. He failed, pedes slipping to grip Sunstreaker’s hip joint as Blurr hung onto his arm for dear life, nearly upside down and swaying slightly. 

Mirage cautiously stepped in and seated himself delicately on a cushion disguised crate. Hound settled by his pedes, and Trailbreaker took another crate. Bumblebee took the third crate and Ironhide sprawled out on the floor by the couch, leaving two crates open, theoretically for Prowl and Jazz. 

Hot Rod, abandoning the last batch of mineral pastries for Prowl to finish, scrambled up to the duo of Smokescreen ans Bluestreak on the couch, sitting stiff and unsure, and trilled. “Hi, I’m Hot Rod, you’re my uncles, right?” 

“Uhhh, no?” Was Smokescreen’s very dubious response. Hot Rod turned a wide blue opticked gaze on Prowl. He turned to see a wide indigo look and an impossibly brighter blue one from Sunstreaker and Blurr. 

Someone had taught the mechlings how to do turbopuppy optics. Prowl was going to pour sludge in Wheeljack’s morning stim fuel for a decaorn. 

“Those are your uncles. That’s my older brother, your Uncle Smokey, and my younger brother, your Uncle Blue.” Hot Rod graced him with his signature mischievous grin, the one that usually preceded one of the glitter bombs that Wheeljack had taught him to make. 

Then he reeled back, his adorable little duo of doorwings topped by his smaller spoiler extensions raised high with excitement like a bitlet illustration of a Crystalline nymph, one with upside down zapmoth wings, and he threw something at them, scrambling back as he did. 

Prowl dropped his tray of half formed pastries to lunge for his middle mechling. Every mech in the vicinity of the couch just blinked in utter astonishment and shock, blasters pulled but inactive in the face of rapidly lowering defense protocols. 

A fine coat of bright pastel pink glitter coated them liberally, most of it on Smokescreen and Bluestreak. Sunstreaker began cackling loudly in the kitchen, Blurr still hanging off his side, also giggling. Knockout touched a patch of it lightly, his faceplate screwing into a moue of disgust as his digits pulled slightly with the tacky stick of the partial glue mix used. 

Prowl tucked Hot Rod under his arm as he moved to finish the pastries and slide them into the kiln. It was the last of a previous seventeen batches, he’d gotten pretty fast at it in order to feed the mechling party on the roof. 

“Since, um, since when did you have mechlings?” Rhodonite-Bee asked, with a healthy dose of uncertain fear. Prowl graced him with a smile with as many denta as he could fit before it became a snarl, or a sneer. He wasn’t sure he succeeded. 

“Since before you were captured, before you were rescued, before you betrayed-, no, no, never mind, pretty sure that one was immediate.” 

Bee pressed himself back into the wall and shut his vocalizer off entirely with a distinct click. Smokescreen on the other servo puffed himself up to glare at Prowl, his plating flared with outrage, little strings of half dried pink glue streching between the plating edges. 

“You didn’t think to tell me and Blue that? Also, how? Why, when?” 

Prowl watched Smokescreen with the steady look he used on Sunstreaker when his oldest mechling was struggling to regulate his emotions, those programs having been skipped far to long ago to be installed now. Smokescreen deflated, calming to a low simmer of frustration under Prowl’s gaze, just like Sunstreaker. 

Interesting. 

“What the frag-“ the red fighter, Sideswipe if Prowl’s remembering the introduction correctly, “How-“ 

“Primus be, Prowler,” Jazz drawled, “You practice that disappointed creator look in the mirror, or something?” 

Prowl flicks one wing dismissively, “Only a few times. Then it worked.” 

Ironhide, of all mecha, bursts into loud raucous laughter, “Oh, tha’s amazing. My Chromia did the same thing when we adopted. Something extra terrifying about picking up when they know how t’ think instead of making when they to small to do much of anything.” 

Prowl smiles at the bulky war frame, “Yes, quite. Mine was fairly spontaneous besides, so much of my preparation was after they were in berth while I stayed up past when I ought to be in recharge.” 

“They,” Ironhide repeats, mirth in his voice thick enough to choke on as Jazz gos to lean against Prowl while they wait for the last batch of pastries for dinner to be ready, “As in multiple mechlings? Mech, you’re braver than me, for sure. I barely coped with my one servoful, and that was with my mate’s help.” 

Sideswipe lets out an indignant squawk from the couch and earns an elbow to the side from Bluestreak, who has been following the conversation like it’s a bad Altihexian drama holo. 

“Mm,” Prowl hums, pulling the tray from the kiln to cool before Sunstreaker coated them with his mica laced barium glaze. He pivots to pull a stack of empty energon cubes from the cupboard, setting them to line on the counter as he scooped a magnesium and beryllium powder supplement in. Calm and peace, yes, that’s what’s needed.

”Perhaps,” Mirage says, posh and placating, earning half a sneer from both Jazz and Prowl, “We should do introductions? We did some at the precinct, but there are more mecha now.” 

Hound crowds in closer to his conjunx’s pedes at the half sneers, confusion flashing through the room. Jazz flips an album of old classics into the jukeplayer, soft music providing a quiet background as he dials it back to a reasonable volume. Then he turns with a mean smile, a performer’s stance drawing every eye to the Polyhexian, and away from where Prowl is mixing the drinks. 

“Mirage, head of the Primesguard spec Ops, leading the mysterious mission, noblemech slagheap, by professional trade. Coward,” he says pointing unerringly at the stiff, vexed mech, before he shifted his digit to, “Hound, conjunxed to Mirage, tracker, finder, protective, has provisional status equal to his mate.” 

He moves to Trailbreaker, and graces him with a teasing smile when he shrinks back nervously, “Trailbreaker, Primesguard defense specialist, has a sigma ability, unlisted on public record. Potentially at risk of needing an anxiety aid, or possibly a good frag.” 

Trailbreaker squeaks and Jazz focuses on Bumblebee, the mean smile shifting to a snarl of barely hidden malice, “Bumblebee, first lieutenant to the Primesguard Spec Ops, does lots of undercover work, and infiltration, has a reputation of making friends easily, and also of breaking trust just as easily.” 

“Ironhide,” he says, less antagonistic but still theatrical and barbed, “Head of the Primesguard currently active, running point along Mirage to pave the way for Prime’s safety. Should do more to reign them in.” 

“Hey!” Sideswipe interjects, leaning forward defensively, “Ironhide’s great, you can’t talk about him like that.” 

Jazz turns his hollow, vicious smile on the red enforcer who seems to realize his mistake in drawing attention, “Sideswipe, by all accounts a happy adoptee of two high ranked, well liked, very important mecha. A good fighter, but spoiled, practically a little lordling.” 

Ironhide winces slightly even as Sideswipe flares his plating out in anger, “Hush, fierceling. He’s not wrong, per se.” 

“Knockout, the only creation of very high rated medic class scientists, knowledgeable and capable, but isolated by his creator’s own status, in between classes, not a noble, not a common mech. Neglected, and clingy as a result,” Jazz continues, and Bluestreak presses into the couch as Jazz focuses on him. 

“Bluestreak, a specialized enforcer, sniper class. Raised by his oldest brother, social skills somewhat lacking, but personable regardless. Needs to work on close combat in order to be less of a field liability, according to Prowl’s datapad of advice,” then Jazz turns to Smokescreen. 

Smokescreen watches him, steady and unnerved, glancing between the musician and Prowl, the only mech who hadn’t solely focused on Jazz, “Smokescreen, a highly specialized tactics and investigative enforcer, who has so many specialties based purely on what he could take online while he raised his brothers. Who should calm down and observe, instead of assuming.” 

Prowl leaves the cubes of silvery pink energon on the counter to stand next to Jazz, Hot Rod still propped on one hip strut, and a newly acquired Blurr on the other. Blurr reaches for Jazz, who takes the mechling without looking as Sunstreaker steps up to hover behind Prowl, as if hiding. 

“All of that is public information, or what my chief supplied me with. Some is word of mouth, comms don’t take so long as one thinks,” Prowl says coolly, as he watches the tension in the room climb up at the casual admittance. 

The reflexive gulp from Mirage turns Jazz’s eery smile back onto him and he nervously croaks out, “Your turn.” 

“Mmm.” Prowl acknowledges, a growing smirk on his faceplate, “My eldest mechling, Sunstreaker, who’s the artist of the family, even if all of the lot are better in that regard than me.” 

Sunstreaker doesn’t wave, only glowers and looms, pressing closer to Prowl, in such a way that Prowl knows he’s trying to hide behind him, despite being a helm taller, and broader besides. Sideswipe makes a choked sound from the couch. 

Prowl jostles first Hot Rod then pokes Blurr gently, who both wave excitedly as he says, “My middle mechlet, Hot Rod, who’s impulsive and clever, but always a rascal, and our youngest, Blurr, who’s energetic to the highest degree, and the biggest chatterbox here.” 

Then Prowl faces all his guests, a slag eating grin growing in strength from all of them as he gently tugs Jazz into his side, “And finally, my mate, my conjunx, Jazz. Is everyone ready for dinner? Fuel’s ready.” 

Silence reigns. The track switches, a new song starting to lilt through the air as Jazz sways to it, pulling Prowl and Sunstreaker into a slow orbiting dance as they gather up their plates of pastry, glazed and dripping, and cubes of fuel. They sit together sprawled with the final two crates at their backplates like support, as Hot Rod and Blurr sit atop them. 

“That’s all public knowledge too,” Prowl adds through a mouthful of pastry, “in both Iacon and Praxus. You could’ve looked anytime.” 

Smokescreen makes an awful choked sound, and stares into space. Prowl watches his brother carefully. He wants him safely out of the city so they can keep going, not broken. 

Bee, tapping away at a datapad, looks up carefully, “He’s right. The mechlings are registered as fosters for the requisite time and have been adopted since then for a couple vorn now. The most recent thing is his bonding, and that file was updated a decaorn ago. Praxus, as a rule, doesn’t update that on time either, from what I recall.” 

Prowl thanks Primus that Red is so good at hacking to be able to backdate so seamlessly, he’s only had his mechlings a vorn and a half now, an the Praxus rule of updating files with bonding status is an old superstition. You update it early, the second it’s accepted and planned, in order to prevent any accidents or processor changes. 

He nods, distractedly, sipping at his fuel, and accepting the rejected chunks of fluorite that Blurr has been taking turns feeding to him and Jazz. 

“Huh,” says Ironhide, “Bee, you’re slipping if’n you missed that.” 

Bumblebee bristles, and Prowl rolls his optics, “I actively attempt to keep my work and personal life separate, thank you. My coworkers barely know.” 

There’s another beat of silence as Ironhide heaves himself up to wander over to the counter and starts ferrying plates and cubes of fuel to mecha. Smokescreen holds his gingerly when they’re handed to him. He looks at Prowl, wavering and small, armor tucked close and tight. 

”You’re bonded,” he whispers, and Prowl nods, tapping Hot Rod’s cube of fuel to remind him to drink it, “You’re bonded, and a creator, and we-I missed it.” 

Prowl looks up, “You never even checked in. When was I supposed to tell you? It sucked so much slag here at first, still does most of the time. So much has happened, and you, who tout healthy communication, never even tried. You know I struggle to register time, and to communicate long distance. Seriously, when would I have told you?” 

Smokescreen shudders just once and burst into sobs, coolant dripping down his face as he melts down. 

Prowl blinks slowly, and looks at Jazz. Jazz shrugs, even as Bluestreak starts to cry as well. The Primesguard contingent are radiating awkward discomfort as they shuffle away. Sideswipe starts to sniffle slightly, leaning towards Ironhide, staring at Sunstreaker, where he’s clinging to Prowl in blatant alarm, doodles on his arms still unfaded. 

“Um.” Prowl says gracelessly, as he lifts his cube as an example, “There’s, there’s, um, magnesium and beryllium in the energon? It’s calming. You should- you should drink it, it’ll help.” 

Jazz snickers and turns his helm to press his face into Prowl’s shoulder as he laughs harder. Blurr leans forward to peer at him concerned, as Hot Rod frantically gulps his own cube as if the crying is contagious. 

“Just a suggestion,” Prowl concludes, voice small and unsure, taking a sip himself. 

Smokescreen cries harder. 

Chapter Text

It takes a really long time for everyone to calm down. Sideswipe does first, he’s pretty sure that’s his twin, but he’s also pretty sure he’s not. It’s all very confusing and he has questions, but the calming energon really does help. So does the awkward looks from the other mecha. 

He moves to the floor so he can press into Ironhide’s side like a youngling again. His creator curls his arm around Sideswipe in welcome, and Sideswipe refuses to start crying again. He takes a bite of the weird pastry instead. It’s good. 

He moans involuntarily and takes a bigger bite immediately, stuffing his mouth full enough that chewing is difficult. Possibly-his-twin snickers at him. The femme from earlier slips in the door and talks quietly with Bluestreak’s brother and brother-in-law. 

Then she grabs her own plate and settles beside possibly-his-twin. Sideswipe tries not to bristle at the easy camaraderie they display as she leans in, tracing the doodles up his arm. The doodles that support his twin theory, they’re in red, like Sideswipe’s nanites have always been. 

Sideswipe wishes the small femme had introduced herself. She’d just shown up and glared at everyone, and bullied them all into compliance instead. Clearly the Praxians knew her, and Prowl, who wasn’t really a Praxian since Blue and Smokescreen weren’t, but no one knew who she was. 

She laughs raucously at something that Sunstreaker says, and the entire small family smiles gently. Sideswipe stuffs the next pastry in his intake to avoid looking at them and chokes on the unexpected custard inside. It tastes of zircon and Sideswipe optics his plate with sudden suspicion. 

“You ok?” Bluestreak asked softly, Knockout beside him equally concerned. 

Sideswipe stares at his friend. “Um. Your brother is really, really, good at fuel.” 

“Yeah?” Bluestreak replies, “He always has been.” 

“Right. No offense, why the frag is he an enforcer when he’s this good with fuel? Or living in an apartment this bad at all? He could make a decent side income on just this.” Sideswipe knows the basics of business and finance, refuses to every be in a position where willingly stepping into the arena again is an option. 

Prowl could be really rich off the slag they’re eating that he apparently just whipped up short notice. Sideswipe was a bit offended on his host’s behalf when Smokescreen snorted thickly. 

“Yeah, but he’s never been interested in that sort of thing.” Smokescreen lifted his voice to call across the room, “Hey, Prowlie, how did you get a variety this good short notice though? This is really good, Sideswipe is right.” 

Prowl stares, flicks his wings, and looks at the femme instead of answering. She shoves the bite of her pastry in and chokes for a second before she answers, “We stockpiled for a while, and the riots helped. All the crews had easy pickings from the restaurant and storehouse waste bins after the gangfights and enforcer slag that went down. The fresh stuff is all from the big waste crate from 73rd Crystal.” 

Prowl nods, “Yup. Dearcy brought most of it, donations from the street mechling crews so that I could actually afford the fuel for you lot in exchange for feeding them. Blaster’s coordinating up top?” 

She nods at Prowl and does a waving motion with her rust stick, swallowing thickly before she responds, “Yup, Blaster and Dreplate are making sure everyone behaves. There’s stuff leftover, right? We have more if you need more, dunno how long you’re keepin’ em.” 

Jazz grins at her this time, dropping a extra silver gel on her plate, “Sure, plenty. Three of the crates got repacked before we turned them into seating. Do you need them back?” 

“Nah.” 

There is a beat of silence while the Praxians keep eating and every mech else contemplates their plates in a new light with faint horror. 

Trailbreaker glances between his plate and Prowl with frequency and carefully says, “You said Dearcy brought this? As in Sharpgear’s femmeling? We’re hoping to speak with Sharpgear and Meister, do you think you could get us in contact?” 

“I don’t- Dearcy brought trash?” Mirage stuttered out, and a low snarl emanates from Prowl, cut off by Jazz’s elbow to his protoform. 

The femme stares at Trailbreaker for a beat, looks at Prowl, then collapses into hysterical giggles. Prowl watches Trailbreaker in abject confusion, rust stick coated in bismuth sprinkles hanging out off his mouth loosely. 

“Did none of you think to ask the chief?” He mumbles around the rust stick, bewildered. 

“Why would we do that,” Ironhide demands, outraged, “We don’t track mecha down by their sparklings, it’s dishonorable!” 

 The femme’s cackles increased in volume, joined by Prowl’s quiet giggles and Jazz’s mean snickering. She gasped in several deep vents and choked out, “Hi, I’m Dearcy. I get paid frequently to let my name get used for things like that. I got enough creds from that to feed my crew for an orn. And I’m known for it.” 

“That’s another lead gone. Amazing. I did, actually, ask about that,” Mirage rushes out, holding his plate away from him, “Please, please, can we go back to pulling fuel from waste bins?”

Prowl looks at him scornfully, and Sideswipe already knows he isn’t going to like what he says, “I can’t afford to feed my family on my pay as an enforcer, and Jazz is a street performer, which helps, but mainly with the bills. What did you expect me to do? We’ve done this for vorn. Every mech does.” 

Bluestreak releases a horrified strangled sound. No one is eating anymore. Jazz hums contemplatively, “Untrue. Whirl only feeds himself, and is able to make enough besides. Mech gets fresh fuel all the time, and throws out the excess.” 

“Rude. He should share,” Dearcy mutters, and the small group laughs again. Sideswipe doesn’t think that’s right at all. Prowl is a specialist, like his brother, his salary should have been exorbitant, or at least past modest. Even after transferal the skills were still registered. 

Sideswipe really wishes he knew what was happening. He had been recruited with his squad for what had promised to be a quick job, only for everything to go wrong and raise more problems. He watches his maybe-twin again as he goofs off with the femme, Dearcy. 

He shoves the next pastry in his mouth. It really is good, and he suspects he’ll have to get used to eating such things fast anyways. The silicon flakes apart and melts on his glossa. He leans on Bluestreak as he keeps eating. There’ll maybe be answers after dinner, that at least was already established. 

He can wait to ask his maybe-twin if he’s really his actual-twin. 

Jazz was finding himself remarkably amused by this situation. It was a terrible situation, dangerous, with a huge potential to blow up in their faceplates, but it was also hilarious. 

It was no excuse to change the routine they’d put in place for the mechlings though. Not after the work and effort Prowl had put into researching and planning every aspect of such. 

“Dearcy, Sunstreaker, the new chapter of your book came out today, it’s been downloaded already. Hot Rod, it’s your night for dishes, I believe, go grab your stool, please.” The first two immediately bolt towards the berth room hall, scrambling over the occupied couch, Hot Rod just starts quietly gathering dishes calmly. 

Prowl throws a grateful look at him and turned to peer intently at Blurr. He glances at Hot Rod, and at the returning two mechlings clutching a book file and a sketchpad. Jazz follows his gaze and winces. All four mechlings are filthy. Sunstreaker is the cleanest of them, and even he is covered in doodles, silicon paste, and mica powder. 

Prowl stands, grabbing a wriggly Blurr as he does, and follows Hot Rod to the kitchen. Jazz goes to the storage cupboard on the wall and pulls out several bottles of solvents and the bag of mechling toys for him. 

Sunstreaker freezes where he was settling with Dearcy and Jazz regards him for a klik, “You need to wash too. You’ll all be staying up later than usual, so it’ll be happening now so there’s time for polish before berth, but I’ll let you decide if you go before your brothers or after.” 

“Before, please,” Sunstreaker says, remembering how the washrack pipes had broken shortly before they’d moved, and they’d all shared a bucket and sponge that was emptied and refilled as needed, “Dearcy, too?” 

“Sure, love. Go now, Prowler’s setting up for Blurr, if you’re going first you’d best tell him so.” 

They darted into the kitchen together, abandoned datapads left behind, and Jazz sighed fondly. Dearcy may have been Prowl’s little shadow, but she was all but Sunstreaker’s sister, save for the fact that she refused to tie herself down. 

He took the moment while none of his family were in the room to round on the stalker mech on the couch, “The pit is your issue? Why are you staring at my mechling so Primus damned much?” 

Sideswipe gapes at him and Jazz deepens his glare. The mech squirms uncomfortably on the couch before he mumbles something out. 

“I didn’t hear that,” Jazz says flatly. It’s only mostly a lie. 

“That’s my brother,” he snaps, and Jazz flares his plating and field out, watching the mech shrink back with sudden fear, “I think. And he looks like he’s an adult, why’re you treating him like that?” 

“So what?” Jazz asks, dangerous as a rattle-viper’s death clatter. 

Dearcy pops her helm out of the kitchen, the curtain separating the two held aside in one servo, “Hey, sorry to interrupt whatever this is, but do you care if I borrow some polish? I have a few patches that are getting flaky.” 

“Go for it, kiddo,” Jazz replies, not taking his glare from Sideswipe, “Cabinet with the door open, the TopazLazul is the brand Sunstreaker picked for you.” 

“So what?” Sideswipe repeats hesitantly as she rummages, clearly uncaring if she overhears. 

Jazz shoots a sharp look at the dawdling Dearcy, she’s tense and watching the curtain to the kitchen. Clever mechling, she’s playing backup, “So what if he’s your brother?” 

Now both Ironhide and Sideswipe are irate, stiff strutted and radiating fury. The other mecha in the room seem content to watch, save Bluestreak who’s indecision may yet save his feelings. 

Dearcy spins around, a sneer on her face, “Seriously? No, the frag, you’re not. You ain’t slag to him. He might be something to you, but if you think for a Primus damned nanoklik that’s mutual, then you’re lyin’ to yourself. Brothers. Please. He has two little brothers that he loves, and me as a kinda twin-bestie-friend, and he’s got creators. He doesn’t need you.” 

She grabs her polish and marches back through to the kitchen, her mangled doorwings held high in the face of his devastation. Jazz gathers up the solvents again and stands to follow her. 

“Sunstreaker had a twin once. We looked into finding him, and it lead nowhere. We looked into if anyone was looking for him, and it lead nowhere. It was Sunstreaker’s decision to leave his twin in his memory as presumed dead. I don’t care if you are his twin, leave him alone. He doesn’t need you, and he doesn’t need the stress.” 

Jazz ducks into the kitchen to help Prowl wrangle the much more wiggly combo of Hot Rod and Blurr through their baths. Sunstreaker looks up at him, bubbles of solvent dripping down his faceplate and helmfins slowly. 

“Is he?” He asks quietly, “Is he my Sideswipe?” 

Jazz nods. Sunstreaker hums and dunks his helm under the rinse. He straightens, clean and scrubbed, and shivers slightly as he drips. Prowl drifts over to click his forearms together to spark the solvent. The thin light of evaporating fumes is the trigger for Sunstreaker to quietly, like he’s shattering in slow motion, dissolve into sobs. 

Prowl folds him into his arms and rocks the larger mech side to side gently. They end on the floor as Sunstreaker cries hoarsely into Prowl’s chestplates. Jazz drops Blurr into the bucket for Dearcy to scrub down, and goes to rub gently at Sunstreaker’s backplates. 

Hot Rod turns off the solvent at the sink and sets the dishes down, scrambling down to pat very softly at Sunstreaker’s ankle joint. Dearcy comes over to switch a dripping Blurr for Hot Rod, patting reassuringly at her friend’s helm as she does. 

“I don’t want him,” Sunstreaker rasps finally, “I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. He left me, left me alone, and got adopted, and never looked, and, and-“ 

Dearcy makes a soft confused sound, “Isn’t that what you did?” 

“Dearcy,” Jazz barks, then softer, “No. we actually looked, still have an open missing mech file for his twin, just in case, and an alert in case a match for Sunstreaker popped up as well. There wasn’t any record of anyone looking for Chroma though, and it definitely wasn’t in their files, public or private access. Red would have warned us about that.” 

“Oh. That sucks exhaust, sorry.” 

Sunstreaker lets out a sputtering laugh that turns into sobbing giggles. Jazz sighs fondly and pats him on the backplates one last time before he gets up to empty the washing tub. They’ll fix the plumbing issue in the wash racks eventually, not this orn though. 

Jazz grabs the wet bottles of solvent and juggles them under one arm as he puts the bath toys back in their bag with the other, Blurr clinging to his pede. The polishes are lined up on the counter, and Prowl is busy whispering reassurances to Sunstreaker. He strides back out to put the solvents away, Blurr standing on his pede and giggling at each step.  

Jazz paused, squinting dubiously at the group on the couch, the pink glitter now dried in patches of hardened flakes of goo. The cabinet knocks open at the nudge of his elbow and he starts to tuck bottles of solvent and cleaner away. The bag of little boats and dynametal ducks hangs on its hooks and Jazz glares at the rows of neatly labeled solvents grumpily. 

The washracks issue had been an ongoing one, Prowl had fixed it twice before they’d met, only for it to break again. It was a building issue, not something particular to their hab. It was very likely broken at the moment for the whole level, and the glitter would itch horribly if it wasn’t washed off before any of them recharged. Especially if Prowl’s brothers were anything like him and shifted as they ‘charged. 

Jazz wasn’t so cruel as to withhold that information, or the opportunity to fix it, out of petty dislike, but he wasn’t going to put any of them in Prowl’s space when he and Sunstreaker were still upset either. Jazz growled lowly, ignoring how several of the mecha behind him jumped at the sound, and grabebed several of the still wet bottles back off the shelf before he shut the cabinet back. 

“Not again,” Blurr informed him solemnly, “Already done.” 

“Nope, you’re good, bitty, go play. All done,” he agreed, and Blurr nodded, releasing his pede to scramble over to the tiny box by the door with his name glyphs on it and dig. He pulled his little box of putty out and settled in to fidget happily. 

Jazz threw the solvents directly at Smokescreen, who caught them clumsily with a loud yelp, and spun to re-enter the kitchen. Hot Rod watched with vague interest as Jazz started digging in the lower cabinets. They didn’t have all of Prowl’s dishes here, but they stored some of the bigger, low use ones here instead of the compound. 

Jazz chirped triumphantly as he yanked out the massive vat Prowl had used exactly once for a batch of rust jellies. Prowl stared. 

Dropping back onto the heels of his pedes Jazz stared at the vat, stymied. He needed a tarp. Maybe? He probably also needed disposable scrubbers, the rest of them had reusables that were color coded. An old mesh could be torn to make scrub pads if they did the knots right, but Jazz had absolutely no idea if they had any tarps. 

He looked at Prowl desperately, his mate giggling into their oldest mechling’s helm, entirely unsympathetic. Hot Rod laughed along, clearly just amused because Prowl was. Dearcy scoffed loudly, and pulled the book file from her subspace, quietly reading the newest chapter to Sunstreaker. 

“Tarps are under the sink,” Prowl said softly, “Thank you, Jazz.” 

“Yeah. Course. You’re exhausted, but they still your brothers, and it still gotta get done. You just take th’ time to vent. I got this.” Jazz yanked a tarp from under the sink, bundled it and the vat under one arm, and wandered back out, Hot Rod trailing after him, clearly bored by the book file so loved by the older mechlings.

Jazz nudges Hot Rod closer to the wall and flicked the tarp out slightly, the mechling helping him unfold it better as every mech else stared in utter confusion. Truly, this was why Jazz disliked the other Cities and their inherent wealth and entitlement just a little bit. Any other Praxian would have an idea of what he was doing. 

Jazz passed the vat to Hot Rod who waddled back to the kitchen awkwardly with it to fill with rinse. He’ll help him carry it back out in a klik, but the sink has a filter hose attachment, so the littler mech will be able to fill it just fine. 

In the meantime Jazz grabs a ratty mesh from the nearest crate seat, ignoring the uncomfortable shifting and resettling from the mech sitting on top of it, and starts tearing it in strips and knotting it in a little donut shape. Bumblebee, now sitting on a bare crate with a cushion and a pillow, snags one to turn over inquisitively. 

“Huh,” he muses, “These are weirdly familiar.” 

Jazz jerks it back and throws it at Smokescreen, who is clutching the solvent still, and it hits him in the faceplate before falling in his lap. Smokescreen sighs deeply. 

There a dragging sound from the kitchen and Jazz goes to carry the vat for a pouting Hot Rod, who is pretending to help as he lifts the bottom of the vessel. He drops it in the center of the tarp with a slosh, and stares expectantly at the couch. They all stare back. The only one to move is Ironhide, who grabs a solvent from Smokescreen and a scrubber as he sits by the vat. 

“Well?” Jazz asks, as he gestures impatiently at the vat, “The washracks here don’t work consistently, and are broken right now. The glitters gonna itch later, and flake sooner. Wash now or don’t at all.” 

There’s immediately a panicked scramble for the tarp as they fuss over positioning for a moment. Mirage elegantly insert’s himself long enough to wash his servos. Jazz perches beside Blurr and watches, amused, while his littlest mechling squishes putty, and pulls, and twists. 

“Can we play Trabex?” Hot Rod asks, and Jazz snorts. Several fields flare with scandalized astonishment, and a few with intrigued glee. Jazz is suddenly reminded that Smokescreen had taught Prowl Trabex, and was a gambler himself. 

“Best not,” he replies, “Too many people, and we don’t need a bidding war between you, Prowler, and your uncle.” 

“Oh. Hax?” 

“Still too many mecha, love. Firespark, why don’t we play something like Silvers to Silvers? We have an expansion pack for that.” Hot Rod considers this, before he takes a running leap for the couch, vaulting over it to make for the closet in Prowl’s room that the games had resided in before. The mechling had lived here the longest, save Prowl himself, and had apparently directed much of the move back in over holo call, according to Ratchet. 

Hot Rod drops one box over the back of the couch, then another before wiggling over himself. The game was popular planetwide, but had originated in Iacon and was one of Blurr and Inferno’s favorites to play, the words and associations coming easily to them. 

Jazz left Hot Rod and Blurr to set up the card game and cleaned up the mess from the solvent and rinse. Their guests were polite, but the tarp had absolutely been necessary. 

He leaves the vat by the sink to be dumped later and just drops the tarp down the incinerator chute to the waste collector. It cheaper to buy a new tarp then spend the mental energy attempting to clean that one. 

“We should suggest that some of them get jobs. Nicely,” Prowl comments, as he leans against the counter beside his mate and the reading mechlings, taking a moment to vent himself. 

“Doing what, love?” 

Prowl hums, “The little medic could work with Ratchet, under the counter at least. Sideswipe and Ironhide could do construction. I’d suggest the Westport Warren, but I want to go home, so I’ll actually say maybe the Southdark gang?” 

Jazz groans. His mate has been in Praxus for too long and forgotten that his code is so broken. These mecha aren’t going to work for gangs, they’re going to want transfers at most, and then Prowl will really mess the city up if his brothers’ code degrades. 

“Love-” 

”No, Jazz, listen. They say they’re here to talk, but they’re probably also here here to snoop. Rhodoni-Bumblebee’s job was to snoop definitely, even if I will never trust him again, but I think we have to give them a reason to snoop anywhere but us.” 

“Your brothers. Dearspark, darling, dearest, love of mine, your brothers cannot work for a gang.” 

“Mm,” Prowl is quiet for a very long moment, “They can’t work for the enforcers either, not here.” 

“What is the point of getting them all jobs?” Dearcy interrupts, and Sunstreaker nods against Prowl’s chest, his helm fins bobbing. 

“So that they can afford their own place, big enough for their Prime when he inevitably comes, and so we can operate without scrutiny. Also I miss our home.” 

Sunstreaker shifts to sit up, and offers Jazz a hestitant grin, “Can they live far away?”  

Prowl snorts, and the mirth that floods the bond makes Jazz’s spark warm. Dearcy’s cackling laugh is equally welcome, and she flicks the book file shut, leaving it on the counter beside her closed polish. 

“I’ve gotta go, make sure th’ crews don’ kill each other over the night cycle. I can gather a list o’ open jobs and places for rent though, and I can make sure they busy too.” 

She darts out and Jazz pulls first his mate, then his mechling to their pedes. They’ll play a game, then they’ll all go to berth. This isn’t the night cycle for long conversations. 

They step out and Bluestreak beams up at his brother from where he’s migrated to sit next to Blurr on the crates, watching the mechling play with his putty with undue fascination. 

“Hi!” He chirps, “Where’d you get this clay? It’s a lot nicer than the fidget putty Smokey got for me when I was a mechling.” 

Prowl hums distractedly and Jazz just knows he’s about to hate the answer. 

“Oh, it’s C4.”

The entire flat is silent for a beat too long before every mech protests at once. 

Chapter Text

There's a cat in the flat again. Prowl had thrown a knife at Hound the last time they’d tried to kick said cat out, which was not a thing Smokescreen had been aware he could do. Regardless, a small golden cyber kitten sat dignified and slightly ragged on the counter watching them. 

It flicked its tail dismissively, gaze trained on where Mirage was setting up the holo conference. For once the flat is shut, everyone present is locked in for the conference call as Mirage updates both the Prime and his direct supervisor. 

Smokescreen has heard things about Soundwave, the Prime’s Lord Protector’s ever watchful optic. He sounds very skilled, and very creepy, and Mirage’s nervousness as he sets up makes an increasing amount of logical sense. 

He feels like Prowl. Old Prowl, from before Praxus, who was logical, and quiet, and solid. Who didn’t laugh wildly as he danced around the kitchen, but smiled softly instead as he’d cooked. Who’d played Hax with Ultra Magnus on his breaks, a single game lasting decaorn, and who’d taken delight in playing logic puzzles during a storm when it was quiet. 

Bluestreak eyes him from the other couch, patched together and stained from the scrap-shop Prowl had pulled it from for them. He pulls at the lump of C4 in his servo absently and twirls it into a wobbly spiral. 

Smokescreen groans and smacks at Bluestreak’s wrist. His pouting littlest brother tucks the plastic explosive away, back into his subspace. That had been one of the last calm nights before every mech had gotten busy, partially at Prowl’s behest and mostly at Mirage’s 

The loud, valid, protests about giving a mechling C4 to play with had petered out to the sound of his new brother-in-law’s laughter. Smokescreen really could not decide if he liked Jazz. 

Prowl for his part had shrugged and taken Bluestreak to the corner store the next day. They’d gotten scrubbers, a tub, some basic solvents and polishes, and a big pack of C4. 

Bluestreak had come back with over bright optics and poorly hidden alarm. The klik that Prowl had left for his shift Bluestreak had led them all right back to the same corner store. It looked normal, none of them knew why Bluestreak was vibrating with nerves so badly. 

It was dilapidated, sure, old and run down, and big despite that, single story but spanning half a block. The sign hanging by a light-wire and a prayer to Primus read “The Predacon’s Hoard,” was lit in flickering orange and it oddly fit in, even amongst the immaculate beauty that plagued the surface of Praxus. 

They’d followed him in, and down a staircase, the whole thing partially buried to gain more space as height. Waste bins with signs overtop servo scribbled to label the streets and restaurants they’d been taken from lined the path, stacked atop each other and each guarded and manned by one or two mecha, usually mechlings, scrappy and disheveled. 

An oddly catlike mechling, red plated with yellow and deep charcoal accenting, waves cheerily from one of the bins. The blue faceplate of Dearcy pops out beside his before she scrambles down to stand before them, servos propped on her hips as she stares them down. 

“Damn.” She grumbles, “I’mma get slagged if’n you lot get killed bein’ idiots.” 

“We are all perfectly capable of defending ourselves, Lady Dearcy,” Mirage says, smooth and soothing. She snorts in response and Smokescreen wasn’t the only mech to make an offended sound of protest. 

“Yeah, right you are. Please. Ain’t a damned fool, am I? I don’t look like one?” She pokes at her own painted faceplate for a second and then scrubs lightly at the shimmer of cheap glitter-gloss on her arm, “Ehh. Maybe I do a bit.” 

No one looks at her for a long moment. The glitter-gloss and face paints she wears are typically reserved for the highest end courtesans or the lowest prostibots in Iacon, and the Crystal City alike. No mech between wears both, and rarely do they wear so much of one either way. 

To see a femmeling painted such a way is uncomfortable. Smokescreen peers at her and bites his glossa at the sight of her slag eating grin. She’s missing a denta along with half her wing, and Smokescreen wishes he knew what possessed Prowl to baby a grown mech and not this bedraggled thing. 

“I think you look fine,” Trailbreaker had said, softly and hesitantly, shrinking slightly as her grin grew to unholy proportions in response. 

“Aww! Ain’t’cha sweet! I can see why Bossbot liked ya, Shiny Mech,” the flair of flattered embarrassment from Trailbreaker curls through every field there and she cackles, “Unfortunately, I’m busy. My lieutenant, bless his spark, he ain’t a good bargainer. I gots to do it ‘til Phanstar gets off her club shift to do it.” 

“Shiny Mech?” Smokescreen hisses, and Trailbreaker and Knockout both whine quietly. 

“It’s what Sharpgear called me. I forgot to introduce myself. He said Knockout’s des’ fit because it's what he’d love to do to him, and called me Shiny Mech. Said he’d be plenty nice to me,” Trailbreaker got steadily quieter as he rambled and the flicker burst of his forefields flared and popped over his knuckles. 

“I’m sure he would be,” the red mechling says, his felinoid audiofins slicking back and perking forward playfully, “You wouldn’t much like it though. He’s real nice about how he slips poisons out.” 

Trailbreaker squeaks and ducks into a now fully formed force field, thin and wavering as he stares at the solemn mechling, Knockout beside him is opening and shutting his mouth like a robo-minnow. The mechling leans on the shorter femme and grins easily. 

“Kidding. Mostly. Poisons are more Klax’s area. Or Cutstrut’s, really. Sharpgear keeps track of everything and everymech, and he does bombs an’ slag. Hacking some, and while he’d’a been nice to ya, ya sure wouldn’t ’ave remembered anything beyond it being nice.” 

“Primus damn,” Ironhide had chortled past everyone else’s collective panic, “He that good?” 

Smokescreen whips around, he doesn’t actually believe that stupid theory about Sharpgear being Prowl, not even Mirage does anymore, but the possibility had burned itself into his mind and now, now all he can think of is-

Smokescreen gags at the same time as Sideswipe and Bluestreak. Bumblebee hums contemplatively, “Ehh. He probably is. Praxus is weird, groups of hoity-toit purists that believe the city should only have city code and frames, and the rest of the place being full of immigrants. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t that good, considering.” 

Dearcy optics the group judgementally, “Considering frelling what? Blaster meant drugs. It’s the dancer’s backup. Violent client, knife. Pushy client? Sweet recharge.” 

“I stand corrected,” Bumblebee says, and Blaster scuffs his pede. 

“Frag yeah, you do,” he elbows Dearcy and the femmeling scampers back up the vertical stack of waste bins, her off balance doorwings flared and shifting as she flings herself up, “Gross. That’s weird. No one wants to think of Sharpgear like that. Anyways. Dearcy’s better at glaring and I’m better at noticing stupid mecha, so congrats, I’m your market guide.” 

