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Chapter Text

"Master," a small red and orange bot calls out, moving closer to the open balcony staring out over the city. It's late, Luna-1 is shining down on Cybertron but the thick clouds have momentarily obfuscated the sight of Luna-2. Because of the power outages, the city lies in the darkness in comfort. Small twinkling lights from moving bots or fires or even single generators otherwise provide the city with power. The heatwave has hit Cybertron so the Master of the city runs the numbers on the final constructions of the city-wide generators. In less than a groon, all power to the palace will be shut down as well until Hadean reappears over the horizon.

It's a troublesome thing, and had he been any other mech, he would be exasperated at the situation - and concerned more for his people. But he is what he is, and so he meets it all with unshakable apathy and sterile logic. If he wishes to keep the populus pliable and compliant, he'll need to provide some reassurance that things will get better.

"M-Master...?"

The observing bot turns slightly at the waist, peering through the low light in the room to his underling, wringing their servos wearily.

"What is it?" He asks, voice monotoned.

The small servant stiffens, rolling small shoulders back as he stutters out, "Y-Your meeting, Master. It's... it's time."

A beat of silent staring as the larger of the two stares at the smaller. He watches as the protracted silence unnerves the other bot. The shaking intensifies, the pump in his chassis pushes harder and a minor scan shows that spark output increases by almost 32%. Fascinating. Just from silence? Certainly, there is other variables at play. Was it him? Perhaps, but the smaller bot is much more skittish by nature. At least, as far as has been observed.

"M-Ma-"

"I heard you," he cuts off his underling. "I will go now."

He makes his way past the timid bot, through his berthroom - simple, empty outside of the necessity of a berth and a desk - and out into the hall. He plans out his route to his destination, planning each step accordingly while keeping an optic on his chronometer. He has to get through this meeting quickly. The last thing he needs is for the exasperating perceptions of admittedly lower lifeforms to impede on his work. It's bad enough that he has to acquiesce to the masses of his city to prevent another revolt, but now he has to "play nice" as he's been told, with Praxian's of all things. If he wasn't so interested in the insular peoples of Praxis, and their request of him, he wouldn't have offered this request a second thought. But now he's in it and he's interested in seeing the results of his experiments.

Methodically moving through the sterile, empty halls of his palace, he reaches the communications room. A single bot, locked into the terminal with all sorts of connection cables keeping him planted in place immediately pulls up a feed. The image of a large blue bot turns to greet him upon entering the room and the door sealing closed behind him.

"Lord Shockwave," the blue bot with the orange face plates rumbles. "We have a problem."

Shockwave comes to a stop in front of the image. He tilts his helm slightly in a practiced mimicry of his fellow bots. "Expound."

"The Praxians, the fools, tried to take the Royal. Sent an entire cold construct army."

"Army?"

The blue bot shrugs. "Yeah, Enforcers. Thirty of them. The constructicons tore them to shreds."

"Cohort," Shockwave supplies.

The blue bot blinks his yellow optics. "My lord?"

"Praxians share bonding coding with Vosian Seekers. But instead of Trines, they form Cohorts. Groups of larger numbers of Praxians all bonded together into a cohesive unit. A cohort. They sent no army, they sent a cohort," Shockwave explains, mentally running the calculations of the firepower provided by a cohort of that size.

"Yeah, well, it didn't stand a chance against Devistator."

Shockwave found the statement to be needless. Of course, simple cold constructs wouldn't be able to hold off against Devistator. The gestalt had been his creation. No simple mechs could take on a gestalt, especially ill-prepared Enforcers from Praxis that hasn't seen war and devastation since the purges many decavorn ago. During the divide between the vampires and the rest of Cybertron, where many of the old clans were driven underground and bred out in secret since. Reports showed that during those orn, the Praxians succeeding in ending their vampiric royal line, causing all of their underlings to flee into the rest of the planet to avoid prosecution.

Regardless, the only true threat to Devistator, other than one of Shockwaves other experiments, would probably be the First Gen from Kaon. As close to a royal as one can get without being one. Oh, and probably the Prime. But neither were in Praxus, if Shockwave's spies were to be believed.

"So, they tried to trick me," Shockwave says slowly, considering.

The blue bot nods. "Yes, my lord. They were trying to steal the royal from the gestation tank you made for it. There was some damage - Hook is looking after it, but he has already informed me that it's too compromised. We have to pack it up and get it out of here."

Shockwave quietly considers for a klik, running all sorts of scenario in his processor, trying to plan out how to proceed. "Any indication as to why the Praxian's reneged on our deal?"

It's then that a bulky green and purple bot appears next to the blue one, arms crossed over his massive chassis. "Guess they didn't want to pay up," the bot says, narrowing his optics. "There is a survivor or two that we haven't offlined yet. Would you like me to get that answer for you?"

Shockwave's single yellow optic glows steadily, the hum of his chassis and the machines in the room the only sound as the astro-kliks drag on. The blue mech shifts uncomfortably, but the green and purple one meets Shockwave's stare without faulter. Their long vorns together show in that klik. As the time ticks down on his chromometer, he works through as many variables as he can with the information that he has. The betrayal from the Praxians was only somewhat unexpected but not unaccounted for. He has a choice to make, and the sooner the better. What is he going to do about this?

He's not a vengeful mech, he lost the tanks for that long ago. They betrayed him. Oh well. He has ultimately lost nothing from this, but he did gain a new opportunity to gather more empirical data for his research. He just has to decide how he would like to proceed with this. What questions he would like answered and how much he wishes to get from this singular experiment. The more the merrier, of course, as he doubts it will be easy to replicate it again and the CNA strand for the Royal has since degraded beyond use, he would have to locate another sample. He could use his agents in Praxus to -

No. Not now. He must prioritize.

Coming to a decision, Shockwave shifts his attention fully from his thoughts to the two bots in front of him. "Summon Hook, Scrapper. I have a mission for him. And you, Breakdown." He didn't have a lot of time before the power is cut to the palace, and he would much rather get this underway as quickly as possible.

Chapter Text

*Later*

Rookie mistake.

It was a rookie mistake that shouldn't have happened. Not to him. Not to a veteran of the trade for as long as he's been one. He didn't get as far as he has without a few bumps in the road, certainly, but not for something this... mundane. His team are going to heckle him when he makes it back to Iacon. If he makes it back. Nah, no way. There is no way a simple mistake is going to do him in. To be fair, any agent, no matter how seasoned or careful, can always run out of luck. It's one of the main factors in every operation. Luck and skill are two of the most important things to have when going on any mission. One of the other, perhaps, most important of all, things to have on any mission is information.

And that's the blunder that brought him to now. He should have questioned every bit of information he got. He usually does, but this time he didn't - and he won't be doing that again. And that's why there is no way he's going to offline here of all places. There's no way.

Running through dingy back alleys, bleeding heavily from a bullet imbedded into his side is becoming a bigger pain in his aft than this mission calls for. He's not sure where it ended up, somewhere inside unfortunately seeing as there is no exit wound, but it perfectly slipped between the armor plating on his side as he was turning to run. Run from fragging vampire hunters. And what's worst then running from vampire hunters in the bowels of the "most peaceful city in Cybertron"? Running from vampire hunters in the bowels of the "most peaceful city in Cybertron" with a fragging trapper. Specialized hunters that are on a different level than regular hunters. These bots actually know what they're doing as cell leaders. It's been a long time since Jazz has been cornered alone by an experienced trapper.

Once again, rookie mistake.

Prime has renamed vampire hunting in recent vorn to one deemed more appropriate, in Jazz's humble opinion. He has taken to calling it murder. And it's a federal crime. Sounds like the hunters still don't seem to care. Go figure.

Jazz, bleeding, pained and annoyed as the pits, makes his way from back alley to back alley in the darkness of the night, even avoiding the rays sprinkled by Luna-1 and Luna-2. He slips down another alley before pressing into the side of one of the buildings, gritting his denta as a too-deep vent sends a sharp spike of pain through his chassis. He pulls his servo away to see the bleeding wound spitting out fresh hot energon onto his fingers. Taking the moment that he has, he digs through his subspace and pulls out a small medkit that he's going to have to remember to visit First Aid to get restocked once he gets back to Iacon. He cracks open a solvent pack to clean the wound, then some antiseptic, then finally plugs the hole with a sharp vent as the bleeding is stemmed for the klik. All the while, he strains his audio horns to ensure that nothing sneaks up on him. He's not about to make two mistakes in one night cycle.

He pushes off the wall, cleans his mess - splashing some solvent over his spilt energon to cover it up - before making his way carefully out into the darkened streets. He strains again, listening, even as his vision blurs, his horns are still keen enough to keep him safe. Praxus is quieter than most other places that Jazz has been to in recent vorn. But then again, considering how militant its people are, should he really be surprised by strict curfews? Or at least sound ordinances? There is still bot smattered about all around, they are just few and far between. As he makes his way down the sparsely populated streets with well-hidden habless and small clusters of sellbots that optic him curiously until they see the wound on his side, he tries to keep to the shadows but the energon loss is getting to him, warranting more mistakes than normal. The green of his temporary paint isn't dark enough to hide the pink stain from the smattering of observers offering him any attention.

One of the sellbots moves in front of the other two, no doubt older than them. Their wings arch up in indignation. "Go! Away with you! We don't want your kind here." How they knew, Jazz has no idea. And if they were referring to his vampirism or that he probably looks like a thug, but it doesn't matter. He can't stick around anyway. Jazz slinks away, pressing a servo to his side, cursing his bad luck. He slips deeper into the alley across the street and away from the through traffic. He pushes onward, taking a convoluted path back to his safehouse. He needs to get out of this city.

He pauses, leaning against a wall to grit his denta again. He needs to really see a medic. So stupid. What a rookie mistake. Praxus is the only city state without any known vampire population, so of course it would be the perfect place for hunters to set up shop underground. Praxus is so insular that word hardly gets in or out of the city as it is. The Primacy has a very tenuous control over the ancient city. That's part of the reason that Jazz is here, hoping to uncover if the suspected separatist group was staging from there or not, and if they were, was Praxus somehow involved.

Well, he ran into hunters before he could learn either answer and now, he had to contend with his Prime being set to come to Praxus within a few decaorn. Jazz didn't have a lot of time to secure what he could - and now he had even less.

His HUD flashes with a bright, persistent warning about internal leakage. Jazz's lip curls in anger at the prospect. That's going to slow him down significantly. And it's going to give Rachet more of a reason to yell at him. Maybe put a dent in his helm with one of his wrenches.

Jazz makes his way down another alley only for his optics to short on him. Or his processor shut down for only a nano-klik because when his optics come back online, he's mid-fall to the pavement below. His plates scratch hard against the side of the building he bounces off of before he hits the ground hard, groaning in pain. Not good. So not good. He needs... he needs energon. Inner-energon. His emergency supply is back at his safehouse. He needs to get back there; it's the only thing that should be able to heal him enough to survive until extraction and he gets to a medic.

He struggles up onto his servos, shaking with the strain. He looks up to the end of the alley, spark leaping up into his intake at the sight of a figure standing there. Large, elegant wings arched upward against the backdrop of Luna-2. The wings twist forward a bit and the Enforcer decals catch the light. Jazz's spark skips a rotation, one servo immediately reaching down towards his side to ensure his vibroknife is still in the hidden slot against his thigh. He tries to study the dark caste faceplates but is unable to make them out with the light behind the Enforcer.

The Enforcer moves closer, steps slow and steady, but his servos remain at his side. The brightest, most electric blue optics stare down at him.

"Officer," Jazz rasps, sliding his knee underneath himself to push up despite his frame screaming at him to stay put. Don't make him kill an officer of the law. Not some random no one that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. "I'm - "

"Hurt," the officer says, lowering down in front of Jazz. He leans forward, as if to turn him over to check for wounds when he stops, intense blue optics stare into Jazz's optics and something seems to register. A coldness washes over the saboteur's frame as the Enforcer leans back a bit. "You're... a vampire..."

Jazz swallows, feeling his sharpened dentae beneath his derma. He hadn't realized that they sharpened in the excitement of everything. He needs to feed.

And probably kill this Enforcer first.

"Don't bite me," the Enforcer commands, optics narrowing slightly as he moves to Jazz's side. Before Jazz can stab him in the throat, he continues, "I'll give you energon in a moment. Let's get you off the dirty pavement first."

If he saw the blade in Jazz's servo, he didn't say anything as he carefully helps Jazz to his pedes and then over to a dumpster, leaning against it so that he can face the way the Enforcer came from. The Enforcer no doubt sees now as Jazz rests the blade against his thigh as he pauses, tilting his helm at it. His field is eerily calm, closed off, as if unaffected by what he's seeing. How peculiar.

"I don't wanna hurt ya," Jazz growls out, sharpened dentae throbbing.

"Then don't," the Enforcer says simply. He pushes Jazz's other servo away from the wound on his side, looking it over with a critical optic.

Jazz quietly studies the Enforcer in front of him, still mostly obscured in the darkness of the alley, even with Jazz's enhanced sight, he can barely make out the two tones of his plates. He's definitely duo colored, one very light and the other very dark. Probably standard Enforcer black and white if he had to guess. And those optics, the most beautiful that Jazz has ever seen. Radiant with speckles of captured iridescence. Jazz can see this close, amidst the swath of blue is all colors of the spectrum in tiny, miniscule sparkles held captive by the sky. Meanwhile, his fingers are stiff and impersonal as he probes at the throbbing wound in Jazz's side.

"Are ya a medic?" Jazz rasps, intake aching. There are no medical decals proudly displayed on those impressive wings, but Jazz still had to ask.

The Enforcer shakes his helm. "No."

Jazz feels his face plates twitch. "Then how do ya know what yer doin'?"

The Enfrocer pauses, fingers lightly probing the side not aching from the bullet, looking for an exit point but quickly learning what Jazz already knows - there isn't one. So, who knows what sort of damage is still occurring on the inside because of it. Iridescent optics peak up at him, derma pressed together uncomfortably. At the question? And not at the hungry vampire with distended fangs just inches from his frame? This Enforcer is very odd.

"I just do."