Smokescreen wonders how they’re ever going to get anything done in this city when they’re constantly being watched. Hound has other thoughts as he taps his digits on Smokescreen’s shoulder pauldron in a request for analysis as he leans forward. 

“Who are Klax and Cutstrut?” He asks and the red mechling’s frame locks up before he groans dramatically. 

“Nunya,” he snaps, and swings a battered mesh bag over his shoulder as he turns to lead them away from the entrance of towering waste bins. Behind them a battered, hulking construction frame pulls an empty bin down with a whooping mechling inside it and puts a full one in its place. 

Smokescreen eyes the mesh bag suspiciously. It shifts as the mechling slinks forward revealing a mixture of painted doodles and sewn in wire patched embroidery. A gear with a crystal bud was picked out with careful precision, not in red like it was over the precinct, but in a soft titanium blue and pink. Music notes were painted on the rest of the bag. 

Cutstrut, likely not a designation, no mech would name their bitling that, but possibly a chosen or a given pseudonym. A hack doc, a sawbones, a relay wreck, but one associated with Sharpgear and Meister, so possibly the name was misleading. 

Instead of a unskilled doctor, a cutstrut, they should be looking for a highly skilled mecha likely employed by a noble and disgruntled and disillusioned by their employer. 

Klax, that could be any mech. Klax was very likely short for something, but the likelihood that it was also a false name was high. The only des’ Smokescreen can think of is Klaxon, which leads nowhere. It’s common. Smokescreen hums. Without any further data he truly has nothing to offer. 

They leave the area of waste bins and instead find themselves in a maze of stacked stalls, curtains of wire mesh and little rooms of shingled struts separating each vendor from the other, piled beside and atop and even merged together, several vendors bickering amicably as they sold opposite products out of the same conjoined stall. 

Blaster flicks a finial ahead of them and spins around with a small grin, “Welcome to Predacon’s, this is neutral ground. No gangs, no cops, no fuss, no muss, no politics. ‘Cept you ain’t Praxus, so you ain’t count. You die in here, no mech but Prowl gonna care. And Jazz, suppose Jazz might be grumpy.” 

Smokescreen swallows thickly. An elderly femme leans forward from her stall far above them with a hungry grin before she catches sight of Blaster and her smile dims. Blaster brandishes his middle digit at her with a harsh Urayan curse, and she pulls back in scowling. 

“That’s old Creaky. She sells folks to Kaon sometimes. Don’t talk to her.” 

“That’s- not legal,” Smokescreen whispers, feeling like a broken record. The younger enforcers had started the mantra, but Primus if it wasn’t a good one. 

“So?” Blaster scoffs, and he wanders off, hopping on a walkway thinner than his own pedes as he goes, one that takes him on a meandering path between the levels and stalls. He doubles back frequently for the much slower group that is nowhere near so fast or balanced on the thin rickety rail the mechling was standing on as if it were solid ground. 

Smokescreen lets himself take mental notes as they go, watching the contents of the stalls, crystal remedies in one, C4 and novel-files the next, and a veritable library of light pens and paints in the stall after that. 

Despite Blaster’s words, gangs signs litter the market. Predacon’s is a black market disguised as a corner store, and Smokescreen isn’t sure why Prowl called it that in the first place. He ought to know the difference. 

Bumblebee points them out as they go, the cube in a bottle of the Chargers, a zapbat for the Night Screamers, a grinning Kremzeek that’s been crossed out a dozen times over for the Scourges, the gang that had held Bee. 

He doesn’t point out the gear with a crystal bud, only optics it nervously, getting twitchier the more he notices it. Smokescreen wonders if he knows what gang it’s from. 

It’s everywhere though, in this underground market piled high in mecha earning a living the only way they can, on the walls in ominous red, the struts and poles of the stalls in soft subtle grey, on the floor hidden in corners and painted in hurried black. 

They reach the center of Predacon’s and Blaster turns a sharp corner, starting a circuitous route back where they came from. Smokescreen pauses. The group edges around him, trailing after their market guide, occasionally pausing to peer closer at a stall selling pain chits and rusted knives, or veer away from some mech selling boosters. 

Hound pauses beside him. Smokescreen’s job is to observe, analyze, and deduce. 

His deduction, based on his observations thus far, is that they are in over their helms. 

“You see it too?” Hound murmurs. No one else notices that they’ve stopped, that they’re staring at the distant floor from their vantage point from the top of the stalls. Smokescreen swallows instead of purging like he wants too. 

He’s a psychologist, an analyst. His work with his precinct keeps him to his desk and his office, he’s not worked the beat ever. This is out of his depth. 

“It’s recent. But not new,” he rasps in response, “Maybe been there for two vorn, at most, half vorn at least.” 

Hound nods sharply beside him. “That tracks. That’s about how long Sharpgear has been tracked back as active. Meister has been active longer, but he wasn’t known as more than a ghost tale before then.”

Below them the market bustles in a perfect circle of hubs around the center where Bluestreak was veering against Blaster’s direction. It was subtle, highlighted with paint and mesh curtains on certain stalls, but the entire inside of Predacon’s was shaped like a gear with a crystal bud inside. 

At the center of the market, where the stalls mounded to shape the bud, were sold bombs, weapons, poisons, information, and fuel. Here the gear symbol was present in bolder colors and sharper lines, and Blaster walked with his finials confident and his spinal strut stiff. 

Here the gear symbol overlaid an old image of an empty grinning protohelm. The crystal bud looked less like the image of new life it was anywhere else on Cybertron, and more like a dead Spark Crystal. Some stalls left a medic’s cross beside the symbol in black, some stylized a refraction prism. Others left a fire shelter sign or a red circle. 

They were eerily like the prayers Smokescreen had seen in one of the oldest temples in Crystal City, the ones left to Primus and the Thirteen during the Quintesson war by sheltered sparklings. 

Prowl had left stacks of temporary jobs at the flat. Smokescreen had signed up for one, determined to help buy actual fuel instead of making his brother go digging through a waste bin. Smokescreen had signed the contract for the crystal nursery. 

He wished he hadn’t. He was never going to look at a crystal bud the same way again. 

He knows they’re in over their helms. The corner store sells C4, guns, and drugs besides, and there is definitely a shadow mech, or shadow group running the city, or taking it over slowly. Either is bad. 

Especially since they’re here to recruit who is probably the same mecha. And he doesn’t see Mirage giving that up anytime soon. 

Smokescreen sits up a little and glares at the little golden cat again. It hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. It was just there. It swishes its tail dismissively. 

Smokescreen hates this city. 

Mirage’s conference call connects. 

Blaster yawns, stretching luxuriantly in a way he doesn’t get too often as the biggest mechling in Dearcy’s crew. He has a little alcove set up for exactly this by Klaxon, who is a crazy fragger but a smart one too. He takes exactly one more moment to rest and vent then Blaster moves. 

Carrier mecha are underestimated and underutilized by their cities. It is a chronic ongoing problem, if anyone listens long enough to Klaxon’s rants. Blaster had, with an equally awed Steeljaw clinging to his helm. 

Carrier host mecha didn’t belong to a city, frametype, or a code family. They weren’t Praxian, Tarnian, Torus, or any of the others. They were a subset like minibots, but a different type than minis who had frametypes and code families in addition to their primary code as all minis. 

Carrier mecha though were created not by a bonded pair by kindling, by a temple cold forge, or even by Vector Sigma, but by a cityformer. Blaster had woken by the spark chamber of Praxus and crawled his way out. He was his own mech, but sometimes the slumbering cityformers got it in their helms to create and never bothered to raise the resultant mechling. 

Carrier mecha code was modeled directly after their creator city’s, Blaster’s code family followed the shadowy sly nature of Praxus. All flashy, beautiful outer shell hiding the real mech within. Like Praxus, Blaster was friendly past his pretty, mean and protective past that, and curious and caring at the center. 

Praxus was all gardens, Crystal structures singing softly and making the city glow with life, that loosely covered the friendly mecha that were eager to show off their accomplishments and act nicer than an Altihexian grandmecha. Carve deeper and you met the gangs, the starvation, the poverty and violence that ran the city like its own lifeblood. 

The gangs protected their own and their territory like a brooding wirelion though, and the poverty and violence kept every mecha alive from sheer determination to survive. If you stayed in Praxus to learn past the gangs you’d see how every mech supported each other, forming gangs and groups and crews, and building support structures amongst others to ensure the City’s mutual survival, one mecha at a time. 

Adoption was as common as creating your own mechling, and looked more highly besides, no mech left certain crossed lines unpunished, and for centivorn the system had worked. Through the Global energon crisis, the Quintesson war, even the short lived Torus States civil war the system had worked. 

Then the Senate had risen and the Primal succession had been thrown into disarray, and the entire planet had a few decaorn of instability. The rest of Cybertron bounced back, Praxus had not. Kaon hadn’t, Tarn hadn’t, Polyhex was destroyed during the unstable vorn of Zeta Prime, and while the rest of the planet slowly regrew their economies and political structures, Praxus had stagnated. 

It was common knowledge in Praxus, old history that no mech talked about but every mech knew. But Blaster, Blaster who had crawled up from the deep spark of a slumbering cityformer, had picked up a golden cyberkitten along his way and carried it so close to his spark that his little felinoid optics had turned from clear yellow to the same vibrant blue as Blaster’s, Blaster knew it like venting, like his own spark beat in his lines. 

For vorn he had grown, and learned, and ran the streets, first with the crew of Moonshine, then Dearcy after Moonshine had died to a knife in her spark, put there by an enforcer who’d been slagged off that she wouldn’t do more than dance. 

Jazz had killed that enforcer, not for that slight but for another one entirely. That had been what made Blaster watch Jazz, as Jazz, as Meister, as the musician in the streets with too sharp optics and too big ambitions for a lack of a plan. 

Then Dearcy had found her pet enforcer, and Blaster had nudged Jazz in her Prowl’s path, shifting the patrol patterns just enough for the overlap to be noticed. Jazz’s ambitions had a plan, a direction now, and Blaster was happy to watch again, letting his Creator’s streets lie still and unchanged in the labyrinth he’d left them in last. 

Then the interlopers came in, watching and learning, but not digging through the layers like they should. They saw enough to make them angry, to note the differences between Blaster’s home and theirs, and decided that they’d need to fix it instead of the mecha that Blaster had chosen with his Creator’s sleepy blessing. 

Blaster’s city wasn’t broken. It didn’t need to be fixed. It had a rust infection, that was all. Enforcers were supposed to be the antivirus for such things in a city, but they were part of the infection, so Blaster had chosen his own. They didn’t need another City’s vaccine. It wasn’t compatible, and Blaster poured energy into incorporating Prowl’s bombs, and failsafes, and systems into the city and locking them down. 

That had been the thing to throw him onto Klaxon’s radar, get a little hideaway built full of monitors and camera and comms, all setup for Blaster to wire himself in as a coordinator in an emergency. The Senate and the Prime calling to check on their idiots certainly counted. 

Blaster tucked the last cable in place and powered himself down as he sank into the network that Prowl had built, and Klaxon had grown, and he and his Creator had assimilated so seamlessly as their optics and audios and servo into the very spark beat of the city. 

He powered down with a low whine of discomfort to the sound of Dearcy going on high alert outside his hideyhole, Phanstar and Cheerthief flanking her on guard duty. He sinks his awareness into the city as a whole instead, drifting through the camera systems catching glimpses and flashes of mecha and the daily life of Praxus. 

He spins through the bombs, dancing amongst the webs, and nudging this one this way and that one another as Creator directs, drifting alongside him curiously. Creator is sleepy, not dumb, but a sleepy cityformer isn’t aware of much generally, so right now Blaster gets to be smarter. 

He twirls around Creator’s presence, leading her on a merry chase through her own streets, shifting the sewers around again, and startling the enforcers and gang mecha that infect his Creator’s streets with echoing giggles through the speakers followed by his Creator’s deep, amused hum as she twists through the systems after him. 

She nudges him at the same time as Steely, a reminder of the job still needing doing, and he refocuses on activating cameras, and comms, and recording for later. Jazz is watching one, curled in the berthroom of his and Prowl’s flat, Klaxon has the other, connected and surrounded by the rest of their Chosen. 

Finally he activates the final screen, letting them talk to each other, his own words scrolling along the bottom of their screens if he chooses, and he stretches along his bond to Steely. Steeljaw’s optics become his, his audioshells shared with Blaster, who transmits them to the camera, the recorder, the antiviral mecha he trusts. 

Blaster wants his Creator to be safe, happy, uninfected. He also wants to learn to play Sitar, and Klaxon promised to wrangle lessons from Jazz in exchange for Blaster learning to hone his skills as a carrier. Praxus is his home, might be a slagheap, but She’s his. Blaster grins into the room he is barely aware of anymore as he sinks into the cushions beneath him, watching through Steeljaw’s optics as the Lordling activates a massive conference call without even barring the door. 

Honestly. The door locks wouldn’t even hold for Prowl anymore, who’s gotten to the point of hacking such locks with realizing it decaorn ago. Much less any of the others. Idiots. Morons. 

They didn’t need an idiot vaccine for Creator. 

Ultra Magnus stared at the mecha on the other side of the holo-screen with all the appropriate solemnity he could summon. Much of this conference had been unduly exhausting. Praxus being in such a state was distressing, yes, it would not be fixed in a vorn, much less before Optimus tour of duty, like they’d apparently predicted. 

He wished Prowl were there. His protege was clever, smart. He researched ahead, hoarded information and evidence and factoids. He’d help them, and despite his friend's presence in this mess, it seemed that no one was listening. 

Truly. Seven vorn was not that long of a time, Prowl’s skills were sure to have grown rather than degraded. He’d help, Magnus was sure of it. 

Optimus was asking how he could help again, and Magnus gave up, tipping his helm forward to pinch his olfactory. It did not relieve his stress nearly as much as it used to. The Lord Protector was snarling again on the other line from his current basis in Kaon. His lieutenant, the carrier from Kaon that had adopted the moniker of the ‘ever watchful optic’, with unholy glee from the cowed senate following the Matrix’s explosive reemergence, sighs deeply. 

“Optimus: the Prime, cannot assist at this juncture,” he says, in the disjointed way Ultra Magnus had been initially blindsided by when they’d first commed a few vorn ago, “Optimus: the Prime, must complete Tour of Duty. Praxus: may be conducted final, and allowed to linger, provided sufficient security and progress.” 

Ultra Magnus hums quietly at Optimus’ intrigued sound and the matching furious one from Megatron. He eyes the stolid Carrier that hovers behind the bristling Gladiator with a gimlet optic. Carriers are notorious for being good hackers, especially with camera and surveillance systems. Comms as well, though that was usually attributed to a trained specialty, or to minibot warrens who could run whole comm centers with terrifying efficiency. 

Of course they’re also notorious for being rare and far between, much of their code and ability relegated to legend. Ultra Magnus tilts his helm as he looks directly at Soundwave for the first time, the carrier typically preferring to blend into the background, and Magnus willing to let him. 

“Are you able to tap into the cameras in Praxus? I know there are some, at the very least that the ground team has placed, because I know the enforcers I trained, and that could help,” he asks, and is treated to Mirage raising his helm to watch the response as well, Hound leaning in. 

Soundwave pauses, freezes really, in such a way that Megatron half turns to stare at him. He slowly loosens his plating, flat as always, though the tilt of his shoulder’s is distinctly sheepish, “Negative: no access available.” 

Megatron turns back to the camera looking distinctly shell shocked. Mirage wilts, Hound as well. Bumblebee leans in to explain what they’d clearly been missing, “We’ve placed cameras. Everyone here has. We’ve even asked Prowl to place cameras on his off joors, on the chance that they’re in bad locations. None of them work. They operate for a joor to three joor, then they just stop.” 

“They still work,” Ironhide grumbles off camera, and Ultra Magnus leans back intrigued, “They’ve got the blinky lights, they’re transmitting, just not to us. We’ve got maybe a cycle and a half of data from them, and half of it overlaps.” 

“That’s-“ Magnus interrupts himself to consider, “That’s highly unusual. Also unprecedented. So Optimus wishes to stay in Praxus after his Tour, help out where he can, I personally think that’s a terrible idea, at least long term.” 

If there was some ground work ahead of time, and he only stayed a little extra, it’d be fine, but not until it’s done.” Megatron offers, and Ultra Magnus eyes him with full judgement, “This isn’t going to be quick. But he could stay an orn or two, see how it’s going and check in with the original team.” 

Optimus brightens considerably, “Yes, that. I could return to Iacon after, and leave Megatron to help!” 

There is a long beat of silence as Megatron fails to school the sheer offense back off of his faceplate. Optimus wilts slightly. Ravage flicks her tail lazily from her perch on Soundwave’s shoulder and ignores the inappropriate giggles that start from every other part of the call. 

Mirage has buried his helm in his arms as his shoulders shake with laughter, and Ironhide steps into the camera so that Optimus can see him as he mutters exasperated curses at the ceiling. 

“Or not, Primus’ sake,” he mutters darkly. That’s the tipping point for Magnus as he laughs at the young Prime, naive and adjusting though he is, that he considers his friend. Sometimes his background as an archivist that had a side job on the docks truly just shines through. 

Megatron grumbles, “How about I stay where I’m supposed to be, at the side of my Prime, and we decide on who heads the backup team to go help the first out?” 

“Is that not obvious?” Optimus asks hesitantly, and Ultra Magnus agrees. 

“Yes, it is obviously Prowl. He can easily coordinate with the enforcers there, and has had experience in Iacon aplenty to lead the team I intend to send his way.” 

Optimus flickers his optics as Megatron hums slightly. Soundwave makes an odd static sound, either dismay or laughter, it’s hard to tell from that mech. 

Mirage lifts his helm to stare incredulously as Hound lets out a long drawn out, “Uuuh, what?” 

Ultra Magnus excitedly gathers up his holo-transmitter to head out into the office, Cliffjumper has missed his beat partner, he’s sure he’d love to be on the team, and Arcee as well, who had raced Prowl every off shift they’d shared, not to mention the calls to coordinate where Magnus can talk to Prowl himself. 

He freezes in the entry to the Precinct Commons as Optimus says confusedly, “I mean, I kind of figured you’d involve him considering how much you mention the mech when you haven’t seen him for vorn, but I had meant you.” 

He recalculates rapidly. This could still work, he could leave Kup in charge of the Precinct with Arcee left behind to balance him out. There’s a scoff from the Praxian end of the call and Ultra Magnus flares his plating out defensively. 

“Thank Primus and all the Thirteen,” Mirage says, “I really don’t know how that would’ve worked. Prowl’s a bit, erm.” 

“Crazy?” Ironhide offers, and the Commons is going silent in ripples around Magnus as he slowly sets the transmitter down to sink to a seat, “Unhelpful? I’d say insane would be too much, but uh, yeah, no that fits too. How were the two of you friends again? Because I still can’t see it. Personality wise, sure, everything else? Pit to the no.” 

Cliffjumper comes up behind him silently, and watches the Praxian end with sharp optics, Magnus helpfully enlarges it and asks, “Is he there?” 

“No,” Hound says quietly, “He’s at his Precinct, on shift. I think he’s got another four joor? Do you want us to reconnect after he’s back?” Magnus nods unhesitatingly. 

There’s a few sounds offscreen, a crash, a shriek, an ominous silence, and protesting voices off camera. Magnus recognizes Bluestreak’s, and Smokescreen’s, as the protestors, and is more focused on the instant distraction and vague horror on the Ground Team’s faceplates and frame language. 

Prowl skids onto the screen and right past the camera view looking more frazzled than Magnus has ever seen him. He plucks a tiny golden cyberkitten out of nowhere as he ducks as Ironhide spins around to intercept. 

“How did you get in! That door was locked!” Mirage near shrieks, and Bumblebee helpfully zooms the camera back out so they can see the edge of the confrontation, Prowl stiff and holding a kitten aloft against the backdrop of a kitchen, facing off with Mirage. 

Both of their frames radiate confusion, and Prowl’s response immediately puts Mirage on edge, “No, it wasn’t. You didn’t lock it.” 

“Yes, I did!” 

“Nope. Definitely not.” 

Ironhide makes a helpless gesture at the camera and Bumblebee levels a blank look at Magnus. Hound pinches his own olfactory bridge, it doesn’t look like it helps him any more than Magnus, and says, “Yes, Prowl he did. I watched him. We checked it. That door was locked, we had to let Bluestreak back after he checked for us.” 

Prowl adjusts the squirming kitten and narrows his optics, “Did you actually lock the door, like with a block bar, or did you just activate the Privacy Lock? Because those are different.” 

“Explain,” Ironhide says, with a strut deep weariness that Magnus finds himself unduly amused by. 

“Privacy Locks keep out anyone who isn’t a resident, like active citizen, on the lease resident,” he lifts his wrist to display a faint patch, a chip welded into his wrist and Ultra Magnus feels horror course through his spark at the barbaric ident code method, “It would work on you because you aren’t, but not me because I'm on the lease, you’re technically my registered guests. Block bars are how you lock a door.” 

Bumblebee’s helm hits the counter as he groans, and Mirage’s plating flares, angry and vaguely frustrated as he snaps, “And why are you here anyways? Aren’t you working?” 

“Half shift,” Prowl shrugs, and Magnus exchanges a look with Cliffjumper. This is the mech they’d had to team up to convince to take time off whilst he had a virus once, “Bunch of us, actually. Busy night for youngling centers, not why I'm here though. Jazz forgot what he was doing and lost track of Blurr. Gotta check with Kitty.” 

“Ah,” Cliffjumper vents out softly, “Crazy. I see.” 

“That’s a cat, Prowl,” Bluestreak calls, amusement clear, “I don’t think you’re going to get much from him.” 

Instead Prowl shrugs and lifts the cat to stare at him steadily. Predictably nothing happens. The cat’s tail flicks and he mrrps, and Prowl nods sharply, setting it back down on the counter. From the door they’d come from a new voice that says, “Window apparently. Watcher says that was unnecessary, and that he’d better get extra rust sticks since you traumatized his cat.” 

All of the visible Ground Team startle and turn to the door that is unfortunately off camera. Magnus watches Prowl head further off screen, stride purposeful, and followed by the distinctive sound of a window sliding open. There’s a gasping shriek of Protest from both Smokescreen and Bluestreak, and Magnus leans closer to the screen, Cliffjumper behind him doing likewise. 

Bumblebee hurriedly starts to turn the screen. The window is open and Prowl is nowhere in sight, as a black and white mech, unfamiliar and clearly at ease lounges against the wall beside the window, tapping at a datapad in his servo absently. 

It makes the distinctive chirping sound of a popular idle game. Mirage gulps loudly and murmurs, “He just- he just jumped out! We’re on the fifth floor!” 

A servo, familiar if well missed for several vorn now, clamps itself on the windowsill, and the room lets out a collective sigh of relief. 

“Jazz, would you help already? Quit pouting because you forgot to check your messages and grab him already,” floats up through the window, and it is all Prowl, exasperation and impatience, and taciturn matter of fact tone. 

The mech by the window grins at the ceiling, then turns to haul a tiny blue mechling through the window. He churrs happily and clings to him, and Prowl hauls himself back in after. He shoves the first mech lightly, and twists the mechling away as he giggles quietly. 

“No. You don’t get to hold Blurr right now. You lost him, and he went out a frelling window.” 

“I did not lose him!” Jazz protests, oddly cheery for being accused of something so serious, “I just misplaced him. Ain’t that right Bitty?” 

Prowl snorts and Magnus is still reeling from his former protege, his friend having just cursed before he speaks again and Magnus feels his shock mingle with Cliffjumper’s, “Uh huh, sure. Misplaced him, quit wiggling your digits in his faceplate, he’s been bitey.” 

Magnus had thought this was a neighbor situation, perhaps a Mechling Safety Services one, though Prowl had certainly never expressed an interest in such things before. Then the unfamiliar mech does indeed get his digits bitten and the mechling does not let go. 

“Hah. Suffer. Lose our sparklet and get bit for it, serves you right.” Prowl pulls gently at the mechling’s helm, and then readjusts his grip to pull harder, “Mmm. How attached are you to those digits, Jazz?” 

Jazz makes an incoherent sound of protest and glares at Prowl, “Fairly attached considering I make a livin’ with ‘em. You’re equally so though, if’n you’re wantin’ any tonight.” 

Cliffjumper makes a sound of sheer shock behind him and a startled laugh sweeps the Precinct, as well as Optimus and Megatron’s screens as they watch like it’s a courtroom drama. 

“No,” Smokescreen yells, his frame stiff and alarmed, “I don’t need to know that! I really, really don’t.” 

“Bonded mecha do bonded mecha slag, Smokey,” Jazz offers and Smokescreen hisses at him like the Crystal City mecha he’s been working with for so long. 

“No. You don’t, and I don’t want to hear about it if you do. And don’t call me that.” 

“I accept, Optimus,” Magnus says, resolute and gleeful, “I will put together my team posthaste. If you have suggestions send them to my inbox.”  

Then Ultra Magnus, Keeper of the Tyrest Accords of Iacon, and Chief of the Iaconian Precinct, kicks his Prime and the Prime’s Lord Protector off the call. 

His protege, his old friend, Prowl, has a mate, a sparkling. This calls for a gift. And planning. 

Also research, any long term case, such as this City will be, requires basic research and data compilation. If he is to help bring law and order to this city then he must know where he is starting from. 

Ultra Magnus can be there by the end of the decaorn. Really. Any new creator was crazy, it came with the territory. It didn’t make Prowl any less Prowl. 

Chapter Text

Festival Orns are always busy, no matter the city. Praxus is no different from Iacon in that respect. Youngling centers and academies shut down and release their students for the festivities, the city glows with glitz and delight as even gutter mecha take the excuse to celebrate. 

Some mecha take time off work, and nearly every creator does regardless. The street crews gather as much as they can and sell twice as much fuel as usual, half of which will be dug right back out again after the festival. 

Prowl has been in Praxus for seven vorn now, this will be the start of his eight. His eight Festival of Solstice Light, and his first with his mate, sparklings, cohort, and brothers all in the same city. This time last vorn he’d had all three mechlings, and Jazz, but trust was still building and his cohort hadn’t been a thought or dream yet. 

His wonderful conjunx and brilliant cohort were willing to support Prowl’s traditions, participate even for their first vorn and Prowl’s eight. Sunstreaker, Blurr, and Hot Rod had holed themselves in the kitchen with him for a mass baking spree, and Jazz had roped Wheeljack into crafting little baskets to hold the goodies that would be useful far past the flimsies Prowl had used in Vorn past. 

Ratchet had sat curled on their couch carefully arranging tiny emergency medical kits to tuck in the little baskets as Red Alert sprawled by his feet to put everything together. Inferno went between any of them wherever he was needed. The door to the flat was barred to his brothers for the first time since that first night. 

The other difference between festivals in Praxus and the rest of Cybertron was that Chief Barricade was  truly terrible at delegation. There were perhaps eight creators on the force, including Prowl. Instead of keeping track of the youngling center events and schedules and requested time off, he simply zipped all of those officers into one file. 

If Verilight requested time off to watch her twins during a Festival then they all got that time. Nine missing officers didn’t truly impact station functioning, so typically all nine of those mecha got festival orns as paid vacation time at once. The chief truly just didn’t pay attention though, and on at least one occasion Prowl had requested a half shift to help with the virus Blurr had caught. 

All nine of them had been off for a half orn to deal with the mechling pandemic and quarantine event. 

Verilight had laughed herself sick over that, and he’d been lectured by Braketwist on how to phrase anything to do with mechlings with the chief. He wasn’t interested in details, he didn’t need names, ages, whys or hows, and apparently mechlings in general was the keyword to get approval for anything just so that he didn’t have to listen. 

It had been the one thing that had gotten the chief off of Prowl’s backplate, over the past vorn after he’d mentioned them purely by accident. The unspoken Precinct rule was that the creators talked to each other, but otherwise mechlings of any degree were a forbidden topic. It suited Prowl fine. 

It was cozy. All of his cohort, his family crammed in one space, quietly chatting, planning, bouncing ideas off of each other idly and without judgement. 

Ultra Magnus and whoever he was bringing would get in the cycle after the festival’s end, lifted over the wall in the massive pulley and platform system that Praxus had jury rigged into place. He’d bring more complications with him, and they wanted the time to plan ahead while they still could. 

“I still think it’d be reasonable for you lot to come home,” Inferno grumbled lightly, “Say you’re staying with friends, which is true, if not the whole truth, and offer your flat for their use. Leave enough behind so it looks like it’s your actual home and check in.” 

Jazz leaned back draping his helm on Red’s shoulder lazily, “Yeah, but the monitoring is still gonna be up. We’re pretty sure they’re monitoring them more than us, but part of what Prowl’s pretending to do is spy on them for th’ Precinct.” 

“Cameras do exist,” Red Alert comments dryly, playing with his new preset as Klaxon, shifting between his usual red and his new lavender frame. Ratchet scoffs from the couch, firmly settled in his deep purple and white guise as Cutstrut. The light teal accenting to match Wheeljack’s has shifted it’s place on his frame, but he refused to recode that part, much to Red Alert’s frustration. 

It is a truly ancient Altihexian tradition, for a bonded pair’s paint to match on at least one color code, but it’s one that Ratchet holds to fiercely. 

“Besides,” Wheeljack murmurs distractedly as he rewires a subspace expansion, “They’re idiots, not stupid. They’ll find cameras, that’ll gives us away so much faster.” 

“It’s not a bad idea,” Prowl comments from the kitchen, “If we have to house Mags and his team we’ll probably go with it, but it really would suck to lose this line of surveillance too, as nice as it would be to go home.” 

“You know what really sucks?” Jazz snaps out as he clicks a box together harshly, “Having to live under financial scrutiny. I don’t mind it, not really, we did it fine before with washbuckets and shared spaces and slag all, but the option to choose goin’ away sucks. I fraggin’ miss going out for fresh pressed fuel.” 

“Sucks to suck,” Red shoots back and he and Jazz engage in a small scuffle, elbowing each other and bickering quietly as they jostle Ratchet on the couch behind them.  

Ratchet leans forward and bops them both on the helms with first aid kits gently, “Hush, both of you. What is the plan? Break it down please, bullet points of who’s where.” 

Inferno stretches and leans over the couch, Blurr clinging to his backplate like a tiny filthy magnaburr, “You, Red, Jazz and Prowl are on the ground with active comms and disguises. Sunstreaker is on call as backup if the day goes south for anyone. Me an’ Wheeljack are watching the kiddies while we coordinate as needed.” 

“Yes, thank you. Why am I on the ground again?” Ratchet groans dramatically letting his helm tip back to glare balefully at Inferno, “You go, you’re a mech’s mecha.” 

“You’re going because you put together the med kits and no mech else is going to be able to explain them as well.” Wheeljack says, absently as he tries the pastry fill Prowl is offering him, “Part of what we’re doing today is activating the safety shelters, which you’re leaving better med kits and emergency lines at.” 

Ratchet hums and nudges Red roughly with his pede, tipping him into Jazz with a squawk, “Fine. And worry-helm over here?” 

Prowl sniffs haughtily, theatrically as he passes the filling to Hot Rod to be piped, “The roles of the day are me and Jazz on passing out kits and gathering any information available from our contacts. You’re setting the shelters activation up, and Red is connecting the last of his camera system in with Blaster, as well as running interference if needed. He needs to get out more.” 

“Oi!” 

“No, no, he’s right,” Inferno says, and Red Alert throws a cushion at his faceplate. 

Jazz grins widely, “Game of the day is don’t get caught. We gotta do this as our alters, too many have connected the dots otherwise to have Officer Prowl on the streets like normal while his folks are in the City.” 

He doesn’t finish, doesn’t need to. They all know that with Meister, Sharpgear, Klaxon, and Cutstrut all out and active that the Iaconian group is going to be gunning for their capture, and fast. The addition of Solfurnace, if Sunstreaker has to come out to assist Red on interference will only escalate the situation. 

There’s a slight clatter across the hall as the mecha who’d taken temp jobs headed off. Knockout to Triage’s office at the Precinct as an assistant, which he’d chosen over any of the clinics offered for no reason Prowl could find. Smokescreen to the crystal nursery, guaranteed to be busy today as mecha bought structures for home gardens for the holiday. 

Ironhide and Sideswipe to the careful supervision of the Struts, who were utilizing their strength for the rebuilding projects they’d claimed a monopoly on, sending them back too exhausted to bother Sunstreaker with an unholy amount of glee over overworking a pair of Iacies. 

Trailbreaker and Hound worked together at the last job offered, acting as door security to the club Dearcy and her crew favored to earn creds at. Prowl wondered how long it would take them to realize they’d been hired more as optic candy than security. 

Prowl grinned sharply. They’d get the dishes later, or Inferno could. They could leave now, follow the working Iacies right out the door, and let the remaining three catch up late. The story was straight, Inferno and Wheeljack were old friends watching the mechlings during the festival, whilst every mech else worked. 

Any other city and Prowl would be on shift, a double even to help cover the Festival orn better. Jazz, as a musician, had to be out performing, this would earn him more creds than usual. For them to have standing sparksitters during festivals only fed the cover of the bitlings having been adopted longer than they were. 

Prowl hooked the subspace expansion up, curling his servo uncomfortably around to activate it. Jazz did likewise, Red Alert invading his space to activate it for him. Then they’re both a flurry of motion as they pack boxes of fuel, med kits, and maps of the safety shelters into the subspace expansions. 

Wheeljack’s been tinkering again, even if they get caught the expansion looks like their natural subspace, hiding the veritable arsenal of weaponry, emergency fuel, bombs and triggers, and poisons they both carry on the daily. 

They’re all determined that won’t come to that anyways, that no Iaconian will catch them to find care packages in their subspaces, but preparedness is the precaution of every clever mech. 

Then Prowl, Jazz, and Red Alert dart out, today they get to be playful and tricky and mischievous, whilst Inferno and Wheeljack watch the cameras for them. Ratchet follows after them, sedate and grumpy, although a fond smile tugs at his denta anyways revealing his amusement. 

It is rare for Red to have days where his glitch is quiet, and his energy can be put into something he can use. Cameras and a game of chase while he wears a face that connects to no one and nowhere is going to be fun, and his glee had been contagious, Prowl and Jazz equally ecstatic to lead the Iaconian crew around on a grep goose chase. 

Besides, almost anyone who matters in Praxus has put together at least Jazz and Prowl, they had a bet going on how quickly they could get the rest of the city to play along in their game of keep away. 

By the third joor of passing out care packages Mirage was starting to pop up on Prowl’s peripherery, Bumblebee trailing after Jazz. Of course they were in pastels and black, but it really was impressively fast. 

::Heads up, duck to your left,:: Inferno said into Prowl’s comm and he twisted out of the way of a dart and continued the motion, dragging one of the younger street mechling’s from Grayscale’s crew into a dance that took them around the corner. Another dart hit the wall behind them, and Solocharge giggled at the maniacal grin he offered her. 

“Seems we got ourselves a sniper. Klax is setting up now, wanna make it hard for him to aim?” 

Solocharge giggled again and darted off, climbing partway up the wall to leap to the rooftops. Old Quintesson war defenses included sticking a fog inducer on the rooftops, makes it tricky to navigate the labyrinthine streets for the invading techno-organics. The mechling crews had long since commandeered them, both as an anti enforcer defense, and by sticking dye pellets in to provide an extra layer to festivity on holidays. 

Mechling crews guarded the location and function of their fog inducers jealously, keeping the secret well into adulthood long after they’d joined gangs of their own, had for generations. Prowl, Jazz, and Red had spread just enough of the plan that Solocharge starting the fog inducer from her crew’s sector started a chain reaction, far earlier in the festival than typical. 

Conspiratorial looks lined the street and Prowl watched Mirage glance nervously at the downright gleeful mecha around him as the streets and the air above them filled with thick, colorful smog. The pinks, blues and reds swirled into cutting visibility by half, and mecha pulled sparklers and magnesium torches out to light paths. 

Prowl wiggled his servo mockingly at the furious lordling and stepped back to disappear into the thick smog before he turned and ran. 

Inferno cackled into his comm, reporting Red’s displeasure at the fog blocking his own counter sniping, and Jazz’s own escapades. 

Prowl slowed as he entered the next crew’s sector and pulled the packages for distribution. He looked up to see the crowd mill deliberately around him, circling like bolt-vultures and caught the optics of Hound through the mecha feigning disinterest as they bullied him back. 

Prowl held his gaze and dropped one of the coins with his call sign and watched from the next alley as Hound picked it up and growled, pure frustration exuding from his stiff frame. Prowl moved on. 

For the next several joor it was easy, they were running circles around the Iaconians, with Red occasionally pausing in his camera duty to snipe paint pellets with a mild acid mixed in to help them lose a tail. Even the Iaconians getting the enforcers involved only made it more fun for a time, Prowl got to skid past Tailspin and shoot him in the side without regrets like he would’ve if he’d shot one of the Iacies. 

Then the smog began to clear just slightly, and it all went wrong at once. 

::Hey, Klax, smogs clearing, you should hold fire for a klik,:: Inferno warned, joviality gone in an instant, ::Klax, please hold fire. Jazz will be fine, the crews are reloading now, hold fire!:: 

::Seriously, ‘Ferno, I’ll be fine.:: 

There was silence on the comms for a heavy nanosecond, then Jazz checked in, ::Tails gone, Red, you need to change position now. Blue is a very good sniper.:: 

The comms blipped with the distinct double tap of acknowledgement and Prowl let his focus drift back to passing out his last sector of packages. A mere moment later Inferno is back on comms, his voice tight and worried. 

::Red’s down. Shot to the leg, secondary to his shoulder. Sunstreaker’s running interference on keeping the Iacies away from his position.:: 

::On route,:: Ratchet responded immediately, and Prowl yanked the generator out entirely, the last few packages falling in the road as he dropped the contraption entirely in favor of pulling his knives and gun out, and leaping for the roof. 

He joins Jazz halfway there, both of them tearing for Red’s position, partway by rooftop, and partly by transforming and drifting up the roads in dangerous maneuvers that violated multiple ordinances. 

Ratchet is already working on Red’s injuries as Prowl and Jazz both spin into defensive positions over them, facing off with three enforcers and nearly the entire Iacie group on a rooftop. Jazz sinks deeper into an offensive stance and Prowl tilts his helm, assessing the group. 

Bluestreak had used bullets, not tranqs, not acid pellets, bullets. He might’ve aimed to disable rather than to kill, but clearly they’ve decided to be serious now. 

Fine. Prowl can be serious too. 

He tucks his knives back away in favor of pulling out his datapad, his favorite datapad that all three mechlings had painted the case of together, the one he used for groceries, and bills, and plans, and his most accessible records. 

The datapad with his bombs program on it. 

He holds it behind his arm, half wrapped in the strap for his rifle. Then he steps half behind Jazz as he taps his access code to one of his nastier options. He nods at Ratchet, Wheeljack and Inferno have already recoded their paint and are on their way. They’ll come through the sewers, and meet them halfway. 

He just needs to cover their retreat. He activates his program without a second thought. 

Praxus is a very auditory city. They hear the music, the lyrics, the messages, and any Praxian who is truly Praxian knows how to use their wings or sensor horns to hear the crystals too. The city is loud, loud mecha, loud personality, loud crime, loud music and dancing and care. 

Every mecha can hear. Praxians listen. 

So when Prowl plays Chordite’s Minor Symphonia in fifth, loudly across every speaker he could access, bomb or not, Praxus listened. The Iaconians did not, merely heard. 

Chordite wrote their symphonies and chorales during the rule of Zeta Prime. Legally, all of their work was illegal, banned by the senate and Zeta at the time, but they were classics and everymech knew them nonetheless, no mech having complied by the banning even during Zeta’s rule. 

Minor in fifth was one of their experimental symphonias. Chordite didn’t have access to instruments at every point that they recorded their music, and the resultant improvisation was a heavy influence into the survival of their work past their empurata and execution. 

Even now Minor in fifth did not sound right without the original improvised instrument and symphony halls had to drag in cannons to play it. Prowl had no cannons, and certainly none loud enough to match the volume of every speaker in the city. 

Praxus listened. They took shelter, in homes, shelters, subways, even the sewers. The enforcers on the rooftop facing Prowl threw themselves back, scrambling away. 

Ratchet gathered up a giggling, cursing Red Alert, a tableau of teals, whites, and two shades of purples. Jazz and Sunstreaker covered their retreat as Prowl stayed, facing the confused Iaconians with a gun pointed directly at Mirage’s helm. 

He fired. 

A vibrant cerulean splotch of acidic paint exploded across his face and he shrieked. Prowl swung his gun to the side and fired three more shots, leaving two pellets for his retreat. Ironhide fell back clutching his throat cables, and Smokescreen wailed in pain as both his doorwings were hit directly across the sensors. 

The pellets wouldn’t do much damage, unless they were targeted very well. Mirage would be seeing blurs and shapes for cycles, possibly longer. Ironhide would rasp for an orn, and his vents would rattle alarmingly, but he’d live. Smokescreen had it the worst, Prowl held no illusions about who asked Blue to switch ammo rounds. 

Doorwings in general, like Jazz’s or Sunstreaker’s were sensitive, and delicate. Sensor panels, such as Smokescreen’s, Prowl’s, Bluestreak’s, were extremely fragile and hard to rewire. A direct hit that leaked acid through the cracks was fixable, there certainly wouldn’t be damage. 

But he’d need his wings to be rebuilt entirely to replace the stripped wire and damaged sensors, he’d need new calipers, they’d have to be fully recalibrated, and for an orn he would not be only healing, but also in pain. Prowl bared his denta in a snarl, he had a mere klik and a half to the first blast point in the Symphonia. 

He’d get his point across, he was sure. “My cohort,” he began, deadly calm and steady, “is off limits. You may chase us with tranqs, and questions, and demands all you like. The next time you shoot one of mine, be it to maim or to kill, then I will choose which of you I shoot in the spark.” 

“What-“ Hound starts, holding his conjunx close as Mirage shudders slightly. 

“No. That’s all. It will either be the nervous shiny one, or the traitor mini. Weigh your options and run.” 

“I don’t- run?” Sideswipe stutters out, and Prowl let’s his snarl twist into a mean sort of smile as he steps backwards off the roof. There’s a sewer entrance behind him, and he went over safety protocols with them last orn. He doesn’t think that will have done much good. 

“Run,” he says as he drops. 

They hear, but they don’t listen. 

The Symphonia swells and the first bombs explode with prejudice, the courthouse is gone entirely. 

There are six more blast points in the Symphonia, Chordite liked sevens. 

Bumblebee, despite Prowl’s continued petty dislike and the rest of the contacts he’d made snubbing him after Whirl had talked, does actually remember and know what Praxus was like. He wasn’t Praxian, not really, not like Jazz and Prowl and their mechlings, but as far as observation went, Bumblebee did know the city. 

Regardless of what Smokescreen claimed about him and Prowl being Iaconian, both of them emerged in Praxus before their creators got them out, before Bluestreak had even emerged, Bumblebee knew better. Prowl may have been Iaconian once, but now he was as Praxian as they came. 

He had a mate that was as Praxian as the city, sparklings that he gathered up instead of creating, he’d gotten so scarily good at making the city work with him, with fuel, housing, even his contacts to get the others jobs. No, Bumblebee was well aware of Prowl’s state of being far more Praxian than anyone had prepared for. 

Honestly, it suited him. He looked happier when he flared his wings wide to find his hiding mechlings and danced around the kitchen with Jazz, and sung along to whatever music was around at the time, Praxus was rarely ever truly silent. 

Bumblebee may not know Prowl anymore, but he still knew the city, at least from an outsider’s perspective, and he knew it better than the rest of his team. Which was why the second the music started Bumblebee was trying to figure out which song it was. 

He wasn’t Praxian. This didn’t come naturally to him, to have massive repertoires of artists and songs and styles simply stored for the sake of knowledge. It took him too long to remember that this was attributed to Chordite, and too long after that to trace the Symphonia itself in his oldest memory files from his youngling center cycles. 

Then Sharpgear had shot Mirage in the face, and shot thrice more, and Bumblebee had paused in his trace. Sharpgear stepped off the roof, after a warning that no one understood, but Bumblebee still helped Sideswipe gather a whimpering Smokescreen to his pedes. Ironhide stepped forward and gathered the doorwinger into a rescue hold, ignoring the slowly leaking energon at his own neck. 

There was an explosion and Bumblebee caught Hound as he stumbled under Mirage’s weight while the rooftop they’d gathered on juddered harshly beneath them. Dust rose a mere block away, thick and choking as the colorful smoke returned with a vengeance, vaguely acidic and stinging harshly. 

The music played still, lilting and eery in the deathly still city. The enforcers had left as soon as the music had started and Bumblebee tilted his helm as the tinkling notes of the Symphonia rose in familiarity. The Fifth Symphonia rose in familiarity. Frag it all, the fifth. 

“Run!,” Bee barked, shoving harshly at Sideswipe and pushing Trailbreaker off the rooftop entirely, “Go, run, run!” 

He scrambles for the emergency ladder, skipping the rungs to slide down it at a dangerous speed. He hears Hound clattering after him, and the weight of Ironhide hits the ladder after that. Knockout is still at his job, monitoring the Precinct while he runs errands and menial tasks for the admittedly arrogant enforcer medic. 

Bluestreak was still in his perch, and Bumblebee desperately hoped that he’d made it out safely. The lilt of the Symphonia turns deep and thundering for several bars and Bumblebee plasters himself to the nearest wall, hunkering down as his plating rattles in sheer terror. His teammates follow suit confusedly, and another explosion rocks through the city, closer than the last. 

The second it's over, trying not to vent in dust and acid mist, Bumblebee takes off running again. It’s not safe on the streets. 

Prowl had just gone over the shelter locations with them, they were all public access, and likely to be packed full though. 

Bumblebee didn’t think that’d be safe either. 

The softer notes edge into the warning bass, and Bumblebee dives for the sewer entrance to the covert he claimed back when he was in his role as Rhodonite. He doesn’t get it open in time, and the whole lot of them huddle and shake together of that stupid padlocked grate as the city shudders again. 

The aftershocks pass and Bee yanks the grate up, and urges the others down, most of them opting to jump instead of climb. He swings himself down, and yanks the grate after him, clicking the padlock shut and running a piece of rebar through for good measure. 

There’s four more explosions, the last three are in rapid succession intended to be louder than the others, if Bumblebee’s memory of the song is accurate. It may be a classic, enjoyed planet over, but only Praxus had ever bothered to appreciate the Fifth, given how hard it was to keep cannons in a symphony hall. 

He slides down the wall with a whine. 

Ultra Magnus gets here next cycle, with whoever he’d decided to bring. Ironhide and Mirage and Smokescreen are all out of commission to meet him. Sideswipe is shaking, clutching Ironhide’s arm as the massive Primesguard tentatively taps his throat cables. He opens his mouth to say something to his mechling and the only thing that comes out is a horrendous croak. 

Mirage clearly cannot see, and Smokescreen is near insensate with pain, and definitely in shock. This had gone horribly. 

Bee lets his optics offline as he waits this mess out so he can deal with the aftermath. 

Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus touches down, stepping off the lift platform with professional grace, only to cycle his optics in sheer shock. Ironhide nods grimly at him, his throat a mess of patches and welds, the silvery shine of emergency care obvious. 

Bumblebee hovers behind him, twitchy and nervous. He’s lancing around on high alert, small dents littering hiss frame as if he’d been caught in shrapnel. Hound stands at the forefront, rifle held at the ready equally dented as Bee and radiating quiet furious vigilance. 

“Yo,” Cliffjumper vented softly from behind Magnus, “What the frag happened?” 

Magnus uplinks briefly, attempting to access local news feeds, and disconnects just as fast. That… was a lot of conflicting information and opinions. It was also the loudest media link he’d ever accessed. He steps forward and his team falls into line behind him, as they follow Ironhide’s sweeping gesture of sarcastic welcome, following him through the streets. 

They pass a bombed out building, rubble strewing the streets, and Cliffjumper nudges a piece of the rubble with his pede. The city crest of Praxus is overturned, defaced and twisted. Magnus looks around the City with a fresh wariness. Patches of faded color melted into the sides of buildings, as if there’d been an acid storm the night cycle before and the rain was colorful for some reason. 

Shrapnel, dust, and abandoned festival booths still lined the streets, and the mecha milling the streets were openly hostile, shooting scornful looks their way. Windblade sidles up behind Magnus, “Sir, your theory was correct. This city is a titan, an old one.” 

She speaks softly in her native Camian, Cliffjumper and Ultra Magnus speak it, having helped her learn Neo Cybex along with Prowl, but she gets a look of bewilderment from the other three. Ultra Magnus sighs softly, “Friendly titan, or unfriendly? How awake are they?” 

“Not awake,” Windblade says, slowly, “Very aware. They-she is very twisty. I think I do not know. She is very old. I do not wish to speak to her, she is very, mm, very, shrewd, I think is best word? I will not trick her, and she will hurt me if I offend.” 

Ultra Magnus hums and switches back to Neo Cybex, “Do you have some elucidation on what happened here, Lieutenant Bumblebee? Or perhaps an explanation outright?” 

Bumblebee fidgets, tilting his dented helm to the side, “We fragged up.” 

Ironhide makes a rasping sound of protest, and Hound snarls out, “No, we did our jobs and the crazy fraggers that Mirage is damned intent on recruiting blew up the city for it.” 

“Lieutenant Bumblebee, elaborate,” Magnus demands, as they turn down another street. 

“We attempted to capture, or even simply speak to one of the mecha of interest yesterday, as they were out and active during the festival,” Bee says slowly, “They were evading us spectacularly, it was pretty frustrating actually. Bluestreak managed two hits on their sniper though, Klaxon, I think? Their reaction was- excessive.” 

Ultra Magnus pinches the bridge of his olfactory. He’d done some research before he even picked the two mecha to bring. Some on Praxus in general, an embarrassing amount on social protocols when your friend gets bonded or has a mechling, and plenty on both Mirage’s files and the public knowledge on the group they were targeting. 

That reaction was tame if one of their own was apparently shot. The reaction to what was reportedly a requested rescue was the complete annihilation of an entire street gang, and their base of operations. The reaction to a capture was to demolish a centivorn old building. This was entirely what should have been expected. 

The entire group pauses at the convergence of several streets. Ironhide turns in a slow circle and shrugs silently. Bumblebee and Hound both grumble quietly and turn as Ironhide did, clearly looking for something, although Magnus isn’t sure what it is. Windblade gulps nervously behind him and murmurs in her thickly accented Neo Cybex, “She is amused. I don’t like that.” 

Cliffjumper snorts, “Something wrong?” 

“I think-“ Hound hesitates looking oddly ashamed, “I think we’re lost. I don’t know this street.” 

“Yeah, I think you are. You’re three streets and sector off from the flat, and three sectors from the Precinct,” comes from behind them and the group whirls around, Magnus letting his glee show in a small smile he’d always reserved for Prowl, “What were you doing that got you here?” 

“Prowl!” Bumblebee yelps out at the same time as Magnus’ pleased rumble of the same. 

Prowl moves his cold stare off of Bumblebee to meet Magnus’ gaze with growing confusion. His optics flick to Cliffjumper and Windblade on either side of him briefly before he resettles on Magnus. He relaxes his frame by increments as he smiles warmly at the group, matching Magnus’ soft smile nearly warmth for warmth.

”Mags,” he said, a pleased curl reaching from his EM field even this far. At the distance of a meter it was alarming and impressive alike, “Cliffjumper, Windblade. Are you keeping up with your studies, ‘Blade?” 

Windblade beams at the officer who had overseen her apprenticeship, “Yes. Magnus has held your place, and I have focused. I am nearly qualified as detective now. I have completed negotiation exams as well.” 

Cliffjumper snorts and elbows her gently, “She’s also my new beat partner. She’s sure better at jokes than you were.” 

Magnus lets his smile curl further with the edge of mischief that only Prowl’s seen before. Prowl sees it and snickers. Magnus knows Cliffjumper is putting on a front for his old beat partner, he’d complained loudly and often about the lack of Prowl doing the paperwork and using his wings on patrol to catch details. 

A violently pink and orange femme wanders up behind Prowl, her wings held high and confident as she displayed her equally chipped and faded enforcer decals. She leans on Prowl indolently, and digs her chin into his shoulder, “I dunno. I like him better than my usual partner. I think he’s funny enough.” 

Prowl sighs deeply, his wings drooping to accommodate the femme’s frame, “It’s really not mutual. You’re annoying. Even if I like you better than your usual partner as well.” 

She barks a laugh and breaks away to cackle hysterically. The quirk of Prowl’s wings is amused pride, and Magnus realizes belatedly both that it was a joke and that Cliffjumper had been missing Prowl’s dry humor for the entirety of their previous partnership. He snorts without fully meaning to, and grins sheepishly at Ironhide's sideways glance of sheer judgement. 

“Verilight, this is Ultra Magnus, Chief Enforcer of the Tyrest Accords, and the Precinct Chief of Iacon. He was my mentor when I joined the enforcers. Cliffjumper, my old beat partner, and Windblade who was my trainee before I transferred,” the femme nods rapidly at Prowl’s words, a growing look of confusion on her face. 

“Nice to meet ya,” Cliffjumper offers, his Urayan accent cocksure in the same way as when he interrogates a particularly bigoted sort of witness, the kind he wanted off guard from the soft, rolling accent his native tongue left him, “I’d hoped Prowl would get a new beat partner that had enough humor to balance him, you seem to fit.” 

“Oh, I’m not his beat partner. Prowl hasn’t got one actually, he’s covering for my partner. Dreadcircuit was caught in one of yesterday’s bomb paths, he’s gonna be in and out of surgery and rebuilds for a couple decaorn.” 

Magnus blinks, taken aback, “Oh. Prowl, did your own partner die during one of the attacks? I… offer my condolences.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Cliffjumper and Windblade’s fields flare with shared realization and grief, and the three ground teams’ flare with utter confusion. Prowl’s face twists with something unidentifiable, and Verilight shouts with laughter as she doubles over again, grabbing Prowl’s elbow and shaking him in her mirth. 

“No, I-“ Prowl breaks off and stutters for a moment, his wings low and twitching. Shame, if Magnus is reading them correctly. He knows he is. “I was never assigned a beat partner here.” 

Windblade chirps lowly, admonishing, “Bad. Should push. You taught me to not patrol without partner.” 

Prowl barks with bitter laughter, “Mm, I did, didn’t I? Don’t worry, I only ever patrol with a partner, I just mostly cover for others, hardly patrol anymore as a result,” he reaches back blindly, swatting at his patrol partner, temporarily apparently, “Quit poking, why are you poking me?” 

Verilight wavers, then whispers something in Prowl’s audio. Prowl jolts, and graces her with a look of exasperation mixed with scorn. 

“How. How do you not know what the Tyrest Accords are? You are an enforcer.” 

Magnus blinks, taken aback himself. Any enforcer must swear by the Tyrest Accords, and to uphold them, as do any military or related fields. There is a subset for Medics, and another for Senators and governance. Any Enforcer moral code is built on the Tyrest Accords. He can understand not having them memorized, even if he and Prowl both do, but to not know them at all? 

Unthinkable. 

“I don’t know! Chief just kinda talked me through it, he really needed a traffic controller.” 

Prowl groans lightly, “Yeah, and he really needed tac. I still knew what I was swearing to uphold! The frag, Verilight?” 

Cliffjumper whistles lowly. Magnus wishes he could do the same, he has only once heard Prowl swear before now, over the holocall. It is deserved though, Magnus is frustrated by this femme’s shallow naivety himself. 

Verilight scowls and shoves off of Prowl hard enough to rock his balance as she turns away, half pouting. Magnus is not impressed by her. Neither is Prowl, if the downturn of his wings is any clue, and really, his friend’s competence in wing language has improved in leaps and bounds since his transfer. 

“What are you lot doing out here anyways? I know Prowl asked already, but no one answered,” Verilight asks, “I know that Twitcher and Builder Trap sometimes go so far as third sector, but Optic Sweet never goes further than second. And the rest of you came outta nowhere.” 

Cliffjumper’s snigger turns into a full blown cackling laugh as he chokes out, “Who the fraggin’ pit got pegged as Optic Sweet?” 

Hound quietly, shamefully, raises his servo. Bumblebee clarifies without hesitation, “I’m Twitcher, apparently the whole city dislikes my former undercover role. Ironhide is Builder Trap, I believe due to his temporary job in construction. Hound is Optic Sweet, and I’m not actually sure why. They are Praxian street names, given by whoever says them first. They’re common.” 

“Yeup,” Verilight agrees cheerily, bouncing slightly beside Prowl, “Besides, Pretty Horns, they all make sense. Building was a trap, and now he’s stucker than a glitch mouse in a glue trap. Optic Sweet and Pretty Mech are both door candy at the Strutstrap’s.” 

“The frag you call me?” Cliffjumper snaps out, and Magnus pulls him back by his neck crest. Windblade wavers beside him in the uncertain way that typically means she doesn’t know a word. 

“Strutstrap’s? I was given to know this was not a good word?” 

Prowl is giggling softly, and Hound grunts loudly before he grumbles, “It’s not. There’s an ongoing issue accessing the Primesguard counts here, so we’re under Prowl’s care for housing. Part of that is that some of us have jobs to help afford fuel and amenities. Trailbreaker and I are door security at a bar called Struts.” 

Prowl’s giggles are full blown now, as he grips Verilight’s arm for support, “You-you never figured that out? Seriously?” 

Hound scoffs at the same time as Cliffjumper says, in a faux offended tone, “Prowl, tell me you didn’t wait to figure out how to prank a mech until after you left Praxus?” 

“I always knew how to prank, did it to Smokescreen plenty as a mechling,” Prowl says, and Magnus remembers Smokescreen coming in once coated in blue glitter fondly, “It wasn’t a prank though, or it wasn’t intended as one. Struts is the common name, but the full name is Strutstrap’s Dance Bar. You were absolutely hired as optic candy, the actual security is stationed outside, and I thought you knew.” 

Hound lets out a strangled sound and says nothing. Ironhide barks a rasping laugh and claps him on the shoulder. 

“To answer your question, Prowl,” Magnus says finally, “I believe we are lost. They had come to escort us from the wall, Optimus sent me and a team of my choosing to assist. I am not sure how they are lost, considering they have been here for a decaorn and a half now.” 

Prowl snickers again, “Yeah, I’m actually not surprised. We’re in sixth sector. Usually they stay in second. Where did you get lifted over?” 

“The Eastern wall,” Magnus replies, and then he remembers belatedly the protocols he’d researched, “Oh! Congratulations on your bonding and emergence. I’m sorry I missed your bonding.” 

Prowl startles and stares at nothing in particular. Verilight wheezes, as she hangs off of Prowl again, “His bonding was quiet, traditional. You wouldn’t’a made it if you tried. He ain’t had an emergence though, he’s adopted three times. Precious mischiefs all.” 

“Chaotic rascals, more like,” Prowl murmurs and he elbows the femme in her solar plexus viciously. She yelps and shoves him hard in retaliation. Prowl attempts to shake her off, hooking a pede around hers to yank her off balance. It is an impressive mix of impromptu sparring and outright tussling. 

It ends when the pede around hers tugs at the same time as one of her gentle shoves knocks Prowl off center. Prowl stumbles, catching himself a half step in, and the femme goes down hard, grabbing for balance as she does. 

Magnus watches in genuine horror as she misses the outstretched servo and grabs Prowl’s sensor wing instead, yanking the whole appendage out of socket. 

Prowl releases a loud strangled cry of pain and hits the ground mere moments after the femme. Magnus is kneeling beside the duo, hovering his servos over them as the femme jerks into motion helping Prowl sit up. She moves to reset the wing and Prowl outright pushes her away. 

“No, nope, don’t you dare.” 

“Prowl, I can put a wing back. I do it on my bitties every other orn.” 

Magnus nods approvingly at the basic medical knowledge, very useful to have, even as he reels from the fact that apparently he did not in fact get enough gifts. 

Prowl moves further away from the femme in response, “Uh huh, and I’m not a mechling.” 

“I know you’re not my mechling, Prowl, I’m not stupid.” 

Prowl is crouched half behind Magnus now, one wing raised high in defense and the other hanging loose and heavy behind him, “That’s not what I said! I said I’m not a mechling, generally. I don’t have a mechling frame, you can’t reset them the same way!” 

She scoffs and reaches for Prowl, who shrinks back, “No, do not touch me!” 

Magnus gently blocks the femme’s path to Prowl, and lets his friend cling to his arm for balance as he rises to his pedes, “We’ve established that we are lost, yes? Perhaps you could guide us to the precinct that we may get Prowl’s wing reset.” 

Prowl cringes beside him, and Magnus does not understand. Verilight winces as well, “Yeah, maybe no. Triage is- Triage is, erm, she’s really bad at frame stuff. Mostly does code. We outsource injuries, and Chief isn’t gong to be nice about this one. Um. Clinic, maybe? We’re in sixth, so uhh, Haxxer’s is a street over?” 

Prowl hums lightly, “Might be better to wait, and I’ll go to Sparkcase’s after shift. Haxxer’s is low on supplies, last check at least. They’re on the outsource list, too.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Verilight lowers her wings, “Gotta hurt though. I’ll deal with the report an disciplinary if you want to go to Haxxer’s.” 

Prowl rolls his shoulders, flinches, and manages to reach back and lock his wing in place, then he smiles thinly up at Magnus, “What were you doing? We really should make sure you get there, you are all pretty close to Leaker territory which isn’t safe.” 

“That… is not protocol,” Cliffjumper drawls, “Why isn’t your precinct medic trained?” 

“She is, just not for Praxians. She’s from Tarn, and she’s a registered mnemo, but she never requalified on Praxian frames. She probably could reset my wing, but she’d mess the wiring up in the process, and I’d still have to see a qualified medic. It’s fine, where are we taking you?” 

“Haxxer’s,” Magnus says firmly, opticing where Prowl’s wing has fallen from its lock and is hanging as dead weight again, “or wherever this Sparkcase’s is. Potentially a store after that, I only got gifts for the sparklet I saw, and I would hate to leave your other two out.” 

He also wishes to get any information on their targets that he can from the general mecha off the street, which is best done at a conversational level rather than an interrogation room. It is most of the reason he’d brought Cliffjumper, who can converse with nearly any mech he likes with relative ease. Then Magnus need only listen. 

Prowl grins sheepishly, “Sparkcase’s is a corner store, it just has a decent collection of medics that keep their practices there. That’ll cover both. Mags you don’t have to spoil my bitlings. Hot Rod would be happy to play Hax with you, he’s been learning, and Sunstreaker would be pretty content to show off his crystal gardens.” 

“And your third?” Magnus prods, absorbing the information on his friend’s bitlings’ interests. 

Verilight snorts as she leads the meandering way up the street, the three ground team mecha exchanging nervous looks behind her, and Prowl walks beside Magnus, Cliffjumper, and Windblade, “Blurr would love you forever if you took him to a sparkling track. Prowl’s youngest is an energetic fragger that likes to go fast. My twins get along with him far too well.” 

“Ah,” they follow her up several meandering streets in silence, the tension from Bumblebee, Ironhide, and Hound slowly increasing as they go. Prowl slowly gets more off balance the longer they walk, until they pass a street corner and the drifting music slows. It wouldn’t be noticeable unless it hadn’t been in the middle of a well known popular song. 

Magnus glances down the side street to see a familiar mech hurriedly packing up a sitar and shoving it in his subspace to rush towards them. Prowl’s mate from the call, Jazz if Magnus remembers correctly. 

“Sweetspark?” He asks, “You good?” 

Cliffjumper tosses his servos in the air and grumbles. Magnus smiles down at Prowl’s mate, determined to find this one’s interests as well. He may have a goal here, but he doesn’t actually know what it is, spoiling his friend’s chosen family is a worthy secondary goal. 

Jazz had gotten a moment of shocked joy from Prowl, who was patrolling for the first time in decaorn, and the following notes of playfulness drifting down the bond had been influencing his playing more than Jazz would ever admit. The blinding pain that chased its way down the bond shortly after had caused a stutter in his song. 

Only the fact that he could feel his mate’s presence slowly moving closer had stopped him from chasing him down himself. Blaster’s hovering had gone from determined curiosity as he followed Jazz’s playing to determined protectiveness as well, which had settled his worry more than Jazz liked. 

He wanted to protect his mate himself, but Blaster’s insight into the City would assist greatly if Prowl needed it. 

Then his mate turned the corner, practically hanging off of a massive strange mecha, surrounded by other strangers as he trailed after three of the Iacies, three of the less friendly ones. The Traitor, the Mate, and the Unwanted. His doorwing was hanging loose, dislocated, and Jazz could see the tension in his frame from here. 

He packed up, leaving his creds to Blaster to guard, or keep if the mechling chose, and ran. 

“I’m fine, Jazzy. It was an accident.” Prowl murmurs as Jazz practically yanks his taller frame away from the massive Iacie enforcer’s, if he was reading the shiny decals right, “This is Magnus, and Cliffjumper, and Windblade. I taught, mm, taught Windblade back in Iacon.” 

Prowl tone is pained, and vague, relaxing the klik Jazz had him in his arms, dozy with shock, and Jazz optics him nervously. Blaster steps up behind him, assessing the damage with a practiced optic, having reset dozens from Dearcy alone. 

“Haxxer’s or Sparkcase’s?” He asks sharply and Jazz cringes into the top of Prowl’s helm. 

“Spark’s,” Prowl slurs, and Verilight wanders back. Jazz glares. The ditzy femme is very good at traffic analysis and management, but she’s not so good at anything else. 

Blaster churrs nervously, leaning on the wall, an odd light in his optics that Jazz knows from Red usually means he’s talking to his creator, “Spark’s is three sectors off.” 

Prowl’s answer is to flick his working wing and whine into Jazz’s chassis when his damaged one refuses to move. Jazz leisurely digs in his subspace for a low level pain chit, plugging it into Prowl’s neck port for fast integration the second he has it. Prowl goes entirely lax in his arms and Jazz snorts into his shoulder junction. 

“Yeah, babe, bet that helped. Brace yourself, yeah?” The light in Blaster’s optics is brightening at the same pace as the desperate conviction on his faceplates, and Jazz already feels the streets beneath his pedes beginning to jog. 

He leans on the nearest wall, Prowl braced against him, and plants his pedes as the city quakes in earnest, dust and gravel front the previous cycle’s explosions fill the air like a storm. The Iacie’s, both old and new, shout in alarm and stumble like drunkards. 

The femme in particular is shaken, staring between Blaster and her own pedes in shock. Her helm crest flares as she clutches the ground, crouched and braced for the shocks going through the city. 

The shaking dies and Prowl peers out, humming in delight as he spots the crystal studded sign for Sparkcase’s on the next street. Jazz slips under his arm to steer his injured mate in the direction of the corner store, the Iacie group and Officer Verity trailing after him. 

“Pain chits are illegal for non medic personal to possess,” the femme, Windblade mutters behind him, and Jazz flashes a vulgar insult at her with his wings in response, “The seventh article of the Tyrest Accords, as governance by the medic corpora at the time states so clearly.” 

Verity sighs dramatically and moves to shoulder Prowl’s weight from Jazz. Jazz bares his denta at her without a second thought. She tosses her helm at him and flicks her wings in a few gestures, ‘responsibility, guilt, let-me-fix.’ 

Jazz let’s her take Prowl’s frame and walk him down the steps to the nearest medic station in the corner shop that claimed Ratchet, as Cutstrut no less, as their sponsor. Of the seven cornerstores in Praxus, this one was the tamest. Medic stations, fuel courts, and mechling toys were the main trade in this market, with some overlap into other areas. 

Prowl would be fine, so Jazz levels a glare at the original Iacies and the newest alike, “The frag happened?” 

“Verilight and Prowl were teasing each other, and they both lost balance. Prowl came off worse,” Bumblebee says calmly, and this is why no one likes Bee. Snitch. 

Jazz snorts, “Uh huh. An’ why ain’t big creepy talkin’?” 

Bee tosses a look between Ironhide and Magnus, clearly unsure. Jazz flicks a servo at Ironhide, “Uh. One of the associates of our mecha of interest shot an acid pellet at his throat, there’s damage. Why?” 

“Like ‘im better that way,” Jazz snarks, and watches all of the new Iacies wince, even as Hound and Ironhide bristle. Ironhide makes a rasping, creaking, rusted sound and cuts it off with a wince, “Ope, never mind there he goes. Yuck.” 

“What,” Magnus rumbles quietly, “did you all do? Why is every mech we encounter hostile towards you?” 

Hound shrugs, looking honestly perplexed, and Jazz cackles gleefully. He turns, surveying the mecha milling around the entrance to pick a target. Wiretap, a creator of three and fellow musician looks scornful enough. Jazz calls, “Hey, Tap, Optic Sweet wants’ta know why you ain’t like him that much.” 

Wiretap jerks his helm around to snarl, “Tryna catch the Gears, ain’t they? Gears what feed us, ‘specially the street scraps, an’ what make sure we’s got shelter, and medical slag, and community past what anymech else done in th’ past centivorn? What when they’s up and shot Klaxon fo’ shooting a bitling’s toy at ‘em? Why ain’t we’s gonna be slagged off?” 

Genuine unease graces their faceplates, and Jazz grins nastily. Bee gulps, Bitling’s toy? It destroyed Smokescreen’s wings, Ironhide’s throat, and Mirage’s faceplate. That was an acid rifle.” 

“Oh, dear,” Magnus mutters, and Windblade, still unsettled for reasons unknown to Jazz, makes an uncomfortable chittering sound deep in her throat. 

Jazz whirls around and marches off, the group following him at his steady clip easily. He reaches a new bot, new perspective, can’t be accused of bias now, seeing as Ringbelt is an immigrant from the wastes, who works with the crystal gardens. She is knowledgeable, but very factual. 

“Ringbelt, humor me a second, yeah?” She looks up from her clipping of a deep crystal, all deep purples and smoky silvers, and nods, “How’d’ya know that Klaxon was using a bitling toy to shoot yestercycle?” 

“Doesn’t every mech?” She retorts, “He didn’t only shoot the Iacie slagbags. He played with th’ street bits too. It’s pretty distinctive. No time to switch guns, not when he ain’t always going to know who he’s shooting when. Paint for one, paint for all. They’s all were. Ain’t gonna shoot t’ kill during a crowd.” 

Jaz nods, and steps past her stall, doubling back to get an image capture of the pruning she was budding, it matched the aesthetic of Sunstreaker and Prowl’s balcony garden. She passes him a clipping instead, and Jazz tosses her one of Hot Rod’s rust sticks, earning one of her fanged smiles. 

Then Jazz strides to a stall advertising mechling ammo, and displaying strengths along with colors. He passes a cred to the stall owner and collects one pellet of each color strength. 

He turns to face the oddly invested group. “Praxus, despite its tradition of adopting, and its disproportionate street mechling population, ain’t got a big monopoly on mechling toys. We improvise instead. A factory that produces acid pellets can easily repurpose one of its lines to use the waste slag from the acid production.” 

He lunges forwards, grabs Ironhide’s servo and smashes the red orb on his arm plating. Red paint smears on his armour with a light sizzle that fades out fast. 

“Then those are used as sparkling ammo. Add paint, an’ now it’s fun. The acid slag can vary in strength of how much waste acid is in it,” he yanks a struggling Hound’s servo forward ruthlessly, and smashes the green orb on his arm, it has a louder reaction, one that is equally fast lived. 

Jazz tosses the light blue pellet up and down, then throws it directly at Bee’s chest plate. It crackles loudly, as his paint curls and peels, but the protometal remains untarnished, barely touched, “They’re pretty readily available, an’ while they’re dangerous aimed at joints, they ain’t nothing that can kill unless you point blank shot a spark. Damage, yes, death? Ain’t possible.” 

Cliffjumper laughs harshly, “You saying this lot got taken out by the poor mecha’s paint guns and a bomb scare?” 

Jazz nods. 

Magnus blinks slowly, “In addition to the fact that the city welcomes these, how did he put it, Gears?” 

Jazz nods. 

“Ah,” Magnus says. He turns to the first Iacie group, “I believe your first assessment was correct, Lieutenant Bumblebee. You did indeed frag up, as it were.”  

He turns to Jazz, “I came partially with the intention of bringing gifts to my dearest friend’s mate and sparklings. Would you care to advise until Prowl rejoins us? Then I would appreciate yours, and Prowl’s insight when I review the gathered evidence later.” 

“With the first, sure, why the frag not. The second, we’ll see.” 

Jazz still doesn’t know why they were looking for him and Prowl so intently in the first place. He certainly isn’t going to help when that is still in the air. 

Magnus beams at him, a small thing with the majority of the smile in his optics, and Jazz sees his mate in it. He can’t help grinning back, widely and indulgent. This mech is so much more acceptable than his mate’s own brothers. 

Chapter Text

Prowl eyes Verilight woozily as she takes his weight from Jazz to support him as they go further into Sparkcase’s. She has dropped the nervous, worried energy, holding herself steadier the further they walk. Despite his teasing, and her genuine lack of knowledge, Verilight is actually a decent officer. She has to be able to track data at a fast pace in order to manage a whole City’s traffic, it leaves her distractible not dumb.

“Heard from the Chief,” she starts, and she jostles him when he groans, “Yeah, I know. You don’t like him, and he don’t like you. Ain’t my point now. Chief knew them folk were coming, had officers stationed at the second sector lift they were supposed to be in.” 

Rustfleck helps Prowl sit down and starts disabling the sensor relays for his wing as Prowl leans forward into Verilight for suppport. Prowl bites his glossa and moans as the disconnected relays start pinging nonsense data to his processor, stinging feelings coming from the lack of what should be there. 

Pain chits are all well and good, but Rustfleck should be putting Prowl into stasis and he hasn’t got the setup for that, “Talk. Verilight talk. Why does chief- does the chief want-“ 

“I think he was going to disappear them,” she rushes out, talking into his audio, “He’s getting real fragged off about his increasing lack of control. We got several lords dead, the street scraps banding together like they haven’t for decavorn, and the gangs making unexpected alliances. Add that to the fact that he still can’t track down the Gears, and the Iacies ain’t under his authority, and he don’t know why they’re here, and he’s getting twitchy.” 

Prowl stills entirely, and has to deliberately remove his claws from where he’s dug them into Verilight’s arms, one digit at a time, “What.” 

“I don’t know that for sure. I’m guessing based off of how fragged he was that you saw them, and that the two groups merged. Prowl, I know you have some sort of connection to the Gears. My bitties are obsessed, and their friends are too. Any connections are hoarded by that little group.” 

Prol actually knows what she’s talking about. There’s a forum, plenty of them actually, that mechlings can socialize online in. His own mechlings have a shared datapad with an account for each of them so they can play and chat with any friends they make. Hot Rod is in a forum devoted to his family, entirely thrilled by the insinuation that his adopted creators and uncles are famous. 

There’s art. The forum, populated partly by street mechlings, had created several call signs, and Prowl had chosen his there with Hot Rod. There’s also stories, both reports of legitimate interactions, and made up fantasies of the same. 

Prowl generally left Hot Rod alone to lurk on his chosen forum after he time he’d run across a poorly edited mechling art of him and Meister. Whether or not the truth behind the image was accurate, it was still diasarming to see his alter and Jazz’s edited to look as if they were entwined together in a way neither of their frames actually bent. 

“I… take your point.” Prowl grumbles attempting to banish the various images Hot Rod has shown him in the past, gleeful about the images of his adoptive creators, “Are you wanting me to warn them?” 

Verilight hums, “Maybe? They’re doing good work honestly. Ne mech misses the Scourges, or those lords, except the chief. They’ve been feeding the street bits, I’ve been noticing the decrease in traffic incidents caused by passed out starving mechlings. The bombs are a lot, but we didn’t have any injuries or casualties until this last time. I don’t know why Chief Barricade wants them so much, but. I don’t want them gone.” 

Rustfleck starts reconnecting the sensor wires, and Prowl instinctively tries to flick his wing, frowning when it doesn’t move and the odd static feeling stays. The medic fits a brace around the wing, hooking it into place on his plating to magnetize his wing immobile. Then the medic comes around to meet Prowl’s optics. 

“You listen to the other officer,” he says, his wings low with deference and a serious tilt of honesty, “Them Gears are helpful. Them enforcers are too narrow minded. Them Iacies ain’t welcome, no time. Don’t move your wing for a few cycles. I’ll write a note, you can take the brace off when the sensor turn blue. No solvent directly on the wing until then.” 

He hands Prowl a low duty note, time off work or desk work required, and one that lets him select the option. Verilight helps Prowl to his pedes, steadying him as he sways from the lingering pain program in his lines. 

“I’ll let the chief now we’re off the roster for the cycle since you got injured,” Verilight says, “I’ll blame the city shift, or the newbies. His orders were to make you settle them in, and I think you’ve got it. Comm me when you get home, let me know where they’re staying for chief, and I’ll leave you alone.” 

Prowl nods and follows his bond towards Jazz, slowly still off balance. His mate is lecturing Magnus on the various types of mechling weapons, and how their danger levels differ. Magnus looks fascinated, and Cliffjumper beside him is turning over chalked vibroknife in his servos. 