Jazz grunts, bringing the servo not clutching his knife to rub at his jaw, trying not to think about the hot energon flowing through the frame of the bot trying to help him. He still doesn't trust this completely, but he's not really in the position to be fighting his way out of this. And it's obvious that this Enforcer isn't blatantly hateful of vampires, so there's a start. How truly candid he is, Jazz doesn't know yet. 

The Enforcer pulls his servo back to himself, resting them on his thighs as he looks at Jazz for a long moment, considering. "A normal bullet shouldn't be affecting you in this way. Vampires hold stronger physical fortitude than a regular bot does. Judging by there being only one puncture site that leaves a very unwelcome outcome to our situation." Our?

"And wha's that?" Jazz grunts, already recognizing that something was really wrong, but is relieved enough that his strange companion could deduce that as well.

"My informants were right," the Enforcer murmurs, mesmerizing optics lowering in concern. Finally, a true prickle of it runs over his stagnant field. Just barely enough to Jazz to get a sense of it, even being this close.

"Mind elaboratin'?" Jazz manages, shifting a bit to keep the pressure off of his injured side.

The officer presses his derma together tightly, considering, before meeting Jazz's gaze. And something in Jazz melts at it, almost pacifying before he snaps out of it. Shaken, Jazz stiffens, ignoring the pain across his chassis. Either the officer didn't notice or didn't care to voice curiosity at the strangeness of his actions, as he says, "I had a growing concern that there were malignant agents about in this district. I had alternatively theorized it being separatists or more likely gangs, because the probability of vampire hunters here in Praxus was low but not zero-" Where had this guy been at mission brief? "But now that you're here, and harmed presumably by the same suspects I seek..." He sucks in a sigh, a furrow to his brow catching the light of Luna-1 perfectly.

"Ya in some slag now," Jazz offers, sardonically.

The Enforcer levels him with an intense look. "I am not. But you are. You and all other vampires."

Jazz grins and it's frigid. "Ain't we always?"

The Enforcer frowns, shoulders drooping a bit. Iridescent optics flickering before a sigh escapes him. "I apologize." He looks down at Jazz's wound, tipping his chin a bit before asking in a low voice, "Will energon... fix that?"

Jazz shrugs. "Donno. Not a regular bullet, like ya said. All I know fer certain is it can't hurt." He casts the unnerved Enforcer a long look. "Why would a nonvampire have inner energon on servo?"

The Enforcer stares at him, confused. There is a tenseness to his posture, like he's insulted. His shoulders pull back and his spinal struts stiffen. "All living beings, no matter creation, has inner energon."

Jazz blinks slowly. "Ya don't mean...?"

"There are no facilities put in place to assist vampires here in Praxus," the Enforcer states stiffly. "And I will not request any citizens of Praxus to assist in such a manner. You will have to do with me." He's insulted? Jazz can't really tell. He can't see all that well through all the notifications on his HUD that he keeps clearing, but it definitely looks like he's upset in some manner. Jazz watches as he digs around into his subspace, pulling out a prepackaged low grade energon cube. He breaks the seal and throws it back. Jazz has consumed low grade sludge before, and he's honestly impressed that the Enforcer's expression didn't shift in the slightest. He optics the residual bit still inside with a frown before deciding it doesn't matter enough to bother with it. He hands Jazz the cube and pulls out his own knife attached to his thigh armor.

Silently, Jazz watches as the Enforcer brings the blade up to his palm, between the thin armor there and straight to the protoform. Without hesitation, he slices through the softer material until fresh energon oozes up. He curls his servo up and lets the soft pink liquid drip down into the cube.

Jazz watches the energon with wide optics as his intake fills with oral lubrication. He swallows thickly, the sweet scent of the energon coating the walls of his olfactory senses. He doesn't care if it has the hint of low grade sludge added to it. At this point he'll drink anything.

"I don't know how it is done out there," the Enforcer says, quietly. "But I do not have any illnesses. So, you do not need to worry."

Jazz swallows again, licking his derma. "Don't matta. Vampires can't catch diseases through inner energon."

"Oh," the Enforcer says softly. "That's useful."

Jazz nods, finally shuttering his optics for a moment. He takes a few, steadying vents to keep from grabbing onto the servo and drinking straight from the source. He's not an underling, he has better control than this. What's wrong with him? He looks away from the filling cube to the now quiet Enforcer, quietly asking, "Why are ya helpin' me?"

"It is my duty," he responds, just as quiet. The night cycle air around them swallows the sound easily, as if to help hide their glyphs.

Jazz tilts his helm. "I donno if givin' up ya actual energon is what they mean in those oaths."

The Enforcer doesn't respond for a klik, finally pulling his servo away once the cube is over halfway full. "I will not give more."

"It'll get me to hab," Jazz murmurs.

"Will it?" The Enforcer asks, looking into Jazz's green visor intently. "I imagine your hab isn't truly here in Praxus. We don't tend to get many outsiders here."

Jazz doesn't respond, staring into those beautiful iridescent optics before a sound behind him, from the way he originally came down the alley, catches his attention. He stiffens at the sound of approaching pede steps - at least three pairs. Rushed, but stealthily enough that they were able to make it to the alley before he realized they were there. Jazz dares a glance around the dumpster, cursing under his vent at the small droplets of energon he left behind. Must be a slow bleed he didn't notice.

He jerks back around, hidden by the dumpster as the Enforcer moves to stand upright, staring at the end of the alley. The approaching steps slow as they draw closer. His bleeding servo is holding his knife at his side, angling his body to hide them.

"Evening, officer," one says, steps slowing.

Jazz's derma curl, he recognizes that voice. The Enforcer shifts closer to him, guarding Jazz with his frame while greeting, "Good night cycle. What is with the haste?" His voice is so deceptively calm that if Jazz didn't know any better, he would assume that the Enforcer truly was none the wiser to anything amiss. Even his field is still stagnant and unshifting. Jazz can't wait, if he's about to get into another fight, he's going to need his healing to start. He takes a quick swig of the cube just to wash it down. Normally he's not super particular about his energon, not picky like Mirage is. Spent enough time on the streets that he didn't form a refined palate like the Towers mech did.

But this Enforcer's inner energon tasted like it was blessed by Primus. It slid down so smooth, so sweet against his intake. It fit to his taste perfectly. So perfectly that Jazz almost choked, trying to consume it all in one go. He was quiet, yet the Enforcer stiffens, indignity fluttering into his field before washing away again. Jazz knew that the Enforcer took it the wrong way, but he wasn't going to correct it, not at the moment. He just threw his helm back and swallowed the rest, disappointed at himself for wasting the first swallow before it really touched his glossa.

"Anything odd?" the Enforcer was saying, voice a bit stiffer.

"Yeah, anyone strange wandering about?" one of the others asks.

"No," the Enforcer says. "What is so strange about them?"

A beat of silence, as if they were considering the answer before the first one speaks up, "I don't know, officer. There were just sniffling around in our neighborhood, and it got us a little concerned."

Jazz sneers but says nothing. His insides are irritated as they stitch back together. But it's not enough. No matter how good the Enforcer's energon was, that small amount can't undo all the damage and stop whatever is still already happening on the inside. But it is definitely helping. If this boils down to a fight, Jazz is confident that he will be able to handle himself. Trying to gage his comrade's reaction to the situation, he looks over to see the Enforcer tilts his helm in an almost predatory manner. "Sniffing around your neighborhood? That is a cause for an alarm. I will need their description, then."

"Why?" The second asks, voice tense.

Fields still unfaltering, the Enforcer's voice is low, almost alluring, "If you are having issues with bots, let me call in for back up so that we can get this settled expediently." His voice is enough to make Jazz shiver in his plates. Something about his voice, about the way he spoke the glyphs almost made Jazz want to call up the others so they could hash this all out. What is happening to him? The officer makes a gesture to his helm, like to activate his private comms when the pede steps start to retreat backward.

"No need, officer," another voice says. "We were just about to head back anyway. I'm sure we probably scared them off, so they won't come snooping about anymore. We will comm if we have any more issues. Have a good night cycle!" The other two share in the sentiments as they back away. Jazz takes this moment to move onto his own pedes, just in case, but remains crouched down. He can still feel the blessed energon flowing through him, doing an incredible job at repairing the damage done to his insides than he initially suspected. Not that it will matter all that much with the bullet still knocking around.

The Enforcer watches them go and then waits an additional thirty nano-kliks after they left even Jazz's enhanced hearing before turning to look at the faux green bot. "You can't stay here."

"You a detective?" Jazz jokes, carefully rising to his full height, not flinching at the pinch of pain at his side. Yeah, Ratchet or First Aid are going to have to go digging for the bullet, and the former of the two is going to kill him for it.

"No," the Enforcer says stiffly. "Come." Then without waiting for him to respond, the Enforcer turns to lead down the alley Jazz had originally seen him come from. He trusted the bot this far, might as well follow through for now. So, he does. Through all the twists and turns of the back alleys and streets, his optics locked on beautiful arching door wings. Watching them bob slightly with each step. In the light of Luna-1 and Luna-2 Jazz can see that his assumption is right, the Enforcer's plating is black and white. So plain, so basic for optics like that, and yet it somehow adds to the charm. On Jazz's HUD he has a rudimentary map pulled up for the layout of Praxus, and can tell they are heading in the general direction of his rented hab, which is good. But can also tell they are carving a path right to the highway, which is even better. He can swing by, grab his supplies and head out immediately.

The Enforcer suddenly stops making Jazz stop too, at a small voice calling out softly, "Prowl?"

The Enforcer turns to look down an alley that they were passing to see a small mechling creeping towards them carefully, blue optics wide. They're young, probably only in their second or third upgrades, the top of their head barely reaching Jazz's waist. But as they step into the light, their thin armor is scuffed and chipped, obvious dents litter the small form. The stoic Enforcer tilts his helm at the small mechling before holding out a servo.

"You're damaged, Fleet."

"Yes," the mechling admits, sending a weary optic to Jazz before racing over to the Enforcer's - Prowl's - side to grab hold of his servo. "I'm hurt, Prowl. Hurt?"

The Enforcer, Prowl, continues walking. "Yes, of course." His steps are smaller so that the little frame can keep up and there's just something about this that tickles Jazz's processor in the right way. This Enforcer, this Prowl, is so strange. Normally, it's something to be expected of Enforcers, to serve and protect those that need it. Those that can't do it for themselves. Civic duty to the fellow bot and all that, but realistically... well, it doesn't happen like this. Not normally. Jazz has gone his entire sparkling-into-mechling decavorns learning the hard way that it was a lot easier for the Enforcers of Polihex to pretend that they didn't see anything wrong - or exploit it when they did. As he grew older, Jazz came to understand that it wasn't always maliciousness that made it so, but complacency too. And an exhaustion for the way things were also played a part.

And this Prowl... well, so far, he's shown to be a perfect model of an Enforcer. While the bot himself is stoic and blunt, the small mechling clings to him, not at all dissuaded by him.

"Was it the other younglings?" Prowl asks, voice even as he spares a glance down at the mechling. At the soft, confused hum of the little mech following him, Prowl elaborates, "That dama- I mean, hurt you. Was it Smokescreen or any of the other younglings that hurt you? In... in games?"

The small mechling, Fleet, quietly shakes his crusted purple helm, looking down at his dirty pedes. "No. It was Skyriser and his crew." Prowl's elegant wings arch up high, tense. Anger floods his fields, licking at Jazz's plates before once more fading into a stoic calmness. Fleet flinches, squinting up at Prowl. "You can't tell Smokescreen I told you, okay? He says we can handle it!"

"No," Prowl says firmly. Whether it was to not tell this Smokescreen about the spilled energon, or if they could handle it, Jazz didn't know, but either way, the youngling wilts at it.

Fleet keeps pace with Prowl's slower gait in silence for a long time until Jazz catches a motion from the Enforcer to the youngling that made the latter's little winglet hinges wiggle in excitement as he giggles. He smoothly moves behind them to see that Prowl is passing over a few small cubes of mid-grade the youngling, a small smile pulling at the corner of his derma at the sight. Prowl quietly commands that Fleet "share with the others" while he opens one of them up for the eager young bot to sip from. 

It was when they were just about to the highway, when the youngling, smiling around the rim of his cube, asks Prowl, "Who is your friend?"

"He is not my friend," Prowl says simply, which makes the youngling giggle. Jazz's smile spreads a bit more. "I am showing him to the highway."

"Oh," Fleet says, "you're helping him?" Prowl nods, optics scanning the area as they draw closer to the highway. Jazz can hear the sound of traffic getting louder and louder. Small optics peak over their shoulder to look at Jazz cautiously. "Are you trying to go to hab?"

Jazz nods, smiling softly. "Yeah."

"And Prowl is helping you?"

Jazz hums, catching a subtle twitch to elegant door wings. "Yeah, he is."

Prowl stops in front of the road, angling himself and the youngling so that his frame is closest to the street. He meets Jazz's green visor with those beautiful optics. "Good luck." Jazz could almost laugh at the crisp dismissal, but there was something endearing about it. Maybe it was just obvious, or perhaps Prowl is just observant enough to notice, but Jazz is ready to just get out of there. He offers a loose smile between the stoic Enforcer, to the small obviously habless mechling clinging to his side, before moving into the merge lane to join the flow of traffic and tentatively transforms. It hurts, and he knows the next few groon are going to be a nightmare, but he can't focus on it right now. He needs to get back to Iacon.

"Thanks, ma mech," Jazz says quietly to himself, before pulling out to join the flow of traffic. He gets back to his borrowed hab, sends a message back to Iacon, before leaving the insular city of Praxus, being careful to ensure there was no evidence aside from memories to show that he had ever been there at all. He would be back - he has to, his Prime is invested in seeing the situation here through to its conclusion. So, he'll be back. He'll just have to make sure that his Prime, and his team, is properly prepared for what will await them here. The suspicions of separatists, confirmations of actual hunters and trappers...

Oh, and an Enforcer that helps habless younglings and vampires alike with beautiful optics.

Ah yes. He'll be back soon.

Chapter Text

"With the seasoned veterans off to oversee the Prime's precession as they make their way here, you are all expected to ensure everything here is presentable for his arrival. We are Central Enforcement, so we will be spearheading the final rungs of this operation, and I expect everything to run smoothly. No mistakes while the Prime and his entourage is watching. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Captain!" Prowl joins the chorus of voices.

"Prowl?" The designated mech blinks, turning his gaze from over the captain's shoulder, to his optics. He tilts helm in question as the captain asks, "Do I make myself clear?"

Some of his fellow Enforcers found something funny, but Prowl wasn't sure what. When he glances around at them, all he gets is dismissive flicks of their wings in return. Turning back to the bot ahead of him, he just assumes that his captain didn't hear his response, so he nods, repeating himself calmly. The laughter died down a bit, but Prowl still didn't understand what he was missing. He decided that he was going to ask Smokescreen later when he had the chance. Smokescreen always seemed to understand better what was going on than Prowl did.

They had some time after being dismissed by the captain for everyone to make sure everything was both in working order and that the place was spotless and presentable. Prowl has never seen the Prime before - as in, not even on the holovid, but that would be because Prowl doesn't spend any time with one. Even the younglings knew about the Prime and they were more than happy to tell him all about the enigmatic spiritual leader of Cybertron that recently took to power only a few short vorn ago after the mysterious deactivation of his predecessor. Prowl didn't know anything about spirituality until Tanks, holding her small pendent of Primus to her chassis, told him that the Prime was Primus's avatar on Cybertron. That he ruled from the golden city of Iacon. The younglings told him that the Prime was tall enough to touch the stars in the sky. That he had superpowers beyond Prowl's imagination.

Which isn't all that crazy, considering Prowl didn't have much of an imagination.

There is a buzz of excitement in the air as everyone bustles about in anticipation once dismissed by the captain. Prowl catches the older mech heading to the door leading to the lobby from the bullpen, where Central Enforcement commands the whole city, to see the mayor of Praxus and his own entourage coming into the room. They step up to one another, tip their wings in greeting to one another, before heading for the captain's office. While some of Prowl's fellow Enforcers are looking at vids on some of the many computers, watching as the Prime and his retinue continue their way through the city, heading toward Central. A quick glance shows that the line of senior Enforcers is encasing the entourage and acting as a bulwark between the excited civilians of Praxus and the tower giant of a Prime. 

A bot supposedly capable of touching the stars.

Prowl isn't too interested in watching the vids, but he does make a note to save some to a datapad so that he can show the younglings, as he's sure that they would love to see it, if they aren't able to squeeze in close enough on their own. He heads to his desk at the back of the room, offered the most privacy from the rest of his fellow desk jockeys. Knowing that he was going to have to take command of the mission situated in a few groons, he needed to make sure that he was ready without any delay. All of the cables for the computer systems are plugged in and ready to be inserted into his ports, he has his desk cleared off of anything he might blindly knock into, and he double checks that all the wires underneath is tied up and out of the way, so he doesn't kick at them and pull something loose. The only thing missing is his fans.

He heads to a storage closet, where he'd last placed them to see that they were missing. He scans the room a few times as sometimes they get moved underneath supplies - that's how one of them got bent enough to be pointed at an improper angle, but it still worked so Prowl ignored it. They weren't there though.

Stepping out of the storage closet, one of the nearby Enforcers calls out to him, "Shameless, what are you looking for?"

"My fans," Prowl informs him.

The Enforcer considers, one of his cohort snickering and turning away, as he points towards the stairwell. "I think Barricade and Swinger moved them down into the basement storage."

Prowl's frame tenses as his steady venting stills. His optics turn toward the innocuous doorway, knowing rationally that there wasn't anything to worry about, yet still he hesitated. "Why..." Prowl starts slowly, blinking rapidly. Not sure why his fellow Enforcer was still snickering into his palm. "Why did they do that? I am in need of them."

The Enforcer shrugs. "I don't know. If he wasn't on the ground team, maybe he would have been here to go get it." His cohort snorts and Prowl casts him a curious look, wondering what was amusing, before looking back over at his fellow Enforcer addressing him.

"I see," Prowl says carefully. He hesitates, casting a long look at the door before returning to the other Enforcer. "I would like to request assistance in retrieving them."

The snickering Enforcer busts out laughing and just walks away. Prowl watches him go, confused, before looking back over at the other Enforcer, watching as a smile fights its way across his derma. Prowl didn't understand what was funny. He glanced around, wondering if someone was making strange gestures behind him again, but there wasn't anyone. When he looked back over at his comrade, the older bot was shaking his helm. "Sorry, Shameless. We need to prepare for the Prime's arrival. You understand, right?"

Prowl deflates, debating on how necessary his fans really are. He casts an uncertain glance over at the door again, temped to just let them remain down in the basement and just start saving for another pair to use later, but if Fulcrum know that he was saving to buy another pair of fans, she was going to be mad at him. And he still didn't understand why she had been angry at him the last two times this happened. He really wished that his fellow Enforcers would leave his fans alone. They were so careless sometimes and Prowl didn't really appreciate it. If they wanted it moved, he would move it for them. If only the captain had allowed him to just leave them by his desk, they were already so far out of the way.

"You going to get them...?" His fellow Enforcer asks, smile growing a bit.

Prowl's wings drop slightly as he glances over at the door again, knowing that he has to go get them. He needs them. He looks back at his fellow Enforcer one more time. "Are you certain I can't - "

"You can't, sorry, Shameless." His smile then nearly split his face plates in two and Prowl is unsure why. He wished that Smokescreen was there. He was always really good at explaining things.

Prowl's shoulders droop. He turns and heads for the door. He sends his security code to the door, and it pings, unlocking for him. His servo hovers over the handle for a split second too long and the door locks again. He has to send his code again to unlock it. There is a loud cacophony of laughter around the room, but when Prowl glanced over his shoulder to see what was happening, no one was facing him, all wings hiked up and shoulders shaking. He wanted to ask what was funny and hope that they would explain it to him, but he didn't have the time to waste on this. So, he turns away, opens the door and steps into the stairwell. He turns the light on just outside of the door so that he can see and makes his way down. It's a long, dark concrete stairwell. Prowl listened to the bottom of his pedes scrape against the steps as he descends. He was about halfway down when the light went out.

It had been dimmed, poorly lit to begin with, but it had been better than nothing.

Now that he was in darkness, his entire frame freezes. He squeezes his optics shut.

Muffled screams. Shots fired. The roar of a monster. Boom. Boom. Boom!

Prowl collapses onto the stairs, the monster's roar still in his audial as he tries to remember to vent, frame shaking. He curls up into a ball on his side, not feeling the ache in his frame from how hard he fell. He shakes, desperately trying to fight to free himself from the memory. Prowl turns on his headlights, peaking through the pure blackness. It's not the dark that triggers this feeling. It was the silence, the muffled, stifling darkness. Outside was fine. Outside had sounds and starlight and air. This was enclosed. This was suffocating. They had to get this light fixed. Even though it happens every time he comes down here and he knew to expect it, nothing he did ever made it better.

Prowl tries desperately to compose himself. He needs to get his fans and get ready. It's a dark staircase! He's walked around the dangerous streets alone without issue.

Shaken, Prowl climbs to his pedes and makes his way down the stairs. The shadows shift and move as his headlights dance across the massive room. It's clustered down here. An old, outdated filing system that Prowl prayed every orn he wouldn't need to gather up all that data and input it into their system. It's archaic. It's honestly a hazard. Prowl often thinks about how much information is left behind down here that could still be important to them - missing bot cases and cold cases alike - but it was all lost to time and poor management. Sometimes, Prowl considers just doing it, knowing that somebot ought to, but he never has the time to do so. If he were to take on this tremendous task, the younglings would begin to worry about him. Or they would get into trouble and need him. And he can't abandon them.

Prowl takes a moment to wrap his arms around himself, rubbing them up and down until he feels better. "Self-sooth," Fulcrum had told him. And it worked to help him. Fulcrum did so much to help him too.

It took Prowl the better part of half a groon to find his fans, and he felt this tremendous weight just fall onto his chassis when he noticed that one was even more dented in a nearly impossible way, and the other was snapped in two. They had been tossed far back into a corner, and something fell on top of them. More junk that has overtaken this level of the precinct. Prowl felt his wings dip low with his mood as he just stares at the ruined remains of his fans. They had been nice ones he'd gotten from the very nice mech at the corner shop by his apartment. Prowl worked five orns that he had off from the precinct at the shop to be able to afford them without paying actual shannix. They were imported from Tarn and were immense quality. He'd gotten them for a steal.

And now they were broken. He hadn't even had them for three decaorn.

Loud noise from above pulls Prowl from his stupor. He looks mournfully down at his fans before just accepting that he would have to go without. Once he was back up the stairs, he stepped out into the bullpen to see that his fellows were moving into attention, wings up high and fluttering with excitement. Their fields pressing down on his own, pulling back when they felt his sour mood. Prowl barely had the time to move to his desk, as far out of the way as possible, before the captain and the mayor came back into the room from the lobby. A massive mech following leisurely behind them. He had to duck to get under the doorway but when he straightened-up it was a smooth, graceful movement Prowl was impressed by. He must be used to fitting into smaller spaces.

He must be the Prime. Not tall enough to touch the stars but definitely imposing over even the tallest of Praxians. Prowl is average height but if he had to guess, the top of his head would be just below the Prime's spark chamber. A complimentary red, blue and silver plating covered the Prime, bright, shiny, impeccable. His optics a bright, almost unnatural blue. Not just the color, but the shine, the way they took everything in as they roamed the room. His frame, though, was elegant, his steps purposeful, commanding, powerful. And his armor was thick, heavy. Despite being the spiritual - and political - leader of their people, Prowl could tell the Prime was a warframe with armor that dense. Thicker, stronger and with more weapon slots than even Enforcement armor. Prowl isn't wise to the frame type, but if he had to guess, the Prime has some kind of hauler altmode.

Those enchanting optics found Prowl, even as the Prime's retinue and guards piled into the room and encircled it, no doubt additional forces left to secure the lobby and other rooms within the precinct. Prowl had moved to his desk in order to not draw attention to himself, but it seems in doing so, he separated himself enough from the rest of his fellows that he ended up standing out anyway. That, and while no Praxian would have been able to see him in the back of the room from the Prime's current position at the head of it, the Prime's superior height allows him to easily see over helms and wings.

Prowl's desk is flanked by two mechs. One is a lanky, slim primarily silver plated mech with blue accents, about as tall as Prowl is, while the other is... a Praxian. Young, mixed with another frame type to take away the usual chevron to be replaced with audio horns, but not the wings. He was just slightly shorter than Prowl and when he met Prowl's curious gaze, his expression was hard, guarded. Prowl tilts his helm slightly, wondering if that was normal for Primesguard or if Prowl had somehow offended, when the expression softens slightly and curiosity bleeds into his posture and expression.

"Hello, everyone," the Prime rumbles, voice low enough to shake the ground beneath Prowl's pedes if he tried. "I am Optimus Prime, and I would like to formally thank you all for welcoming me into your beautiful city." As one, all of the Praxians in the room straighten up, cross their servos over their sparks, tilt their wings down and bow low at the waist in reverence. Prowl was so utterly thankful that Fulcrum thought to teach him that, as Prowl's fellow Enforcers wrongfully assumed he would have known it, and no one ever made mention of it leading up to this moment. He would have made a poor representation of the Enforcers had he made such a blunder.

The slim silver mech to Prowl's right hums and leans against the wall by his desk, crossing his ankles and arms. Prowl's wings wiggle slightly in confusion before he remembers he has to keep them still until the Prime releases them. Which thankfully wasn't long as the Prime smiles warmly, looking around the room with ageless optics and dismisses the reverence with grace.

"I understand the unorthodox nature of this endeavor, but I would like to acknowledge how thankful I am at the opportunity to see the Praxian Enforcers in action against a common foe," the Prime continues. He scans the room, looking into the sparks of every enthralled mech before him - including Prowl. "Separatists to the edict of the March Towards Peace have begun escalating from online gatherings and peaceful protest to gathering armaments and making plans for an attack on our great cities as a destabilizing agency. It is believed that dissidence that still hold fealty to the ways of the old council have taken residence here in Praxus and we have come to show a unity between Praxus and Iacon. We will handle this threat together, hopefully without any spilt energon."

Prowl frowns, calculating the likeliness of that and finding it to be abysmally low.

"With that being said," the Prime continues, taking in the shifting of the Enforcers before him, "I recognize that not all will come peacefully. I wish to preserve the lives of all people, but not at the cost of our own. I will trust in your judgement, and that of our comrades out in the field. At that end, I will turn this over to the head of my Primesguard, Ironhide." He steps back with a magnanimous gesture to a smaller, black and silver warframe that had been standing beside and a step back from him this whole time.

The mech, Ironhide, steps forward, a gleaming Primesguard decal of the servos of Primus on his chassis. "As my Prime has decreed, we will be playin' this all by the datapad. Soon, I'll be taking my forces from outside of the city to the rendezvous point with the other Enforcement offices already in place down in the lower eastside district. With the public address between my Prime and the mayor on the doorsteps of this precinct to draw in as much of the crowd as possible, we are going to hit the separatist base hard. As the command outpost, you fine mechs and femmes are going to be our direct link to each other, and to the city itself. We need to ensure that we keep casualties of all kinds to a minimum."

Ironhide closes blue optics, sucking in a slow vent before opening them again to look around the room, standing just a bit taller than the taller of the Praxians present, so Prowl can just barely make out his face plates.

"Our agents were able to confirm this morning cycle, that the separatists have evolved into a full-blown terrorist cell."

It's like the temperature of the room drops significantly. Prowl feels a tension tightening in his frame as the Enforcers hold unnaturally still. Prowl mourns watching from the sideline as cohorts link up with one another, their postures shifting towards each other, getting ready to face whatever was coming. Every bot in the room carefully, slowly, began clustering together in near imperceptible groups, if one didn't know what to look for - but Prowl did. And Prowl had no one. Prowl was completely alone.

The roar of a monster. Its very vents enough to shake the ground beneath him. The screams, the horrible, gut-wrenching screams. The crunch of bent and twisted metal.