The three Iacies are covered with paint and chalk and look as exhausted as Prowl’s Iacies look exhilarated. Bumblebee in particular, and Ironhide, have several patches of peeling paint covered by the talc based mechling paint. 

Prowl ghosts up behind Jazz and drapes himself over his mate, his conjunx’s wings ducking down to accommodate his chassis. Jazz tilts his helm back to nuzzle his forehelm against Prowl’s chevron affectionately as he coos, “How ya doing, Sweetspark?” 

“Mm. I have a brace, and a medics note. I’ll figure the last one out later, my assignment for the rest of the cycle is to settle them in and I’m off after that.” 

Hound sighs loudly, “Your chief is still not able to find Primesguard funds?” 

Prowl lifts his helm to glare at the green mech blearily, “He’s not looking. He won’t until you give him a reason too. You haven’t complained enough to annoy him where he can hear, just me. I’m not passing those complaints up, either. The other reason he’d look is if there was incentive. None of you are bribing him, or giving him an alliance he finds worthy.” 

Windblade giggles nervously, “Why are you not passing complaints? It sounds like it would benefit you, and is your job.” 

“Because I don’t want to see what he’ll do. Last time I annoyed him Rhodonite got betrayed to the Scourge’s.” Prowl pulls off Jazz to meet his former student’s optics, “It’s also not my job. My job is to house and feed them, and I am. Coming from my own pay, there’s no stipend, and I can’t afford another decrease in my salary just because the Chief is slagged off. I’m feeding nine adult mecha, in addition to myself and my mate, and out three mechlings.” 

Magnus scrunches his face in the way he’d used to when Prowl had stumped him with a Hax move, “Another? Prowl, where is your salary at? Your mate is a musician, a talented one from what I’ve seen from surface research, you should not be struggling.” 

Prowl flicks his working wing dismissively and tucks his face back into the juncture of Jazz’s shoulder plating. Jazz hums, and answers for him, “Prowler is salaried at two hundred ten credits a vorn, that’s at a living cost of around three hundred shanix a decaorn for the average Praxian.” 

Cliffjumper does some fact calculations on his digits, disquieted, “That’s twenty-one creds a decaorn, which is almost a hundred below living cost. That’s a part time wage.” 

“That’s with overtime and hazard pay,” Prowl grumbles, “If I didn’t volunteer for those it would be closer to nineteen.” 

The horror that sweeps every field present is almost amusing. Jazz sways where he stands, twisting to press his helm to Prowl’s, “We housing them?” 

“Chief says yes,” he murmurs, shunting the memory file of Verilight’s theory down the bond. Jazz hisses, and pretends to consider. They’ve had this planned, even if no mech had told them, and they must therefore pretend they hadn’t. 

“Mags is big, we really can’t put him on a camp cot,” Jazz offers, when the backup plan he’d been mulling over suddenly becomes obsolete. If the compound were a last resort, then the plan had been for the mechlings to recharge in Jazz and Prowl’s berth, letting the three newest take their room. Magnus really wouldn’t fit in their berths though. 

He might fit Sunstreaker’s, but it would be tight. Prowl peeks at his mentor and snorts at the mild offense across his faceplate. “Who’s watching the bits?” 

Jazz pauses, “Wheeljack. Ratch too, theoretically. Why?” 

“Mmm. If we push Hot Rod and Blurr’s berths together it might work. Some mech will have to take the couch. If it doesnt then Wheeljack can help the bitties pack nightcycle boxes, and we’ll see if he and Ratch have a guest room.” 

Jazz is working it over in his helm frantically, and Prowl shoves the mental image down the bond in answer. Jazz nods eventually, “Yup, sounds good. We should go though, get that figured before dark cycle. Ain’t good to be out when the Leakers go roaming.” 

Jazz is very sick of wrangling large groups of morons. Prowl can feel his patience depleting, which is fair since Prowl’s running low too. Thank Primus below that he knows these ones have some sense. Windblade immediately volunteers to take the couch, and Magnus starts blustereing about hotel costs not being that exorbitant. 

Still as they walk back towards the apartments Jazz’s stress ratchets up as he consistently has to redirect Hound and Ironhide specifically. Prowl starts glaring at any of the three whenever they drift even slightly, angling himself to keep Bumblebee, the sneakiest of them, in his sightline. 

They’re stalling. For what, Prowl isn’t sure, but they’re definitely trying to make the walk back take longer. Prowl’s own mood is starting to sour dramatically when the pain chit wears off halfway back. He can’t transform with a brace on his wing, the whole group has to walk, and the astroklik his wing starts relaying sensation again he finds he is very done. 

Regardless by the time they’ve made it to the apartment building, three sectors away from Sparkcase’s. Prowl and Jazz are both in foul moods with their fields reeled in tight. Magnus has been glancing at him sideways for the last several blocks in worry, and Prowl is trying to ignore him so he doesnt snap at the friend he hasn’t seen for vorn. 

Cliffjumper invents a shocked sound of faint alarm and Prowl follows his gaze wearily. There is a golden-yellow mech scaling down the building at a rapid pace from the fifth floor wrap rail balconys. Sunstreaker had retreated to hide in the crystal garden he and Prowl were growing there. 

He hits the ground and runs for the group. Magnus stiffens, defense protocols whining as they go onto an alert mode. He ducks around Bumblebee, shoving past Ironhide with a air of exhausted dislike, and slams into Prowl. 

Prowl curls his arms around his stressed mechling and lets Sunstreaker duck his helm into his chestplate. Sunstreaker whines quietly, no words just a soft whimper of a sound as he lets his tension slowly release. 

They’re a tableau of a family, Ratchet had said once. 

Jazz, the assassin, a Polyhexian framed Praxian, who took a public facing role to exist in. Prowl, a half-helm taller, who had stepped into Jazz’s life so damaged that he still ducked beneath his shorter mate’s protective instinct gladly, even as he took the lead. 

Sunstreaker, a helm taller than Prowl, and built to kill, whose anxiety was so extreme out of the arena that he’d cling to his adoptive creators with a resolute single-mindedness, and who enjoyed crystal gardens, painting, and pretty things more than the fighting he’d been built for. 

Hot Rod, who despite his energetic, confident demeanor, was a hotbed of trauma and crippling anxiety, depending on his routine of cooking with Prowl and board games to function. Blurr, the smallest, who had no concept of danger from growing up in a lab, and was willfully oblivious to anything he did not want to know, frequently getting in trouble or hurt because he simply didn’t know. 

They were a tableau, Ratchet had said, a picture of a patchwork family that shouldn’t work but did, and as Prowl rocks side to side on his pedes counting vents for his oldest mechling, he knows it is accurate. 

Ironhide scoffs quietly, and for once it isn’t a scornful sound as he tries and fails to assimilate Sunstreaker into his family alongside Sideswipe. It is a creaking rasp of something a half step off from bemusement. Prowl spares an optic to look at the massive Primesguard and focuses back on Sunstreaker instead. 

Ironhide is waving at Sideswipe who is hanging out a window to wave down. He is close to tipping out onto the rail balcony, at which point he will likely break the balcony and ruin Sunstreaker’s carefully managed garden, all lined up in boxes on the rails. 

Sideswipe is not Praxian, he is not a balanced fighter, not like Prowl and Sunstreaker are. He cannot read the minute variations in the wind in their doorwings, or shift his weight to balance on the rails that wrap the building as if it is solid ground. 

Jazz sighs deeeply, pulls a pellet blaster, and fits a paint round ‘zine in. It’s a medium blue, high acid runoff content, but not the highest concentration. He fires three shots, one at Sideswipe, and one at each of the hinges of the window. 

Sideswipe falls backwards in the window, a shocked look on his face as he clutches his splattered shoulder, and the window slams shut after him, with such force that a crack traces up it. 

Sunstreaker giggles into Prowl’s neck cables, hysterical and relieved. He peeks up, and plainly pleads, “Please? Can you do all of them? Can you make them go away?” 

“Oh, bitty,” Jazz hums, tucking the blaster away to run his digits down the back of Sunstreaker’s helm, “Oh, love, no we can’t.” 

There’s a beat of silence then Sunstreaker sobs, just once, against Prowl and clutches tighter. Prowl winces and lowers himself to sit on the ground, still cradling his shaking mechling close. Jazz curls into them, tugging kinks out of Sunstreaker’s exposed wiring and gently teasing the stressed edge out of his flared plating. 

“He won’t leave me alone. I keep telling him to go away and he won’t leave me alone. I just want-“ Sunstreaker hiccups, his vent rattling noisily, “I just want him to have never come here.” 

Prowl chirrs, a low sound of comfort as he carefully wedges a servo under Sunstreaker’s chin, lifting his helm so he can look him in the optics. Sunstreaker lets him, cables stiff but helm limp as he props it on Prowl’s chest to gaze upward, his optics leaking coolant steadily as his anxiety attack leaves him shuddery. 

“Bitlet, how long has he been ignoring when you tell him no?” 

Jazz stiffens against his side, his visor darkening as he tilts his helm to eye both Ironhide and the paint splotched window darkly. Sunstreaker sniffles, “The whole time. Since they got here. I didn’t- it was the first time you both worked and he was here. He doesn’t get pushy when you’re around.” 

“So it was worse today?” Prowl surmises, and Sunstreaker barely nods miserably, “Sweetspark, Chroma, my wonderful starflare, why haven’t you asked for help?” 

Sunstreaker whimpers lowly, “I dunno.” 

“Yes, love, you do.” Jazz chides, “Why didn’t you tell us?” 

Sunstreaker ducks his helm back down to dig his faceplate into Prowl’s chest seam roughly. He shakes his helm, and doesn’t move after that. Prowl let’s him, turning the past decaorn over in his processor. 

“Ah,” he says, “Sweetspark, as proud as I am that you listened when I told you that hitting was a last resort, for defense not an argument, you realize that doesn’t mean that you can’t defend yourself in different ways? One of those is telling Jazz and I so we can do them.”

Jazz chirps in surprise, “Oh, darling. Yes, we’re your creators, it’s our job to defend you. We can’t do it if you don’t ask for help. And if some mech ignores when you say no it as always okay to defend yourself, and ask for help.” 

Sunstreaker mutters something darkly into Prowl’s chest and he snorts wryly, “You’re right. We both worked today, so we weren’t there. There were other adults though. Jackie was there, and Ratch, you trust them. Smokey could’ve helped, and Trailbreaker, if you’d needed to. And failing the nearest adult, Dearspark, if someone is ignoring your boundaries to the point that you do not feel safe, go to the enforcers.” 

Cliffjumper hums, and Prowl listens to the mutter he offers Magnus out of sheer curiosity as Sunstreaker mulls that over, “I’m finding it interesting that he only named two of the mecha here. Prowl, of all mecha, doesn’t trust them with his mechling, and he seemed reluctant to name the brother that raised him. I remember him practically idolizing Smoksecreen before.” 

Prowl rolls his optics at Jazz and heaves Sunstreaker into a better position on his lap that doesn’t pull on one of the brace anchors so much. Windblade rumbles nervously and offers her own perspective, “He named the enforcers last. Creators, that was first, good, then trusted adult, then nearest. Enforcers are less trusted than stranger. Odd.” 

Jazz snorts into his servo and grins at Prowl. Sunstreaker wiggles back to the first position and Prowl bites back a groan of pain. Sunstreaker peers up, “Find an enforcer becuase they can find you?” 

“Yes,” Prowl agrees, “Also they can help. That’s good life advice. If you don’t feel safe ask for help, and enforcers are who adults ask for help. Treasure mine, you’re a mechling, you’re intended to ask your creators for help first. They are an option though, and bitling, please ask before you ever feel properly unsafe.” 

“Oh,” Sunstreaker considers this, “But you just said you couldn’t make them go away.” 

“I mean. We probably could but, eh, not very hospitable of us really,” Jazz mutters, and Prowl gets the flitter of an image of the still sinking remains of the Scourge’s active smelter through his meta. He snorts into the top of Sunstreaker’s helm and breaks into giggles as he avoids optic contact with his mate. 

Sunstreaker pinches an exposed cable in his side and Prowl levels an amused grin at his mate, “Whilst that might work, I think it’s best not. Fuelthirsty.” 

Sunstreaker whines pitifully, and Jazz snickers in response. He shoves a new image down the bond, a trick they’ve done multiple times, no need to expect it to wear out when every mech that’s fallen for it is dead. Prowl chokes on his own vent and he presses his grin to Suntreaker’s helm. 

“What do you think, bitling?” He whispers, barely louder than his own venting into his mechling’s audio fin, “You think a chopshop pit would get caught? Only for some of them, of course.” 

Sunstreaker freezes and giggles merrily into the space between Jazz and Prowl’s arms around his frame, “No, that’s fine. Maybe it you can’t fix it.” 

“Fix what, darling?” Jazz prods gently. 

“Can you make him leave me alone? Please?” 

Prowl deliberately leans back and meets Magnus’ optics, concerned and warm as he waits for Prowl and Jazz to be ready, “Hey, I think we’re going to go with the backup plan, we’ll still stop by plenty often. Do you mind if Jazz and I take the bitties and stay with some friends of ours, leave you plenty of space to set up and settle in?” 

The relived gasping sigh against his chest plate makes Prowl’s spark ache. All three of his precious bitlings have trouble with anxiety, but of them Sunstreaker is the most settled. For him to have been this stressed and shaken in his own home was a poor indication of how his other two were truly doing with the invaders in their space, even if they’d moved on since. 

“Of course, Prowl. Do what you need to for your sparkling’s wellbeing,” Magnus says, and he holds a servo out to Sunstreaker, “Hello, it is nice to meet you. I’m Ultra Magnus. I taught Prowl, back when he lived in Iacon, and I consider him one of my closest friends. I’ve been excited to meet you.” 

Sunstreaker stares at him, then at Prowl, abject confusion drifting from his field. Hesitantly he asks, “It is? You were? I don’t- I don’t understand.” 

Magnus’ smile falls slightly, “Of course it is nice to meet you. Why wouldn’t I be excited? If Prowl chose you then clearly you must be a very good mech. I brought gifts, if you’d like them?” 

Sunstreaker stares, his jaw dropped in shock, as a new coolant tear traces down his cheek plating. Magnus visibly holds back a guilty cringe and settles on the ground just to the side of Prowl’s hip joint, in Sunstreaker's sightline to hold out a foil wrapped package from his subspace. 

This was the first time anyone’s been pleased to meet Sunstreaker Prowl realizes belatedly, or at least that they’ve said so. Sunstreaker stays frozen in his cling to Prowl, hhis claws digging in slightly at the edge of his chest plate. 

Cliffjumper lowers himself to sit next to Magnus, Windblade perched beside him. His usually caustic tone and arrogant posture has softened as he hold out his own package, “Hi, I’m Cliffjumper. This is Windblade, I was Prowl’s partner in Iacon, and I’d consider him a friend. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Mmhm.” Windblade agrees, “Nice to meet you. I was Prowl’s student, he mentored me, good job. I think of him like a brother-cousin. Good friend to have. I have a gift too.” 

Sunstreaker sobs, and hiccups before he sobs again. Prowl gathers him close again, rocking him slightly, as he coos, “Oh, bit, oh, shhhsh, it’s okay, you’re okay. Do you want to introduce yourself, Sweetspark, or do you want me too?” 

He chirps lowly, rattling his digits towards his chest plate, and Prowl let’s Sunstreaker twist towards them as his vents steady out, “I’m, mm, I’m… mm. Sunstreaker, I’m Sunstreaker, nice to mm, to, um, meet you to.” 

Magnus beams at him, plating puffed in pride and contentment as he offers a glowing grin to Prowl and Sunstreaker both, “It is wonderful to meet you, Sunstreaker. I am so sorry that you’ve had a rough decaorn, from the sounds of it, it was very overwhelming.” 

He sets his package down, within reach and lets Sunstreaker pick it up a moment later when he’s ready. Cliffjumper and Windblade follow suit and echo the sentiment, and Prowl smiles at them over Sunstreaker’s helm gratefully. 

Jazz is busy glaring down Ironhide, inching closer, and Bumblebee, simply observing. Hound has already vanished back to the flat, ever the worrydent with his own mate. 

Sunstreaker slowly grabs the first one, likely of many if Magnus is anything like he was back in Iacon with mechlings, and unwraps a fiddle puzzle, the sort of glass-plastic orb with marble paths inside. Sunstreaker is immediately distracted by turning it over in his servos and directing the tiny marble along the paths inside. 

That toy will be very popular with all three mechlings. Prowl hums, peering at it curiously. He might play with it himself after they’re in berth. It is a fascinating little puzzle. Jazz snicker at him, aloud and down the bond, and Prowl pointedly turns away slightly. 

“He was force upgraded?” Magnus asks softly, and Prowl nods, rubbing his servo up and down Sunstreaker’s arm as the mechling stiffens, eyeing Magnus nervously. 

Cliffjumper curses lowly in Urayan, clearly trying not to teach new words to Sunstreaker. Prowl hasn’t got the spark to tell him that Sunstreaker can curse in more languages than he knows exist. 

“I have heard the term,” Windblade murmurs, tone soft as she watches Sunstreaker play indulgently, “But it is not a practice done on Camia. What does that mean?” 

“The frame isn’t intended to be upgraded before it’s ready. It’s actually medically safer to upgrade late than early,” Magnus explains, “The processor has to prepare for the new programs and adaptations, and then integrate them and prepare again before an upgrade. Minor upgrades, and adjustments happen on their own, as the mechling grows, and theoretically, given long enough, a mechling could grow into an adult frame that way on their own without upgrades.” 

“They can,” Jazz offers, “Happens plenty here of a street mechling can’t afford an upgrade. Some choose to do so, even. You end up with a smaller frame that forms itself around how it grew. Blaster is doing it that way, I think.” 

Magnus nods, looking oddly stymied for a moment, “Yes. Quite. A forced upgrade is one that occurs before the mechling is ready for it. It was a relatively common practice during the Quintesson War, both to provide soldiers, and to make sure there weren’t dead mechling simply because they couldn’t defend themselves.” 

Cliffjumper churrs lowly, “The problem, Windblade, is that during that war they weren’t looking at th actual effect of taking a mechling and shoving them in an adult frame. They only did it with third frames, or young adults, trying to skip one frame, and protect the really little mechlings, but when you’re force upgraded then you haven’t finished processing the programs, and can’t integrate new ones.” 

“I don’t understand,” Windblade says, her voice small, and Sunstreaker studiously ignores them all. He’s gone through this with Ratchet, and he’s focused on his marble maze. 

“Force upgrades stall a mechling’s processor development where they were. You end with a mechling in an adult’s frame. They grow, develop, but slowly because the integration cannot proceed properly.” Magnus clarifies grimly, “One of the more extreme cases from the Quintesson War was of a mechling called Warpath, whose habit of providing sound effects for his toys was written into his very code when his processor integrated it into primary language processing.” 

“We’re working with a medic who was active during the war,” Jazz offers, “But Sunstreaker’s upgrade was so long ago that there’s no coding shortcuts to really help. He’s gotta do all his learning manually.” 

Sunstreaker snags the gift from Cliffjumper and tears the foil off to reveal a pack of expensive nontoxic light markers. He makes a excited chirp of sheer glee, and immediately starts doodling little stars and raids up Prowl’s arm in a soft yellow. 

“Oh,” Windblade chokes out, dismayed and quiet, “How old was he?” 

Prowl hums, holding the open yellow marker and capping it for Sunstreaker when the mechling pulls the red one out instead, “This upgrade was around a decavorn ago, so some of his neural paths have self repaired. It makes it hard to pin an approximate age. As near as we can tell though, probably just before his second frame upgrades.” 

Ironhide makes an injured sound from behind them, “He ain’t, that’s… he’d’a been younger than Hot Rod!” 

“I’m not a bitty,” Sunstreaker says quietly, “I’m not broken.” 

“No more than the rest of us,” Jazz assures him, “We love you just the way you are.” 

“I can fight and everything. ‘M not a bitty.” 

Prowl snorts, “You sure can, darling. Don’t you like it better though, gardening and getting up early to see the star rise, and teasing your brothers?” 

“Yeah. Sick of fighting. And the other things too. Are we going to live with Dearcy? She said she had room.” Sunstreaker hands the red marker to Prowl, and uncaps the blue to sketch out tiny little cryohawks. 

“No, love,” Jazz says, mirth in his voice, “We ain’t gonna live in the sewers if we can help it. We’ll stay with Red and Jackie.” 

Sunstreaker chirps happily and grabs the last gift, and hands the marker to Prowl, who recaps it to be tucked back into its case. Windblade had gotte him a book file of fancy energon goodies, along with a mica painting gallery at the end for technique demonstration. Sunstreaker flicks through the gallery excitedly, pointing out recipes to Prowl and Jazz alike. 

Magnus levels a serious look at Prowl, “I can dig out the journaling pads from my creators, if you’d like. I was in the latter stage of my third fram during the Quintesson War, so my programming stall was nowhere near as serious, but my adoptive creators post war still took copious notes, and I have copies.” 

Prowl gives him a wobbly smile. Magnus is the best. He wishes his brothers had been like this. He adores his old mentor so thoroughly. 

He’s really hoping they can figure out why the group is gunning for them so hard soon, so they can leave before anything gets revealed. He’d hate for Magnus to be disappointed in him. The city knows, suspects, but refuses to look further while the Iaconians are investigating. 

Mags is clever though, he won’t be able to hide it forever with him in the city. 

He will take the unconditional support while he can though, and value it before it’s inevitably gone and he only has his family and his cohort again. A glitch presses at the edge of his processor and he shoves it down in favor of nodding to his old friend in acceptance of the offer. 

Jazz presses into his mind to soothe the jangled edges and Prowl clings to his presence. 

Chapter Text

Magnus sits on the couch with Blurr perched on his lap as he reads a chosen book file aloud. Mirage and Hound sit on the floor in the same room, sorting files and holo projectors with Bumblebee. Sunstreaker, and Hot Rod after a brief introduction, had retreated to their room to pack. 

The decision had been for the first plan to proceed for that night cycle, and Prowl and Jazz would move out temporarily the following cycle. Magnus had felt awful for displacing his friend, but as he sat with a first frame mechling on his lap, and his old friend calmly cooking in the room behind him, he had also admitted to feeling more settled than he had for vorn. 

Prowl wandered by, plucking Blurr from his lap and replacing the bitlet with a bowl of zircon noodles and sauce and a cube of silvered blue and bismuth sprinkles with it. Magnus hummed in sheer delight. It had been vorn since he’d had Prowl’s magnificent cooking. 

Jazz carried several more bowls out, balancing a tray of cubes on his hip precariously. The fuel was passed out quickly and Prowl and Jazz settled on the couch by Magnus, their three mechlings cramming themselves in as well, wherever they could perch. 

The apartment was filled, and several of the ground team had decided to sit this one out even. The only mecha properly participating in this debrief, there for the intention of information rather than orders in the first place, were Mirage, Hound, Bumblebee, and Smokescreen. 

Ironhide might have participated were it not for Prowl himself banning the mech from their rooms. Magnus had approved. 

Blurr slurped a noodle noisily, leaving sauce trails on his faceplate from the flapping noodle, and giggles reigned from all three mechlings for a moment. Cliffjumper grinned mischievously at them, and followed suit, slurping his noodle with far more grace and decorum. 

Bumblebee absently sipped at his fuel and booted the holoprojector up. It crashes again immediately and the mech groans in exasperation. Prowl tosses an amused look at his mate, who in turn glances at the corner with sheer glee. 

Steeljaw shutters his optics slowly at Prowl and ducks back under the file case to hide. The power cord for the projector was disconnected from the wall access port. Again. 

Prowl loves that pits damned cat so much. 

He focuses on eating instead. He and Jazz had mentioned their rule the first night, their guests would abide by it as his cohort did. No work during fuel times. 

Sunstreaker chirrs softly, exhausted and tucking himself into Prowl’s side sleepily. Jazz, feeding Blurr between bites of his own fuel, slowly pulls one of the daatapad cases towards the couch with one pede. Windblade watches him wary and bemused as Jazz pulls it off without being noticed. 

The case is tucked nearly under the couch and Jazz resettled as he makes sure that Blurr doesn’t choke while he eats his fuel distractedly. Hound turns and grabs at the empty spot of floor while Bee starts playing with the connector wires again. 

Hound stutters, turns fully to stare at the empty spot of floor where the case had sat, and stops dead. Bee follows his gaze and gives up. He shrieks once in frustration, then plops down to eat his fuel sulkily. 

Hound glares at the empty floor accusingly. Prowl very gently pokes Windblade at points at the unattended bag of data slugs, “Our rule is no work during fueling. They’ve forgotten. Would you quietly pull the bag back? They can have it back after they’ve fueled.” 

Windblade’s helm crest flares and she does so, handing the bag up to Prowl without protest. Cliffjumper, catching on quickly, hands the equally ignored case of holo pens to Jazz. 

A moment later Mirage gets the holo up, blank and waiting for input. Smokescreen reaches for the bag of slugs and stalls at the empty space. Mirage is patting the ground down for the holo pens and failing to locate them. 

Prowl catches movement from the corner of his optic and watches as Steeljaw creeps back out and tugs the power cord out, then chewing gently with his needle like denta. 

The holo goes dark again and Steeljaw darts back to safety. Bumblebee screams in frustration. Magnus and Cliffjumper are both chuckling lowly, and Windblade is holding a noodle out to Steeljaw beneath the audio file case. 

“Maybe,” Jazz suggests dryly, “You should try again after you’ve fueled. You could explain why two of you were stalling earlier?” 

“My fault. I asked them too. I wanted to sort the files out in peace,” Mirage says, squinting at the group on the couch with his fogged optics. 

“Ah,” Prowl says, “Excellent. I was hoping that none of you were stalling for Sideswipe’s sake.” 

A collective cringe goes through the room. Prowl eats another bite of noodles pointedly, letting his denta click against his utensils pointedly. Smokescreen sighs deeply and starts shoving his fuel down. His older brother sighs a lot now, constantly at a loss of how to respond to a situation where he’s out of his element on so many levels. 

For a breem and a half silence reigns while every mech eats. Then Sunstreaker, on dishduty for the orn, starts gathering empty dishes to wash them out. This time when Mirage boots the holo up it stays working. 

Jazz has stuck the holo pens and the slugs on top of the case, which he now slides across the floor with a lazy kick, cradling the messy, sleepy Blurr. It slides to a stop as it hits Hound’s hip and the tracker mech groans. He is easily the most fed up with them, at least for the moment. 

Smokescreen snags the slugs and digs through the pouch determinedly. He pulls several out as Mirage stares blearily into the file case. Mirage plugs a control pad in blindly as Smokescreen plugs several data slugs into the holo interface. The holo links up with a warble and a half dozen screens float around the room displaying data and evidence neatly. 

Prowl cycles his optics. He may have overestimated them a bit. Maybe a third of the data is wrong, or under informed, but it was far more than any of him and his cohort had expected, especially with how much they’d been fumbling around. 

Prowl pulls out his data pad and uplinks to the holo, letting his pad pull a screen over for him and Jazz to poke through. Smokescreen fumbles his holo pen in response, “How’d you do that? You don’t have any connected interface.” 

Prowl squints at him dubiously, catching Mags’ alarm from the corner of his optic, “So? I just uplinked. All holos run on the same wavelength.” 

“Yeah, but different cities use different frequencies on that wavelength, and Spec ops and Primesguard both firewall their frequencies. You shouldn’t be able to uplink without linking tools,” Hound says matter of factly. 

“All holos run on the same wavelength,” Prowl says again, “Frequencies are a sub wave to the overarching wavelength. You can override it. Praxus doesn't have the structure to subset frequencies, so we use a super-frequency, tends to tap in.” 

Jazz shrugs next to him, “Once ya’ve tapped in once then it's easy to figure out again. Anyone here knows how to.” 

“Is that not illegal?” Cliffjumper asks hesitantly, “I get that it’s probably not breaking the accords per se since it’s Praxus specific, but surely it's monitored here?” 

“No, no one cares,” Prowl says and starts flicking through the data lazily. At one point there’s a chart theorizing the hierarchy of his cohort, represented by their call signs and aliases. It is not even close. They’ve theorized Prowl at the top, as if his cohort isn’t a support structure. It’s a family not a military unit, no ones leading, save the mechlings following their creators. 

Two flicks over is a web of connections they’ve found, Prowl himself is on there, Dearcy, the corner stores, and various gangs. Prowl tilts his helm. 

There is a way he can provide information without compromising his cohort, and while causing chaos. It will provide a level of trust from them as it appears that he works with them. Prowl unclogs his data pen from the side of his pad and opens the editing, pulling the charts together. Smokescreen lets out a strangled chirp of offended alarm. 

Ah. Prowl had thought he’d recognized the compilation style. 

He passes the data pad to Jazz as he manipulates the web, letting his mate flicker through their data and beam new charts to his growing collection. the room goes silent as the web grows, first the cohort at the center, no status or hierarchy indicated, then the street gangs which branches out into the corner stores, each of the seven sector’s stores linked back to one of the cohort. 

Then he starts linking the gangs in, to them, to the stores, to each other. Individual mecha that are powerful or known entities weave in and out, and the enforcers gain their own web, at the center surrounded by gangs and lords, the only connection unlinked to his cohort. 

The entire city is represented now, broken down into structures of gangs and loyalties all tied back to his cohort in some fashion. 

Prowl closes editing. 

Somewhere along the way Bumblebee had accessed the chart and they’d all been watching his edits. No mech was happy, except Jazz radiating satisfied pettiness down the bond. Sunstreaker squinted at it for a long moment. 

“You forgot the leakers and the sewer mobs,” he said. Prowl reopens editing. Magnus made an odd whining sound next to him.  

“This-this was not in the briefing. What-“ he reaches out to tap the holo, Cliffjumper behind him equally appalled, “Why are there so many factions?” 

“Welcome to Praxus,” Jazz drawls, “We’ve been independent since before the height of the Quintesson War, negotiated it during the Global Depression. We’ve withstood wars, corrupt Primes, the rise of the Senate, the fall of the Primesguard and the Primes, all without losing the independence.” 

“Technically,” Prowl adds, “We aren’t bound by the Tyrest Accords. The whole of the planet is linked under the authority of the Prime and the Senate, which is part of the structure that upholds the Accords. They’re logical, so we opt in and use them, but a single authority could decide they aren’t worth it and no one in the City would have to swear.” 

Smokescreen snarls very slightly, “What’s with the we’s? You emerged here, but we moved to Iacon when you weren’t even three vorn. You were raised in Iacon, are Iaconian. The pit, Prowl?” 

“I’m Praxian, Smokey. You can register as a citizen as soon as you’ve been a resident for five vorn. I stacked mine with the nearly three from when I was a mechling so I could apply for housing instead of rent. Besides, I feel like I do fit better here than I did in Iacon.” 

“No, you definitely do,” Bumblebee mutters darkly, side glaring like he had lasers in his optics, “Mechlings and a mate and more protective fury than a wirelion. Primus’ sake and Unicron’s rusted tailpipe, you do.” 

Prowl smiles, the first time he’s graced Bumblebee with anything besides scorn, “Why, thank you.” 

“Primus, that's a terrifying smile. Please stop.” 

Jazz full on cackles then, shaking Hot Rod on his lap who lets out a grumpy sound, grasping to the datapad tighter as he tries to focus on his schoolwork, blearily exhausted. 

Hound hesitantly pokes at the display with his pen, flicking through files until a map of Praxus is displayed, sectored into a riot of color. It rotates slowly, and he glances at Magnus nervously, “This is what we could compile from Bee’s nine decaorn undercover. It’s a territory map, and looking at that web I’m really not sure it's right anymore.” 

“Nah, wasn’t right two vorn ago even, let alone the single vorn since we dropped a tip to get him out.” Jazz gently rolls Hot Rod onto Prowl’s lap beside the gently recharging Blurr so that he can wander over to the file case with his audio slugs and Prowl’s recipe files. He tosses a chit to Smokescreen and resettles next to Prowl. 

Prowl tips both mechlings onto his mate’s lap, in favor of accepting Sunstreaker as the mechling returns from the kitchen to clamber halfway into his lap. Smokescreen plugs the chit in. A map of Praxus boots up, massive, detailed, and shifting slightly even now in its sprawling glory. The sewers wind through each other in a labyrinthine mirror to the surface city, massive and full of coverts big enough to fit a predacon’s tribe. 

A click of the pen cursor and the map starts filling with color, shifting and vibrant, over forty distinct groups represented clearly. As far as the deepest sewers and as high as the oldest crystal spires. A soft blinking light in soft cerulean marked their current position, smack in the middle of what was currently Nonya territory. 

The Urayan mafioso gang had immigrated generations ago, and still their matriarch ruled the roost with an iron servo and a gentle facade. She had a penthouse on top of this building, doted on all the mechling residents. Sunstreaker claimed to like Nonya Shredwire’s noodles better than Prowl’s. 

Prowl privately agreed. 

The two maps float parallel to each other. Bumblebee’s gulp is deafening in the sudden silence. Hound croaks out, “Where-where did you get this?” 

Jazz turns his helm to the file case and back to Hound incredulously. Sunstreaker yawns and clarifies grumpily, “It’s an update chit. Every household gets a couple weekly. You plug it in to check on territories and city shifts before causing trouble. They’ve been around for decavorn. They cost a shanix for two an orn.” 

“They’re single use, but most households stockpile them. We have, um,” Prowl stares at the ceiling for a moment trying to remember how many they have in the flat versus the compound, “Uh. Jazz?” 

Jazz snorts, “We got twenty or so free floating. Maybe another ten we’ve given out that are still registered to us. Everymech does that though, ain’t no thing.” 

“And you didn’t share this before now because?” Mirage snaps out testily. 

Prowl lets out a gusty groan of exasperation, “You didn't ask! I still don’t know why you’re here, I can’t help if I don’t know what you’re doing, and I won’t help more until you’re willing to explain. Still might not.” 

“Why?” Windblade asks, and Prowl gives her a blank stare until she elaborates, “Why would you not help?” 

“If it’s detrimental to Praxus then I won’t help. I like my city, thank you, and I am loyal to her. She’s somewhat janky, but she’s a good city-state despite the mess.” 

Magnus hums, a musing tone evident, “That’s not the first time you’ve used that word. What is loyalty here?” 

“Loyalty doesn’t change between cities,” Smokescreen mutters darkly, “We’re family, you’re not supposed to be loyal to a fragged up city instead of your family or Precinct. Family, then Cohort, then Law, then City.” 

Jazz nudges him down the bond and Prowl flutters amusement back to him even as he bares his denta at his brother, “And I am. But I have a mate and sparklets now, that family takes precedent over brothers. You’re still family, and I love you, but you’re not the center of mine anymore.” 

//Law?// Jazz chirps down the bond, and Prowl considers for a moment, peering at his own code. 

//City first, on my end. Family, Cohort, City, then my grasp on Law is shaky. Bits of Tyrest, chunks of Praxian Code, all mixed up in my own morals.// 

Jazz hums softly, and shifts to look at Smokescreen, “What are City Tenets, Smokey?” 

“A legend? They’re not actually real,” even as he says it Magnus winces and Prowl snickers meanly. 

“A City Tenet is a value that a CityTitan holds dear, it filters to how the City is run, and is typically a defining trait in their citizens.” Windblade says, “Camia is not a big Titan, the only one on our moon-planet, but he has Tenets. Truth and Learning are his, and the sciences are popular there.” 

“Right,” Jazz confirms, “Praxus is a very old Titan, her records stretch from before the fall of the Prima Council, and we still got mecha excavating the deeper halls. She got Tenets, and the longer you’re here the more ingrained they are. Honesty, Integrity, Protectiveness, Community, and above all else, Loyalty.” 

Prowl grins sharply, “Praxus likes the Gears, I won’t give them up. Loyalty and Community. Give me your reasoning, and if it’s good I’ll consider some hints.” 

Magnus poked at his interaction tab of the still floating map, switching settings idly, “Does Community tie into the different color setting? This one is still a lot, but it’s much less overwhelming.” 

The Chit Map had flickered into its tab of color types, and Prowl snorted wryly. Leave it to Mags to find the last setting they actually could explain, the map shifted to overlaying patterns composed of only five colors. 

“Kinds of groups,” he offers, “Blue is gangs, red is leakers, purple is Street Crews, white is Lord Loyals, and yellow is mafias.” 

“Huh,” he says, spinning the map again, “Huh. You should get your mechlings to berth, rest yourselves, I will dig through the data tonight.” 

Ratchet rotates Prowl’s wing the next cycle as the mechlings settle back into the compound eagerly. Red Alert sits on the couch, vibrating with nervous energy.  He has been glitching, or near glitching since he’d been shot, nigh frantic that they’d connect injuries if he was seen on the street. 

“This is bad,“ he murmurs, “Very bad. You were our best line into what they could plan.” 

“Steeljaw is staying, in the vents when he can’t manage the flat, and we’ll go back in the next few cycles to check on them. We can sneak some cameras in if Wheeljack or you have jury-rigged any undetectable.” Jazz drawls, earning a rattling hiss from the stressed mecha beside him. 

“At least they aren’t able to watch us as much. I was getting beyond stressed that I couldn’t sneak away.” Prowl says, whining as Ratchet carefully loosens a taut, twisted wire connecting his wing to his frame. 

“Yes!” Jazz cries, “So frustrating, I’m pent up, Prowler you should find me a job, I want to kill some fragger that don’t deserve his spark beat.” 

Prowl hums slightly, “I can do that. There’s an enforcer, Rigtear, that’s been bothering the mechlings from the crews that work in the clubs. Wanna make sure he doesn’t get to do that again?” 

Wheeljack cackles from the doorway, “Aiya, barely back and already causing chaos. Frelling pit.” 

Jazz just purrs, flexing his claws like a cybercat, his visor locked on Prowl’s feral grin. Inferno comes up behind him, settling between Jazz and Red Alert easily. 

Ratchet yanks on a tangled clump of wires to check the weld work on the dislocation, ignoring Prowl’s yelp of pain, “They ever say why they were here? I know that was one of your stipulations.” 

Prowl let’s his field carry amused mischief across the room in a sweep of glee, “Oh yeah. Get this, Ratch? They’re here to fix the city. Because the gangs are worse than Kaon’s.” 

“No.” 

“Yes!” Jazz crows, “Ours are meaner, but theirs are cruel downright, so I ain’t sure where they got the notion, asides from the numbers difference.” 

“It’s probably the numbers, honestly. The overlap here would’ve been unprecedented when I was in academy, let alone the fact that’s been like that for centivorn.” Prowl points out. 

“Helps that if they ‘fix’ it then Praxus could lose its independent status in supposed gratitude. Loyalty to the Prima, newly appointed, it’s gotta be a factor.” Inferno grumbles and Prowl tilts his helm. 