"I have already spoken to the Lord High Protector," the Prime says, voice grave. It thankfully helps Prowl steady his failing spinal and leg struts. "He has offered this as my one chance at as peaceful of a resolution as possible. If it can't be done, he will mobilize the army."

"He can't do that, my Prime!" one of the Enforcers call out, leaning into two of his cohorts. "The city would be attacked!" Murmurs of horrified agreement spread amongst the crowd and Prowl felt lost. He didn't have a cohort to help him understand what he was missing. To help him regulate his emotions. He didn't know how to feel or how much to feel from it, so he did the only thing he knew how to do. He turned it off. He turned off his emotional cortex. Fulcrum will be so mad at him, but she will understand when he explains it.

"Peace, my friends," the Prime sooths. His voice is low, enthralling, and Prowl tilts his helm at the tangible shift. As if a fierce command that can't be disobeyed, Prowl's fellow Enfrocers relax. He feels a steadiness in his spark, but whatever spell fell over his fellow Praxians did not seem to enrapture Prowl in the same way. Instead of calming, his field fluctuates sharply in the opposite direction. A strangling unease filling him even without his emotional quartex to help him regulate, which is worse than if it was. He feels this tension building up beneath his plates, and instead of calming down, he gets anxious. His wings twitch, his weight shifts back and forth, his servos knead at his tanks. He parts his derma to draw attention to his unease, hoping that one of his fellows will offer him an explanation, but then he stops cold. The two Primesguards flanking his desk are staring at him now with identical intense looks.

Prowl shifts back, unnerved. He looks between the Primesguard, plates fluffing out in agitation until a new mech appears on the other side of his desk. There is something predatory about him, his steps near silent, even over the roar of energon in Prowl's audios. Even across the desk, this mech is Prowl's height in black and white plating, similar to Prowl's own, but his altmode is definitely not the same kind of vehicle as Prowl's. His frame appears more racer type than a pursuit type like the Enforcer's. But what really captured his attention was the band of his blue visor peering at Prowl with a tilt of his helm.

"This isn't right," Prowl says, voice tight. "I think there is something wrong."

The new mech moves around Prowl's desk with an easy smile that doesn't fit the sharpness of his presence. There is something about him. Something dangerous. Something...

Prowl's spinal strut stiffens. "Vampire," he whispers. Then, his wings top forward and he knows, despite their frames being different in both color and shape, that this is the same vampire he met before. The one bleeding out in the alley on his patrol route. He was supposed to return from wherever it was that he came from. Where he was going to hopefully be safer than he was in Praxus. And yet here he was, back again.

Prowl shifts closer, reaching out to grab onto the mech's arm, pulling him in and lowering his voice. The two flanking mechs tense at his action, but he's too focused on the slight tilt of the helm of the mech in front of him. As he scans the mech for the damage he had received the last time he'd seen him, he says, "You should not be here. I have been unable to find the hunters responsible for damaging you the last time that you were here."

For a nano-klik, the mech didn't react, but Prowl wasn't dissuaded. He wasn't wrong about this, he's certain. It occurred to him too late that perhaps the mech was trying to hide his identity. When the thought strikes him, Prowl goes to pull back but the mech grabs hold of his servo, holding it firmly with a crooked grin that softens the sharpness of his presence - disarming the predatory nature in a way, but not enough for Prowl to forget.

"Ya gonna have to tell me how ya do that, mech," he says, easily, voice jovial. He seems oblivious to the tension in the two mechs flanking them. Then his expression smooths out as he squeezes Prowl's servo. "Don't panic, mech. Prime's just settlin' their nerves. Ya good, mech, really."

Prowl shutters his optics rapidly, confused for a moment, before remembering how his unease had originally come about. He glances over to see Ironhide going over the plan, face plates stern while the Prime stands stoically behind the shorter black and silver mech, ageless optics roaming the crowd. Prowl scans the data projections to see the minor alterations to the plan to account for the forces that the Prime brought with him, but he was able to filter that into his plan with ease, before looking back at the mech in front of him, just now realizing that he, too, wore the decal of a Primesguard on his chassis.

Debating what to say, he finally settles on, "It's not safe for you."

The mech grins crookedly. "Ya sweet, mech. But ya don't got to worry 'bout me." He tilts his helm, studying Prowl closely. "Well, we will have some time to talk after the op, but I was hopin' that you would be part of this so that I could thank ya for ya help."

Prowl settles a little, nodding. "I understand, and while I accept your thanks, know that it is unnecessary. It is my job."

The mech smiles again, and it's sharper than before. "Ya wouldn't believe how many bot ou' there don' do their job."

Prowl frowns at that. "Are there any out there?" The mech nods, the grip he has on Prowl's servo loosens until he's just holding it. Prowl glances down at the touch before turning his attention back up to the band of blue protecting his optics. "Then you're correct. I do not believe it. It is integral to the safety of the people of each city to have Enforcers that do as their duty dictates. To not is both an unforgivable infraction, and a smudge on our good name in general, but a shame." He looks away, frowning deeper. "It is not right. I am sorry if that is the reality that you've lived - uh..." He tilts his helm. "I apologize. I never asked for your designation. I am Prowl."

"I remembe'," he says, grinning at Prowl's confused look. "Fleet called you that. Prowl."

"Ah," Prowl says.

"Nice to meet ya, mech, I'm Jazz." With that servo he's already holding, he gives it a little shake. Now Prowl understands why he's still holding it.

"Yes, I agree with the sentiment. It is nice to meet you, Jazz," Prowl says, tipping his helm a bit. Then, softer, he adds, "I apologize for grabbing you earlier. That was an unwelcome action, I'm sure. Please forgive my blunder."

The mech - Jazz - has a more jovial grin cross his derma. "Nah, mech. Ya were worried about me. How could I be upset?"

"I touched you without permission."

Jazz laughs, giving his helm a little shake. "I forgive ya."

Prowl's shoulders droop in relief, finally pulling his servo from the other mech's. "Thank you. You will have to correct me if I do something wrong. I have never met a Primesguard before now so if I act inappropriately you must address it so that I don't continue to blunder."

Another laugh, soft enough to not disrupt what's going on behind him. "Ya good, mech. Just act natural."

Prowl shakes his helm. "Do not misunderstand. There is no fallback attitude. I am a cold construct, what you see is what you get. I do not pick up social cues easily and you will not offend me by correcting unwelcome behavior."

Jazz nods slowly, obviously surprised. He opens his intake, but stops when the imposing figure of Optimus Prime, flanked by Ironhide, and Prowl's Captain, step up to them.

"...and this, my Prime, is Prowl. He is the mech of the groon. He is our OOIU."

Prowl pulls completely from Jazz, bowing respectfully to the Prime, careful to keep his movements as precise as he was taught to by Fulcrum, reminding himself to save up to get her something nice as thanks. Smokescreen told him once that everybot likes something nice. While Prowl doesn't know what constitutes as such, he's sure the younglings will be able to help him.

"At ease," Prime says simply. Prowl straightens up as he asks, "And what is OOIU, if I may?"

"Operations Oversight Intelligence Unit," Prowl answers easily. "Typically, a team is designated for the position, but I am not compatible with any other officer or staff, so I act as the sole member of Central's control unit."

Prime's forehelm wrinkles with interest while Jazz crosses his arms over his chassis, helm tilted.

"Will not having a unit to assist you affect our objective?" Prime asks.

Prowl nods. "Yes. It ensures I will be able to command it with peak efficiency."

In the corner of his optic, Prowl sees Jazz grin.

Jazz is no stranger to the work of an OOIU in its most basic functions. He's been on both sides of many ops for his long vorn of service to feel like he's seen it all, but also to know with certainty that he hasn't seen everything that an op could offer. Things can go aft up in an instant no matter how well informed or how prepared one is for any op, Jazz gets that.

Having an OOIU or, in Iacon, a tactical unit, to oversee massively important missions personally is a must. They are integral to a units success or failure. And bots made with a tactical mindset are invaluable. It is an extremely difficult job to have - almost as hard as the actual operatives. They are the ones that have to put their functioning in the servos of another, and react instantly to any situation. It requires time and trust in abundance. And a lot of luck.

And Prowl makes tactics look easy. He sits quietly at his desk, beautiful optics hidden behind his shutters, while plugged into his terminal in all of his ports. Even his neck ports, which makes Jazz cringe at, knowing that those ports some of the most sensitive of any ports on most bots.

Prowl doesn't even need a team to assist him in coordinating the operation. He's good, almost too good. He honed in on their agent trying to sneak away, and sent Enforcers after like an energonhound. Before Jazz could even react, Mirage is at Prowl's shoulder, whispering in his audio. Prowl reacts accordingly. He diverts the forces going after the agent into a sincere maneuver to cut off other retreating culprits. 

Prowl is a beast. He's basically doing all but taking the pede steps and pulling the trigger. From where he is in command, all of the terminals have become enslaved to him. The lights in the room have dimmed out, and an array of screens display the action linked up to what specific Enforcers are looking at. It's so effortless. There is some slight hiccups with the Primesguard with a foreign voice in their audios, but with Ironhide following Prowl's lead, no one complains. Image capture from the optics of the Enforcers automatically starts searching up identification of each of the terrorists on one of the smaller screens. Flagging false I.D.s and accessing the greater Cybertronian network outside of Praxus to better discover their true identities. Bumblebee stands by, whistling impressed while Mirage stares at Jazz, blinking bright white-blue optics slowly. Either he can read the desperation in Jazz, or he's thinking the same thing, but they need him.

Prowl is ruthless, too. He highlights enemy weak points analyzed just from the optics of the others. Weak joints, flaws of the frame, old injuries, all spotted from movement by the linked Enforcers and from his own understanding of Praxian frametypes. He was perfect. There is something elegant, beautiful, in the sterile ruthlessness of his maneuvers. One-by-one culprits fell to stun rounds or tackles or wounds to cripple not offline. And Prowl made it all look so easy.

Currently without the need for the distraction, the mayor, Prime and the captain stand off to the side, singing the praises of their forces. Jazz isn't really listening to them, though, too absorbing in watching the symphony of chaos somehow be wrangled into submission like an artform. Jazz caught a frown on his Prime's face plates, for a split nano-klik before it cleared up, and when Jazz cast him a long look, he shook his helm.

Jazz was so preoccupied with his methodical execution, that he hadn't realized something was amiss until First Aid stepped closer to his side, frowning deeply.

"What's up, Aid?"

First Aid pulls up the tab on his arm and starts messing with it, brow furrowed. "His internal temperature is reaching a boiling point." Jazz follows his gaze over to Prowl, still sitting unmoving at his desk, but now his plates are fluffed out, boiling hot air near invisible in the darkness. First Aid moves forward, but the closest Enforcer moves into his path, making the medic pull up short.

"Don't bother him," the Enforcer says, frowning. "He's almost done. Shifting his temperature now will pull him from his trance. Just a few more kliks and he'll be able to start cooling down."

"He's overheating," First Aid starts, blue optics wide. 

"He's fine. He's been under for longer in worse conditions. Look, he has fans to help him, but he decided not to use them. He's not reckless, if he chose not to use them, it's because he calculated the risk," the Enforcer says. Others nod in agreement, shifting closer to Prowl as if to protect him from them.

Jazz frowns, not sure he's able to argue the point, yet still this made him uneasy. Now that he could see it, he couldn't unsee it.

First Aid's fields ripple with worry and self-deprecation. "Be assertive, be assertive, be assertive!" he whispered harshly to himself. Jazz felt bad, knowing it was his mentor he was emulating, trying to be like Ratchet was tough. The old bot had millions of vorn on the young medic and had he been here, wouldn't have taken scrap from these Enforcers. He would have envoked his right as a medic to oversee the health of any bot he deemed in need of it. Jazz liked First Aid. Liked his genuine spark, his kind nature. But the mech needed to get a shiny new spinal strut soon.

It had only been a few more kliks before Ironhide gave the all-clear and took over seeing the last of the operation to its conclusion. Prowl went through final checks before his optics flicker on and his frame sways a bit. His internal fans, which had been off the entire time roar to life as Prowl rubs at his forehead, sucking in deep vents in an attempt to cool down.

"Good job, Shameless," one of the other Enforcers says, slapping him hard enough on the shoulder for him to flinch, but he doesn't complain. "Go ahead and head out. You need to rest. We will see to the rest here."

Prowl nods, taking a moment to reach around his terminal, methodically one after another, pulling the datalines free. A pit formed in Jazz's tanks as Prowl moves to stand, his own ports still filled with the datalines as he moves away. His steps are slow, uneven, and he has to grab hold of the wall to keep himself upright. Jazz didn't need to feel the horror radiating from First Aid to know he had to do something. Jazz shared a look with the anxious medic before disappearing from the crowd, using his heightened audios to follow the slow, uneven steps leading away from the lobby. The hall he walked down, he could see acknowledgments for the station's Enforcers for one thing or another, and while there wasn't anything for Prowl, any picture that he was in, he was off to the side, segregated to one corner. His faceplates were smooth, optics level with the lens but he just seems so... separated. So pushed off to one side. The picture couldn't catch the ethereal iridescence in those optics that have enraptured Jazz so.

But now isn't the time for this. He moves along down the hall, catching a door as it was hissing shut. His servo stops the door so that he can quietly slip inside. It's some kind of locker room, with Prowl on the other side of it, opening up his locker with his wings dipped low. The room is empty, large enough for the whole station, it seems, with benches lining the space in front of the lockers for convenience. 

"...able to come see you? I've been released for the orn," Prowl says, voice soft, but deflated somehow. Jazz steps closer once when those wings twitch and Prowl turns to look at him, beautiful iridescent optics tired. He tilts his helm, continuing in his comm, "I will come to see you soon, Fulcrum. Thank you." He looks Jazz up and down, curiously as one servo drifts to the port about his narrow waist, grabbing onto the dataline and pulls it out then drops it onto the ground. The sound alone is enough for Jazz to know that something is wrong with it. It was a sound that was too... wet. And a moment later, Jazz can see the trickle of energon from the wound. The sweet scent of that delicious energon is covered immediately by the scent of burnt metal. He can see the subtle red glow in the port that makes his shoulders droop.

"Ya need to see a medic, mech," Jazz starts, derma pressing together as he pulls out the dataline from the port on the other side, letting that one to also drop to the ground. The metal insert to the port is melted, his frame burned way too hot for the dataline to handle.

"No, I will not," Prowl says, simply. His expression pinches as he removes the ones in each arm, struggling with the left one. He swallows, closing his beautiful optics as a second tug pulls it out. Melted metal connecting in a string to the port making Jazz fight off a cringe. Something inside of the port has melted onto the dataline. Jazz is no expert, but he knows that there is more to be worried about than just some inner components in the other bot that are obviously not up to spec as they should be. First Aid needs to take a look at him to make sure there isn't any other underlying issues that should be known. There is obviously something wrong. Jazz doesn't know if this is the cause, or if it's unconnected, but something is definitely wrong.

"We got a medic with us, Prowl. He is worried about you." Not a lie, even if he's not the only one.

"I will not see him," Prowl says, moving to the next dataline, and the one after. His expression is tense, obviously in pain as he moves to the final ones in his neck. His servo shakes for a moment, swallowing again as he builds up the courage to do what Jazz can already tell is going to hurt far more than the others. There is a flittering of apprehension in his field that Jazz can barely feel before it's gone again. Prowl takes a beat to mentally prepare himself before his servo drifts up to one of the last two remaining lines, that subtle shake still in there.

Jazz can't begin to think about the pain that must give him. "Let me help," he hears himself offer before he can think about it.

Prowl frowns at him, surprise and uncertainty there. "No," he says after a long moment. "I do not want help."

"Ya helped me, mech. Let me return th' favor." Jazz drifts closer. He can smell the energon clearer now, can practically taste it on his glossa. But he forces the thought away before he becomes overwhelmed with it. "Please. Let me help ya. This is the least I can do."

Prowl stares at him for a long moment, deeply perplexed and uncertain. "You do not owe me anything, Jazz. I do not understand subtlety. If there is something more that you wish, you have to speak clearly, or I will not understand."

Jazz nods, stepping closer until he's in front of the Enforcer. "I understand, and yeah, I do have a bi' of an ulterior motive." Prowl frowns at him, which makes Jazz smile. "Ya saved my aft, and I wanted to thank ya, that much was true. I do want to repay ya. But, especially after seeing ya in action out there, I wanted to talk to ya."

Prowl stares at him for a long moment before quietly asking, "Will you hurt me? Please answer honestly so that I may prepare myself."

Jazz frowns at him, worried there was more to that question than just the question itself. "I'm not gonna try, Prowl. But with the way ya ports are smokin' it'll hurt. If ya don't want First Aid to help ya, I get it but at least let me give ya something to lessen the pain."

"No trick?" Prowl asks carefully, studying Jazz's faceplates.

That pit in his tanks deepens as Jazz solemnly shakes his helm. "Nah. No trick, Prowl." He softens his voice. "Please. Let me return the favor. It ain't quite savin' ya life, but it does sort of tip the scales back a bit." Prowl's derma part but Jazz waves his servo dismissively. "Yes, I know. Ya don't think ya owed anythin' I get it. Now, please?"

Prowl nods, hesitating for another moment before he sits down on one of the nearby benches. He looks into Jazz's optic band with those mesmerizing optics before tilting his helm in offering making Jazz's vent hitch for just a moment. He's... striking. Such a vulnerable position, even knowing what Jazz is, and there is no fear. No disgust or hate. There is an innocent trust there.

He's a cold construct, Jazz realizes. He must not have been functional for a long time if this is still his approach to strangers. He's still willing to simply trust in the good will of other bots. Prowl is good because he doesn't know any better, and that just makes Jazz want him more. To have his talents, of course. Prowl would be very useful for his team. Very. That's all. And Jazz still owes him.

Jazz takes a moment to reach into his medical storage for his missions and pulls out something for the pain. He rubs his thumb into the soft protomesh of Prowl's neck to draw his attention to that specific point. It's soft and warm and Jazz can still smell that delicious inner energon pumping through his lines. Enticing. Jazz has to remember where he is and what he's doing before making the first injection by that port before moving to do the same on the other side. Prowl watches him quietly, letting Jazz manipulate his neck. The trust there is humbling.

The first line comes out with a slightly harsher tug than Jazz would have liked, but the other side is offering greater resistance.

"Why didn't ya use fans?" Jazz asks, giving himself a moment to try to think about how to best remove the final dataline without hurting Prowl more than he already has. Even with the injection, Jazz didn't miss the flinch under his fingers where he's gently messaging the incredibly soft and warm protoform of Prowl's neck. "Ya fellow Enforcer said that you usually had fans to help ya but didn't use them this time. Why not?"

As he messages around the port, Prowl's optics lull shut, starting to relax into the touch. Jazz has to wonder when the last time any bot has ever touched him like this. Or if any ever has at all.

"They broke," Prowl admits, his voice soft. "My fellow Enforcers can be a bit rough at times. I do wish they would just ask me to handle my equipment instead of feeling like they had to themselves."

Jazz frowns, glad that Prowl's beautiful optics were shut so that he couldn't see it. "They broke ya fans?"

"Not at all. Just placed them somewhere inconvenient and something fell onto them." He sighs. "They were of very good quality. Better than the two sets I had before."

This nagging suspicion in his spark grows stronger, but Jazz manages to keep his voice even as he asks, "What happen' to the las' two?"

"Same thing," Prowl admits, then hums softly as Jazz's fingers loosen a knot on the side of his neck, smoothing out the protoform. "I just wish they would ask me to move them instead of taking it upon themselves. I would be sure to keep them out of the way while being sure to place them somewhere safe. It is unfortunate circumstances that brought us here. I will simply have to save for a new set for when next it is needed."

Anger burns in Jazz's breastplate, but he keeps it from his field and voice as he asks, "Don't ya think that they should be replacin' it since they were the ones that broke it?"

"I..." Prowl opens his optics, frowning, "I don't know. I never thought about it." He considers, then shakes his helm. "No, I would rather do it myself. I will be able to better find something that suits my needs rather than relying on some other bot to just assume on my behalf." Another softer sigh. "They were imported from Tarn. I was able to get a really good deal on them. I was hoping to keep them longer than three decaorn."

A simmering anger burned in Jazz's spark that he had to carefully wrangle in. He had a long list of stuff he hated, and high up on that list was bullies. Especially to sparklings and cold constructs. Because neither were capable of standing up for themselves right off the rip. Prowl doesn't see it, but Jazz does. And if Praxus wants to isolate and chase away what is clearly an asset to them - a beautiful, innocent asset with a processor capable of making a supercomputer jealous - than that was their prerogative. Jazz has never been one to turn away a good thing. And from what little he's seen thus far, Jazz can already tell Prowl is a very, very good thing.

"I'm sorry that happened, Prowl," Jazz murmurs, tilting his helm to the side to get access to the last remaining dataline.

"It's alright," Prowl says, quietly. "I can just replace it at some point." Then, quieter, he admits, "I really liked those."

Jazz moves his fingers over the dataline, gripping it carefully while still messaging the soft mesh with his other servo, giving a little twist and trying not to give in and call for First Aid when the dataline barely turned. But Prowl is firm about not wanting a medic, and Jazz doesn't want to damage the trust they have forming, so he keeps to himself on the matter. But if Prowl is willing to accept bullying from his fellow Enforcers without seeing it for what it is, what did a medic do to him that triggered this sort of response? Jazz knew that treatment of cold constructs has always been bad, but he never got a front row seat like this.

"Lemme take a look after this," Jazz says softly, pressing harder into the protoform on the other side of his neck to draw his attention there. "I might be able to help ya find more just like 'em."

"Real-" Prowl started then flinched, whimpering as Jazz removed the last dataline. A flash of betrayal crosses his features until he spots the dataline and his shoulders relax. He pulls away from Jazz, rubbing at his neck, brushing the inner energon from his mesh. He grabs all of the datalines and inspects the ends of them to make sure that they were all intact - they are, which means the metal was from Prowl's ports, which makes Jazz cringe inwardly at the thought - before coiling them around his servo and placing them into his locker. He turns to face Jazz with a curious look, large, elegant wings rising up into their normal arch. "Thank you for your assistance, Jazz."

"Ya welcome, Prowl." A beat of uncomfortable silence that only Jazz seemed to feel, then, "Ya want to go look at those fans?"

"Yes..." Prowl says slowly. "But I would like to do it tomorrow, if we could. I am very tired, and I would like to go. I promised to see Fulcrum after this, and I have already made her wait long enough."

Jazz nods, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Sure, sure. Ya want an escort? I'm a little worried about ya, mech."

"I don't need one," Prowl states firmly, making Jazz smile despite himself. "But I suppose if you would like to see some of Praxus outside of the dark night cycle and the threat of..." he pauses, blinking slowly, before continuing, "... of less than ideal sorts, then I could show you one of my favorite places here in Praxus." His wings then do a tiny flutter, as if excited and Primus if Jazz didn't feel his spark skip a rotation.

"Sure thin', mech. We'll be here for an orn or two more 'til Prime's seen this through to his satisfaction."

"Oh, you can't leave the Prime," Prowl says, wings wilting slightly. "I admittedly forgot."

Jazz grins, waving his servo around dismissively. "Don't worry, I was just followin' him around of my own accord. I'll just le' 'im know I'm leavin' and we can head out."

Prowl smiles then. It's tiny, barely there on his derma as he nods. "Very well. I will finish here and meet you back here when you're done. We should sneak out the back to avoid the crowd still waiting for the Prime's address."

Jazz finger-guns at the Praxian, grinning more when he tilts his helm cutely at the action before slipping out to talk to Optimus. Knowing Jazz as well and for as long as he has, Optimus didn't question him when Jazz basically told him that he was heading out. Just nodded with a look that promised they would speak later. He left his Amica under Bumblebee's watchful care and made not before leaving the bullpen again that Mirage was gone. That meant one of two things, either Mirage was investigating the Enforcers, or he was discreetly following Jazz, and with there more than likely still being vampire hunters out there, Jazz is leaning more towards the latter.

He meets Prowl in the hall outside of the locker room and the mech is already looking better. His plates are wet, like he tossed a few servofull of solvent onto the energon spots marring his plates and called it good. There is still a slight delicious scent of Prowl's inner energon still in the air and Jazz had to steady himself not to drift too close and make this uncomfortable. Prowl didn't seem to notice Jazz's internal struggle as he leads them through the maze that is the back of the Enforcer office, to the back entrance. They carefully move down back streets and away from the obvious din of the crowd up at the front of the building. They make it to the street to transform when the crowd roars with approval.

Prowl glances over his shoulder, frowning in confusion when Jazz tells him, "It's probably Prime. He's got a way wit' bots."

"Ah," Prowl says, nodding before transforming into his altmode and pulling onto the nearly deserted streets. Jazz follows on his tailpipe. Prowl leads them through the city, further and further into the lower districts. Jazz's curiosity grows as they get near where they first met,but said nothing as they passed it. For as proud and strait-laced as Prowl is, Jazz can't help himself but be surprised as Prowl pulls up in front of a building tucked into a corner at the end of a desolate street and transforms, making for the front door without any sort of issue. Not one to judge, Jazz would normally keep his opinions to himself - sort of - but he couldn't help himself but say something. This just doesn't seem like the sort of place this mech both should tread himself and be taking a government official.

"Uh, Prowl?"

"Yes?" Prowl stops about halfway up the stone staircase leading to the door of their intended location.

"You do know that this is a brothel, right?" Jazz asks, quirking a browplate.

Prowl tilts his helm, looking around where they stood, then the building. He turns back to Jazz, nodding. "Yes. This way." Then, without further ado, he turns and heads for the door, slipping inside. Jazz grins, unable to help himself. He's not sure what to expect - aside from the obvious - but he was definitely intrigued enough to see where this goes and follows after.

Chapter Text

There is a sound of transformation to which Prowl pauses at, turning to look over his shoulder at Jazz. His Polyhexian frame is altered just enough to show signs of a Praxian frame - including door wings but not the chevron. Just enough to pass as a Praxian, or at least a close enough descendent. Prowl stares at the mech a few steps down from him for a long time, watching as the mech stares back, a growing smirk on his derma. Prowl opens his intake, closes it, opens it again, before closing it again. Then, finally, he says, "Interesting." He turns and heads inside, hearing Jazz chuckling behind him, following without protest.

Despite the old worn nature of the outside of the building, the inside of it is clean and tidy. Prowl did his usual perusal of the area, checking into any of the bots present in the lobby. He looked them all over, keeping a critical eye for new damage done to them, or if any damage he noted before was still present and worsening. The bots cooed over him as they always did. Shared their affection freely even though Prowl himself wasn't overly affectionate back. They never seem to mind as their servo trail off his arm plating without reciprocation. It warmed his spark, though, that they were always so happy to see him, excited to gush to him about their orns, how he would absolutely love one thing or another, even if he wasn't so sure about that. But they were happy and that was enough for him. 

"Who do you have following you around, Prowl?" One of the oldest of the bots residing in the brothel asks, narrowing his optics at Jazz, who was doing just as he'd said. "He a friend of yours?"

Prowl shakes his helm. "No." He catches Jazz grinning in his peripheral. He had made note that Jazz's decal for the Primesguard is gone, so he made sure not to draw attention to it. He's not sure if he's missing something but he would rather not get anyone into any trouble. If Jazz changed something about himself, surely it has to be for a reason. He'll ask when they are somewhere private, just in case. "But he will not be a bother to you. I'm just going to check in on everyone and then see Fulcrum. Where are the younglings?"

"There was another surge of applications for the orphanage. So, they're there." One of the other mechs says, running a wet solvent cloth between his thighs, trying to rid himself of paint transfers. Prowl tilts his helm, wings fluttering slightly. The buybots around him smile, their own wings flicking in shared acknowledgment.

"Smokescreen might not be there, though," one of the other mechs, lounging back on a worn couch points out.

"He should be," Prowl murmurs, frowning. "He will not get adopted if he doesn't present himself."