“They didn’t say that one, but I wouldn’t be surprised. The other reason was apparently recruitment.” 

Jazz loses it at this, tipping into Inferno with the force of his cackling, “Yup. They are recruiting for Primesguard and Spec Ops, and they want Sharpgear and Meister specifically. They want to work with them to fix the city, wouldn’t that be grand?” 

His tone turns mocking by the end and Ratchet snorts as well, always amused by anymech’s dark sarcasm, but Jazz’s especially. “Sure, right up until they get torn apart by leakers, or robbed blind by a street mechling.” 

Jazz giggles as he tries desperately to regain composure, “Right? They didn't even know the bare minimum neither, how they gonna fix slag if they ain’t know what they’re fixing?” 

Red Alert starts giggling as well now, “Gang structure are part of how the city functions. We’re they going to arrest the whole city? ‘Oh, no, sorry Prime, sir, whole city’s bonkers, they’re all under arrest. We may use your funds to build a massive jail now.’” 

Prowl wheezes on a laugh, “Turn the enforcers into jail guards, shocked when they accept bribes and now everymech is free.” 

Ratchet reclips the brace and sprawls next to Prowl, leaning on the chair that neither can be bothered to heave themselves into it. “Right, well that’s that then. Planning now or later?”

“Prowler has some thoughts,” Jazz blurts, and Prowl glares at him grumpily. 

“They really aren’t full ideas. I just think we need to solidify a command structure, not in the cohort, but from them. Like Ratchet is in charge of any loyal medics or Red getting a small security team, more than Blaster.” 

Ratchet sighs, “ATS plan, or Tacnet?” 

“Both. I think we’ll need it.” 

“I could take evac and shelter, the Warren likes me,” Inferno volunteers, and Prowl grins sharply.

”Sounds good,” Prowl admits, “Honestly, fixing the city. Praxus isn’t broken, not anymore than I am.” 

“Jazz used to call you his broken cop bot,” Wheeljack blurts randomly, and Jazz beans a pillow at his faceplate. 

“I know. And I am. But I’m a whole Prowl, even with my shattered, dragging, rickety pieces. I don’t need to be a shiny enforcer, just mean.” 

“Praxus doesn’t need to be perfect, she works as she is. The gang structure acts as a shield, if she wanted it fixed she’d let them. Herself wants them gone though, and ain’t that telling?” Jazz bares all his denta in a snarl, pulling the thoughts from Prowl’s processor and articulating them for him. 

Chapter Text

Jazz loved watching his mate in his full genius mode, planning and tactics in full effect as he bounced his smarts off everyone else in the cohort. It wasn’t like Jazz was insecure, he knew he was smart too, but Jazz had barely finished his center learning, and he’d never attended academy. He was smart from stolen book files and experience. 

Watching Prowl shift from the attentive watcher from the flat to the clever puppet master at the compound was an absolute treat. 

Prowl had plugged in another map chit, sectoring it out into groups for each of them to approach and lead. The cornerstores, each displaying the call signs eagerly, would be easy, to convince at least. The actual premise beyond that would have to be broken down to individuals or to safe houses. 

The gangs were tossups, the more violent ones either hated or loved Meister, and the rest of them likewise by association. The ones that Jazz couldn’t sway would have to be written off as a liability, left to their own devices for the time being. 

The mafias and crews had just shy of declared their loyalty already, the Mafias to Red Alert, pleased by his security, the Crews to Prowl, rewarding his care with their own. The web they’d made in the flat hadn’t been wrong, but it was unspoken, unofficial, and they’d need to confirm it before they could actually proceed. 

The general consensus was that this new Prima was too fresh to really command the loyalty of a city like Praxus, a city that hadn’t ever owed itself to a Prime, only bent an audial on occasion. They’d need to prove it though, both to Cybertron and to Praxus. For that, the Prime would have to come in and see for himself so they could chase them all out. 

They’d need help. 

Prowl at the very least would not be able to maintain his cover for much longer. They’d track Sharpgear down again, or request an interrogation, and even if his mate was too skilled to give the game away himself, these new mecha were far too perceptive. They saw Prowl, not as who he used to be like his brothers did, but as he was. 

They were alarmed by it for now, but Jazz could already see them adjusting. Once that was done then they’d start connecting the dots. Jazz just hoped they’d be kind about it. His mate may have started as a broken cop bot, but he was growing into himself, and he was spectacular. 

He wasn’t quite there yet though, and Jazz didn’t want him to lose that. 

Prowl paused on the couch where he was flipping through files, and stared at nothing for a moment, frowning. Jazz watched him cautiously. His mate wasn’t glitching as much with the cohort bonds stable and the anchor happily whirring in its spot of honor, but it still happened occasionally and Jazz hated it. 

“I think,” Prowl started, watching Red Alert worriedly, “That I need to recruit a few officers. My, um, my neglect was bad and it ruined my coding, but I can’t be the only mech struggling there.” 

“Mmm.” Jazz agrees, “Verity would be a good start. She has mechlings that she doesn't like near the Precinct. Not a good sign when that sort o’ loyalty gets passed down typically.” 

Prowl considers that, still watching Red Alert who looks like he’s going to have a panic attack and glitch out. Inferno is murmuring reassurance to him, and Jazz isn’t sure that’s helping this time. 

He nods sharply, then looks pleadingly at Jazz as if he’d ever say no to the mech, “Will you come? I’ve got to go as Sharpgear, but would you play watcher and backup in case it goes south?” 

Jazz smoothly triggers his micro transformation to Meister and grins meanly. That was never a question, he’d’ve followed without being asked to. Prowl relaxes instantly, as does Red Alert, who is still wary, but now he is also barking contingencies at both of them. 

Honestly. As if Verity wouldn’t jump at the opportunity. 

A joor later and Jazz is perched outside of the window of Verity’s apartment window. This gives him the perfect view of Prowl easing the window open effortlessly, unlocked as it was, dangerous for the second floor, but of all mecha he supposes Verity could defend herself well enough. 

Verity’s twin mechlings are inside, playing quietly on matching datapads. They’ve been over to play with Blurr before, but from this angle Jazz can’t tell which is which. One of them glances up and sees Prowl, he’s in his pastel Sharpgear frame, but the mechling lights up anyways. 

Jazz abruptly remembers that Blurr met these two on Hot Rod’s forum dedicated to the gears when he’d forgotten to switch accounts. Both mechlings are chattering at a startled Prowl now, who makes placating motions for a moment. Jazz activates the listening wire idly, listening as his mate settles on the floor with the mechlings to teach them to play Trabex. 

He even pulls out a small pile of shanix to bet with, and Jazz listens as he not only cheats, but shows the mechlings how to. They play a practice round, and two full games before Verity starts trudging up to her building, wings low and exhausted. Prowl is careful to let each mechling win one so they each have a small pile of shanix to show off. 

Jazz watches the door swing open through his scope and Verity shifts from exhaustion to defensive alarm in an instant as she steps in. Prowl lays a new card down and looks up, his wings held in a welcoming gesture with just an edge of warning. 

“Officer Verilight,” he greets casually, “Good Cycle, yes?” 

The strangled sound she makes in response is what Jazz is going to set as her comm tone forever. 

“It was, mostly. Hello, Sharpgear, there’s a great many mecha out for your helm.” 

“Mm. In more way than one, yes. I have an offer, if you aren’t one of those mecha?” 

She hums and sits across from him, shifting her mechlings to either side as she goes between them. Her bitlings’ other creator had been a vosnian seeker, one who hadn’t stuck around. The resulting half seeker fliers meant that she was fending their wings off as much as she was simply moving them. 

“Deal me in. We can talk while we play, I’ll listen for the duration of the game, if I'm not interested by the end then you’ll leave, no hassle.” 

Prowl reshuffled the cards, “And if you are interested?” 

“Then you’ll keep talking, won’t you?” 

There is a reason that Jazz calls her Verity more than her actual designation. Despite her faults, and her generally ditzy demeanor eighty percent of the time, Verilight is as much a paragon of truth and devotion to her beliefs as Prowl was. 

She wasn’t as confident with it as Prowl, or as firm with her own moral boundaries, but once she decided then she was solidly immovable in her principles. Verity verily Verilight. Jazz liked her even if he found her fundamentally annoying. 

Wheeljack had once said that was because they were like shoving the same poles of a magnet together and expecting them to click. Jazz had refused to talk to him for joor after the implication that he and Verity were that similar. He wasn’t like her at all. 

She didn't even explore in her music tastes, or dance. They weren’t compatible as friends, that was all. 

Prowl deals the cards and for two rapid fire rounds the two are silent. Then Prowl asks, faintly smug as if he knows the answer, “You became an enforcer to help the city. Do you feel as if you are? Do you trust your coworkers?” 

Verity pauses, and flicks a card onto the center stack, “No. I trust some, but not the majority. Not really any of your business, is it though?” 

“Mmm. Maybe, maybe not,” Prowl leans forward, and Jazz knows the feral smile he’s wearing, half quirked up on one side and denta bared, “Do you trust your Chief? Really, actually, fundamentally trust him?” 

There is a long moment. Then, slowly, quietly, as if imparting some great secret, a weight off of her very spark, she says, “No.” 

Her digits twitch and fidget with her cards. They play another few rounds in silence, her mechlings once more on their datapads. 

“Would you still want to help the city if it wasn’t with the enforcers?” Prowl asks quietly, “If it took the precinct out of the equation entirely?” 

Verity looks up then, resolute and solid, “Yes, I would. I would love that. I know several that would as well. Prowl, Dreadwing, Crankcase, and maybe Highwire.” 

Jazz grins from behind his scope, Prowl hadn’t been sure it would be easy, but Jazz had known. Verity, of all mecha, held so tightly to her principles that betrayal would be easy, because she wouldn’t see it as such. Prowl had felt betrayed by the deviance from the Accords, the law, the basic morals and sheer corruption in the Praxian force. 

Verity had always known it was there. She’d just thought she could make a difference on her own, and given up along the way when she couldn’t. 

Prowl pulls a package from his subspace. Several bombs disguised painstakingly as decorations by Wheeljack, and datapads on top. A single batch of plain rust sticks sits on top, and Prowl sets the package down to the side. 

“Are you willing to work with my group, without betraying us?” 

“I swear it on my code, my spark, and my city,” she responds, an old traditional vow, and Prowl chirps in surprise as she finishes, “I swear it on my life, and my loyalty, that which is owed to you and to mine own.” 

She will never break that oath, Jazz knows. No Praxian would. It is a large part of why it’s sworn so rarely. 

“Oh.” Prowl’s voice is small and awed, “I accept your loyalty with gladness in my spark, and I swear to return it tenfold as is owed to you and yours. I swear it on my code, my spark, and my city.” 

Jazz is so proud of his wonderful mate. She’ll make a better lieutenant than officer, and she can lead Prowl’s earmarked plans for law keepers now, which had been a problem with loyalty and integrity missing so much in that sector of experienced mecha. 

“Do you need me to do something now?” 

Prowl raises his wings into a grateful-proud position and launches into his instructions, “There’s several datapads in the box. One details the Tyrest Accords, another on Praxian law specifically, and a third on the differing laws between cities, and the theory behind it. You are an analyst, yes?” 

She nods, “The Chief uses me for traffic patterns, but I learned on psych sims and pattern recognition.” 

“Excellent. The last datapad is blank, I’d like for you to rewrite the Accords, not the law, we’ll do that later, but a guiding principle document specific to Praxus,” Prowl pauses and fidgets with a card, “Feel free to subtly consult with whoever you need to.” 

Verity smiles, slowly, and Jazz takes note of the absolutely stuffed full shelves of datapads and sims. “Sounds fun. What else is in there?” 

“Bombs.” 

“Uhh.” Verity cycles her optics, then shutters them entirely glancing at her mechlings on either side of her. 

“They’re inactive at the moment. I just need you to place them. There's instructions.” 

“Right. Okay then. Wonderful.” 

Prowl nods and nudges the box towards her, “There’s also rust sticks. I made them.” 

“Thank you,” she tilts her helm towards the window, “It all sounds doable, I’ll get started later. You should go though, you’re still under some surveillance, Prowl.” 

Jazz freezes in his watch, Prowl does as well, staring at Verity in utter shock. 

“Beg your pardon?” He says. 

She laughs, “Go. Have dinner with your mate and bitties. Tell Blurr that mine said hi. You’re the only mech I ever told about wishing that the chief used me for more than traffic analysis though, and any other mech wouldn’t have known that I’d need a copy of the Accords. I won’t tell, I’m under oath. Bye, Prowl.” 

Prowl nods sharply and ducks back out the window, guilt flickering down the bond, mingling with Jazz’s own amusement. 

Windblade is a city speaker. She was the only one on Cybertron, the only one in Praxus, but she had been one of many on Camia. She is out of practice, the titan far below Iacon has been slumbering for centivorn, and when she listens she hears only snippets of recharge fluxes. 

Praxus is aware, and while she is only half awake, she is loud. She is a hotbed of whispers, of protective instinct trailing after her favored mecha and malicious murmurs trailing the streets after the ones she doesn’t. Praxus had two crests, the city emblem that has been defaced nearly everywhere it hangs, the Precinct being prominent. 

The other seems to be for the Titan herself, a crystal cliff, jagged and simple, traced on walls, and buildings, snuck into logos and advertisements, a simple rune traced in the air as mecha swear by their cityformer deep below as if she is Primus himself. 

Windblade had choked a little the first time she had watched Prowl, her trading officer, former lieutenant to Chief Ultra Magnus, graceful professionalism in enforcer form, and a mech that she truly looked up to greatly, drop a bowl on his pede after his mechling ran into him and blurt out a cursed, “Praxus’ fragging line-tangled rusted tailpipe!” 

Cliffjumper had found her a breem later staring at the wall as she’d tried to recalibrate her worldview. Not even the most devout city speakers or lowest of gutter mecha on Camia would swear by their host titan. It simply wasn’t done, and it was sacrilegious to the Prima they held dear. 

This was what led her to wander the streets of Prowl’s chosen city with Cliffjumper behind her as she chased faint, disgruntled whispers. She wavered down streets, hopping into sewers for a time and climbing right back out. 

As had been the normal response for the last decavorn, they were ignored. She, Cliffjumper, and Mags weren’t actively disliked like the ground team were, but they weren’t actively welcomed either. The impression she could trace from the Titan was a cautious curiosity and a wary observation. 

By the time the whispers that she was chasing merged with the darkly amused ones following her into a steady thread of satisfaction, it was past midcycle. A blue heliformer was ahead, waiting on the street corner as he fiddled with a handful of gears crafting tiny clockwork mechimals for a crowd of street mechlings around him. 

“Ah!” He called as he looked up and spotted them, “I was wondering when Herself would let me talk to you like she wants instead of playing with you.” 

Windblade has to take another moment. She hadn’t expected another city speaker. He apparently reads her expression because he dissolves into a harsh cackling laugh. 

“Nah, Sweetspark. I ain’t a fancy listener like you. Anymech can hear Herself when she wants to talk, and if’n you make friends with her little group of favorites She’ll talk more. I’m of Praxus, and She is whose grace I function by, and I'll always listen to Herself.” 

Windblade doesn’t know what that means. It sounds like the whole city is Speakers though, which is impossible. Even on Camia, who was awake and helpful and talkative, the talent was rare, highly trained, and carefully cultivated. Windblade was one of fourteen from her generation, and she hadn’t even been strong enough to join the Priesthood of Solus Prima. 

Still, the blue mech hands his tiny clockwork bird to the tiny blue femme that frequently ghosted after Prowl and sauntered towards them. She glared and wound the bird up. It was somehow the most threatening thing Windblade had ever seen. 

“What the frag,” Cliffjumper breathed out, “why is the femmeling with a bird creepier than the hardened criminals I deal with regularly?”

”I made that bird,” the blue mech said primly, “The bird can kill you. Easily. Dearcy likes to put sentience into her toys, artificially of course, as well, so expect it to be prejudiced.” 

There is an extremely long moment of silence while Windblade and Cliffjumper both look at the tiny songbird perched in the femmeling’s servo. It is slightly larger than an optical socket. Windblade cannot imagine any level of danger from it. 

The clockwork bird ticks as it wakes, tiny optics flaring the silver of a modified processor chip, and it chirps cheerily. Then it sneezes and a laser shoots from its beak leaving a smoking pinhole between Windblade’s pedes. 

“Um.” Windblade starts recording for lack of any other ideas, “Why?” 

The mech shrugged lackadaisically, “I enjoy clockwork. Proper clockwork cannot be hacked or compromised, only destroyed. Dearcy challenged me to make a clockwork defense system, and that’s what I could think of. At the moment they’re simply little guards, sentries if you will, no system. I’m just playing.” 

Cliffjumper made a pained sound behind them. Windblade… does not want to know. She well remembers the shenanigans of bored students in the temple labs on Camia, they had been universal across Camien as a whole actually. After the third fire fueled bird flame retardants she had decided to have done with science types. 

Clockmakers too perhaps.

“You can hear the titan,” she asks instead of dwelling on murderous clockwork birds wielded by feral mechlings. She does not want to know, “What did she wish you to tell us?” 

“Uh. Well first I don’t hear a damned thing from Herself. I listen, but audials do jackslag with that. It’s an urging, listen well enough and you can sort your instinct from Her suggestions.” He wiggled his audio receptor for emphasis, “I got the impression She really just wants me to answer questions so you can stop bothering Her. Streets have been shifty today, She is redirecting you.” 

Cliffjumper looks him up and down from beside her, and Windblade wishes she had the ability to tell frametypes apart from the subtle differences that Cliffjumper did. Her partner hums, “You’re not Praxian.” 

“Sure I am. May have been born in Polyhex, and moved here over a decavorn ago but that don’t make me less Praxian. It’s a mindset really, more than frametype. There's the purists that believe old stories about when the crystal cliffs will rise again, but mostly if you’re following the tenets, and you’re Loyal, then you’re Hers.” 

“Purists.” Windblade said, her tone flat. They had purists on Camien too, who believed no mecha should function off of Camia, that the colonies on the planet-moon’s surface should be regulated. They had the ones that believed in Prima Solus to the point of heresy and devoutly wretched adherence to her recorded words. 

“Mm. They believe only doorwingers should function in Praxus because the rise of the old cliffs is imminent and they won’t survive the shift without the necessary sensors. It’s an old legend, and the Cliff Cults are starting to fade, even if the prejudice is still there.” 

Cliffjumper hadn’t known about any legends from his shocked jolt beside her, but Windblade remembers cooing at the ancient paintings and data cubes of Praxus from millivorn ago, when the city had sprawled on swaying steel bridges and carved out rickety dwellings amongst the massive cliffs and spires that used to create the landscape. 

The ancient paintings had depicted door winged mecha scrambling up the sheer cliff faces and gliding between them with an ease that she could admit she was jealous of. The art of root mode gliding had long been lost, but Windblade longed to see it anyways. 

“Moving on,” she declared, elbowing Cliffjumper as he smirked at her. Rude thing that he was, he knew she liked the cliff paintings, “Prowl told us the tenets, they are simple, that should have no bearing on how you are considered.” 

The mech rolls his helm in sheer frustration, “Right. They were?” 

“I thought you were Praxian, “Cliffjumper taunts, “Don’t you know?” 

“Humour me.” Despite the mech’s words he looked the most serious he had this whole interaction, grimly lacking in humour in fact. 

“Trust, honesty, integrity, and loyalty are what Prowl had said,” Windblade says softly. The whispers beneath her pedes hum approvingly for a moment and she shudders. 

The mech grins then, cheerful once more, “Right! Community and protectiveness too, I know he mentioned that. It’s the one he uses most often, what with fueling the gutter mechlings so much.” 

“You can’t use tenets. They’re values,” Cliffjumper scoffs, “Connected ones too. They’re all practically the same thing. Community is the odd one out.” 

“Naive thing ain’t’cha? ‘Course you can, should in fact. If I’m remembering my history correctly then the lady aside you hails from Camien, yes?” Windblade nods hesitantly, and the mech grins, like a turbo wolf, “Aye. Camia, the Titan there has the tenets of Justice, Curiosity, and Truth, yes?”

“Justice is a tenet of the Priesthood, but yes. Why?” 

“Do you view them as two sides of the same shanix, or do you view them as separate pieces of the same whole?” He watches her steadily, fiddling with a servo full of gears again. 

She wants to take her pedes off the ground. She knows the answer, but the darkly satisfied thrum beneath her is distracting, “The second. Truth is honesty, being true with yourself and others. It is the lack of a lie. Curiosity is a desire to learn, something, anything, and never stop.” 

“Precisely,” he purrs, deep and satisfied, the gears ticking in his servo, “they are all separate concepts for Praxus too. Two coin sides, if you must borrow the analogy, with seperate aspects. Community, with honesty and protectiveness, Loyalty, with integrity and trust.” 

Cliffjumper startles, “That seems backwards. You’d expect loyalty to have honesty and integrity, and community to have trust and protectiveness.” 

“Separate concepts,” Windblade murmurs. “They are separate concepts, they do not mean what you think they mean. What do they mean?” 

“Honesty, not just the lack of a lie from yours, but the deliberate preservation of truth, whether or not it’s known. Integrity, to follow one’s own principles despite any challenges. Trust, the reliance on each other and the City above else, and bearing responsibility for what may happen in her bounds. Protectiveness, to guard your territory, be it a place or mecha as a whole, to your limit and beyond.” 

He opens his servos and lets a tiny cyber snake curl around his wrist, gear teeth bared like fangs at it click-whirred with its movement. Cliffjumper shudders beside her, deathly afraid of snakes. 

“And Community and Loyalty?” She asks, easing herself between the two. 

The blue mech flicks his rotors, the cheery grin on his faceplate taking a nastier edge, “Loyalty, the structure we follow of allegiance to Herself, and following down to the strong protecting whatever they can. Community, the structure we maintain to support each other in order to keep the City strong, beyond doubts, morals, or any fights that may happen.” 

“That’s why everyone hates Bee,” Cliffjumper realizes beside her, and Windblade realizes that it’s all of them, her, Mags, and Cliffjumepr included. 

“Who are you,” she breathes through her sudden terror. He was asked, by a titan, to answer questions, and she wished she hadn’t asked. 

“Whirl. My designation is Whirl. I am no more than a humble clockmaker,” he says, with a flourishing bow, and Windblade calls machanobull slag. He’s not a humble anything. “Yes, it is, though very few actually hate him. He’s a traitor, a Twitchy little trust-lack. No one likes him, but hate is strong. He is simply, erm, well, rejected.” 

“Rejected.” Cliffjumper repeats. 

“Aye. He broke Trust, Honesty, and Protectiveness in one go, and hadn’t held Integrity since he stepped pede in the city. We can manage snitches, even turncoats in the gangs. Betrayal to another city ain’t tolerated. Praxus keeps to Praxus, ain’t no changing that without a fight.” Whirl curls his servo up and offers the snake towards them. 

Its gearteeth dripped, and acid sizzled on the mech’s servo. Cliffjumper stumbles back several steps, and Whirl chuckles meanly, “Once bitten, twice shy. You don’t pick up a wild cyber snake and expect it not to bite you. After it has, when there’s acid venom melting your lines, leaving you insensate, after you’ve flung it away, you definitely don’t pick it back up.” 

Windblade swallows against a dry intake, wishing she had a cube of coolant. Every one of them in this situation is being regarded as the cyber snake by this entire city. They are from another city, they are in the company of someone who has been declared a trust-lack, and while she may not know the term, she knew it was unfavorable. 

Whirl drops the cyber snake to the ground, and it slithers into a nearby sewer grate, whir-click-hissing the whole way. It is gone in moments, still drooling acid. Dully, Windblade realizes that negotiation and compromise will be the only way to make the slightest headway. She doesnt think the ground team can, they’re too invested. 

Whirl turns to saunter away, his rotors fluttering restlessly behind him as he calls, “Fight the Gears, fight the city. You Iacies are fond of your stupid propaganda, that you’re all individual cogs in the same machine?” 

Cliffjumper manages a strangled affirmative and the blue heli continues, “Right. Well, we’re all gears in dozens of different clocks. For the first time in centivorn somemech’s come along and wound them all up. We’re in sync, tick, tock, tick, tock, goes the clock.” 

“Until the City screams.” 

Windblade watches him turn the corner. The City is silent and still beneath her pedes, no longer interested in them, satisfied like a cybercat that caught a glitchmouse. 

“Just another cog in the wall, Oh, I’m just another cog in the wall,” drifts around the corner, a refrain repeated and picked up by every mecha on the street, eery and echoing. 

“All in all, you’re just another cog in the wall.”

Chapter Text

Magnus, after reviewing files and data, and interviews for an orn, and planning for another two, had spent several cycles tracking Dearcy down. He’d asked her to negotiate, on his behalf, a meeting with the Gears. Dearcy, being the shrewd thing she was, had pretended to run messages for nearly three orn, setting it to her liking before she ever approached the cohort. 

Then she had brought the final changes that Jazz and Red Alert made back to Magnus, once the cohort had stopped cackling or panicking, depending on the mecha. 

It was telling, Prowl thought, that at the end of only a decaorn that Magnus had secured a semi willing interview with one of his targets, versus a kidnapping and subsequent several decaorn of failing from the first team. 

It was telling too, the negotiation with a proxy had yielded so much ground. Magnus was willing to meet them where they were, instead of attempting to change the terms. 

There would be no restraints, no drugs, no captures. Magnus had even offered a truce territory agreement, a term Dearcy had needed Prowl to explain to her. The femmeling had found an old radio station to serve as neutral ground for it. During a truce no arrests could occur, for current deeds or past. A truce territory confined that to a specific area, one which Dearcy and Red Alert had immediately weighted in their favor. 

She ensured that the Gears could bring backup to match the combined might of the two Iaconian teams and their enforcer contingent. It was in no way equal, save the disparity in skill and home advantage. Sharpgear would field the interview, on comms the whole time, and no weapons would be taken. 

Dearcy had argued them down to one interviewer and two observers. The radio station had watchers windows around the recording studios, the three groups would each get a window and observation room. Red Alert had already taken Blaster to bug the entire station to high heavens. 

Even now as Prowl lounged in his seat, colored in his pastels, languishing as his posture invited trouble, he knew his team were watching feeds from the whole station. He knew Magnus would be leading the interview, keeping it professional and friendly. 

He knew that Smoksecreen, in an attempt to redeem himself, would be one of the in room observers. He knew there would be at least one officer from the precinct observing, it was the agreement for the truce. He didn’t know who. It was making him nervous, best case scenario it would be Verilight. 

He suspected they’d send Vortex though, their best interrogator, despite his preference for violence and tendency to break protocol. He hoped they would, Magnus would tear him apart. 

Verbally, right up until Vortex got mean, then Prowl would happily watch the plating fly. 

His comms chatter slowly died, only Sunstreaker’s anticipatory humming holding a steady beat. He, Jazz, Red Alert, and Dearcy were in the watcher’s room directly behind him, up by half a floor, and he tilted his helm back to grin at the darkened window, Dearcy the only mecha visible that wasn’t in disguise. 

The other two watcher’s rooms slowly filled, the windows fogged and darkened with the age of abandonment from the building. The Iaconians filled the leftmost, the bigger room, all sporting datapads and serious expressions. 

Several enforcers filed into the rightmost room, Vortex, who was watching apparently, Roadcoil beside him, and Traptrail last, the two lieutenants of the Chief. Prowl considered them and offered a prostibot’s slow smile, with the fiercely threatening tilt of his wings flaring with an edge of promise. 

Then he relaxed again into a lazy sprawl in the cushioned library chair they’d pulled from an abandoned archive. Hot Rod had insisted, had tried to send Steeljaw with him even, so as to mimic an old cliche from Polyhex dramas. 

Jazz had ix-nayed that one himself, after he’d stopped laughing. 

It had taken several kliks too long for the laughter to stop. 

The door to the recording studio creaked loudly as it opened, making Magnus cringe. Prowl had deliberately refrained from oiling that door, providing both a warning system and setting his mentor on edge with one of his most hated sounds. 

Smokescreen ducked in after him and the Chief followed, austere and scowling. Prowl shuttered his optics rapidly at Chief Barricade, “Aw! The whole big boss, for little old me? You didn't have too. No, really, you shouldn’t’a.” 

Barricade barked a laugh in response, empty of amusement and positively mocking, “No, I insist. You’ve caused so much trouble after all, wouldn’t want you to feel forgotten.” 

Smokescreen flicked his gaze between the two, noting the tension in the Chief’s frame and the deliberately at ease posture from Prowl alike. Really, despite the teasing he’d done at first, his brother really was a brilliant psychologist, and was very good at frame language. 

All three sat down, calm and tension wrought alike, Magnus in the center seat, across the table from Prowl, Smoksecreen beside him, and Barricade settled in the corner, like a particularly menacing sort of house crystal. 

Magnus cleared his intake, an old habit that Prowl remembered fondly as him settling into any vaguely social sort of situation. It had been common enough before interrogations and speeches alike that it had been a running joke around the Iaconian Precinct. 

“Hello, Sharpgear,” he started, “I am Ultra Magnus, of Iacon, you’ve met Smokescreen, I’m told, and I’m sure you know the Chief Barricade of Praxus, by reputation at least.” 

“Charmed, I’m sure.” 

“Er, quite.” Magnus stuttered slightly, as always refusing to break professionalism even as he was faced with an unknown reference. Smokescreen however snorted at the line from a popular mechling show, “This is not a formal interrogation, merely an interview so both sides may proceed afterward with hopefully less caution and mistrust. You are aware of a Truce territory agreement, yes?” 

Prowl flicked his wings affirmatively instead of answering, delighted in the lack of drag he still had in his usual frame shift in one doorwing. The microtransformation seemed to have unpinched a stubborn relay baffle in one wing, which had been a relief he’d been taking advantage of for orns now. 

Magnus just stared, waiting for a verbal agreement. Prowl watched him back, optics undimming. Magnus sighed deeply, “A truce territory agreement is when-“ 

“He agreed,” Barricade said from his corner, startling Magnus and Smokescreen alike. His tone was a curated boredom, as he flicked his own wings scornfully. Prowl wiggled his in a particularly rude insult back, the two city claimed Praxians briefly flicking rudities back and forth. 

“Ah,” Magnus said, watching Prowl’s wings as he implied that Barricade ought to suck on a scraplet’s slag soaked pedes, “Well, for professionalism sake, as well as legalities-“

”Thought it weren’t formal?” Prowl drawled, “Unless that’s what gets your fans going…?”

Magnus reset his vocalizer with a click, a hint of frustration peering out as Prowl bared his denta in a salacious grin. Smokescreen snorted beside him, clearly enjoying not being the mecha in the hot seat this time around. 

“I-never mind. Let’s just-,” Magnus glared down at his datapad for a nanosecond, clearly recalibrating his direction, “You were informed of why we’re here?” 

Prowl yawned, wide enough for his secondary dental to flick down for a klik, despite the lack of metallicaloids or crystals to tear into,  “Recruitment, supposedly, though I wouldn’t know where to. And to fix what ain’t broke, or not broken for you to fix at least.” 

“Murder as well,” Barricade murmured, “Of several lords and countless civilians.” 

“Two hundred seventy four,” Prowl clarified helpfully, “On our end at least. Primarily gang mecha and proven criminals. I wasn’t aware you were here for the same though. Is he on the list? He should be.” 

He cut his optics back to Magnus and jerked a servo at the chief in the corner for emphasis. Magnus seemed to stutter in place for a klik before he drew a deep vent and clarified, “Whether or not any prior crimes are an issue, there is currently a truce. We are not here for murder, no.” 

“Shame.” 

Smokescreen wheezed loudly. Prowl offered a sharp grin, swinging his pedes around until he was half twisted, tilting his helm at them, throat cabling bared.Magnus cleared his intake again, and held his shoulders taut. 

“Regardless, there is a third reason. A new Prime has been chosen, and as is tradition, he is beginning his tour of duty soon.” 

“I’m aware,” Prowl drew himself upright again, leaning on the table hhis chin in his servos, the image of a besotted femme, “Oh, a new Prime, a true Prime, the Senate's all in a tizzy, what ever shall we do! Too bad Praxus is independent, not like anything will matter. The last three recorded tours, the Prime didn't even try to stop here.” 

Magnus worked his intake for a moment, before he slowly said, “Yes, well, despite that, it is Optimus’ intention to visit Praxus on this occasion. I would like to ensure his safety.” 

Prowl tilted his helm, pinging down the comms and his bond alike. The second he got pings back, he flared his wings wide and high, a blatant warning of truth and intent, “I can promise that there will be no targeting of your Prime, by me, mine, or those who follow us, that would cause any physical damage. Will that suffice?” 

Magnus focused on his wings for a long moment, and Prowl, aware that he only knew the basic level of wing language common in Iacon, perhaps only slightly more in depth from the past orns, made sure to not let the sly twitches be too obvious. 

“Yes,” he agreed, hesitant and slow, as if he knew he was missing a loophole somewhere, but he wasn’t sure where. Barricade snorted behind him, aware of how much had been missed. 

Prowl simply crossed his pedes and leaned back, indolent and sharp opticed, “I can also promise that me and mine are not interested in recruitment, despite the lack of any true pitch or offer.” 

There was an extremely wrought moment before Magnus fully broke composure and lowered his helm to rest in his servos with a drawn out groan, “For being a former noble who still spends much of his time in the Towers, I do wonder about Mirage’s manners. Decorum as well, for that matter.” 

Prowl cast his gaze to the left window to see the put out frustration adorning the blue and white noblemech’s faceplate with glee. It was amplified by the heavy amusement flowing down the bond from Jazz, and he couldn’t help but pull a smug face at the mech. 

“Huh,” Barricade said quietly, rising from his chair to draw closer, “Huh. Recruitment where again? Can’t imagine a nuisance of an assassin and bomber is much use anywhere.” 

“Primesguard is rebuilding their ranks, Spec Ops is an under division to them, but they too are rebuilding,” Magnus lifted his helm tilted just so, in order to address both his fellow chief and Prowl himself, “They’ve been inactive for centivorn, and what remained split in loyalties between the new Prime and the Senate.” 

“I reiterate, you want them?” Barricade was watching Prowl’s face as he spoke to Magnus, and Prowl refused to let his discomfort show, “Not that I’ll complain about them being gone, but I’d think you’d want, well, trustworthy.” 

Jazz raged down his bond then, fierce in his defense of his mate’s Loyalty, despite none of the offenders being able to hear his defense. 

>>Jazz,<< Prowl interrupted gently, >>It doesn’t bother me. Chief Barricade was a traitor, and trust-lack, long before I even came here. He betrayed the City for credits and corruption long ago.<< 

Jazz stopped snarling, but his presence hovered in the back of Prowl’s meta regardless, protective and curious in equal measure. Barricade’s observation was gaining an edge, and Jazz was as confused by it as Prowl was. 

“Truly?” Magnus asked, resigned, “No interest?” 

“No. We have much to do here, and Loyalty to the city and her people besides. Why should we be interested in such a thing?” Prowl flicked his wings in a dismissal, “Especially after what has occurred in the time any of the Iaconians have been here?” 

Magnus hums, and Smokescreen cringes under his glare. 

“Very well then,” he decided, “Then the final item to discuss is the state of your city.” 

Prowl bared his denta, “No, not that. That doesn't need to be discussed. We’ve got it handled, none of us need your help. Not another city’s, not the senate’s, not the Prime’s, not yours.” 

“You’re kidding,” Smokescreen said, “Your city is a junk heap of gangs and murder, and you’re bombing it, and there’s so much wrong. Why wouldn’t you-“ 

“-No.” Prowl repeated, “It’s ours, we don’t need you to come in and mess it up. You already have been anyways. No.” 

“Very well.” Magnus said reluctantly, “Would you be willing to share what you intend to do for your city, then?” 

Prowl tilted his helm in thought, unsure if he even wanted to parse through the plans and ideas to share anything, and leaning towards simply stonewalling them all. He knew Magnus wouldn’t be satisfied by a stonewall though, and the interview would continue until he was, the facade of truce borne geniality be damned. 

As Prowl thought, the Chief abruptly stepped forward and slammed his servos on the table, his faceplate mere digits away from Prowl’s, a snarl twisting his expression. Barricade’s optics darted over his face as Prowl jerked back in shock and froze. 

“Officer Prowl,” he growled out. 

“Excuse me?” Smokescreen interrupted, looking highly alarmed, not that Prowl was paying attention. 

Chief Barricade didn’t spare a single glance or chip of attention, focused on Prowl as he spat out, “You are Officer Prowl. Traitor.”

Prowl stared for a moment, his comms buzzing with Red Alert’s panic, and his bond overwhelmed with Jazz’s worry. Then he slowly grinned, letting his microtransformation back into himself trigger, leisurely and in parts. 

“You first,” he hissed, and then he lunged. 

Smokescreen’s role today was to put his knowledge and experience to its limit as a passive use. He knew this was because of his slip last interrogation, but he’d also requested it. He wanted to make notes on more than just Sharpgear. 

The others backing Sharpgear up, preventing another kidnapping according to Dearcy, were seemingly on edge, but the frame language deeper betrayed an ease that was putting Smokescreen into a nervous mood since the start. 

Maester, a black smear of a mech through the fogged, aged window between them, lined in slashes of deep scarlet and the glow of a crimson visor, was relaxed and protective. Except that the movements that Smokescreen was noting constantly kept part of Maester’s frame between the smaller form of Dearcy, her blues distinctive, and Solfurnace in his hulking form of layered over armor in burnished orange. 

 Dearcy was bouncing around the tiny observation room, her broken wings fluttering wildly, in a language more complex than Smokescreen could ever hope to translate. Prowl could, he was well suited to this beautiful, wild, chaos of a city. Far more than Smokescreen had wanted to admit, even to himself. 

Solfurnace sat at the back of the room, a hulking gladiator, his heavy glare centered on Prowl, even as he replied to the flutters from Dearcy and clearly directed questions from the other two, flicking his wings just as fast, and only looking away to gesture sharply at his companions as his mouth moved. 

The fourth mecha in the little room was the lavender framed bot that Bluestreak had shot. Klaxon, if the information that Ultra Magnus’ team had gathered was reliable. He was shaking faintly, trembling digits and tapping pedes and rapid tapping of the datapad he held securely in his lap where he was curled up. 

His horns sparked, little trailing of silver-blue light dancing down the sides of his helm, the frequency of them swelling and falling with the nervous fidgets. It, alongside the uneven brightness of his optics whenever he looked up to peer through the blurry window, was a telltale symptom of a systematic glitch. If they could get confirmation of the glitch that Sharpgear had mentioned then it made two. 

All in all the group was an uneasy balance of defensive tension and confident companionship. Even Sharpgear, sprawled in a chair, clearly dragged in from elsewhere, cushioned, ragged, and stained, was watching them sharply from behind his lazy mask. 