Dropping the cloth onto his knee, the first mech points out, "You know he's not going to willingly present himself. He doesn't want to be adopted. At least... not by any of them." He waves a soft gray servo around, a strange look on his face plates that he sends Prowl's way.

Prowl narrows his optics, pressing a servo to one of the ports on his side, feeling a deep throb from within. It didn't make sense to him. Sure, Smokescreen should get to choose whether or not he goes with one family over another, but he is judging everybot unfit before even going to meet them. As much as it digs a hollow pain in his spark, Prowl wants Smokescreen to get adopted. He wants him to have a chance at a better life than the one he's living. He just doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why Smokescreen gets mad at him when he insists the young mech go to these meetings. And when he asked, Smokescreen just yelled at him, telling him that it doesn't matter and he can do what he wants, and stomped out. Prowl went into a blind frenzy trying to find the young mech for three orn after when Smokescreen didn't go back to his hab. He was fine, of course, but Prowl was shaken, bordering on a crash, and sobbed as he held the young mech to himself, begging him not to do that ever again.

Smokescreen has never hidden from him since.

That was the first time Prowl ever cried. He had been so terrified that something had happened to Smokescreen and none of his fellow Enforcers seemed to understand the severity of the situation. He wasn't reported missing by his caretakers - the guardians of the orphanage - and when he claimed that Smokescreen was very important to him, they gave him long looks. In the midst of his panic, he was called into his chief's office for an informal sit down and was grilled for groons about his relationship with the street younglings. He was told that he's not allowed to see the younglings anymore and he was devastated. He was going to stop after finding Smokescreen. Once he had and told the younglings he wasn't allowed to see them anymore, they had raged and cried and begged him not to go. They had dragged him off to see Fulcrum, and she explained to him that sometimes, it was okay not to listen to his higher-ups. That he could still look after the younglings - protect them, she'd said sweetly - without having to tell anyone. He had been new to the Force, having just gotten out of the hospital after...

It didn't matter. He was more ignorant at the time.

So, he never spoke about the younglings again, even as his fellows made strange jokes that he didn't understand. Fulcrum had sneered when he asked her what they had meant by one thing or another and told him to simply not talk about it with the other Enforcers and to know that she sees him. She sees into Prowl's spark. He'd been alarmed until she assured him that it wasn't literal.

"Wha'?" Jazz asks, looking between the bots as they optic him suspiciously. "This Smokescreen not like the prospective adopters?"

The three gathered mechs look at him for a long time, trying to decide if they should trust him or not, while Prowl offers, "Smokescreen is a very good mechling. He is very intelligent, protective and is undoubtedly going to do great things in his life." He frowns. "But he's also headstrong. Foolhardy in an endearing way. And... I do not understand why he will not give them a chance. When I asked him, he said that I do not understand what he wants, and he's correct. He has said he would like to be adopted, but he will not go to the adoption events. He will not give them a chance." Prowl frowns more, touching at his spark when he feels a twinge of pain there. Jazz watches the action with an unreadable expression.

One of the mech's, the one with the cloth on his kneeguard, opens his derma, "Prowl, he wants you - "

"Stop," the eldest of them says, cutting the other mech a stern look. "Smokescreen has asked that we respect his wishes. He will speak on it when he is ready."

Prowl's wings give a questioning flick, looking between them. "May I request the information?"

"You can," the old mech says, smiling faintly, "but you've got to get it from Smokescreen. Sorry, Prowl."

Prowl tilts his helm. "What shall I do if he does not wish to say?"

The old mech reaches over the back of the couch and pats at Prowl's arm. "You respect his wishes, Prowl. He'll tell you when he is ready."

"I...see..." He did not.

"Prowl."

Prowl glances over his shoulder to see Fulcrum, her armor is thin, primarily gray with hints of gold and pink accents. There is a light blue on her face plates and along the spine of her wings. Prowl has heard that Fulcrum is beautiful and while he has no doubt that she is, he has no actual frame of reference. But he feels a tentative smile pull at the corner of his derma as he moves towards the staircase leading up to the second level balcony, Jazz on his heels. She leans on the railing, blue optics following the two mechs as they climb the stairs, her expression hard as she takes in his gait.

"You're hurt," she says as soon as he reaches her.

Prowl dips his chin. "I have burned the inside of my ports. May I request your assistance?"

Her stern gaze softens. "Yes, sweetspark," she murmurs, blue optics flickering over to Jazz. "Friend of yours?" Her voice is even, tinged in curiosity, but her hand drops to her side, to the blade hidden between the plates on her left thigh - a gift Prowl gave her when he had learned that before he began patrolling around and inside their home, she had been the buybots' sole protector. Despite her tall, slim frame, she's strong. As a former miner she used to use her drills to scare away nefarious customers, but her last one broke over a vorn before Prowl was commissioned. The blade wasn't much of anything special, Prowl had been allotted two from the Enforcement Office, and so he had given her one.

He had been patrolling the streets, trying to get an in-depth lay of the land. He had been waiting for one of his fellow Enforcers to find the digital map of Praxus for him to download so while he waited the orns it was taking to get it; he was making his own map when he heard screaming. He charged down an alley and cut across the street toward the brothel. A younger mech, beaten to a pulp, had been dragged back into the building. A couple of gangsters-turned-customers-turned-gangsters-again were roughing up some of the buybots. Prowl pushed into the brothel in time to see Fulcrum, fresh from a wash after her own client, took a running leap off the top of the balcony and onto the back of one of the gangsters. She fought like the pits, kicking and punching, tearing with her fingers and dente. Her optics burned in a blind rage as she defended her fellow buybots.

She would have turned that rage on Prowl too, had he not flattened two bots of his own, disabling them and tying them up. He had already been radioing in for dispatch to send additional units. There had been six mechs, five of which got beaten by Fulcrum or flattened by Prowl, one had escaped, and Prowl never saw him again. His fellow Enforcers cleaned up the mess and transported all of the culprits to the precinct and Prowl followed after he got statements and gave his own. Despite the arrests all being clean, Prowl was chastised by his superiors and fellow Enforcers for a plethora of reasons, going in without backup, patrolling when he was technically off the clock, and drawing unwanted attention to the precinct. Prowl hadn't understood what his captain had been saying, but he'd made it clear that the area that Prowl had been patrolling was out of their jurisdiction. 

No one could tell him whose jurisdiction it was.

Prowl wasn't supposed to, but he went back, and this brothel had become his favorite place in Praxus. It was here he met the younglings, as the buybots gave them somewhere safe to play that wasn't out on the streets and taught them as much as they could about reading and writing and mathematics. They built their own little community here. And while they wouldn't be the community that an Enforcer should be part of, they made Prowl feel welcome. Prowl had told Fulcrum one night cycle that he wished he could form a cohort bond with the buybots, as they were the closest thing he had to a cohort, and her smile was so sad. She was only half Praxian from her sire's side, so she lacked the distinct chevron, but she was able to bond with the other buybots after having lost her original bond in the mines of Tarn.

But she was sad for Prowl, because she knew that he couldn't bond with them, just as Prowl did. No matter how badly he wanted to bond, his coding was too different from them, and as a cold construct he has a lot harder time connecting with any of bot. It's in part the reason why cold constructs are created already bonded together.

The screams. The roar of the beast. Twisted and gnarled metal between curled claws. Bots screaming out in terror, pain, fear. Falling one after another.

"Prowl?" Fulcrum asks, narrowing her optics at him.

The Enforcer blinks, thinking back to her question. "No. He is not my friend."

Fulcrum tilts her helm, looking at Jazz. "Then who are you? Why are you here?"

"Mech was a little shaky," Jazz admits, casting a look over at Prowl. "Wanted to make sure he got where he was goin' safely."

Fulcrum looks him up and down, moving her servo from the blade at her side. "Why? You an Enforcer too?"

Jazz shakes his helm. "Not at all. Jus' a good Samaritan."

Prowl flicks his doorwings a bit, anxiously. Fulcrum frowns at the action while Jazz watches it closely, curiously. "Fulcrum," Prowl draws her attention to him. "May I request your assistance?" he asks again, straightening up with his servos folded behind himself.

She nods. "Yes." She waves for them to follow her into the hall and towards the closest occupied room. Fulcrum has always made it a point to be the one closest to the entry of their living - and working - space. Acting like the first and last line of defense. She opens the door to her hab and gestures them inside. It's clean and filled with life - her life. There are pictures on the walls, niknacks on every surface, so much of her softer personality all over the place. Soft neutral tones for the floor and walls but a splash of color in the green berthspread and lots of pillows.

"I don't take clients in here," she says, casting Jazz a long look. "Prowl is the only fully matured bot not from the brothel to be allowed in here. And now you, I suppose. Don't touch anything."

Jazz holds up his servos where she can see them in surrender. "Yes ma'am. 'M Jazz, by the way."

"Fulcrum." She scrutinizes him, sensing something amiss but unable to tell what it is, before turning away to head over to her dresser on the far side of the room, digging through the spare parts and supplies stored there. While Prowl carefully dresses down her berth with practiced ease until it's just the padding, which he wraps up in new sheets, he makes sure that everything else is piled safely in a corner not to get dirty. While he works, all he can think about is how for most of her life, Fulcrum lived in Tarn. If anybot here would know anything about vampires, it would be her. There aren't many known First Gen's out there, but from Prowl's understanding, there is a very famous one from Tarn. Well, he was found in Kaon, but from Prowl's understanding, for a long time, he lived in Tarn.

"Have you ever seen a vampire before?" Prowl asks, watching with his doors as Jazz sends him a long, slow look, expression unreadable. His servos are busy with fitting the sheets even as he catches the motion of Fulcrum turning to look at him. Prowl was prone to jump from one topic to another, his curiosity knowing no bounds. More often than not, the more worldly femme was happy to satiate it as best she could.

"Vampire?" she echoes; curiosity laced into her normally even tone. "I suppose. I used to work in the mines in Tarn. Do you remember that?" At Prowl's nod, she continues, pulling out supplies, stacking them onto a small rolling table pulled from one corner of the room. Jazz watches her quietly as she continues, "I used to work there for a short time when Lord Megatron was a miner. Did I ever tell you that?"

News to Prowl, he shakes his helm, glancing over his shoulder at her. "No."

She hums, closing the drawer and moving smoothly to her pedes. She casts Jazz a look, derma curling in distrust before turning her focus back to Jazz. "Seen some vampires in my orn back then. They were treated worse than the rest of us." She moves the rolling cart over to the berth. 

"Why?" Prowl asks. 

"Vampires look like us, Prowl. They walk and talk and are like us in almost every way. But they're stronger. Faster. Heightened reflexes, amongst other things and are much more likely to develop outlier abilities."

"Outliers are so rare, that one actually hasn't been proven," Jazz points out. "Vamps jus' don't deactivate their youn' as flippantly for bein' different." She sends him a look to which his shrugs, leaning his shoulder into the wall on one side of the room. "Can't afford to wit' their numbers."

"But being an outlier is purely chance," Prowl rationalizes, frowning as he lowers to sit on the berth. He twists away from Fulcrum as she sees to the port by his hip. "Sometimes it's an abnormality in code, or something that lie dormant in both procreators that mutated. Sometimes it's just genetic lottery. In the most infuriating of ways, it just happens."

Jazz chuckles. "Yeah. Vampires are rare, but outliers are even rarer."

Prowl hums, feeling Fulcrums optics on him. Jazz clocks the look, turning his gaze to Prowl as well, while Fulcrum finishes cleaning out one port and moves up to the next one. His sides don't really hurt, it's the two on either side of his neck. Those were always the ones that gave him problems. Probably because they were so close to his helm and it's safe to assume that his helm grows hotter than the rest of him. But she knows the drill. She'll get there when she gets there. He's just glad that she's not questioning him about what happened. She can probably guess, but she'll wait to interrogate him for when they're alone. Not like it's going to save Prowl from her wrath later, but he appreciates that she doesn't care for an audience, even as the anger simmers beneath her plates and in her optics.

"Why the sudden interest in vampires?" Fulcrum asks after a few beats of silence.

Prowl flinches when she scrapes against something sensitive. She stares at him, waiting to see if he'll want some pain medication, but he doesn't. He'll never ask for her supply. That was for the other buybots when evil clients come while he's not there, or when the younglings hurt themselves. It's not for him so he'll never ask for it. She would give it, though, he knows she would. She's offered enough times. But he always says no.

"The Prime is here," Prowl admits, not bothering to look at Jazz with his optics, but his wings pick up the tilt of his helm.

Fulcrum's fingers pause. "Yes," she says after a long moment. "The younglings were so excited. They wanted to go see him in the parade."

Prowl looks over at her. "Did they get to?"

She shrugs. "I'm not sure. Tanks wanted to see if he would bless her pendant, but I don't imagine he would have stopped on his way to Central." She cleans up some melted slag, glancing at his even expression before focusing back on her work.

"No," Prowl says evenly. "It would be illogical for the Prime to stop at all who would wish to speak with him. He would never make it through the city within a decaorn at that rate." He shakes his helm. "It would not make sense that she would be able to get the pendent blessed."

Fulcrum smiles at him faintly. "Can't blame a femme for trying."

Prowl frowns at her. "I wasn't blaming her for anything."

Fulcrum shakes her own helm moving to the side of his neck, a renewed flash of anger in her optics but still she says nothing. She starts cleaning, being far more careful with this one, knowing it's one of Prowl's tender spots. As she gently works, she says, "But I do happen to notice that the Prime is where you're currently working. You could ask him for her."

Prowl blinks. "I cannot. It would be negligible of me to take up the Prime's time asking him to..." Prowl trails off, considering. "How does he bless things? Is it the superpower that the younglings were speaking on?"

Jazz grins, crossing one ankle over the other, looking effortlessly relaxed. "Ya think the Prime has superpowers?"

Prowl considers for a long time, watching as Jazz's grin stretches wider with each passing klik. "I don't know," he finally admits. "I have never met a Prime before." Well, before this orn. "I have never met any bot that has superpowers before. Would I know just by looking at them?" This question is directed to Jazz, the much more worldly of the three of them.

Jazz laughs. "Normal mechs, no. You? Probably." Prowl blinks at him, so Jazz elaborates, "Ya a very observant mech." Fulcrum hums softly in agreement. Prowl hisses unexpectedly as she presses into something sensitive. He fights not to pull from her touch while Jazz grimaces in empathy. She murmurs a soft apology that Prowl shakes his waggles his wings in a slight dismissal.

"So," Fulcrum says quietly, taking a cloth to dab at the new trickle of energon from the port. "You connected vampires to the Prime, right? Is it because of his more recent law? The United Freedoms Act? The one that deigned all peoples of Cybertron be recognized as such? Maximal, vampire, any other Cybertronian offshoot out there. That one?"

Prowl considers. In a manner, sure. With how insular Praxus is, things take a long time to get to them. From Prowl's understanding, it's not uncommon for something to be law out in the greater Cybertron for a significant measure of time but be new news for them. And while the tenuous connection could be made from there, it was really Jazz. In a way, Prowl wanted to show the other mech that not every bot was like the ones that attacked him. That Praxus was a good place to live - maybe not for vampires at the moment, but still. All places had their dangers, all places had their problems, but it was a shame that Jazz's first impression - or at least one of his more recent ones - of Praxus had been so negative.

But then again, it doesn't make any sense. Why should Prowl care what Jazz thinks? Because he was a steady presence while Prowl was in pain? Because for some reason Jazz believes that he owes Prowl something? Because... because Jazz is nice to him and Prowl's not sure why?

He must have taken too long to think of a response because Fulcrum pulls back to cast him a curious look. "Or was it about Lord Megatron?" She smiles loosely. "It's all my clients buzz about. The Prime, holy hand and spirit of Primus himself, chose to bond with a vampire of all bots. And not only that, but a First Gen. There are so few out in the open bots are starting to really think that the species are dying out." She goes back to work, more careful than before. "And on top of that, the Prime made him into the Lord High Protector of Cybertron."

"Seemed awfully unpopular at the time," Jazz says, voice even. If Prowl didn't know who and what Jazz was - as both a Primesguard and a vampire - he wouldn't be able to tell that Jazz had any sort of feeling on the matter, or any connection to it. Not even his posture or face plates show any sort of shift, like they were speaking about something as mundane as the weather.

"I imagine so," Fulcrum says quietly. "But I think, so long as it wasn't some kind of publicity stunt, that it's a good thing. To the pits with bonding within one's class. If a Prime can bond to an enslaved former miner-turned-gladiator and raise him to the highest military rank on all of Cybertron, while one being an open vampire and the other the living embodiment of Primus? Then perhaps there is hope for the rest of us to finally break from the chains of the old regime. And their..." her optics track over the side of Prowl's face plates, her wings drooping. "And their archaic methods."

"Still got a problem with the old regime around here," Jazz says, voice even. It's more of a statement than a question but Fulcrum nods.

"They can't help themselves," she says, nodding over her shoulder towards the door. "They were programmed to please, my fellow buybots. They don't know how to do anything else, and thanks to command coding, they have no desire to break from it. Praxus is at least nine decavorns behind the rest of Cybertron in terms of the Prime's decree, it feels like. Sure, we don't have the caste system in theory, but it walks around Praxus in a metaphorical trench coat."

Jazz huffs mirthlessly at the imagery that Prowl can't see. He frowns, pointing out, "The caste system was abolished, Fulcrum. Every mech is given free choice."

"I know what it's supposed to look like," Fulcrum says easily, pulling back again to rest her servos on her thighs. "But functionalism still plays a role here in Praxus. More than you realize, sweetspark."

Prowl turns to her, studying her expression. "You offer an incorrect assertion. I am compelled to abide by the word of the law."

"I know," she says, her voice calm. "But with true freedom, you wouldn't be denied any of your true desires simply because some other bot decided that you can't."

"There is no law that forbids one's freedom of choice, Fulcrum," Prowl insists growing more confused. "If one is able to obtain it, then one may have it - so long as the desire fits within the parameters of the law, of course."

"So then adopt Smokescreen," Fulcrum says simply, her blue optics blazing with silent anger despite the calmness of her voice.

Prowl stares at her, derma pressed together. Jazz looks back and forth between them, helm tilted. The protracted silence holds long enough for the Primesguard to finally ask, "What am I missin' here?"

Her optics tick over to him, cunning, cold, calculating. "Smokescreen is a youngling here. Prowl petitioned to adopt him once, a few decaorn ago, and they denied him." Prowl stiffens, wings hiking up in anger.

Jazz frowns. "But they denied him? He's an Enforcer, tha's one of the most stable job markets ou' there. We will neve' no' need Enforcers. So, unless he frags up and gets discharged from service -" Prowl scowls at the notion that he would ever 'frag up' enough to be removed from his function.

"Jazz," Fulcrum says, meeting his visored optics with twin orbs of blue. "Prowl is not allowed to adopt because he's a cold construct. He is legally not allowed to work in any profession involving caring for younglings because of some archaic law that says cold constructs cannot create emotional attachments. Not Conjunx bonds. Not Amica bonds. Nothing. Prowl is a cold construct. Law makers can't even imagine him being capable of forming a connection strong enough to entice a partner to give him the chance to even produce sparklings."

Jazz's entire demeanor stiffens. "What do ya mean... produce sparklings?"

Prowl frowns, unsure where the confusion comes in. "I do not possess the ability to carry young or ignite one in others. We are crafted with hostile sparks, incapable of merging. And by my medic notes..." his wings flick, uncomfortable, "I lack an operational gestation tank, and I have an interfacial gratification splint installed in my helm."

Jazz's relaxed posture shifts to an almost defensive one. "A wha'?"

"They feel safe with him," Fulcrum says, voice quiet but sharp, like the edge of a blade, her optics locked on Jazz's. "The others, I mean. He's a sweetspark, and he keeps them safe, so they don't fear him. But another part of it is because he can't assert authority over them. Prowl's nature is kinder, gentler. But if it wasn't, it wouldn't matter. Prowl would find no gratification from watching their frames be used or using them himself. He can't comprehend going against the parameters built into his programming. They are bots in need of protecting, so he protects them. The younglings need help, so he helps them. He doesn't understand that it looks strange for a grown mech to spend all his free time with younglings. He doesn't understand that an Enforcement officer shouldn't be seen going in and out of a brothel orn after orn. He doesn't understand and he wasn't meant to. Never mind the fact that he's locked in the Impressionable Phase of his programming without a cohort to help him evolve, so he will always look at the world though the optics of our most impressionable," she smiles and its razor sharp. "Like a sparkling."

She reaches over to the nearby table, grabbing onto a needle and syringe. Prowl watches with a frown as she turns it to him and places the needle to the soft mesh between the plating on his neck. He doesn't move to stop her. "I do not need medication, Fulcrum. I am not in pain." Well, more than usual.

"You will be, sweetspark," Fulcrum says, wings stiff as she helps him lower onto his back. "I need to replace this port again, and this usually your good one. If this one is bad the other is going to be really bad. So, I'm going to have you recharge while I do it."

"Okay."

She puts the needle down and turns to look at Jazz, whose posture is stiff, unease bleeding out of him. Prowl watches through drooping shutters as Fulcrum moves across the room to stand in front of Jazz, looking up into his optics with her own. "I don't know why you're here or what you want from him but just know I will leave your deactivated frame to the winds if you hurt him. The Prime will not be able to muster enough forces in the totality of Cybertron to find all of your pieces." Despite the threat, Jazz grins down at her. Cold, calculating. They were like two blades pointing at the pulse point of the other. Lethal, dangerous.

"I ain't got no intention of hurtin' him."

"Good," she says. She grabs onto his arm and pulls him towards the door. As his consciousness fades, Fulcrum tells Jazz, "If you're here on the Prime's behalf, then do me a favor. Get Prowl the frag out of this city." And she pushes him from the room. Prowl's optics shut with a hard bang as he falls into recharge.

Chapter Text

Prowl pulled from recharge on his own a few groons later. Fulcrum was reading at his pedes.

"Where did Jazz go?" Prowl asks, only faintly remembering Jazz being pushed out the door earlier in the night cycle. He rubs at his optics and sits up slowly. Fulcrum watches him quietly as he slouches over, tentatively touching his new ports before dropping his servos into his lap. She reaches over and rubs at his shoulder.

"He went back for now, sweetspark," she says, voice quiet. "Where did you really meet him?"

"At the precinct," he admits, glancing over at her, surprised to see that instead of being angry, she's smiling faintly. "I'm sorry for misleading you - or allowing Jazz to, but I wanted him to see how great our home is, unfiltered."

She studies him for a long time, optics roving over his face plates as she finally nods slowly. "Okay." She lets her servo slide down to his own, gripping it with her smaller one. "You must like this bot for you to bring him all the way out here."

Prowl nods. "He is very interesting and... yes. I do think I like him. He is pleasant company. And he has been very kind. The last time he was in Praxus he did not have such a good experience, so I wanted to show him that there were wonderful parts of Praxus, if he knew where to look."

Fulcrum's smile is a little wobbly. She swallows, then leans the side of her helm onto his shoulder. She grips his servo tightly as they sit in silence for a klik, then two, then three, before she finally says, "You're so very precious to me, sweetspark. Never forget that."

How could he ever? She tells him so often. But instead of pointing that out, again, he ops for, "Okay."

It was early into the night cycle. He spent a few groons waiting for the medicine to pass through his system while the buybots not seeing to clients fawned over him. One femme got a little aggressive with one of the buybots but immediately backed down when Prowl's wings hiked up in warning. She left shortly after and Prowl stuck around to make sure she didn't come back, despite how sore and tired he was.

He made his final rounds, ensuring that all the buybots were okay and seen to before finally heading back to his apartment after assuring Fulcrum that he was okay to return on his own. He did not want her traveling back to the brothel alone in the dark cycle. He was sluggish and sore from his ports, but he was relieved to be back to his hab. Walking in through the front door, Prowl can see the light of Luna-1 and Luna-2 shining in through his wide window on one side of the living space. His desk and chair are by the window while the kitchen is on the other side. He moves between the two rooms to the hall leading to his wash rack on the left and his berthroom on the right. He moves into the room on his right, smiling at the sight of his berth. He moves over to the cot on the floor, lowering down slowly cause he's a little dizzy and tired. He pulls the threadbare blanket the younglings gifted him a vorn ago and wraps it around himself. He peaks around the empty room, smiling at the wall with the door covered floor to ceiling in drawings and paintings given to him by the younglings. His most prized possessions.

Prowl was content. He was happy for his many things. For all his pictures and blanket from the younglings, the cot from the buybots, his desk and chair that he saved up for as the first furniture he ever put into his hab. And his polish sitting in the refresher. The only item he buys in abundance besides mid-grade to give the younglings. He was happy with all his things, even if Smokescreen was unhappy visiting him, Prowl didn't mind.

Happy to be at his own hab, he burrows into his thin blanket, cushioning his helm with his servos, and drifting off to recharge again.

Normally he would be off the orn after he took command of an operation, as it took so much from him, but he wasn't going to this time, of his own volition. Despite being worn down, he spent a few kliks in the wash rack, cleaning off the dried energon from his sore ports and the musk of shorting components and melted metal from his frame. Thankfully, he didn't need to freshen up on his paint or polish as the entirety of the force did so just before the Prime's arrival. As he's drying off, he checks his account to see that he's finally made enough to stop by the market again on his way to work. Excitedly, he heads out of his hab, through the apartment hall and to the elevator. He studies his collected data of the traffic patterns at this time of orn on this orn of the chord, before plotting his route.

He makes the stop by the market, going in and right to the isle with the mid-grade on sale. He makes sure that he grabs enough for each of the younglings, carefully looking at every single one to ensure that they're the right color and consistency for proper mid-grade and then his customary two cubes of low-grade, bringing them up to the counter to the old mech waiting there. He smiles at Prowl's approach.

"Got enough for the younglings?" the old mech asks, scanning each cube.

"Yes," Prowl says, wings giving a little twitch. "It is fortuitous that you are able to have this sale so often."

The old mech smiles at him. "I'm fortunate," he rumbles, scanning the two low-grade, then hesitates for a split nano-klik before adding, "You know, there is a buy-two-get-one free for this low-grade."

Prowl tilts his helm. "Truly? I did not see the sign. Would you permit a moment for me to grab one more?"

The old mech nods. Prowl makes his way back over to the low-grade, grabbing the closest one off the shelf and heading back over to the front counter. He gathers all of the cubes and safely tucks them into his subspace. He pays for the cubes, then casts a long look around the store, being sure that the few customers that are also present aren't up to anything nefarious. The old mech smiles at him, humored by his customary checks. He has their routine down pat now.

"I hope that you have a good orn," Prowl says, looking back over at the clerk. "Call for me, should you ever need me."

"Thank you, Enforcer Prowl," the old mech says, expression softening. "You have a good orn yourself. I'll see you in two chords."

Prowl nods in affirmation. "In two chords."

With the cubes safe, Prowl makes his way to the precinct. It's early. Third shift still has about forty-five kliks before the changeover to first shift again. Most are in their final dregs, exhausted and hollow-opticed. None of them seemed to notice him slipping inside the bullpen, heading for his desk in the back of the room. It's as he left it, so Prowl sets about putting his desk back in order, making sure that everything returns to his exacting specifications. Once that is done, he makes his way to the locker room to grab the cables he left in his locker. It's on his way back with them coiled around his servo that he runs into the yellow Praxian Primesguard.

Prowl tilts his helm at the smile sent his way. "Hello."

The Primesguard shifts closer and Prowl gets a distinct feeling that there was something amiss about him. "Hello. I'm Bumblebee."

Prowl bows with his wings, respectfully, momentarily forgetting about that feeling to really look at the Primesguard. He could so easily pass as full Praxian save for the fact that he's missing the signature chevron and in its stead is... horns. Audio horns of some kind. "It is nice to meet you. I am designated Prowl."

Bumblebee's wings tilt in a stinted greeting, as if he's not used to using his wings for communicating. His wings are rounder, softer in their curves than Prowl's which are sharp, large and elegant. Just because he is a cold construct doesn't mean he wasn't created with the ideal of the perfect Praxian frame in processor. "I wanted to speak with you," Bumblebee says, falling into step with him as they head back towards the lobby to return to the offices. "You're the only Praxian that didn't give me the evil optic when you saw me yesterorn."