He desperately wished that Magnus wasn’t displaying so much ease in his own frame. Sharpgear had noted it himself immediately, shooting a knowing grin at Smokescreen. Mags might not be his Chief anymore, but he doesn't want him to be hurt either. 

Sharpgear made Smokescreen incredibly nervous. He had jumped from guessing that Smokescreen had been the brother of one of his clients, a contact through a meandering route. He had immediately jumped into guessing the correct brother, and Smokescreen had watched the recording dozens of times over. 

He did not know when. He had studied Sharpgear’s frame language, and face, and micro expressions. He had studied his own, there was nothing. He did not know when. 

It bothered him far more than he liked. Mirage had taken the recording away. Prowl had leaned over his shoulder once before then and watched his obsession for a moment in a rare show of their old brotherly intimacy lost to time. He’d tilted his helm and said a simple, “Huh.” 

Then he’d wandered off again and, for a lack of any more ideas of how to bridge the gap between his brothers and himself that had widened when he wasn’t looking, he’d restarted the recording. 

Sharpgear kept glancing at him through Magnus’ explanations with that same expression that Prowl had worn as he’d leaned over Smokescreen’s shoulder. A look of clever realization and a strangely sharp sort of curious puzzlement. He wondered if it were something unique to the type of witty cleverness that plagued both his middle brother and this assassin, even as his unease grew louder. 

The Chief of Praxus was hovering ominously as well. The massive silver-black mech had initially put himself in a corner, glowering with his sickly yellow faceplate. The room they were in was small though, and Sharpgear’s careless sprawl had been calculated so that the table in front blocked off his half of the room entirely. 

Which meant that as the Chief Barricade rose to his pedes and ambled slowly towards them, pacing in small rotations, that the space shrank still more. Magnus took up plenty of space at the table, and Smokescreen pressed himself into his chair away from the eery field aura from the Chief. 

It was a putrid field, full of calculation, greed, and malice. There was the steady faith of a settled chief who held the head of many bonds, a steady thrum of patient watchfulness, too, but even that was tempered by the nasty intrigue slipping in. 

By the time that Barricade was addressing Sharpgear, Smokescreen was paying more attention to him than the assassin, letting the recording capture the details. Then the mech had slammed into the assassin's face and barked his brother's name and now, now Smokescreen was paying attention. 

The Chief had accused Sharpgear of being Prowl, his stolid, boring, lawful brother, the one who danced badly around the kitchen with his mechlings, and flung prowess in his kitchen around alongside his generosity to feed mechlings, and house mecha he couldn’t afford who were downright bad guests. 

Smokescreen was self aware enough to admit that one. 

He had just a moment to scoff, remembering Mirage’s wild theory and every way they’d debunked that. He had a moment longer to observe Sharpgear, lazy frame, deliberately at ease, displayed just so to show the juts of plating that would be considered downright indecent any city else. 

Then Sharpgear’s frame language changed. Gradually at first, then all at once. His easy relaxation narrowed to a ready alertness, his full denta grin widened to show sharp, mesh tearing fangs in a truly vicious snarl, the indecent position shifted to a half stand, his wings rattling warningly behind him. 

The sound of microtransformation was quiet, something usually only heard in a medbay, and distinctly unsettling here, creepy even to hear the sound of a mech opening themselves in a space so fraught with tension. 

Slowly the pastel indigo and periwinkle darkened and lightened in increments. Little juts shifted down, and up, and rounded into proper armor, covering the gaps where protoform had shown. Flushes of a deep burnished gold accented the lines of his frame, outlining the overlap between black and white in thin flares. Wings rose over a newly scarlet chevron, far brighter than it had been in Iacon as the last chips and flakes of an enforcer identification sigil flipped over. 

The wings themselves were different too, sharper, longer, red at the tips and oddly regal. Prowl stood across from them, reformatted just slightly, the last traces of Iacon from his adult upgrades shifted just to the left enough to be Praxian. He looked mean, feral, satisfied. He looked terrifying as he lunged across the table as Smokescreen threw himself backwards into the wall. 

Prowl, his little brother, who he’d raised, grabbed ahold of his Chief’s helm, one servo on his chevron and the other on his jaw, and twisted with a vicious yank, braced one pede of the table, and pulled back as shoved the table into his Chief’s chest plate, shoving the black mech’s frame backwards, half stumbling, and half into a startled Magnus. 

There was a squeal of tearing metal, a horrendous shriek, the crunch of twisted wires coming apart, and the loud thud of a frame hitting the floor. The soft plink, plink, plink of dripping energon followed. Ultra Magnus was frozen, stiff in front of him, and Smokescreen did not want to look despite his ability to see just fine. He did anyways. 

Prowl swayed across the room. Barricade, the Chief who he should have owed loyalty to, Chief Barricade of Praxus’ helm was clutched in one servo, energon dripping slowly from the torn throat cables, optics dim, and frame slowly greying on the ground. 

One of Prowl’s optics was dimmer than the other. His helm was jerking and twitching spasmodically, and his wings were high and trembling horribly. Trauma induced glitch, Smokescreen recalled from Knockout’s assessment. Confirmed, he thought idly, and he immediately buried that thread of processing. 

Prowl swayed again, and giggled manically, “I was going to shoot him,” he warbled out, miserable, “I wanted to shoot him.” 

Smokescreen didn’t know how to react. Bee muttered over their comms, for use in emergency, but this certainly counted, “That’s a more familiar frame, honestly. I’d wondered. He hadn’t looked so Iaconian before, though he’s a lot more Praxian now, too.” 

There’s a faint click as the window across from them just swings upward and Meister drops down into the room behind Prowl. Smokescreen can see Jazz in his frame if he looks. It’s a uniquely terrifying realization, as they mirror that image capture from Decaorn ago, with a helm clutched in his servo in place of a cube of bismuth shiny energon, and feral smiles wider and meaner. Prowl even leans his helm down, seeking comfort from his shorter, frameshifted, mate, as he rests his helm on Meister, Jazz’s horns for a moment. 

Smokescreen’s spark hurts. 

Magnus moves now, flaring his plating out in a bluster of a threat. He gets the first half sentence out of the Tyrest Rights, before Prowl giggles again, manic and insane, “You can’t do that. Neutral ground, you agreed. If you break the Truce, then I get to break the truce.” 

Magnus shuts his mouth with an audible click. Prowl is right, on technicality the truce is between the Iaconians and the Gears. The enforcers were a third party, to observe, no interference. They’d broken truce the klik that Barricade had spoken. 

Smokescreen had told Magnus that the Gears overreacted. He hated being right. 

He really hated being wrong, too.

Prowl squeezes the helm in his servo, claws sinking into it like talc. One optic pops out and hangs from its wiring, loose and empty. The mech’s glossa flops out of the now broken, hanging jaw, and a moment later its cut right off as one claw slices its base idly. Meister catches it, tosses it up, and shoots it with a laser. 

It seems to be a signal, because a mere moment later he and Prowl are climbing, scaling the wall really, with impressive skill, and ducking through the open window. The others have left and Smokescreen glances behind him. Both of the other rooms are still full, and Hound stares down at him. 

“The doors are locked,” he says grimly, “No codes, and the padlock is rusted. We’re trapped for a klik.” 

Smokescreen has a sinking feeling of dread. He feels justified a moment later as the ground shakes, there’s a series of pops, and acid starts to slowly leak down the walls. Bluestreak met his optics and his littlest brother looked terrified. Smokescreen wondered, idly through his own panic, if this was acid or more slag runoff. It really was a very impressive green. 

The peeling paint on the walls hissed and spat. Smokescreen just tried to ignore the greying frame on the floor as Magnus tried to jimmy the door again. The window was far too high to jump, and Smokescreen couldn’t climb that well anyways, before the acid had started to melt the walls. He wants to cry. This has been a nightmare of an assignment. 

There’s a click and whir, and the door flings open, dropping Magnus in the hall. Smokescreen looks behind him to see the others are free too. He really has a bad feeling about this. No one will listen though, and so he just follows, quiet and nervous, as Magnus storms out. 

Bumblebee exchanged a wary look with Smokescreen before they all transformed to follow the trail Hound had picked up. Magnus had swung from fury to apprehension to confusion, and had finally settled on determination. He was convinced that something was affecting Prowl, mnemosurgery, blackmail, anything other than a true betrayal of his precinct. 

Bumblebee on the other servo was putting pieces together, and the picture they made painted a very different holo. when he’d been Rhodonite he’d had nearly a vorn of semi consistent interaction with Prowl. The shy, small, uncertain smile he wore while they’d lived under his shelter recently was the one he’d gotten in his early days as Rhodonite. It was the smile of a Prowl that had gotten his trust betrayed a time too many and was hesitant to offer it once more. 

Decaorn into that acquaintance though, as Prowl settled and began to trust Rhodonite even slightly, he had gotten to see hints of the stoic mech’s real smile, and hear the echo of his laugh in his voice. It had gone south to the pit before he’d ever made it all the way there, and he’d doubted he’d get the chance now. 

He had it. That feral, wild, broken grin that had morphed from the snarl previous, that was Prowl, through and through. That horrid glitching giggle had been pure relief, a burden lifted, and Bee remembered the poorly hidden distaste whenever the Chief had come up in the conversations between Rhodonite and Prowl. 

Even the trail they followed was less of the trail of destruction that Mirage had predicted, and so much more of a public showing of the loyalty Prowl engendered in this city by no more than being himself. The same loyalty that he’d grown from Bumblebee by feeding Rhodonite when he couldn’t afford it, even if that loyalty was far more of a one sided friendship now. 

This one was banners waving, panels flipped over on houses and revealing collections of proud sigils and call signs, and of triumphant mechlings parading in the streets with little sigils painted on in place of where an enforcer’s mark would go. This was an outcry, a declaration, a claim outright. 

Praxus would not let them go. 

The trail of loyalty traced all the way to the precinct, greyed frames dragged into alleyways lining the path with peeling enforcer’s badges as the only spots of color beside their hissing mechling clean up crews. Bumblebee had a feeling that Magnus was right, that they were missing something, but he thought it would be very different than what Magnus thought it was. 

Prowl had done this of his own will, that much was clear. To everyone beside the enforcers it was clear. Ironhide’s increasingly jumpy behavior, as he startled at the shadows following them, darting frames of mean little mechlings just out of sight. Sideswipe’s attachment to his squadmates’ as he clamped his armor down, quieter than Bee had seen him since the first meeting, where he’d been nervous on the couch in his own home. 

Mirage was increasingly testy and defensive, trailing his stronger mate as if capable of fending off a threat himself. Hound in turn was protective and fierce in his tracking, wishing to arrest Prowl and have done with the matter sooner rather than later. 

Bumblebee was trying desperately not to think about the connection between Smokescreen’s stories of his brother's elaborate pranks as a mechling, and the complicated bombings with hidden agendas that had been sending so many refugees Iacon’s way. 

He didn’t want to think about how much of his friend’s witty cleverness he could see in retrospect. He even saw the same sort of growth in confidence as the plans grew bolder as time passed. This city really did fit Prowl, Bee thought, even as that wide, broken smile still haunted him. 

The Precinct loomed at the horizon, in the fourth sector this time, as it moved as frequently as the streets. The Praxian comfort with a shifting city, full of canals lined with glittering crystals instead of oil pools, and streets that moved more by the cycle, still confused Bumblebee. 

He would take a dependable Iacon map any day. He had seen Prowl pause at the edge of a street, tilt his helm, wriggle his wings just so, and find his way with nary a stumble as early as his Rhodonite orns, though, so he supposed to each their own. 

The massive sigil of Praxus, scraped clean and graffitied over and over, had fallen entirely now. It lay shattered on the ground, pieces decimating the steps up to the Precinct’s lobby. Perched above the stonework hooks that had held it to the carved marble building sat Verilight, resplendent in her neon sunset, with harsh black spray paint x-ing over her decals. 

She smirked at them, a group of seven other enforcers below her with spray paint over their decals as well, hauling a crate each down the steps. They didn’t turn to look, focused on their task. Inset in the wall was a symbol that Bumblebee didn’t know, but Magnus did from his gasp of shock at what was uncovered by the fall of the first symbol. 

A crystal bud carved into the wall, not inset into a gear, but composed of dozens upon dozens of tiny interlocking cogs and gears, all painstakingly carved in. Surrounding the crystal bud of clockwork composure was a pair of craggy, jagged curled wings, segmented as a Praxian’s were, and unfurled in a way typically considered indecent. 

It was a clearly ancient carving, dusty, and chipping at the edges. It fit the City far better than the old symbol of scales with a crystal, fully formed and a chip chisel, to represent a tameness that the city had never once held, beyond a surface glance carefully maintained. 

Bumblebee slowly turned, watching the banners unfurl, panels flip, and mecha walk with their helms high and proud, with their loyalty louder than ever. The crystal bud inside a gear was present, as was the protohelm, the fire shelter, the star-gem, but across the city as she shifted old posts flipped out of the streets, growing up from the sewers, and faded signs swung in a style that hadn’t been used in any city since before the Global Depression, back before energy was abundant enough to grow technology’s reach. 

They all bear the symbol, wings sheltering a clockwork bud, and as they swing from chipped, rusted chains, mechlings dart between them to affix little crystal lights to the glass bulbs, lighting the streets in an eery amber glow as the fog of a coming acid storm played at the edge of the rooftops. 

The rest of the group is focused on the Precinct, on the locked and barred doors with enforcers hammering against the glass-steel as if they can break it. Magus takes a single step forward and Bumblebee lunges to haul him back with all his strength. Something is very wrong here. 

“She’s awake,” Windblade whispers shakily, and Bumblebee doesn’t know what that means, “She’s awake, and so, so happy. Angry too. Even Camia isn’t awake, not really.” 

Bumblebee glances at the Precinct, still unsure who she is. Verilight is gone. The symbol is all the evidence of her presence. 

There is a pillar inside the Precinct, massive and spiraling, and even with the faint scuffs up its length, impressive. It is wound with a garland of crystals and trinkets, sparkling behind the increasingly frantic enforcers. 

Bee watched as the little trinkets began to burst, surprisingly strong explosions for such little things. One of the enforcers that had been at the back of the crowd, leaning on the pillar, hits the door in pieces. 

There was a moment of stillness, a soft giggle from far above Bee, and a delicate tick-tick-tick that echoed through the air. 

Then, screams erupted from the Precinct for a mere moment before the entire column imploded entirely. A chunk blew straight out the door, embedding itself in a wall near Bumblebee. The wiring and circuits inside were faintly corroded with constant use and maintenance. This had been important. 

Now it was a trap, and as the foundation crumbled, only on the inside leaving a sealed marble tomb, Bee could only watch helplessly. The ticking kept going. frames clawed out of the rubble, half greyed only to grey anyways, choking on the smog filling their vents. 

The Precinct was a shell of the dead displaying the symbol of a long past relic of itself. Magnus was shivering, Smokescreen was shaking hard enough to rattle plating, the young enforcer squad were small in their shock, withdrawn and still. 

There was no sign that Prowl had even been here to direct this, even as the whole city declared his influence. Bumblebee hadn’t connected the dots, as clear as they were in hindsight. 

Still the ticking continued, soft and steady, and grim. 

Chapter Text

Dearcy nibbled at the edge of her pastry delicately. If she ate around the mica picture that Sunstreaker had painted then she could let it sit on her glossa and the image would transfer. It was a sparkling mischief, but it never failed to make her friend laugh. 

Praxus was awake, the old signs were out, and the crystals were growing out of their bounds, up the buildings and out of vents, along the streets and windows, wild and uncontained. She was reclaiming old ground. Blaster was thrilled. 

It meant that there was a lot to plan and work around though. Prowl was loyal to Praxus, which was loyal to him in turn. No one could bring physical harm to the visiting Prime, but psychological, political, and harm to his companions was all allowed. 

Verilight grinned at her from across the room, the older femme viciously pleased with yestercycle’s events. The living room at the Gear’s compound was full to bursting, with platters of goodies going around the room as the information was easy to leaf through and access as they waited. 

The holoscreen had been temporarily linked to the Global-net, and was tuned to Kalis, where the new Prime’s Tour started. The whole group was here to observe what was broadcast and plan in broad strokes. The astrosec that Praxus had begun its rebellion back to its roots Dearcy had declared herself the Gear’s general, so now she had to be here. 

At least there was fuel. 

Not that she regretted it. They needed someone else with sense besides Prowl. Jazz would do in a pinch, she supposed. Boss’s songbird was plenty deadly, and clever. She was just worried that he’d be too worried about Boss’s thoughts to do anything useful. 

Boss was still laid up on the couch with cool packs and a cube of coolant. Such a clever boss, to have pulled the strings to have Verilight as his observer, but she’d pulled them right back at him. They were too distracted with the out-city folk hanging around. 

The Chief who’d brought so much trouble in had needed to die, Boss needed to be less distracted, and she could kill two trust-lacks with one rumour. Only took one mecha-sparrow to rouse the flock, after all. 

Besides, they’d all known that it wouldn’t hold up to anyone who’d really known Prowl. Rhodonite was one thing, he hadn’t wanted to look to match the growth in his so-called-friend to the mech he was trying to catch. Boss’s brothers were another, they hadn’t wanted to see, too busy looking behind them at what had been to see what was. 

Boss’s old boss and friends had been getting closer, they were both looking, and seeing. They hadn’t been listening though, and they’d have figured it out and broken Boss’s spark. She had to stop that, it was what she did. 

It hadn’t held up to Verilight, though, who hadn’t so much as suspected, and had been willfully looking away previous. That had been a wake up call to her Boss’s crew, and to her. If Boss’s kinda friend saw right through, then probably all of his coworkers could, and certainly the Westport Warren did, as much dealings as they had, what with Boss living in their territory. 

All she needed to do then was set it up for Boss to kill the Chief, which would let Boss’s sorta plan go into play, which meant no more new chief. If she could coincide it with everymech getting focused, then all the better. 

It had worked beautifully. Ratchet, wonderful, grumpy, clever Ratchet, who was so feared by the violent gangs, and revered by every other as Cutstrut, knew what she’d done. 

“Good job, sparklet,” he’d gruffed at her and tweaked her antennae. Then he’d trudged on to help Boss stop his weird twitching. It was something medical, Boss’s twitch, and sometimes the twitch got so bad that he’d tip right over, all stiff like,  and Jazz or Ratchet would have to help him with cool packs. No one would tell her though, so she got a direct comm line to Ratchet in case Boss ever got twitchy on her watch. 

It had happened twice over the vorn and she mostly used the line to pester Ratchet over questions concerning her crew’s injuries, or another’s if it were bad enough for them to come to her. 

Blaster snickered and she started to pay attention again. Her lieutenant friend was watching the holo with a mean sort of smirk on his face. His creator was not happy with the goings on, and had been quietly crushing the old dedications to Primus and the matrix in favor of Her own symbols. 

“Aww, he’s bitty.” Blaster cooed and a collective laugh swept the room, from Prowl’s soft snort to Verilight’s loud cackle. Indeed, the new Prime was a tiny thing compared to the towering shuttle-formers and caravan mecha of Kalis. His Lord Protector, a thing no one had yet explained, but his introduction scrolled along the bottom of the holo anyways, was a head taller than the Prime, and still dwarfed by the Kalisians. 

He was resplendent in vibrant reds, blues, and silvers, but she caught Sunstreaker’s derision as he muttered about his paint, and poor angles on his armor. He looked very regal, and overwhelmingly nervous and awkward. He waved, tiny on the holo, and dwarfed by the City he was visiting. 

The holo introduced him as Optimus Prime, and Ratchet snorted, “Ach. Optimus, indeed. That ridiculous Matrix does like names too big for their spark, don’t it? Optimus, Sentinel, Zeta, Megatronus. If I ever named a sparklet Optimus, they’d be Oppie by the cycle’s end.” 

Boss made an odd sound, then turned to bury his laughter into Jazz’s side, looking up a moment later to offer, “You’re not wrong. My brothers got nicknames almost immediately, ones that make sense. But if you’ve got a short name, or a fancy one, it’s harder. They got Blue and Smokey, those made sense.” 

Dearcy grinned widely. He’d left off his deliberately, but she wouldn’t let him get away with that, no sirree. “What was yours, Boss?” 

“Pree. They called me Pree.” 

Jazz barked out a laugh, and dissolved into manic giggles, even as Prowl melted slightly in embarrassment. Dearcy stared, unable to process that. 

Blurr piped up, “Is that why we’re not allowed to do nicknames if someone says no? Sunstreaker doesn’t like them, but Roddie does but only sometimes.” 

“Yes,” Boss said unhesitatingly, “Besides, how would you nickname Blurr?” 

Dearcy watched the tiny mechings faceplate scrunch in thought. He shrugged and Dearcy sniggered, only to catch the look of mischief on Hot Rod’s face. 

“Blurry,” he said gleefully, and Blurr’s expression dropped to horror, “or Lurlur.” 

“No!” 

Blaster shook his helm in faint shock, “I like that rule. I refuse nicknames, thank you.” 

“Should we get back on track then, Pree? There’s a mech behind them I’d like some information on, a Soundwave?” Jazz said, a slag eating grin stretched across his face. 

“I can and will say no to your next courting gift.” Prowl responded. Jazz jerked back startled, and cackled. Dearcy rolled her optics. They were sickeningly sweet together. 

Blaster stared at the mech on screen, shorter than the Prime or his Protector, but hovering behind them like a shadow, with a cyberpanther curled at his pedes, and a pair of cryohawks on his shoulder pauldrons. 

“He’s like me,” Blaster said slowly, “He’s a City-Born. But. I don’t know what city. I’ve never met another City-Born.” 

Red Alert hummed, “That could be a problem. I’m going to increase your range with the cameras. Lot’s of practice.” 

Blaster nodded slowly. Dearcy was so proud of him. 

Clutchhorn across the room, who headed the Southrail Warren leaned forward to stare at the holo, “We’ll deal with that as it comes. No sense in worrying over problems what ain’t here yet. I want t’ know what we’re doin’ with the Senate ponce when he comes to town.” 

Verilight waggled her wings in a salacious little smug motion. Dearcy pulled a face at her, Verilight was always flirting with some mech, “Prowl is claiming City head, first off.” 

Her boss sat straight up on the couch, his wings shooting up fast enough to fling a cold pack onto Jazz, “I am?” 

Every gang mech and non cohort leveled him with a look. Dearcy sighed deeply. This was why she’d decided to be a general. No sense in these people. 

“Duh. Your cohort is cooperative, not authoritative, but the city already follows you lot. You make good choices, most of the time, and Herself likes you. Besides, it’s only publicly. We don’t actually need a city head.” Dearcy scoffed. 

Prowl cycled his optics at her. “Right. A council thing then? Laws of a sort and big decisions are made in a council like this?” 

His wings fluttered nervously and Nonya cooed from across the room, “Aww, precious, need not worry. Councils are good, and advice is well heeded, but your little group will make the big choices. The cycle to cycle is each mech’s own business.” 

Jazz tipped backwards beside Prowl and groaned. The whole group looked scared stiff, actually, and Dearcy wondered why. It was only the official version of what they’d already been doing. If a mech needed to die, they’d kill him. If they weren’t safe, then they’d fix it. If someone needed help, then they’d help. 

Silly. 

“What will we do with the Prime?” Clutchhorn demanded, “Who is in charge was already established. Verilight makes the new City code, Sharpgear makes it better, they all say yes. Functioning continues. We cannot injure this Prime, not as we once did to get Zeta to turn his sights from us. What?” 

“Traps.” Prowl said faintly, “Traps, and, well, and we can hurt them in other ways. He has mecha with him that we can hurt, and physical harm isn’t the only option. Political is easy right now, he’s not established yet, or experienced. Emotional damage, and hits to his credibility are still on the table, too. Traps, then.” 

Dearcy chirped happily. This is why she followed Boss. He was clever about his promises and his actions. She’d never have thought about traps that the mech could trigger himself. Then he’d just have set off a defense, he’d have hurt himself, not them. 

“Speaking of this law business,” Nonya said, in her creaking vocalizations, her second emerged handing her a cube of coolant, “How sure are we that it’ll work with our city? That Tyrest business sure never did, just allowed the mecha in power to ruin Her.” 

Verilight grinned, “For one it's less law, more of a code. I’m planning on code keepers, who’ll be unbiased in judgments, but wont have authority beyond interpretation or helping Klax in his security. Most of the discipline and keeping to the code will be left to whatever group the offender belongs to. It’s common sense slag too, like no unwarranted murders. If ya kill someone, then you gotta defend your choice.” 

“Huh. It’s intuitive and adaptable then,” mused Twistplate, who ran most of the brothels and dance clubs in Praxus, “Good. We aren’t a people made for strict structures.” 

Prowl laughed, “Oh, don’t I know that. I’ve certainly adapted plenty in my vorn here.” 

“And you’re all the better for it, dear.” Nonya said, matter-of-factly, and Dearcy nodded along. 

She wondered if Prowl would let her help set up the traps. It’d be fun, she thought. 

”What kinda traps you thinkin’, love?” Jazz asked, and the room paid attention to Prowl’s careful consideration. 

“Not too many physical traps, I think we should have them, but not active for the Prime. Too much risk to be accused of breaking the promise I made. We are going to be using this time to prove that we aren’t trust-lacks.” 

Nonya threw her helm back and laughed, “Ya wantin’ to trick the lot of them into ruinin’ themselves on public holo! Trick ‘em into ruinin’ their standin’ in Praxus even!” 

“Quite.” Prowl was satisfied, happy, Dearcy could see the planning behind his optics. It did seem boring though, especially for Prowl, who really did like fancy plans with lots of tricks. 

“Can I help?” She asked, desperately hoping the answer wasn’t no. She’d wanted to be general, Prowl had given her a considering look before he’d said yes. Sometimes his consideration wasn’t nice though, sometimes it was like when he considered the smallest mechlings to learn if they were lying about whether they’d fueled. 

Sometimes he considered if you were lying, or useful, or whether you were worth his aid. Sometimes he considered whether he could help you become more than you were though, and would do things like introduce Blaster and Red Alert, or make Verilight rewrite the laws. It was all the same look though, no difference in his expression. 

Dearcy needed to be useful, to be wanted by Prowl. She needed him to be proud of her, to keep trusting her. No one else had before him, she couldn’t lose it. 

“Yes, I think you can.” He said slowly and Dearcy grinned like the moons had aligned and he smiled back, the vicious thing that had made her first pay him attention vorn ago. 

Jazz tipped his helm back and laughed beside him, his visor bright, even as Red Alert hummed consideringly. The odd little device whirled faster in its alcove on the counter behind the snack plates. Prowl had called it an anchor once, decaorn ago, and said that soon it’d be the only one in the city. 

Dearcy still didn’t know what that meant, but from the wistful and spiteful look that Verilight had thrown it earlier, she guessed it was now. 

“Has anyone started processing the frames from the precinct explosion?” Prowl asked Ratchet, and he grinned slowly. 

“No. Are you wanting to use them like a warning, like out of the savage ages?” 

Dearcy didn’t know history. Not really. But sometimes, when Praxus Herself brought the old symbols and signs up from way deep in her struts, there were garlands of old protohelms and struts dangling like a macabre decoration. 

She’d already seen the younger street sparks, from her crew and others, stringing little crystals and scavenged parts from them, renewing the rusted spots on the strings of ancient frame parts. 

Occasionally the Leakers would wander up during the night cycle to balance a new protohelm on the signs, hammer it in with a spike carved of sprouting crystal. The oldest of them was already growing over with sparkling moss buds, and blooming glow crystals in the empty optic sockets. 

Prayer flimsies kept getting left in the gaping intakes of the crystal helms, and they’d be gone by morning. Blaster read them to his Creator, and Dearcy had listened once. His Creator would hum louder at the prayers, shift higher in the sewers and streets, raising their tower spire ever higher then Vos’ in the distance. 

She could see how the grayed frames of the enforcers could be a warning. 

They’d fit right in, too. She wondered if the great gear clock that Whirl had made was still ticking away in the floor of the precinct, it didn’t track time, not really, but it had served its purpose. There was nothing so eery as the sound of the clockwork tick of ancient frames long since evolved past. 

Everyone and everything was fast, silent, digital and flowing with energy. Praxus and Polyhex both valued clockwork as an art form, but kept them silent. Tarn and Kaon ran on steam power and ancient petrol powered grids, but kept them hidden, behind a facade of rich modernity. 

Then Whirl had made his little clockwork mechimals, birds tick-tick-ticking as they turned their helms, and flew, and watched, singing in rhythmic chimes. Snakes that clatter-clicked and turned their fangs like an ancient laser revolver, with acid venom instead of energy rounds. Dozens upon dozens of moths that flew on brass wings that whirred in loud sounds as they flocked together in mesmerizing patterns of clicking teeth and turning mechanisms. 

Now Praxus ticked and turned, sectors shifting and flowing into massive patterns, sometimes random, and sometimes simply turning and turning like the hands of an old chronometer. She echoed with the sound long forgotten, of chimes, and clicks, and the tick that sparks used to make as they spun in chambers that used to be clockwork long ago. 

Nowadays they were silent, spiraling open on oiled mechanisms. No mech had ever forgotten the sound of rusted gears clacking as a chamber opened, though, generations removed, and centivorn past. Even now as the only vestige of the most ancient of mechs was passed and the only remnant was the T-cog. 

It freaked most mecha out, from the other cities. She’d watched Prowl’s brothers shriek in terror when faced with a bird watching them, silent save the turn of cogs and gears. 

If she could arrange for the frames to be displayed over the clock, maybe half animated by gears, she could turn the key for a window of movement if Whirl could hook them up. Whirl was squeamish though, liked building more than hurt. 

Maybe something else. 

She bared her denta at Prowl in a grin, “That would damage their spirits nicely, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yes, it rather would. In addition, he’d be the first Prime to so much as visit Praxus since Zeta before the Quintesson War. They’ll follow tradition like it's a rule.” Prowl glanced at Inferno, who looked like he’d just had a revelation. 

“Tradition was established with the first. Tour of Duty after Nova’s civil war, when Praxus first earned her independence, limited at the time,” he mused quietly, “The Prime was mostly offering encouragement at the time, since most cities were rebuilding and populating. That means the Precinct first, then hospitals, council of Lords, then a speech to the citizens as a whole.” 

Dearcy giggled, “You mean we’re going to be throwing them off from the start. Can I use the crews?” 

“Please do,” Wheeljack said, as he fiddled with a thing that looked remarkably like a tiny mesh flimsie, the size of a servo. He tossed it at her then, and she unfolded a pennant painted with Praxus’ symbol. He mimed tossing it up and held up a trigger. 

She flicked it into the air and Wheeljack flicked his trigger. Instantly it melted, leaving a shower of trailing sparks. She stared. That didn’t seem useful. 

“I’m going to paint their faces. And the symbols for the senate and the Prime,” Sunstreaker offered, “Wheeljack has big ones.” 

Wheeljack elbowed Ratchet beside him conspiratorially, “We used these in the Quintesson war, actually. Me and Ratchet, and our squad. A few other squads too. There’s no damage behind them, and you can leave messages underneath. In the war it was to mark safe and unsafe areas, and raids from the Quints.” 

Ratchet sighed, softly, and nostalgic, and Dearcy remembered that the both of them were older than rust. “We can use them the same way here. They react to helium, so the triggers are just to release the gas into the air, it dissipates with the banners. They can be warnings, no mech wants to watch themselves burn.” 

Dearcy hums. If she can get a couple crews on board, and she knows she can, then she can get these banners everywhere. She can even put Praxus’ symbol, or the Gear’s callsign underneath them. That would claim their city even better. 

Prowl leans forward, “We can’t bomb them, or use acid pellets. They could use the Prime as a shield. What we can do is turn them on themselves. If they hurt each other, then their own trust is broken. The Senate mecha holding the Prime’s chain is going to be the weak point. They didn’t choose this Prime, or his Lord Protector. Your job is to sew the seeds of distrust for them.” 

Dearcy grins. She’d seen the senate on holos, and they’d have five orn and and bunches of cites to observe and prepare. The Senate were soft, political and polite. Praxus politicians would shoot each other in the spark to climb higher, and higher assassins without a second vent. The Iaconian Senate liked their reputation best. 

It would be all too easy, not to expose old misdeeds, she didn’t need to do that. She needed to provoke new ones, to make them desperate. To make them do the tricky things that the mecha who sought power always did in Praxus. In Praxus there were cameras everywhere, with more going up all the time. 

While they were in Praxus Her network would run alongside theirs. Red Alert and Blaster were the only ones that could access the cameras. If they got desperate, if she could push them far enough, then they’d broadcast it. They couldn’t hide footage that they couldn’t access, couldn’t bribe those who didn’t trust them not to have them killed to cover their tracks. 

Once that was done then the whole planet would look for more. No one was stupid enough to broadcast the provocation, and they’d have to hide it by attacking their own mecha. 

Only Praxus could effect Praxus after all. They protected their own. Always. 

It was easy to look back and see what was hidden once you knew to look. This would be fun. This would be more fun then watching Prowl play with his weirdos from Iacon, or watching Whirl make his mechimals and disappear into the sewer. 

And that was plenty fun, he always came back up looking like he’d seen Primus. The only thing down there was Leakers and bomb shelters. The arena was long gone. Even the archives didn’t have doors in the sewers. 

“I wonder if they’re gonna ask to see our temple. Or Vector access point.” Clutchhorn mused. It was a little mean to ask. 

Nonya snorted, “I ain’t got nothing against coldsparked mecha, but we ain’t got a Vector access. We should, they’re supposed to be set up in every major city, but the senate ‘as always controlled those.” 

“I know,” Clutchhorn rejoined, “We haven’t got a temple either, just shrines. Most of our shrines are to Praxus too, not Primus. I just thought that might help put the turbofox in with the robo-chickens.” 

“Oh,” Dearcy breathed out, delighted, “We have a couple shrines to Unicron? They’re usually shared with Praxus, too. Chaos over order, and all that slag.” 

Jazz giggled, “I helped set one o’ those up. It’s fun, I leave tiny firecrackers at it when I leave prayers. Old habit from my creators.” 

Blaster hummed, “That would be interesting too, especially since Creator won’t let them destroy any shrines. She likes them. That’d be seen as divine interference if any o’ them are actually religious. I doubt it, but Primes s’pposed to be a religious figure, so who knows. We do have a sigma point though?” 

Prowl grinned then, and Dearcy knew that grin from her boss meant that he’d figured something out, “That’s where you came from. It’s a raw access point, right? No senate framework, limiters, or frame factories. Your Creator, Herself, is directing it entirely?” 

“Uuh. Sure?” 

“You have no idea what I’m saying, do you?” Prowl asked, wryly. 

“Nope.” Blaster shrugged, shifting Steeljaw on his shoulder slightly. 

“Vector Sigma access points didn’t used to be only used to enspark adult frames. That was started by the Senate, way back when it was just a council of Cities.” Ratchet murmurs, softly, almost pained, “I remember when they started they had to experiment with limiters because they ended with drones, which were actually new sparks in adult frames. Not much ability to work when ya still got to grow up.” 

Wheeljack whines, grumbling quietly, “That was why they first built smelters, you know. They’d tip them in, and you could hear screams as they melted halfway across the city. That was why Ratch and I first left Altihex. It was awful.” 

“They figured out limiters eventually, and the adult frames could think, even do what they wanted. Work contracts and indenture forms were originally just for the coldsparked, work off what they owed the Senate for being built and Sparked.” Nonya recalled, “Not that that lasted long. They paused during the war, but now Praxus is the only City that doesn't use contracts for some mecha other than coldsparked.” 

“It’s why my creators came to Praxus,” Jazz says quietly, “They were in debt and the Senate wanted everymech in our family under contract to repay it. They took my twin right out of Center, an’ the only reason they didn’t get me and use us both against my creators was that I had a virus at the time. We had’ta leave Rico behind, since they’d cut his helm open to rewire the contract in soon as they had ‘im.” 

Ratchet hums, “Those contracts were a bad idea from the start. There used to be protests, but after the war no mech remembered why, not really. At least not enough. Too many mecha died in the war, or went under the mnemosurgeon to remove warcoding. Easy to dig out rebellion while you’re at it.”

“You can’t mnemo bonded couples though, not really. It causes bad feedback loops and both mecha end up having spark attacks. Soldiers weren’t really supposed to bond, and no one knew why. Probably that. But because no one knew, lots of us did anyways.” Wheeljack leans on Ratchet, his helm fins nearly grey in old grief. 

“Our squad had six mechs,” Ratchet said, “Me and Jackie were bonded in the first vorn, the squad medic and the weapons engineer. Ha. Brawn and Gears were bonded after, called us the Peace Bond, and themselves the War bond. Primus, the two of them were mean.” 

Wheeljack laughed softly, and Dearcy shared a look with Blaster. They never got to hear about the war. No one asked about it, even in learning centers. It was a centivorn ago, and even bookfiles were hard to find. 

“Oh, bless,” Wheeljack cooed, “Remember Devon and Groove? They danced around each other for vorn, bonded right before the last siege. They were so sweet together, held off so long in their courting, both convinced the other would change their minds.” 

“Oh, yes. I remember,” Ratchet says, warmer than Dearcy has ever heard him, “We were a clean up squad mostly, help the wounded, support the back, that sort of thing. Jackie did weapons maintenance, Brawn and Gears protected the squad, but Dev and Groovey, oh they were the spark of the squad. Devcon was a scout, helped us navigate and find who needed help.” 

“Bless his leaking spark,” Wheeljack said wryly, “We helped as many Quints and organic then that Ratch could probably still decertify as a qualified medic for outsystem work. He’d spot them, an’ he’d just look at’cha, all weepy like. Sweet sparklet really, just wanted to help whoever he could.” 

“Oh, Groove though. Groove was real funny. He wasn’t meant for war, not really. He was soft-sparked to the struts. Dev would be beggin’ us to help an injured Quint, and Brawn and Gears would be grouching about us helping the enemy, and Groove had learned Quintessea, for some reason, so he’d just sit and talk, ignore us all to talk to ‘em.” Ratchet laughed deeply. 

“Got to the point where the Quints knew our squad and would let us pass, even point us in the direction of whatever line they’d just decimated. We’d help our own, of course, but they knew we’d help theirs too.” Wheeljack hummed, and he looked unbearably sad, “Towards the end of the war that petered off, of course. Weren’t enough quints left, even if we still got mostly safe passage. They never aimed at us, just near.” 

“What happened?” Dearcy asked, soft and she winced as every adult in the room cringed. Nonya sighed from her armchair. 

“What do you think, sparklet?” She asked with her creaking voice, “They were all bonded. The Senate wasn’t kind to those who disobeyed them, even back then.” 

“Especially then. We were lucky, even if I don’t like thinking about it that way.” Ratchet says, his optics far away, “They started with Devcon. They were just supposed to be deactivating war code and the Squad links. I could’ve done it, did later, but that wasn’t protocol.” 

“Groove just collapsed screaming. It was the scariest thing I’d ever seen, and we’d just fought in a war for vorn upon vorn,” Wheeljack whispered, “He wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. Just screamed, and screamed, and screamed until his vocalizer gave out.” 

Ratchet played with Wheeljack’s digits, tracing an old scar, an old, twisting, silvery line of protometal, “It took me too long to realize what was happening. I had to isolate their bond in Groove’s processor, which isn’t, it wasn’t, I-“

He sobbed then, a dry thing, just a hiccup of old emotion, and Wheeljack finished for him, “It was new enough that it worked, but we had to leave Devcon behind and get out, the remaining four of us. We went to Altihex, to my old compound and hid. Groove never recovered, not really.” 

“The bond was still there. You can’t cut off a bond, not a spark bond anyways. Devcon found Groove, and I was able to fix most of the damage to him, but they both have trouble. Groove still can’t always tell what’s real, can’t defend himself at all. Dev, sweet Dev, he has these fits of temper. Just- fights, when there’s no need for it. They both live with Brawn and Gears, in, um, Simfur, I think.” Ratchet admits, as if it’s shameful. 

Dearcy can’t imagine how. Ratchet’s the best medic she knows, the best in Praxus for sure. No one fights a mnemosurgeon though, everymech knows that. You run from someone who can turn your processor inside out with a digit, as fast as you can. 

“They’re recovering, slowly. Dev is getting better about it, but he does bounties in Simfur for the enforcers, works with Brawn for them, to do so. He only lost his temper at Groove once, and Gears had to call us since Groove was half slagged from just letting Dev hit him. Dev was horrified once he came back to himself, and never let himself go near Groove in a temper again. Tried to leave entirely, actually.” Wheeljack muses, then Ratchet laughs, thickly. 

“Poor Groove was so upset about that. We were still in Altihex then. Dev just took off, commed in to tell us he wasn’t coming back. Brawn had to drag him back by his finials because Groove wouldn’t stop crying. Practically used Dev as an anchor for reality, and since he was injured at the time, he’d convinced himself the war was still going.” 

Dearcy tries to imagine that, being so broken in the helm that a mate hurts you, and you can’t actually tell it was your mate. She shudders, just once. She’s really glad she was sparked well after the war. 

The only fighting close to that she has to deal with is gang wars, where mecha shoot at each other, then just go away. It’s over quick, then you pick up. 

“Anyways. We’d warned as many squads as we could when we ran,” Wheeljack says quietly, “If we can get people looking then there’s plenty to find. Most of the mecha on the senate are the same mechs, too. I don’t think I’ve ever trusted the Senate after all that.” 

“I haven’t,” Ratchet grumbles, old rage shining from his optics, “It’s why we came to Praxus in the first place. It’s safer here. I’m not giving that up, thank you very much.” 

Dearcy doesn’t grin. She doesn’t snarl, or offer any of her false faces for their benefit. Instead she nods, with perfect seriousness and glances at Prowl, who looks quietly devastated. 

Then she squares her shoulders and says, “Our City is independent of the Senate for a reason. We’ll just have to give the Senate a reason to be independent of us, too. They’re trust-lacks, obviously. No need to do anything other than our very best, and every reason to go beyond. You’re ours, not theirs.” 

Prowl nods at her, approving and proud. She nods back, and then beams. She can’t help it, really. Anyways, it makes Wheeljack laugh, so it was worth it. 

She has work to do though, and as the adults turn back to the holo and talk about boring adult stuff like tactics and apologies for old history, she starts to plot. 

Chapter Text

The one working gate, a checkpoint manned by a contingent of the army on the outer edge, was definitely not what Optimus had expected. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, really, but it wasn’t to pass through several checkpoints of grim soldiers, with more active battle masks the further they got. It was several caravans away from the gate that the army had secured, as if the city itself were hostile from the gate itself outward. 

Optimus had maybe expected the gate itself to be pretty. He’d seen the pictures of the helix gardens, the crystals on every corner in little gardens and window boxes. He’d poured over holos of the great city’s architecture, all delicate arches and spirals, and excavated marble and stone, and as expensive and rare as true stonework was, it was considered a marvel. 

The gate itself he’d expected to reflect that. He’d expected a beautiful monument, a crystal laden thing of delicate architecture and pretty craftsmanship. He’d expected some damage, but that he’d see an example of Praxus’ renowned beauty that they were known for as the City of Crystals. 

He’d admit that it was pretty and impressive both, but as a battlemasked Chromia and her squad escorted his group to the gate, Optimus would admit that it wasn’t what he expected at all. 

It had the stonework he’d expected, the massive wall of marble shored with living crystal glowing faintly in the light of the army camp, leading into the doors as if they’d been grown out of the walls. Perhaps they had been. 

Rubble surrounded the gate’s base, piles of dead crystal fragments and marble chunks higher than a shuttleformer, strewn across the plain outside as if they’d been dug away. Chromia veered away from them as if expecting the debris to attack. 

The gates were not delicate. They were not pretty, rather they imposed themselves, demanded attention. It was a savage sort of beauty really, the sweeping waves of spark bright crystal woven through the deactivation gray marble. They were propped open only enough to allow a small party through, and guarded besides. 

They were far taller than the walls surrounding them, and the supporting arch that held the gates affixed to the walls had many things strung along the top. The wreathes, which delighted Optimus probably more than they ought, were an ancient tradition of welcome. 

They were traditionally crystals alongside a representation of whatever the city was known for, and were set out to greet The Prime’s procession. The other cities had long forgotten such things, but Praxus was old fashioned and Optimus had always loved history. 

Megatron slicked his plating down nervously at his shoulder and Optimus offered him a small smile. Soundwave behind Megatron, his dear friend’s ever present shadow, was also shifting nervously. Optimus was missing something. 

He looked left to Chromia, whose own optics were on the gate, and the Praxian guards just beyond it. There seemed to be two factions in a standoff, he noticed as they drew nearer. Magnus was bristling at the forefront of one of them, with Ironhide at his shoulder. 

He was glaring down at a lithe femme and a boxy mech, both in bright stately day cycle colors, the femme in pinks and oranges and the mech in reds and yellows. Optimus chuckled lowly, the Praxian ideal of beauty was far less focused on function as the rest of Cybertron was. 

Praxus liked color. They revered color, in their art, their gardens, their homes, and on themselves. Any mech on the planet might be vain, but Praxians would tip their olfactories at so much as a color shade they deemed to be wrong. They also liked movement, dances and song and the wind chimes popular in Vos had originated here. 

The brightly colored mecha at the gate may have found themselves to be an eyesore in the other cities, whose paint ran along a a duller, less optic straining palate, but Optimus was quite sure that they were gorgeous here. 

They also had thick, uneven jags of black along their doorwings and Optimus wondered at that. They interrupted the symmetry of their paint, which didn’t seem to follow Praxian ideals. Though, considering their lopsided posture and tilted smirks, perhaps the symmetry was a miscommunication in his book files. 

Chromia paused, not quite a stumble in her step, but a catch in her balance. Her battle mask snicked shut. Not merely the intake cover either, but all the way to cover her vulnerable optics as well. Optimus glanced at her curiously. She was staring upward at the wreath garlanding the gate. 

Optimus heard Soundwave stop moving behind him, and Megatron’s mask slide shut as well. Optimus slowly stopped and looked upward, trying to focus his lenses upwards against the glare of Sol. He cursed the matrix slightly. Why the wretched thing had to not only change his name down to a spark deep level but also alter his frame was beyond him. 

If the thing were going to give him a frame two helms taller than before and armored like a warrior of old, then Optimus could not fathom why it would have left the holo burnt eyes from his scribe work in the archives. Optimus truly saw better when there wasn’t so much light. 

A deep gray fog drifted from the city with sparks of color in it, crackling merrily, and Optimus hummed delightedly. He could focus his blurred lenses so much better now, and the fog was lovely, truly. 

There were corpses hanging from the garland. 

Optimus took a half step back and stumbled blindly into Megatron’s protective hold. 

There were grayed frames hanging from the wreath, the wreath that was an old, long forgotten tradition to define the welcome of a Prime. Of him. 

They were in pieces, arms with faded paint, wings with plating wrenched almost deliberately, pedes painted with crude glitters like the escort mecha in Iacon’s red light district. There were perhaps eight distinct different mecha that Optimus could tentatively tell apart, and nary a helm. He made himself look away. 

Just above reach was a smaller wreath strung between the gates themselves. A group of tiny mechlings lounged in little clawed out perches on the gate above it, leering down with mean smiles as their small, flightless sensor panels wiggled and flicked relentlessly. Tiny mecha-sparrows flew in flocks around them, twittering dully. 

Something about the sparrows terrified Optimus for no good reason. Something very deep within him, unidentified and ancient, found those sparrows deeply unsettling. 

A single helm swung from the center of the smaller garland, crushed and reshaped, poorly. Its optics were gone and deep purple crystals had replaced it. The same crystals lined the rest of the wreath, along dark blues and charcoal ones, all jagged and budding. Optimus called his old file on crystal lore to his fore processor and flicked through it idly as he tried to remember why the mangled helm seemed familiar. 

A sign swung from the helm, afixed to its chin and neck cabling. It read, “Trust; Loyalty; Ours.” 

His cross referencing pinged slightly, a soft chime that let Megatron turn to look at him for the results of whatever he searched. He’d kept that too, from Orion. His old, bad optics, and his archivist’s habits and quirks. He would never understand the accursed matrix, never. 

“Dark twilight crystals mean tests, they’re sly, often called the turbofox’s folly. Deep dusk crystals are a peace offering, they’re given not after a fight, but to prevent one. Charcoal core crystals are a warning. They are grown to mark the borders of dangerous places, or the bounds of a home.” 

“Those are what they’ve grown above the gate?” Chromia asked sharply, “You should turn back. Please, just let this city be.”

”I agree,” Megatron rumbled behind him, “It doesn’t seem safe. I’m your protector, you need to be safe.” 

“Don’t be silly. They’re marking the bounds of a home, aren’t they?” Optimus starts walking again towards the city, smiling at the femme just inside the gate and his old friends alike, “Or a city, really. It’s clever really, they are saying they wish to do this peacefully, but they’re independent still. Although, the frames are off putting, although I suspect, fake. I wonder if they’re supposed to be criminals. I think that used to be common, once.” 

His Lord Protector tromped after him grumpily, and after a moment, Soundwave and his Senate guards followed too. Optimus stopped just before the gate and paused to think. He didn’t quite remember the old protocol. None of the other cities had observed it. He bowed with what he hoped was the right angle and depth to the gate guards. 

The mechlings giggled and tittered above him and one of his senate guards made a whimpery sigh. He’d definitely gotten it wrong. Oops. Optimus didn’t understand why the depth of a bow or angle of respect was so important to the Senate, but he tried. He really did. He was an archivist. Bows weren’t exactly important in the archives. 

Only now he was Prime and bows were important, as were the complicated sayings to open any sort of conversation, and the ridiculous posturing and speeches that the senate insisted on writing for him. Primus’ sake, he was an archivist. He could write his own Unicron bedamned speech. 

He’d tried that, actually, in Kaon. He’d worked on it for cycles, with Megatron helping and Soundwave advising since it was their city. He had been proud of it and nearly memorized it from the sheer amount of work put in. He’d gotten three paragraphs into ignoring the senate’s speech in favor of his own. 

Then the senate vanguard had cut the connection to the broadcast and hustled the whole lot of them out of the city entirely. Megatron had been fuming about it the whole caravan trip out to Praxus’ badlands border. Soundwave had been disappointed too, Optimus could tell. 

Now Soundwave was wary and delighted, Optimus noted as he glanced back to eye his friend, after a fashion. The stoic mech was stepping lighter, his plating loose as he swung his helm from sight to sight, always eyeing either a group of grimy mechlings or of the eery songbirds. 

Those songbirds were truly alarming. They looked like any other bird on Cybertron, shiny and graceful, and plenty melodic, but something was just slightly off about them. They moved just a touch slower and a tick faster, with jerky motions and long still moments. Their melodies weren’t as lyrical as the songbirds that gathered in great flocks in Iacon. 

They were like a call and response, chaotic and changing and nearly organic in the tones. Their melodies were like many conversations at once conducted in staccato chimes and bells. 

Soundwave seemed honestly delighted by the creepy things, almost as much as he was alarmed by the mechlings, constantly tossing them suspicious glares from behind his constant battle mask. 

Optimus had seen under Soundwave’s mask once. He was handsome, well formed with his nearly liquid gold optics and gentle faceplate. He also had absolutely no control over what his face said, and with as much input as he constantly had from his symbiotes, it allowed no secrets. 

Optimus had picked out his visor as a creation day gift. Soundwave constantly wore it in a public setting. Megatron had teased him for ages over his delight over such. It wasn’t Optimus’ fault that he liked giving gifts so much. 

The pink and orange femme lifted her black crossed wings in greeting as they approached. “Hello, to the Prime’s party. It’s been a long time since one o’ you visited, and longer since you were welcomed.” 

Optimus stuttered for a moment. Praxus’ history with the primes was rocky to say the least. That… probably wasn’t a threat. He hoped. 

Magnus eased back slightly, a look of steady wariness on his faceplate. Ironhide bristled beside him, snarling out, “And jus’ what is that supposed to mean you li’l turnplate?” 

“Turnplate? Oh, I do suppose I’m a traitor in your optics, but you’ll find your opinion to be yours alone here. I have held my Loyalty.” 

The red mech beside her flared his wings wide, “Verilight is loyal. We all are. We broke our code before we broke our cohort, willingly and cleanly. You can’t betray what you don’t belong to, and aren’t loyal to. Unless you’re implying that we’ve betrayed your precious Speaker Spark?” 

“Aww, you think we care about your stupid Prime?” The femme cooed, sickly sweet and cheerful, “Bless your sparks. Nah, Emberspire is right, we don’t give a half processed slag. Boss promised we wouldn’t touch ‘im, and we won’t. But we ain’t gotta owe loyalty for that. No primes, no senate, no rules, no breakers. Our city, our loyalty.” 

Optimus recalled the sign idly. Trust, loyalty, ours. He had the feeling that Megatron had been right and that they were about to kick the insecticon’s nest hard. The femme waggled her wings at them and swept her arm to the side in a mock bow of welcome. 

“C’mon then. We gotta halfway station with slag for you folks to refuel and rest for the night cycle in. Ain’t safe for alt modes yet though, roads are gettin’ work done, so that’s as far as you’ll be getting tonight. Tomorrow we can talk.” 

Optimus and his friends stepped past the gate with the senate vanguard behind them. Chromia stepped back as Ironhide and Magnus swung into a guarding position behind them. There was only the softest of clicks as the gate shut behind them, and a thud as its locks fell into place. 

Optimus strode after the femme and mech leading. Verilight and Emberspire, if he was attributing their designations right. They were the guides for the Praxian stay, he supposed. It was a good thing, he needed to check in with the rest of his ground team. Something had happened for Magnus and Ironhide to both be this unsettled. 

Soundwave ghosted up behind him, pitching his vocalizer low for his Miner’s cant to carry, “This city, it’s familiar. Like Kaon, but not quite at all. I think it’s built on a titan like Kaon was. I can connect and try to gather information, if that’d be helpful?” 

Megatron warbled lowly, uncomfortably, before he rumbled out his own answering cant, “Can you do it safely?” 

“Yes. Carriers are rare, and without a carrier, a city is open for communication. I should be able to drop right into the security and cameras, like I do in Iacon.” Soundwave flickered his digits, a nervous habit and communication alike. Basic chirolinguistics for when he didn’t like to talk aloud. 

“Do it,” Optimus breathed in his graceless, accented cant, “I’m worried about Mirage and the others. I sent them here to set up, and I don’t think it ended well. I also did it without telling the senate, so I want to make sure they’re fine.” 

Soundwave hummed an agreement and drifted over to a nearby wall, carefully unspooling one of his data cables as he drifted. It connected to the wall with anchoring wires and servos burrowing past the stonework overlay to tap into the mainframe of the city beneath. 

Soundwave stiffened gradually, then all at once. His battlemask and visor both retracted at once to reveal a look of stark terror on his faceplate. His intake dropped open and a garbled sound of pure screeching static wrenched out. 

Megatron reeled around and tried to gently tug Soundwave away from the wall. He failed, and began yanking at the anchored data cable. The wall seemed to have begun reaching back, wires winding up his cable and slipping under the thin plating over the appendages. 

The awful static from his quiet friend grew to a shrieking painful decibel, then just as abruptly turned to a long continuous scream. Soundwave was fully supported by Megatron now, muttering in miner’s cant into the larger mech’s shoulder and his optics dimmed and brightened in uneven loops. 

“This unit: trespassed. This unit: damaged. This unit: this unit: this-this-thi-th-th-this-help.” 

Megatron cradled Soundwave close, supporting his limp frame as they knelt on the street. The senate vanguard was tittering uselessly, they’d never liked either Kaonite, despite Optimus’ acceptance of them. Soundwave choked for a second, then outright wailed, a staticky, shrieking sound and his vocalizer popped then gave out entirely. His cable was still embedded in the city’s mainframe. 

Verilight weaved her way back and knelt in front of Megatron solemnly, “You’ll have to find a way to separate him. Herself doesn’t take kindly to meddlers. She’s much worse with folk that hurt her li’l bit. He’s definitely done that.” 

Then she leaned to the side and offered a sharkticon’s smile to Magnus and Ironhide. Megatron yanked hard at the cable, earning himself another sharp wail. There was a moment of stuttered chirps between Optimus and Megatron, then Optimus knew to try and pick the grasping wire from the cable himself. 

Megatron snarled above him, “I cannot take it back since his cable is fighting my help. I have an idea, don’t argue.” 

Then Megatron was sliding the neck port cover open on himself, just below his cranium, as well as Soundwave’s and exchanging their cables with a clumsy grace. Then Optimus was faced with the task of guarding his friends as both sets of optics and frames went dim and limp. Soundwave’s datacable chirped and fell from the wall, limp. 

Plugging from helm to helm, processor to processor, was the only known way to form an Amica bond. Conjunx bonded spark to spark, tying their lives, minds, and sparks together until one died and the other followed. Amica tied merely their minds, in a bond strong enough to bond-speak, but not enough to tie their lives outside of the most extreme of strong bonds. 

There had to be a level of trust involved, an unstable Amica bond would sour and degrade both processors leaving the mecha mere shells of themselves. It was the reason that medics used a medipad as a connection interface, even when they weren’t accessing the cranial port. Optimus knew that Soundwave didn’t trust him that far, in fact the quiet mech only trusted his mysterious creator that he’d gush about when prompted, his symbiotes, and Megatron. 

This was going to be a strong bond, Optimus could tell, as Soundwave’s three symbiotes crept out of their carrier’s case to drape themselves over the two tangled mecha, as exhausted and twitchy as Soundwave still was, his helm ticking slightly where it was leaning on Megatron’s own, and his digits clenching and unclenching in fits and starts. 

There was definitely going to be permanent damage from this. Optimus wished he knew where First Aid had gone off to. His nervous medic friend had gone for a conference with the senate some deacon ago, after Mirage had taken his team to Praxus. It wasn’t unusual for First Aid to be called to consult on a case or to provide information. 

It was unusual for his clinic to stand empty for so long. Soundwave needed a medic, his processor had clearly begun degrading as if he’d been hacked by a malicious mnemosurgeon, the astrosecond he’d connected to the city mainframe. Optimus couldn’t understand why. He’d done this dozens upon dozens of times, had connected to Iacon’s often enough to have set up a little network of safe spots for the three of them to avoid the senate with. 

He’d reverted to code speak, like a newling spark, or like a drone. It had been terrifying. Soundwave shifting slightly, his gold optics onlining, dim and flickery, as he jerkily brought his servo to run down Ravage’s spinal relay. The cyberpanther purred loudly and curled her tail through Soundwave’s limp data cable, gathering it in lazy loops. 

Lazerbeak chirped lowly, pressing her tiny helm to the side of Soundwave’s mask port, nibbling at the attachment point where it was usually extended. Her twin warbled from his perch on Megatron’s shoulder pauldron with his helm resting on Soundwave’s helm. Buzzsaw was the least affectionate of them, and he was clearly the most rattled, clinging to the mecha he usually pretended to hate. 

Optimus slowly knelt beside his friends and gently rubbed up and down Soundwave’s arm, then his spinal strut as the mech’s arm started jerking wildly, he was clearly still a bit out of sorts. Megatron’s dim red optics settled on Optimus, and he quirked a smile that was half snarl. 

“He’s not good. Whatever happened practically shredded his processor. I’m putting together what I can, but his connections are torn entirely in places. He can’t access his language protocols at all. And his relays are painful right now. He needs to rest.” 

Optimus nodded and held out his arms for Ravage and Lazerbeak. Megatron could carry Soundwave, and the mech heaved himself to his pedes with Soundwave curled in his arms. Buzzsaw chittered on his helm, hunching like a tiny yellow gargoyle on Megatron’s helm. 

“Could’ve warned you. Praxus is really picky about who accesses Her mainframe, and pickier about outsiders. Herself really doesn’t like Primes, either,” Verilight said from just behind Optimus, and he whirled around as Ravage arched on his shoulder hissing, “Idiot brought that on himself. Who plugs into an active, foreign mainframe anyways?” 

Optimus glared flatly at the femme and she shrugged her wings dramatically before she resettled them lazily, “He did it fine in every other city. He’s not an idiot. And he’s hurt, can you find a medic? Please?” 

Emberspire scoffed loudly, and Optimus spun to see him poking gently at Soundwave’s helm as the carrier whined slightly and Megatron and Buzzsaw both bristled uselessly, “We could find a cutstrut, sure. The Cutstrut even, probably. But it wouldn’t be this cycle, he’s busy. Dearcy should have his comm line, and if he’s willing to help, we can get advice. I wouldn’t count on it though.” 

“And why not?” Optimus asked sharply, “Any medic should help who needs help in whatever way. That’s in the medic code. Magnus, you have medical training, could you-?” 

“Prime, I have field training. This Needs mnemo, or maybe glitch prevention. I can’t be that delicate.” Magus drew closer and eyed the orange mech warily, “You have the crosses. What do they mean, I’ve been seeing them more in the past few orns.” 

Verilight cackled loudly, “Means we took our loyalty back. We’re loyal to the city, the Gears, and our general. Sure ain’t enforcers no more, that’s certain. None left. Didn’t’cha see the gate?” 

Magnus’ field turned flinty and radiated a sick dismay and he drew back sharply, staring between the femme and mech before he turned in a slow circle, his optics catching as he darted his glare around the city block they’d stopped on. Optimus followed his gaze. There were spray painted black crosses dotting the city at all levels, and an equal amount of strange symbols that he didn’t recognize, but Magnus clearly did. 

Emberspire grinned slowly, revealing sharp denta, “He wouldn’t because your mech was an idiot. He got too comfortable and didn’t check compatibility with our mainframe. I guarantee they weren’t, and Cutstrut’ll be busy with our carrier, who probably took a decent amount of backlash. I wouldn’t let him do that again, Herself will kill him for it, already tried. Actually, let me fix that for you.” 

The mecha’s face lost any humour it might have had and he lunged for Megatron and Soundwave as the massive miner scrambled back with his new Amica clutched close. Soundwave pressed his face into Megatron’s neck, still limp and twitching, and trembled with one terrified optic peeking out. Buzzsaw screeched and tipped forward into flight to divebomb the lunging Praxian. 

Megatron twisted away directly into Verilight’s path and she slammed into him, hooking one servo into his elb and the other beneath one of his backplates, holding a struggling Megatron in place with far more ease than Optimus was comfortable with. He twisted and jerked but could not free himself. Ironhide started forward and was stopped by several mechlings that dropped out of nowhere to surround the miner and the suddenly hostile Praxians. 

Emberspire reached forward, ignoring the attacking Buzzsaw, who had been joined by an enraged and equally disregarded Lazerbeak. He clasped the base of Soundwave’s limp data cable and twisted his servo as his claws sank in digit deep severing the limb entirely. Soundwave shrieked and Megatron shuffled his grip to swipe out at the mech, his own claws outstretched. 

The Praxians released him to skitter back, Emberspire still clutching Soundwave’s data cable. Soundwave was letting out little wailing sobs into Megatron’s neck cables and Optimus clutched Ravage close, ignorant to her struggles and the claw marks she left as she yowled for her carrier. 

”Ey, Dearcy, how’s Blaster?” Verilight asked the blue femmeling who had led the mechling drop, and she clutched her energy knife with a snarl. 

“Bad. He collapsed, and Klax is with him, so’s Boss, so he’ll be fine, but right now he hurts. Herself is hurt too, I think, a’cuz he’s trying to climb back down pretty hard. Klax won’ let him, but my lieutenant is down for now.” 

Magnus stepped forward, cautious and wary, and the femmeling whirled around, her damaged wings high in defense as she lifted the blade into a defensive position. Magnus knelt down to her height, “Hello, Dearcy. Did Prowl ask for that? He had promised me that my friends would be safe here.” 

“Nah, he didn’t. He promised that he and his wouldn't hurt your precious Prime. City’s his, so your pretty, l’il senate-fragger is safe. rest of them sure ain’t though, an’ I don’t need Boss’s permission to neutralize a threat. I like that word, neutralize. Make a threat baseline, prevent aggressive action. I haven’t, you know. Neutralized him.” 

Optimus held Ravage closer and took a large step backwards, even as Magnus’ face contorted with horror. Megatron scrambled back from the mechling as Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw circled above him, wary and watching. 

“I would ask that you don’t do that,” Magnus said, hushed and nervous, “May I have Soundwave’s appendage back? He’ll need it reattached.” 

“Appendage?” Dearcy’s helm tilted like a curious mecha-sparrow. 

“Limb.” Optimus' voice was small, lost in his confusion and distress, but he was an archivist. He knew words. So did she, apparently, and Optimus wasn’t sure he wanted that kinship with this femmeling, even though he usually sought out that sort of clever companionship. 

“Oh. Yeah, no.” 

Verilight hummed, confused herself, “What are you wanting with it, General Dearce? Ain’t like Blaster can put it on, it’s’a limb not a weapon.” 

“Emberspire?” Dearcy said, tipping her helm back at an awful angle, “Go give it to the nearest shrine. He damaged Herself, and my Lieutenant. He can recompense by offering his own damage back. I don’t give a slag if it’s willing. Phanstar, Dreplate, go help ‘im nail it down and set the crystals in. We’re givin’ it to Herself.” 

“I,” Optimus began hesitantly, “really don’t think that Primus would appreciate a lim as an offering. The shrine offering is truly unnecessary.” 

“Who the frag said it was a shrine to Primus? Ain’t none of those here.” Dearcy scoffed and trailed after Emberspire as he strode around a corner to a wall lined with shelves and prayer flimsies tucked between crystals and under random objects. The mech began holding the data cable to the wall starting at the base of it. 

One of the mechlings grabbed up a jar of long, mean looking, barbed nails from a lower shelf. He began slamming them in with crunches to hold the cable to the wall as Emberspire slowly snaked it up the wall, weaving between shelves. The other mechling slid a little lockbox out from an alcove and began boring holes at random points along the limb. 

Into each hole she left a plug of crystal buds. As the cable was pinned to the wall it began shining dully, an unhealthy purple color, as the Biolights lit up for no discernible reason. It was pretty, artistic even, Optimus realized. 

Dearcy nodded firmly behind him, with a quiet, “Yes, gorgeous. Good offering. Herself accepted it, even,” she turned to Megatron, her faceplate blank and hostile, “If he tries that again then his helm will get pinned above it.” 

Then she and the other mechlings scaled a nearby wall and vanished just as fast. Optimus turned, clutching a trembling, huddled Ravage close to his chest plate. The senate vanguard looked both scandalized and disgusted. Magnus looked grim and unsurprised, and Ironhide was staring after the femmeling with an oddly wistful look. 

Senator Ratbat, who had definitely been sent to manage Optimus from how many times he harassed him about his manners, harrumphed loudly, “Well, I never! How uncivilised! If this is an indicator of the whole of the city, then I’d say the sense left it for far too long. Honestly, threatening mecha, damaging them, even shrines to someone other than Primus! I’d hazard that they’re worshipping Unicron, even, of all the ridiculous things.” 

Optimus swallowed past the lump in his intake and he rasped out, “That wasn’t a threat.” 

“No?” The senator asked meanly, “What would you call that then? Savage, feral things, those mechlings. Ought to be rounded up and put in an education center.” 

“I’d call it a warning,” Optimus said thickly, “and I think you should lower your volume.” 

The senator scoffed, and crossed his arms. He had never cared about his precious protocol with Optimus, berating the Prime and insulting his decisions without hesitation. He wouldn’t heed that, Optimus knew. He’d been Sentinel's biggest support. 

“One you’d best heed.” Verilight said from directly behind Optimus and he jumped startled, even as an equally alarmed Ravage’s claws sank into his forearm, “Let’s go then. Our uncivilized, savage, Unicron-respecting City will be waiting for your stupid tour in the morning, best hole up for the night cycle, though.” 

The group trailed after the two Praxians again, quieter and warier than before. 

Chapter Text

Blaster had bounced back overnight. That was good, since he was shadowing Emberspire in watching the interlopers for any bad moves. Prime’s group probably wouldn’t trust her fellow code keeper anymore, even if Verilight was more endeared than ever. She’d known that the former officer had a hobby of wire weaving, but she hadn’t realized that he was so good at it to scale it up so beautifully. 

She perched on the ledge outside the safehouse door waiting for the Prime’s group. Nonya was settled beneath her, the canny old mafioso determined to be the senate interpreter, having fled them at the start of their cruelty. Dearcy was perched beside Verilight, stretching a length of wire between her digits into different patterns. 

Klaxon was not ok, that much had been obvious when Verilight had dropped by the compound during the night cycle for debrief, after she’d locked them in. The mech was settled in his purple guise, twitching and pacing, as his horns sparked and cascaded down his arms. He’d been muttering, paranoid, and returning to the couch often to wrap himself protectively around a shaky, weak Blaster. 

Inferno had stayed on the couch, holding Blaster close and running a calming hand down Klax’s spinal strut whenever he ventured closer. Verilight really tried not to mess with Prowl’s chosen cohort, but the mech had been so stressed out that she’d visibly cringed at the time. 

Still, she had a job to do, and Dearcy could play back up, since they couldn’t publicly distrust a mechling. Not that any mech would publicly trust a Praxian after this without cause anyways, the senator’s tirade about civility had put the whole of the city into a mood. If he wanted uncivility then they could certainly give it to him. 

The first stop on the tour was the precinct, they’d confirmed that last night. Verilight was sure that the meddling Iaconians told them of the bombing, but Verilight had listened to Klax’s cameras and mics. The Prime’s vanguard were of the opinion that a city could not function without enforcers, and the Precinct must have been repaired. They were insistent upon visiting it still. 

She was quite certain that they were going to fail this test spectacularly. Whirl had pushed past his distaste to help set this one up, and he’d lost himself in the work in such a way none had expected. It creeped even the ever stoic Nonya out something fierce. 

The door opened and the Prime stepped out first, his digits twitching nervously on the frame. The strident tone of the Senator chased him and he fled across the alleyway to hover under where Dearcy had perched. The mechling peered down at him curiously. She snapped her wire back into a hurried spool and tucked it away. 

“Hi, then. You seem like you’re not ready to go yet.” The Prime jerked and looked up to meet her optics. 

“Oh. Ah, no, I think… no, that doesn’t matter. Verilight from yestercycle called you a general? You seem young.” He said, very frankly, and Verilight quavered her wings in amusement. 

Dearcy bared her denta, “I am. I’m the Gears’ general, which makes me the City’s general. No army, but when did that matter?” 

Verilight stuffed the knuckles of her servo into her intake to muffle her snickers. She could practically see the thoughts ticking through the Prime’s head. He shifted from pede to pede like a scolded sparkling. 

“I don’t know. I’m not militarily inclined, really. Wars are boring,” he said, and Verilight cooed softly. Sweet little fool. 

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve grown up with fighting and gang wars. They’re normal to me. Why’re you hiding out here, anyways?” 

Verilight peered down at the tall convoy class mech. Dearcy was right, she realized, as the mech’s shoulder pauldrons hunched. He was hiding. She really needed to stop thinking of Dearcy as a mechling. 

“I-,“ he hummed for a moment, gathering his glyphs, and Magnus slipped out the door. Verilight nodded to her friend’s old mentor, unsure if he’d noticed her or not, “it’s just, well, I don’t know. I was looking forward to Praxus, I suppose. I wasn’t expecting this. My scouts told me it wasn’t safe, so I sent them to help. I thought it’d be like Kaon.” 

Dearcy scoffed, “Kaon is awful because of the senate. It’s not safe because of discontent. We’re all fairly content here. It’s not safe because we’re chaotic and we don’t take well to outsiders. Our history means that we don’t like the senate or the Primes. You shouldn’t have come, and if you were going to, then you shouldn’t have declared war first.” 

“What?” The Prime chirped out, aghast. Verilight wondered how old he was. He seemed as young as Prowl and Jazz and Klax, barely a decavorn into adulthood. He couldn’t be as hardened and worn as Cutstrut, Nonya, or Colormaker were from the war. He definitely wasn’t as adult as Verilight, Shelter, or Whirl, who had been adults for decavorn now and had plenty of experience. 

He seemed sheltered, almost. He might pass one or two of the tests though, if he didn’t let his senate handlers drive roughshod over him. He seemed a decent enough sort. 

“You sent folk in to change things,” Dearcy drawled sarcastically, “That’s is direct violation of the Praxian Treaty that grants us independence. It didn’t go well last time the Senate tried to make us change, it wouldn’t this time either. The only reason you’re getting a chance now is that you did it quietly before you were announced.” 

“So tread lightly,” Verilight said, startling both Iaconians below her, “Prowl promised his old friend that we wouldn’t hurt you, but that leaves plenty of options. There's no reason that you can’t be the only mech to leave.” 

“Aww, that’s not quite true.” Whirl said from around the corner as he leaned his head back to regard them, “Prowl will probably let ‘em all go. Trauma’s fair game though. And a fun game.” 

Magnus makes an awful choked sound and Optimus has the sneaking feeling that he’s missing something. 

“Whirl?” Dearcy says lowly, and Verilight watches the mech sharply, “Is something wrong?” 

“Eh. Mostly it’s fine. We should go though, we want to be done today, Herself is not happy.” 

“Who is she?” The Prime asked, and Verilight snorted. Magnus sighed deeply and answered. 

“Praxus. Herself is the City Titan. Her citizens owe great respect to her.”

”Worship it, you mean,” the senator stepped out, well shined in a way that meant his polish was freshly applied. His fastidious waxing wouldn’t last the day in Praxus’ streets on a normal day, and Verilight shared a look with Dearcy. He continued, almost in a snider tone, which she hadn’t thought possible, “That’s who the shrine was for, yes? You worship your home.” 

He spat a glob of intake fluid on the ground by his polished pedes. Verilight stared, her wings low and flicking sharply with disgust. 

“Lady Great, and he called us uncivilized. My mechlings have better manners than that, all three,” Prowl sounded amused from his perch above Dearcy. He’d been supposed to stay hidden, followed them to the first stop, but his wings were twitching sharper than hers, and despite his amused tone, she could read his sheer horror. 

From the look that Prowl’s old mentor was giving the spat fluid, he was as mannerly as Prowl was, and Verilight tipped her helm back to grin at her friend. Jazz was setting up at the precinct, but Prowl was here, in his Sharpgear pastels, but here all the same. 

It was nice to have a City Lord that was involved instead of hiding away in a spire with his wealth, like most of them did, even in the other cities. She’d seen the video that Klax and Prowl had done, even if Praxus didn’t hold with Primes, she could still judge Sentinel harshly for making his wealth by enslaving his city and sitting in his palace rich off their suffering and drunk off their worship. 

They had a slew of them, a council of Gang heads and mafiosos, as they always had, but they had proper lords again too, chosen by Herself. She’d gone digging in the archives herself. The first Lords of Praxus had been chosen by the Titan to reflect the Primes council. Herself had like the balance, but not the mecha. 

The first council of Primes had been chosen by Praxus, and as they’d dwindled to naught but a matrix composed of their minds and spark beats, their ideals still held. There hadn’t been a council of Primes since, and no true Prime at all since the fourth to the title, Nova. 

Likewise there hadn’t been any true chosen Lords since. The titles had passed down the lines from the first Lords. Now Herself was awake and choosing, there was a Prime again, and Verilight knew something was coming. They’d weather it, they were Praxus. 

Herself hadn’t appointed Her full council yet, and most of the one she had picked would probably have to leave when the going got nasty, but they’d come back, and they’d make it safe, that’s what proper Lords did. Prowl and his would definitely leave, probably following Prowl. 

Prowl was definitely Liege Maxima’s mirror, manipulated and wordsmith that he was. He couldn’t bear to not be in the thick of it whenever the threat that Herself was predicting raised its helm. 

Jazz would follow him, the Fallen’s Herald as he was, he’d follow his mate to the chaos and revel in it. The mech was never so happy as he was when he was stirring slag up. Klax would chase them both, Onyx’s heir in all ways, always watching and learning and seeing, never wishing to turn his optics away. 

Inferno would follow his mate through fire and storm, his title as Shelter fitting as he took his role as Nexus, guarding and guiding his own. Ratchet and Wheeljack, of those two were obvious and their passions would lead them far, and Verilight itched to note them down as true mirrors in the deepest annals of Praxian record. 

Those annals were long lost, hidden by Herself and forgotten as time wore on, but Verilight could picture them in her mind and she ached with the desire to record even a fraction of the new history as it occurred. 

Ratchet, their city’s beloved Cutstrut, was Alchemist. He helped anyone, and saw them as they were. He’d never cared about past, present, or future, and did all he could despite his desire to rest from the constant fight of his chosen home, and his own mate’s inherent chaos.

Solus was reflected in Wheeljack perfectly, weapons and ideas and ideas given life and spark. He had no Primus fueled forge, but he made miracles anyways. Their wonderful Colormaker, ever making new things. 

Even still, they had proper Lords again, and despite Prowl’s reluctance, they were good. 

The group kept filing out, late rechargers all, and she bantered with Whirl and Dearcy and Prowl as they did. The intruding City Spawn seemed better, and she accepted that for now. They’d known he was coming, and prepared, although they hadn’t thought he’d forget the courtesy and instinct that even a half trained Blaster kept to a fault. 

Idiots, the whole lot of them. 

Prowl walked beside Magnus in intervals as he helped herd the group towards the shell of a Precinct. Verilight led the way, as she meandered between the sectors. She and Nonya had meant to do this alone, but with the city as active as it was today, they’d needed to help. 

Blaster had put it in order, sectors straight with clear paths between the areas the Prime was going just last night cycle before he’d passed out from sheer exhaustion. Poor mechling had sent Red Alert into a frantic state, just tipping over into recharge like that. 

Inferno had valiantly contained his mate until the wee joors of the light cycle, at which point his attention had slipped and Red had gotten away. 

Red Alert had taught Blaster, helped him build his systems, built his own that Blaster was intrinsically entangled in, down to a mainframe level, ad deeper in spots. Red Alert, given a console and a camera, could do as much damage as a distracted Blaster in an instant. 

And so he had. The streets had tangled, sectors turned and flipped, even the cornerstores, which could usually be used as a waypoint, were horribly scrambled about. It had taken Dearcy a mere instant to realize what had happened. 

It had taken her much longer to stop laughing and comm Prowl. The brat had actually woken Verilight and Nonya in their little flat across from the Prime’s to laugh with her first. Brat. 

It was better late than never, though, and Prowl had been able to relocate the new homes of the Precinct, Sparkcases, and the rubble of the old justice building. He’d have to find a new location for the group to stay before the Prime’s address, he doubted it would happen same cycle anymore. 

Deax had offered another flat where Mirage and Magnus’ groups were staying, and Prowl was leaning towards accepting for an orn. Mirage’s group had been running ragged trying to keep up with the new demands. They were a group meant for scouting, and they’d tripped helm long into a saboteur’s nest. 

They would all be leaving with the Prime, Magnus had already agreed during one of his and Prowl’s cafe visits. Praxus would be closing their borders as soon as they did, and between Dearcy, Red Alert, and the unholy combination of Whirl and Wheeljack, their borders would be secure. 

Whirl’s clockwork birds had been terrifyingly competent at rendering rogue enforcers into piles of greyed plating over the past few orn’s, the tiny things making off with scavenged wires for their woven nests. Prowl wasn’t sure why they built nests, and Whirl wasn’t either. Natural mecha-sparrows either carved or found and claimed a burrow hole big enough. 

Then the twitchy little cog snouted cyber-snakes all slithered up to wind through the empty shell, pulling drooling fuel lines out and swallowing them in chunks, dull segments expanding and swelling with the tarnished metal filling them out. 

The tiny little gearmoths were the worst defense, in Prowl’s opinion. They were gorgeous, flocking in massive groups of bright colors and patterns, whole spectrums of specific colors and wildly variant shapes and patterns. There had been three small flocks at first, all silvered-gray and half dull and tarnished with the oil that Whirl favored. 

Those flocks would descend on an offending mech and surround them, dismember them, carry them off in pieces. Prowl had watched it happen once, when Whirl had reported them rogue, at the time unsure what they’d do. Despite the mech making them, he hadn’t known their defense yet. 

That flock had surfaced two cycles later from the alleyway it had settled in as a swarm, the one no mech had been able to enter. The flock had tripled in size, not a one grey anymore. Instead they were resplendent in the vibrant green and purple of the mech they’d carried off. A lifeless spark crystal, disconnected and acid eaten optic, and a cracked open and empty spark chamber had been left of the alley floor, abandoned. 

The flock had been beautiful when it had taken off. The gearmoths were the worst defense, Prowl thought, and his favorite. They were remarkably efficient. 

The Precinct began to come into view, a jagged imposing thing, as Magnus beckoned Prowl over with a tilted helm, “This isn’t going to be pretty is it?” 

“No,” Prowl agreed. His old mentor and friend had understood far more than anyone had expected, and been an unexpected support with their visits to chat at the local pressed energon shop, “It won’t be. Informative, shocking, necessary, yes; but pretty, no.” 

Magnus pressed his dermal plates together and fathered just slightly until he and Prowl were at the end of the line, removed just outside of audial range, if one wasn’t Praxian, “Does informative mean I get to see the new law code you’ve been hinting at?” 

“Not now, but soon. I’ll send you home with a copy regardless. More to the point, educational for your little chosen one.” 

“Prime isn’t that bad, you know. Optimus is a good sort, he’s learning.” Magnus gently nudged Prowl, the half-helm’s difference between them meaning little to the difference in bulk and armor, as Prowl stumbled with the nudge anyways. 

“He’s naive, Mags. Helplessly so. This might help him grow up a bit, or at least leave what's too much for him well enough alone.” Prowl glanced at Magnus, his red chevron and true faceplate half shifted out to match the gravitas. 

Magnus shrugged weakly, “You’re not wrong, I just think there’s other variables. The senate doesn't want him to grow up, and you might push him too far by accident. It does you no good if he swings the wrong way. The gear shifts both ways, reverse as well as drive.” 

Prowl offered him a shrug, “He goes reverse and I'll kill him myself. This city can’t handle another Zeta, this planet cannot handle another Sentinel. None of us need another Nova.” 

“Just, please, Prowl, don’t break him. He’s a sweet kid. Very compassionate, very clever.” 

“I mostly want him gone. Out of my city. If he gets to thinking while I do it, then that’s all the better. You’d do best to make sure you support him, teach him to think for himself.” Prowl jerked his helm forward, “Best go, though. It’s about to be not pretty, as you so eloquently put it.” 

The Precinct windows had been blackened entirely, what glass-steel that had broken covered over with dyed etchstone slabs traced with glyphs after glyphs, all in the soft blue favored by this city. Why the city favored the color of dried mech blood so much was a running joke, seeing as it mostly came down to the Titan being pleased. 

Prowl sauntered after the jogging Magnus as he caught back up. The doors were off their hinges, but the curtains that hung in the arches left were strung with struts and bows tied of old meshes, dyed brightly. It was cheerily macabre, and Prowl knew that the youngest mechlings across multiple crews had woven them gleefully. Strings of wrenched denta and servos dangled across the uncovered entrance. 

The City-Spawn hacker tripped forward first, exasperation writ into his frame like it was permanently etched. Prowl watched him duck in and made for the upper entrance, to watch from the upper level as the rest followed him in. 

In the remains of the anchor sat a clock. There were no time notes, no wires, no connections, no winding key. It was thrice the size of the first clock, the one that had provided timing for the first bombing and filter gas failure. 

Twisting from a mobile, ticking smoothly opposite from the clock, dangled dozens upon dozens upon dozens of little cards and booklets etched into thin tin plates. Prowl had helped etch some of those. Each had a designation and a list of crimes. They all ended with a list of designations, the ones who had died at the fault or responsibility of the mech named on the card. There were no image captures, or chits, or slugs. 

Just little tin placards orbiting in place as a warning. 

The massive hands of the clock were normal, routine even, until you looked closer to see the razor edge that lined each one. They couldn’t do damage, not at the speed they ticked, but the imagery of a savage ages sword duo being used as clock hands, even Titan class sized ones, wasn’t to be dismissed. 

Lined atop each clock hand were spark crystals, dull and inactive. They were stacked on top of little stone piles, one large stone, likely smoothed rubble, then a medium, then a crystal. The occasional three piece group would have an extra crystal tucked close to the base. 

They were reminiscent of the silica mecha that sparklings made during Sol seasons when they visited the peaks during melt times. 

A broken scale sat rotating jerkily to top of the very center with a jaggedly carved crystal holding it in place, and crushing the scales, stabbed through with a chip chisel. It was poignant. 

Optimus made a strangled sound and stared at the walls. Prowl followed his gaze and idly nodded at Whirl in his perch across the vantage of the ruined second level. Whirl grinned back and activated his newest guardians. 

Enforcer frames, decals stripped and repainted, broken scales crossed over in dull gray, lit up in sequences around the room. Optics glowed the silver of a blank frame, of drones. Their spark crystals were long since harvested, their processors shredded post mortem, they were repurposed frames, deliberately altered, no more. 

Whirl hadn’t wanted to work with faces, so Dearcy and a few of her crew had stripped the faceplates, replaced them with blank caricatures designed by Spinetap, who made masks for the feast of Mortilus, and was beyond pleased to design these. Whirl had attached the faces, and stripped paint, plating, wires, even limbs, only to put half of it back on. 

What resulted had been what he called gargoyle drones, and what Blaster called antibodies. They were blank, faceless save a horrifying mask, ticked and crunched with the teeth of their gear when they deigned to move, and had very little true variation in their frames. 

Their doorwings, a point of pride for any Praxian, but for enforcers and other self important mecha especially, were unfurled and curled forward and up in a constant threat display, fully extended, each set unique to the enforcer that had died. 

Whirl had painted them white with dull gray accents, the colors of death and deactivation. 

They moved stiffly, purposely, steadily forward in closing concentric rings from their previous positions against the wall in inactive sentinel. Each clicked, and ground, and whirred, and ticked as they moved. Whirl had given each of them a small, clockwork watch core in place of a spark. Blaster had connected them to the City Mainframe. 

This was the first time they were all activated, and Prowl smirked as what was formerly Tailspin strode beneath him, circling the Prime’s group as they stood watching, horrified, allowing themselves to be cut off from the door they’d entered. The unfurled wings of the Dead Guardians slowly lowered to reveal the rictuses beneath, frozen faceplates of blank fear, anger, fury, rage, terror, adoration, jealousy, spite, revulsion, and hate, hate, hate. 

The good senator stumbled back, shrieked, pointed a digit, and screamed shrilly, “They do! They worship Unicron, they’ve enslaved his servants!” 

Prowl cackled loudly, and Whirl joined in, the both of them startling the mecha below, and Verilight joined in, her higher pitched rasp making Magnus jerk unsteadily as he turns. The outermost circle begins stepping backwards out of the curtained door, one at a time, solid faceplates still half covered and wings rising to cover them fully again. 

Megatron, ever the Prime’s odd protector roars, and punches one that had come too close to the Prime. 

Every guardian still in the room, and it is a majority, lowers their wings in ticks and jerks, suddenly, eerily still. Prowl had both hoped this would happen, and hoped it wouldn’t. Whirl nodded at him from across the room, their limiters were still active until they reached their posts. No deaths. 

Masked faces revealed, the Guardians raise their curled wings high above their helms as they begin to rattle in a truly ancient threat display. A high pitched, piercing shriek emits from them, pulsing, catching, spreading through the concentric crowds. Soundwave lowers himself to his knees, audials clutched and covered as he shakes minutely. Optimus is beside him, his own audios clamped in his servos as he shudders. 

The shriek cuts off suddenly, leaving the Precinct shell ringing with silence. The alarm was raised and spread, excellent test. Megatron stumbles forward a step. 

The nearest Guardians snap their arms out, claws outstretched, and still rattling, rush forward. The first catches him by his face, the second his shoulder. 

Megatron falls to the dead. He still fights, but he is flinging them, clearly terrified. The second he presents no aggressive moves the guardians retreat, crouched around him in a circle, perfectly still with dripping claws, and horrifying visages beneath their wings. 

The senate guards, hulking soldiers both, are trembling and shaking behind the sobbing senator. Optimus and Soundwave are huddled together, a panther perched on their shoulders, curled and purring loudly. 

Megatron is curled defensively, his arm dislocated from its socket and leaking energon sluggishly. He looks up with a snarl, deep claw marks down his faceplate leaking steadily and distorting his intake and optic casing. 

His snarl rattles through the air as he stands up, fighting again, and lunging for the nearest guardian. It’s one with a hateful mask, one of the berserkers, bound for a leaker sector. 

It lunges right back, several dozen of them. Optimus screams. Magnus is taking rapid steps backwards, dragging him and Soundwave with him, half used to Praxus’ brutal refusal to truly waste anything. 

Megatron sinks to the ground screaming shrilly under piles of the empty dead. It doesn't move. The Guardians begin filing out again. Prowl snickers, and watches a few Guardians peel off of the Megatron pile to leave. 

There’s a faint, sob-like sound from the pile. Prowl smiles, and forwards the recording to Jazz. 

Magnus meets his optics. Prowl waves. Magnus glances at the sobbing, shaking Prime, and grimaces at him. Optimus is shying away from the empty dead. They are heading to the wall, they’ll go into offensive mode when the borders close. 

Best be afraid of them now, rather than when they have the capability to kill. 

Senator Ratbat, the mecha who’d passed the bill that had ultimately led to Prowl’s creator’s deaths, amongst many others, all for the sake of money and greed, is sobbing and sniveling where he stands, hiding behind the guards from the guardians. 

His shiny polish is scuffed, smeared with the splatters of mech-blood from Megaatron’s second besetment. He doesn’t look anything close to his precious, perfect image. 

Megatron reaches and pulls at one of the guardian’s masks, yanking it right off. A amalgamation of wires, gears, cogs, and slow ticking mechanisms greet him. No processor, no optics, no protohelm, no face at all, merely excess machinery. Megatron drops the mask with a clatter. 

The guardian’s helm tilts. It picks up its mask, and rehooks it. It’s crooked now, the ticking of its hem straightening back out is much more audible. 

It files out the door. 

Megatron’s faceplate is still leaking.

Chapter Text

So, because you can’t put images in the authors’ notes, y’all get a chapter note instead. Anywho, introducing the newest staff member on the Trust Fall team! (which was previously just me, admittedly, ;p ).

This little crazy thing has been wandering over my keyboard so much that I’ve had to go back through my chapter twice looking for his little paw glitches. So, here we are, introducing my Editor-in-Chief, London Fog. You have him to thank for this chapter since he’s been keeping me up at night to work on it. 

Calmer chapter though, we’ll give every mech a chance to breathe. 

By the time that the weeping dead mechs had all filed out Optimus was thoroughly convinced that he was in over his helm. Megatron had gone still and shuddery and stayed that way after he’d unmasked the thing. He wasn’t hurt, at least nothing beyond superficial and cosmetic. Nothing that would impede his motion. 

He’d already wrenched his arm back into place, snarling viciously as he had, even as Optimus had cringed at the screech of energon slick metal sliding against itself. The only other pressing wound was the split protometal down his face plate, the energon already clotting along it and in clumps that had dripped down. 

Megatron would be proud of that, Optimus knew, as proud as a robo-rooster about any scars, even painting designs to represent them on any armor that covered them. It was a Kaonite thing, Soundwave did the same with any scars he’d accumulated, and it wasn’t a tradition that Optimus even pretended to understand. 

Optimus knew the next part of the tour though, he was supposed to visit the City’s hospital, or hospitals since most Cities had grown to have several. He was meant to visit the injured, the ill, the rusting, the virus ridden, and those mecha close to deactivation. He was meant to be a hope, comfort, as much as he had been supposed to be an encouragement to the enforcers. 

They’d stricken his visit to the temples from the itinerary, knocking almost a cycle off of the Senate’s carefully managed plan, due to the lack of them. Even so, the hospital visits had taken several cycles in the other cities, even as rushed through as he had been. 

Prowl drops from the ceiling, and Optimus knows it’s Prowl despite the fancier colors and predatory stalk as he picks his way through the debris towards them. he knows it from the way that Magnus softens, and Ironhide stiffens, and from the gentle smile that the mech tosses towards Magnus before he turns a sharp, predacon’s grin on the rest of them, nearly dancing as he walks towards them. 

“Well then, you’d said you wanted to meet the enforcers, to visit the Precinct. How was it?” 

Optimus shutters his optics and leans on Soundwave as much as the mech is leaning on him. One of them shudders, and he doesn’t now which of them it was. It might have even been both. The Senator scoffs, a shake in his vocalizer that leant Optimus a ugly sort of satisfaction at the cruel mech’s obvious fear. 

“Those things weren’t enforcers. This might have been your Precinct, but we were meant to be encouraging your enforcers to do a good job in upholding the law and protecting Cybertron’s citizens. I demand you take us to whatever serves as your actual Precinct.” 

Prowl’s mean smile widens, showing the distinctly sharp double points of Praxian denta, and Verilight lands behind him with the same wide grin. She is holding a deep red crystal bud, and her display goes a step further as she crunches a large bite from it, letting the nearby black center of the crystal show between her denta before she swallows. 

Optimus still has the crystal dictionary in his short term recall. Onyx Ored Crimsons, blatant threat. Optimus edges away from the senator, maneuvering Soundwave with him as the carrier mech stumbled on his pedes. 

“Oh, grow up,” Prowl snaps at the senator, and Megatron rises to loom protectively over his Amica and Optimus, “This isn’t any city, this is Praxus. We’ve been independent since before your creators were sparked, since before the other city states were populated enough to be considered states. We had enforcers, and followed the Tyrest Accords because it was convenient.” 

Megatron rumbled, “You sound as if you aren’t part of Cybertron. You still live on the same planet. You were still created by Primus. ” 

Verilight cackled loudly, “Without getting into the intricacies of differing religious stances, are we? Same planet yes, but Praxus has no temples, no primes, even the council of thirteen left us be, as far as we can tell from those records. We had enforcers because that was a system set in place at a time when the Prime heading the temples was in favor, and we’d gotten along with the other cities.” 

“Really?” Optimus chirps, despite himself and his wariness, “Who was it?” 

“Lio Prime, he was short lived, and he was deactivated by an assassin,” Prowl explained, “He was good though, all records I saw, both here and in Iacon, indicated that he had been one of Alpha Trion’s last students and he cared, a lot more than any Prime’s after him. His successor was Nova, which is plenty said.” 

“Besides,” Verilight interjected, scrunching another bite from her crystal, “As a former enforcer of Praxus, I can tell you it was a failed system. You asked to meet the enforcers at the Precinct, that was them, or what was left after we got through making them into a better system. The Guardians have a set purpose, and they can’t be bribed or commit heinous crimes. Much improved, if you ask me.” 

Optimus swallowed past a lump in his intake, “They’re dead. They have no second chance, no ability to improve. Whatever happened to Primus’ edict? What happened to ‘Until all are One’?” 

“Their sparks are in the well, Praxus guards them. They’ll improve, or they’ll get a second chance when they’re resparked. They had the choice when they were functioning, they blew it. I’m not the only former enforcer that wears the Cross of the Code Keepers, you know. Not every mech was corrupted.” 

“You don’t wear the Cross of whatever the frag,” the senator snarked at Prowl, “You weren’t an enforcer then? You weren’t a traitor to Tyrest and the Senate?” 

“No, I was. I lead the dissolution of them actually, which is part of why I’m here,” Optimus watches the Senator stiffen into a bluster and winces. He has more information than the senator, and he’s quite sure that Prowl has more even than that, “I’m Sharpgear, and may I have your designation?” 

“I’m Senator Ratbat, you ignorant little slag heap.” Optimus pressed Megatron and Soundwave further back as he caught Magnus’ cringe and the sharp downturn to Prowl’s smirk. 

“Oh, ignorant am I? I think you don’t know the first thing about this city. You’ve given me permission to have your designation, thank you kindly, my lovely cohort mate will have fun with that.” Prowl tapped his audio in the universal gesture of a comm line, one that hadn’t been needed for generations, “Klax? You got that?” 

The senator snarls reflexively, and gestures sharply at one of his guards, “I don’t know what you think you can do with my designation that I can’t do with yours. Twitchgear, have everything pulled on Sharpgear that our scribes and archivists can get.” 

Having been an archivist, Optimus could have told the Senator that’s there’s very few publicly accessible files, and even fewer ways to access the ones that weren’t public. The city ran on chits and shreddable files, and hoarded what was kept jealously. Optimus didn’t want to tell the Senator anything. He had made the Matrix fussy long before this tour. 

He had been unbearable the whole tour, treating Optimus as if he were a sparkling, Megatron like a brute without a militate of the intelligence that Megatron had in spades, and Soundwave as if he were a tool, a slave rather than a mech. 

Now the Matrix was angry and Optimus was highly uncomfortable with the Senator. He couldn’t do anything about it, but he could keep his vocalizer off, just this once. 

Verilight scoffs, and Nonya, who had apparently been leaning on one of the walls, speaks up in a raspy voice as the room whirls to face her, “Sharpgear is a title, youngster. You won’t find jackslag. And you’ll find that no one knows you here. We don’t give a frag about your little Learning Center Senate, much less who is on it.” 

“Fine,” Senator Ratbat hissed out, “Fine. Take us to the hospital then, you ancient hag of a femme. We can at least get that part done with.” 

Nonya’s face twisted, something cruel flitting across it too fast to be identifiable, and Optimus really wished he could turn off the Senator’s vocalizer. The Senator was his handler, his teacher while Optimus got his pedes under him, but he really wished he’d gotten anyone else for the tour. Even Senator Shockwave would be better, and that mech scared the living waste out of him. 

Nonya wasn’t a kind femme. Optimus had spoken with her some the previous night cycle. She was proud of the murders she’d committed, and prouder of the ones she’d directed. She’d bragged about the ones she had no servo in, the ones by the Gears. She had been prouder than a digi-pheasant about the bombings and assassinations in the city state. 

“Hospital? We have no hospital,” Nonya’s rasp was silky, the creak in her old vocalizer lending a warning edge to her glyphs, “Sparkcase’s wou;d be closest, the medics gather there, and so do the reclaimers. Otherwise there’s clinics, free or otherwise, all over the city.” 

Optimus raised his servo slowly, ”What is a reclaimer?” 

Nonya grinned at him, her flat Urayan denta gleaming from the crystal insets adding vicious points along her smile, “If you die, then they take your parts. If you can’t pay, then they take your parts until you can. Free medics are useful fro a reason, even if most of them aren’t trained.” 

“What do you mean your medics are untrained?” Megatron barked. Soundwave was puffing his armor out, equally enraged. With as much infighting, and hierarchy based violence as there was in Kaon, then a medic was practically sacred. No one hurt them, insulted them, and they ran on donations alongside payment in his friend’s city. 

If a mech wished to ruin Kaon entirely then they’d mechnap their medics. It wouldn’t be hard, as venerated as they were, they were easy to find, if protected. The city would fall within the vorn. 

“Not all of them, most of them are fine. Students work for free though, and are more mistake prone. And some are self trained. For a lot of mecha it's better to get a shoddy patch job and get it properly fixed after, when you’ve the time and creds.” Prowl stretched and wiggled one of his wings stiffly. Magnus nodded slowly, contemplative from beside Optimus. 

Magnus had spent quite some time putting dots together recently, whereas he hadn’t been sharing his conclusions. Optimus was planning to sneak his mecha out on the same convoy he was leaving on, but they were difficult to comm as well. 

Nonya scoffed again then she hobbled towards the door, leaning heavily on her twisted staff. Optimus had the sneaking feeling that she didn’t need it so much as she portrayed. Verilight bounced after her, and Optimus followed, eager to leave the shell of a gravesite. 

Prowl followed leisurely after them, chatting quietly with Dearcy again, a phalanx of armed mechlings in their wake, and a flock of gearmoths circling in the skies. Optimus smiled at them, the two blue mecha, one grown and one wishing she were, and the swirling colors in the sky adding a lovely vibrancy to the scene. 

Optimus might have been nervous about the coming tasks, if the hospital fell through, then he still had a Lord’s meeting, but he could at least take pleasure in the fact that any of the Praxians were far more willing to take senator Ratbat to task, and to his place. This wasn’t his city, nor the Senate’s. 

He didn’t think it should be either, it was a dangerous city, self sufficient and as cruel as it was beautiful. It held a savage beauty, one that would tear your spark out and laugh as it did so. It was best left to mecha better suited for it, this wasn’t a city he thought could be tamed. 

That had already failed, and a wild turbo-wolf would bite twice as hard once betrayed by the servo that had fed it. The senate hadn’t fed this turbo-wolf of a city though, only tried to tame it with betrayals and tricks time and again. 

Prowl stretched as he shifted back to his own frame, unfurling his wings to their fullest extent and flaring the tips as Jazz watched with a playful leer. Sunstreaker groaned dramatically from the couch as he did, and Prowl grinned as Jazz broke down into giggles. 

This was his favorite pastime. Never mind the bombings and Praxus Herself, embarrassing his mechlings was his favorite thing. 

Sharpgear was a title now, but he was only in the Sharpgear colors on the ground. His pastels and angles were meant to be a distraction, and he was getting better at using them this way. He wasn’t as good as Jazz, who could shift minutely as Meister and the mech he was targeting would teek of sheer terror. 

Now though was the meeting of the Lords, which would be his first public appearance, all of theirs, as the newest council of Lords. It would be broadcast, and lead directly into the Prime’s public address to Praxus. 

It was going to be hysterical. They’d even set up a convoy train in the only undestroyed track for afterwards, and bombs to cut it off as it left. Optimus himself might be able to handle himself, but not until he took his wires back from the senator’s grasping servos. 

Praxus already had a low opinion of Ratbat, and with him offering his des’ to prowl, and Red Alert through him, they had permission through the new Praxian Law, based on a truly ancient precedent from before the enforcers or Tyrest. 

They had his des’, freely offered. They were allowed, encouraged even to find his crimes. It was the same rule they’d used on the enforcers. If you have a mecha’s designation and their crimes, then the second they commit another then their life and reputations are forfeit. 

His reputation would go first. The mech was proud of it, a little lording in his Senate Chamber, parading around like he was virtuous. Then he’d be torn apart by any mech that got the fancy first. He’d done horrible things publicly, what Red had dug up was so much more targeted. 

A city of savages were they? Fine. They’d pick and snipe, and do damage with their glyphs only, questions being passed to key mecha already. Then he’d get torn apart by his own mecha, and they’d see who was savage then. The ones who asked, or the ones who acted. 

Jazz swayed next to him, the bits of Polyhexian jewelry he had left from his late creators painstakingly repaired and draped over him. Delicate chains in silvered titanium that darkened to deep blue at the connection points, and sparkling with trailing gems and crystals crisscrossed over his frame, shoulders to wings to hips. 

A separate matching piece framed his faceplate and spiraled up his sensor horns, a short chain of crystals ending with the piece’s original pearl hung just above his visor, swaying and moving with his helm’s movements. He looked magnificent, ethereal, otherworldly and paired with the double fanged Praxian denta he’d upgraded with, deadly. 

Sunstreaker had some jewelry too, ones he’d put together as Jazz had removed the pieces from his creators. His chains were thicker, studded with crystal thorns and shards of broken glass-steel. He’d studded the usual harness of knives that he wore whenever he made an appearance as Solfurnace. 

His knives glittered with a carefully maintained crystal moss and gems lined the straps. He was playing the role of bodyguard today, alongside Dearcy, who’d done up her glitters and paints, and tucked away more sharp things and vibrio-knives than Prowl had thought she could. 

If it came down to it of course, Prowl and Jazz would take the lead in fighting. Appearances were key though to the senate and the public. Praxus could never resist a good mean joke either. The whole of the city would play along simply to see what resulted. 

Ratchet and Wheeljack were across the room in the brightly patterned fiberglass-sheep wool robes of Altihexian formal wear, altered just slightly on each to include crystal studded embroidery in Praxian patterns. Ratchet was grumbled fit to wake the deactivated as he fiddled with the belt, tying it in increasingly complicated patterns. 

Red alert and Inferno were already perched together on the couch labeled for Lord Klaxon and Lord Shelter, the fine draping flimsies around their shoulders and torsos secured and shimmering. Despite Inferno hailing from Simfur originally, he’d chosen to wear Red’s Gygaxian formal wear with him. 

Prowl flicked his wings and accepted the matching set of titanium chains from Jazz and let his mate help him drape and magnetize it into place properly. He’d wear Polyhexian jewelry and a Praxian chevron ornament for the meeting, it was too bad the Iacon didn’t have a true concept of formal wear. That would have thrown them all off. 

He and Jazz wandered over to their couch in the meeting room, a repurposed lobby from a hotel run by one of the former lords, who had lost his helm to Jazz when he’d kept smuggling past the closed border. His hotel had stayed open, run by the staff and directed by one of the cleaners who had a processor for business. 

Reportedly it ran better now, with the wages fairly distributed and labor volunteered for and compensated. It was certainly prettier now. Prowl and Jazz still had a permanent suite reserved as an observation base for their activities as Meister and Sharpgear, and the improvement truly was visible. 

Ratchet slumped into his couch, his arms crossed, and a look of fond exasperation on his face. Wheeljack settled in beside him, giggling quietly with his own belt tied messily, its prismatic colors nearly blinding against the ombré robe. Ratchet had not wanted to be here, had nearly found a way to yell at Herself when he’d been presented with his helm ornament. 

All thirteen ruling Lords had them. Most cities identified their lords by paintjob, sigils, even common knowledge. Praxus had always used helm crests that clipped to a mech’s chevron. She had been reclaiming the crests for centivorn, slowly, quietly as the mecha died. Only six had been left in public rotation by the time the Quintesseon war had broken out, and those six had been jealously guarded right up until Jazz had beheaded four of the possessing Lords. 

Prowl had taken care of the last two himself, one prior to this nonsense when he’d attempted to go after the street mechlings, and one only two decaorn ago when she had tried to organize an assassination strike on the visiting Iaconians. She’d known they were under the Gears’ protection and had still tried to have them killed. 

Jazz had watched with glee as Prowl had taken her apart into screaming pieces with a cold methodically. Jazz tended towards messy, cruel kills. He was efficient, but Jazz was brutal in his preference to simply tear through the mecha he killed. Prowl had learned the maneuver that had taken Barricade’s helm from his mate. 

Prowl preferred to take his time if he were to kill a mecha. Do it right, and do it well, and Jazz had compared his kill methods exactly once to a tick-spider weaving a wire web, coaxing a nano fly through its tunnels until it could take its prey apart. 

Prowl had collected as many tick-spiders as he could find and left them in their berth for Jazz. His mate had flopped down, as lackadaisical and cheerful as ever. The scream that had resulted, and subsequent panicked scramble through tangled tick-spider covered mesh blankets had been exactly what he’d hoped for, and Jazz had never called him a spider again. 

Still, the Lords’ Crests had been slowly disappearing, and vanished until there had been none as of a decaorn ago. Then, all at once, and Prowl suspected it was Blaster at his creator’s behest, they’d all shown up at once. Thirteen Mecha gathered in the meeting room with their most trusted now, and a few observers to balance the proceedings out. 

All of them wore the Crests that had been left on berths and desks that day cycle morn, displayed prominently. If the Prime’s party had done their jobs on research then they’d recognize the crests, if not the significance. It was all public record, but the other cities didn’t like recognizing their Titian’s intelligence, much less Praxus’ respect for their Titan Herself.

Dearcy was the only newly minted City Lord who had semi hidden her Crest, but from what Prowl understood from Verilight, an avid scholar of Praxian history, that was normal for the Lord mirroring the Fallen. Verilight for her part was proud as predahen about her Crest declaring her the archivist, Alpha Trion’s mirror, long after his students had joined the well. 

 Blaster, Hot Rod, and Blurr were watching, still far too young to offer advice, but their crests were visible anyways, chosen by the Titan as they were. Whirl was fiddling with another clockwork piece on his couch, with all three mechlings absorbed in watching the gears click together seamlessly. 

The last two mecha Prowl knew of, but had never met. He trusted Herself to pick good mecha, but he still wondered. Silverstreak, who was the acknowledged public leader of the Leakers at large, was known to be an exceedingly lucky sort of mech. 

He was also the biggest liar in the City-state, somehow whilst not being labeled a trust-lack. He was the public face of the Leakers, drawing attention away, and leading enforcers on deadly chases when his mecha raided the surface on the rare day cycle. He was a crack shot with an acid rifle, but he was far better at hand to hand. 

Prowl had watched him tear an enforcer in half entirely during a flip maneuver on his first vorn in Praxus, mid transformation. It remained to date the most impressive fighting maneuver that Prowl had ever seen. 

Stiletto was lesser known, and Prowl nodded at her as she inclined her helm in greeting, Prima’s crest gleaming from her chevron. She was more commonly known as Knives, on the occasion that she wandered to the surface from the Leakers deep catacombs and tunnels. Prowl had interacted with her as Sharpgear, whilst she had been Knives. 

She came up to give lessons on knife fighting and throwing, with blades of metal and glass-steel instead of the increasingly more common energy or vibro blades. If you passed her stringent lessons then you’d wake up to a package of neatly kept matching blades. Prowl and Sunstreaker both had a set, so did Red Alert. 

No one else in the cohort had passed her course. Dearcy hadn’t even tried. 

Stiletto was a Leaker, far more than Silverstreak, who was a Leaker, but in the same way that Prowl was a Praxian. In the way of some mech who had come a half step too late, but acclimated to the point of thriving anyways. He was a Leaker, but he hadn’t always been. 

Stiletto was a Leaker that could be traced back with sightings and record mentions for several centivorn. Despite her age, where she should have been as creaky and rust jointed as Nonya, she was eerily young and gave most mecha the uncanny feeling of wrongness. 

It was something in the way that her wings ticked slightly as she moved them, and her seams slid over each other instead of beside, as if she had more than wires and lines between her struts and her armor. It was something in how she didn’t transform, even the micro transformations that every mech did to stretch between drives. 

It was something in the hollow glow of her chest plate seams. 

Still, she was who Praxus had chosen, and Prowl welcomed the closer ties with the elusive Leakers, ties that weren’t on the basis of their bias towards trust-lacks and outsiders. Any Leaker was dangerous, but after the dark cycle started, they usually went hunting, and woe betide the mech who got between them and their self appointed maintenance of Herself’s crystals. 

That had slowed significantly since the City called to her ancient roots, and Prowl wondered what they knew. Verilight was certain that the Leakers guarded the missing record archives, and Prowl was sure she was right. 

Prowl relaxed, leaning into Jazz’s side as he flicked a shimmering glass-steel knife up and down. Stiletto leaned forward, grinning with far sharper denta points as she eased her own knife out of her holsters. She mirrored Prowl’s pattern for a klik, then she rolled it over her servo and flicked it at Prowl. 

Prowl grinned back and shifted minutely to catch the knife with his own and send it sailing back at her. 

Silverstreak roared with laughter as Stiletto’s postured shifted slowly, flowing from relaxed wariness to excited focus. Jazz chuckled slowly. His mate could be precise, was very good with pistols and weaponry, but Jazz wasn’t well suited for the rigorous accuracy for unprogrammed weaponry unless the extent was to stab a mech or hit a target. 

By the time that the Prime’s party had made it to the hotel, guided by Nonya and several of her great grand sparks, all of whom were involved in her little Uraya type mafia, Prowl and Stiletto had progressed to two knives in servo as they tossed three more back and forth, bouncing a other two off of chairs, walls, and tables to see who would fumble first. 

Sunstreaker was watching over Prowl’s shoulder avidly, unable to practice as much as he liked due to his younger siblings trying to learn and distracting him. 

Senator Ratbat had stepped in first, reglossed and his olfactory in the air over the indignity of meeting in a hotel lobby. He’d squeaked as he entered, and stumbled back into his ever present guards. 

Stiletto and Prowl broke at the same time, both cackling as the knives dropped, and were gathered back into cyberdeer hide holsters. Jazz snickered as well, burying his faceplate into Prowl’s shoulder as he snickered at the stammering senator. A knife, the one fumbled by both of them, quivered in the doorframe above his helm. 

Sunstreaker strode over, yanked it from the fiber-steel, and gestured sarcastically at the lounge couches saved for them. Then he strode back, just as purposefully, stared at Jazz and Prowl’s couch critically, then wedged himself between them, his wings tucked under theirs as he ran an edge strop over the blade to check for chips. 

Optimus stepped into the room warily after the senator and his guards, glancing at Prowl nervously, then he smiled, a courtier’s smile from Iaconian dramas. He had not been expecting finery, and he scuffed at a nasty patch of greasy paint streaks on his arm. 

It was normal wear and tear, but the Prime flicked his attention between the heavily glossed senator and his guards, and the various Praxians in jewelry, robes, spiderbot silks, and crystals, and he buffed at the spot again. 

It stayed, the grease smearing slightly. Megatron gently redirected the Prime’s servo into his side where the mech’s digits clenched and unclenched. Prowl grimaced, tilting his helm in faint apology to Magnus behind him. He’d thought the Prime would know that in a Lord’s Moot that one’s best was expected. 

Although, perhaps that was more common sense than knowledge. Praxus might be the last City to call Moots instead of Meetings. Meetings implied that the Prime was the authority. Moots were meetings between equals to discuss options. 

Optimus settled on the couch without the Senator, and he scuffed at his plating again. The Senator scoffed, and Prowl caught the look of glee and satisfaction in the mecha’s optics as he looked at the anxious young Prime. 

The only leading questions that day were for the senator, he wouldn’t be smug for long. 

“Well, this is a fine how-de-do, then. I am Senator Ratbat, I have come on behalf of the Senate to present the new policies and reforms for this new era of Primacy,” Ratbat blustered, focusing his words on the more familiar sight of Ratchet and Wheeljack in the more popular Altihexian style, “It is customary to inform the City Lords of any changes that will be coming their way, and polite, of course.” 

Ratchet, his Alchemist’s crest off center on his chevron, leaned forward and spoke firmly, “No, I think that’s not necessary. We won’t be accepting any, you see. We’re busy.” 

The senator sucked in an offended vent and began a tirade of laws, misquoted pieces of the Tyrest Accords, and mistranslations of the Praxian Independence Treaty. He had picked the wrong mecha to focus on though, as Ratchet began railing back as Wheeljack cheered him on and Verilight argued viciously. 

Prowl tuned them all out as he watched the Prime with narrow interest. Jazz glanced at him once, then joined Ratchet in pointing out the Senator’s shortcomings. 

The Prime was glancing rapidly between the crests on helms and horns and chevrons. His field was teeking with a sudden flush of realization and horrified dismay. He met Prowl’s optics and clamped his armor down tight, as he scuffed harder at the grease smear, rubbing his own paint off in peeling patches. 

He nodded slowly at Prowl, and looked very much like Red Alert did when he was on the edge of a glitch and wanted to hide and do something comforting. 

“No,” Prowl interjected smoothly, silencing the room save the Senator’s splutters, “We accept nothing. We would consider a proposal from he Prime with no strings attached or promises gifted, but we will accept nothing tainted by the Senate and their influence. Move on.” 

 The senator gaped at him, then swelled like an indignant electro-toad. 

Prowl hummed and nodded at Red Alert, who grinned meanly back before he took his role as Klaxon, Onyx’ mirror, the all seeing, “I suppose then, if you should like to continue, that you wouldn’t mind questions about the slaves on your estate? It is public record you see, both any you claim to own on your Crystal City Estate, and the fact that Vosnian law forbade any seekers being sold, or traded as slaves.” 

The Senator clicked his vocalizer uselessly for a klik before he subsided entirely, concluding weakly, “Perhaps the public address then?” 

Prowl grinned triumphantly. He’d expected more wittering. Instead the senator had jumped right in, skipping formalities and protocol alike, now he got to see the young Prime and the Kaonites alike glare at the senator as he gave up on his precious schedule. 

Excellent.