Prowl tilts his helm. "Why is that?"

"I'm unpure," Bumblebee says, shrugging. He's just slightly shorter than Prowl is. "At least as far as full Praxians are concerned. The only thing worse than a Praxian muddying their energonline by procreating outward with another frametype is - " He stops, catching himself.

"...is?" Prowl prompts after a beat of silence. Curious as to the answer.

"I imagine it's not so easy here for you," Bumblebee says slowly, bright blue optics peering at him knowingly.

Prowl tilts his helm again, curiously. "Without a cohort, things are certainly not easy, but my fellows are understanding of my situation."

Bumblebee's wings twitch, the action seemingly unconsciously done. Prowl notes that they lack any decals on them. Even his Primesguard decal is on his chest not his wings like Enforcers wear their own. He casts Prowl a long look that the Enforcer doesn't understand as they make it to the bullpen. There is more Primesguard there, which shouldn't be a surprise to Prowl, yet it is. It's about time for first shift to start. Prowl glances over his shoulder to look at Bumblebee as he makes his way to his desk. "Is the Prime coming again?"

"Yeah, just for a few groons. He wants to settle some things before we head out in another orn or two," Bumblebee says easily, watching Prowl with wide optics. But there was something sharp there in his wide expression. Something... something about it that rings familiar to Prowl, yet he can't seem to...

Prowl stares at Bumblebee, surprised. "You're a vampire," he says, voice barely above a whisper. Two? Two vampires? Jazz, and now Bumblebee? Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. The Prime's chosen sparkmate is a vampire. It shouldn't surprise him that there are vampires filling the Prime's ranks. It's probably one of the few jobs that they can feel safe in - or as safe as they can be protecting the Prime - without worrying about their nature being revealed. Or recieving persecution if it is.

Bumblebee's optics widen in surprise before he looks impressed, nodding. "Wow. You really are good. You're like a vampire sniffing cyberhound. How can you tell?"

Prowl tilts his helm. He casts a look around the room to note than none of his fellow Enforcers or any of the piling in Primesguard seem to be paying them any attention. "I don't know. I can just tell. Jazz should have alerted you that it is not safe here for you. I do hope that you are keeping vigilant."

Bumblebee nods. "Yeah, thanks. Don't worry about me. I got this all handled." He grins, a flash of sharp fangs before they are hidden again behind full derma and then wiggles his brow, but Prowl doesn't understand the look.

Realization jolted through Prowl as he quietly asks, "Are you... from the Praxian line? The vampire line? Last reports indicated they were all eradicated during the purges..."

Bumblebee shook his helm. "I'm half Praxian, sure. But my vampirism comes from my non-Praxian creator."

Prowl hums, a little disappointed that he didn't rediscover a dead clanline, but was quick to dismiss it. He turns away for a moment to place the cables into his desk before glancing back over at Bumblebee. "Did you emerge in Praxus?"

Bumblebee's faceplates do something complicated. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his hip into the side of Prowl's desk. "No. Iacon. My carrier was Praxian, obviously, and my sire was Polyhexian." He gestures towards his audio horns. "So, best of both worlds. No one can sneak up behind me, I can see in the dark, and I'll be able to hear an insecticon chitter from meters away."

Prowl's wings perk with interest, digesting this information. "Are audio horns that sensitive?"

"Full Polyhexians like Jazz and my sire got better ones than me, but mine aren't too bad. Coupled with my wing sensors..." he trails off, grinning again at the impressed look Prowl was sending his way. Polyhexian. So Jazz is Polyhexian. Prowl hadn't known what Jazz was. Other than that, he wasn't Praxian. Prowl's tacnet kicking to life, gobbling up all of this information, storing it away for future reference. In case he is ever in the position to need this information. He's not sure when or how that information is ever going to become useful to him, but he can't help but file it away.

Prowl must have been categorizing and filing away all the information he's gathered the last orn for too long, because eventually Bumblebee says, carefully, "You helped Jazz. A few decaorn back."

His voice is low and it was more a statement than a question but Prowl nods. "He ran afoul of Hunters. I tried to find them afterward but unfortunately was unsuccessful without knowing exactly where he ran into them. I could only track the inner energon he was leaking back so far. It started to rain about two groons after he and I went our separate ways." He had taken Fleet back to the orphanage, chastised Smokescreen about picking fights, before heading back out to search. He didn't get too far before the rain washed away the trail, much to Prowl's chagrin.

Bumblebee's expression is hard, as he nods. It didn't occur to Prowl until then if he should have kept some of that to himself, but he rationalized it as reporting to a higher ranked officer - as Primesguard were higher up than Prowl was - and not for the connection that they might have. Obviously they are familiar with one another but Prowl has never been good at this. At knowing what to do when it came to the complexities of relationships - if there even was one. But before Prowl can clarify, Bumblebee reaches out to put a servo on Prowl's arm.

"Thank you for helping him, Prowl. Truly. Jazz is very important to me. We are..." he hesitates.

"Cohort?" Prowl asks.

Bumblebee smiles then. "Yes, he is my cohort, but more than that, he's my uncle. My sire is his younger twin brother."

Prowl takes a moment to absorb this information. He tries to use the words to connect the family tree together. Everybot he really speaks to either don't talk about their family or don't have any now. So, he has little experience in dealing with something like this. The only one that really talked to Prowl about their creators, was Tanks, and that's because of the links in the chain that bind them together. Bumblebee is patient with him, as he makes the connections. Then, he finally says, "I don't believe I have ever met an uncle and nephew pair before. And if I have, I was never made aware. This is fascinating to me."

Bumblebee grins, lower derma unmoving in such a way that it hides the sharp points of his fangs this time. A practiced grin. Now one that Prowl realizes he's seen on Jazz.

"How is it to work with your uncle?" Prowl asks, fascinated. He has no idea how this dynamic should work, never having any family himself. He lowers to sit at his desk, watching Bumblebee intently.

"Good. My sire and carrier work for the military under Lord Megatron, so whenever they were deployed, I would stay with my uncle in Iacon most of the time. He was my unofficial third creator, I guess. Sparkling sitter, if you ask him," Bumblebee mumbles with a smile that doesn't match his grumbling tone. "But it just seemed natural to join him once I was old enough to enlist."

"And not the military, like your real creators?" Prowl asks, still fascinated. The tacnet gobbles up all of this information and filing it away. His optics flicker up to see the Prime, imposing and reverent, and Ironhide, powerful and mighty, make their way into the room. He waves away any motion for everyone to bow despite them all climbing to their pedes, Prowl included, as he makes his way to the chief's office. The older mech meeting him halfway and guiding him the rest of the way.

Bumblebee moves over to grab a chair from an empty desk and brings it over, which surprises Prowl. No one at the precinct has ever done that before, but before he could ask about it, Bumblebee says, unbothered by the presence of his boss, "I can be a soldier, and I was, for a time. But my skills are better suited working for my uncle. My carrier didn't love it, but he's since come around." Bumblebee sits, then looks Prowl in the optic. "He used to be an Enforcer here, many vorns ago."

Prowl's wings kick up in surprise. "Oh? He went from Enforcement to military?" It was a natural move, fluid in both directions.

Bumblebee nods. "Yeah, he had a falling out with his creators here and so he left, arrested my sire in Iacon after joining the force there, and they fell in love."

Prowl stares, trying to understand. "Your... I don't understand. Your carrier is an Enforcer; your sire is a criminal? I don't understand." He shakes his helm, trying to figure out how the bridge works. How point 1 met point 2 but he can't imagine it. Obviously, this is attached to emotions, which is not his forte.

Bumblebee laughs, blue optics sparkling. "Yeah, they're weird. My sire was a scoundrel, but he somehow won over my carrier. Trust me, you're not the first or only bot to question what is wrong with my carrier, but they love each other. My carrier got my sire on the straight and narrow when he was sparked with me. Gave my sire a choice, figure his slag out and be a sire, or hit the road and don't show his face plates around us again. My carrier was not about to let a frag-up influence me, and my sire wasn't about to let either of us go." Bumblebee laughs again, his expression so soft and adoring. It took too long for Prowl to realize that he was leaning forward, enraptured by the story. He can't really imagine it, but it is so far out of his reality that it's intriguing to him.

"What're we talkin' about?"

Prowl and Bumblebee were so focused on each other that they jump at the sight of Jazz appearing next to them, one servo settling on Bumblebee's shoulder. Someone moves to step behind Prowl, he can feel it. It was the same as ysterorn. He knows if he turns, he won't be able to see them.

"About my carrier and sire," Bumblebee tells him, glancing up at his uncle.

Jazz grins. Prowl and the tacnet agree that it was the same way as Bumblebee's. Was it Jazz that Bumblebee got it from or his twin brother?

"Yeah?" Jazz asks, looking between both bots. He is holding a rag in one servo, removing the one on Bumblebee's shoulder to wipe off. The action confused Prowl for a moment, thinking that there was something amiss, like the relationship between uncle and nephew was somehow strained but then he noticed the inner energon, light flecks, on the rag. It takes a moment, but then Prowl realizes why. Where Jazz must have gone after he left the brothel. Back to the precinct to 'speak' with some of their terrorists. Jazz interrogated them? In such a way that he drew energon?

"Yeah, about how my carrier put my sire on the straight and narrow."

Jazz nods, watching Prowl. "Rico just needed a lil' motivation to stop bein' such a slaghead." Bumblebee laughs as Jazz wiggles the rag a little, noticing Prowl's optics on it. "Don't worry. I ain't cornered some innocent bystanders, Prowl. Just talkin' to our new friends."

There is a sharp, dangerous edge to his voice, yet despite knowing what he is, Prowl isn't afraid. Something he's not sure of the name for is keeping any trepidation at bay. But something is occurring to him suddenly that he hadn't thought to note before but now, he can't stop thinking about it.

"I have no reason to believe you would hurt anyone," Prowl says, keeping his voice low, meeting that band of blue with his optics. A fresh ache to his ports makes him squirm. He rubs at the side of his neck before dropping his servo, feeling the irritation at the action. "But I must admit that I have noticed something amiss."

"Oh?" Jazz murmurs, helm tilting, watching his movements closely. Bumblebee moves to his pedes and Jazz takes his seat without even a glance shared between them and he rolls closer to Prowl so that their knees were touching. Prowl looks down at the touching limbs curiously before looking back at Jazz.

"Yes, may I ask why you looked different three decaorn ago? And then again when I brought you to the brothel?" Prowl asks. Bumblebee chokes on a laugh, brow ridges hiking up towards his horns.

Jazz hums, considering the question carefully. Then he leans in closer enough that Prowl can faintly smell old inner energon from the rag in his servos. "Yer startin' to already guess it, ain't ya, Prowler?"

Prowl tilts his helm, staring into the visor. "Prowl...er?"

"Yep," Jazz says easy, smiling more friendly and less dangerous. The edges smoother. "Ya like a predator with them optics. Nothin' gets past ya. Not fer long."

Prowl considers this a compliment, so he nods. "I would like to think so. But admittedly, you don't appear to be trying to make it difficult for me, Jazz." The mech in question shrugs, not accepting or denying that assumption. "It's not... really a secret, is it?" Jazz shakes his helm, still watching Prowl closely. Prowl quietly considers, tapping his fingers on his thighs. Jazz's chin tilts down, looking at his fingers only returning to look at Prowl when the Enforcer guesses, "You're not a Primesguard, are you?"

Jazz shakes his helm. "Nope. I'm Spec Ops." And Bumblebee works for him. So, they are both Spec Ops. Are all of them?

"You and Bumblebee are both Spec Ops," Prowl says quietly, keeping his voice lower than Jazz's, now knowing that him and Bumblebee have exceptional hearing and won't need him to be too loud for them to hear him. Jazz nods. Prowl glances over his shoulder to see that, as he expected, no one is there, before turning to look back at Jazz. "Them too?" His wing gives a little flick.

Jazz's brow quirks, studying Prowl for a long moment, then he grins. "Alright, mech, how did ya know?"

Prowl's wings wiggle. "I can sense them. Once I did, I was able to hone my doorwings. I have an advanced tactical processor that operates both independently and in sync with my own processor. It can operate in the background, compiling data from around me, and then work in sync with my own processor on one task or another. They followed us yesterorn, too. I didn't see them, but I was able to sense them and the tacnet picked up on it. Now it all makes sense. My memory banks are excellent, but even they do not compare to my battle computer."

Bumblebee shakes his helm, letting out a low whistle that Prowl barely heard over the growing din in the room.

"And tha's why yer the tactician," Jazz says slowly, shaking his helm as he takes a moment to really look at Prowl, as if seeing him for the first time. "Ya special, Prowl."

Prowl tilts his helm. "I am certainly unique. I have an advanced tactical suite installed into my helm, which is exceedingly rare, and I am a cold construct that survived without his cohort. I am a rarity."

"What did happen?" A smooth voice in his audio makes Prowl turn his helm to see the lithe white and blue mech from yesterorn, the one that flanked him with Bumblebee, now suddenly there. Had he... been invisible? Is that why Prowl was unable to see him? Incredible!

Prowl turns slightly to allow him to be part of the conversation. "What happened to what?" He wanted to ask about the other bot's ability to be invisible, but it seems like that's going to have to wait a moment.

The white and blue mech saunters around to complete the circle to stand by Bumblebee, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Your cohort. How are you the only one left?"

"Training exercise," Prowl tells him. "I don't remember. I suffered traumatic processor wipe after."

Jazz and the mysterious mech share a long look while Bumblebee tilts his helm. "What does that mean?" Bumblebee asks.

"I was badly damaged in the accident and couple that with losing my cohort caused me to forget in order to survive the trauma," Prowl says, voice even. "I don't remember my cohort. I don't remember the accident. I don't remember the monster."

Jazz stares at him. "Monster?"

Prowl blinks. "Monster?"

They stare at one another for a long moment before Jazz leans closer and takes Prowl's servo. Prowl looks down at it, confused, as usually it's only the younglings or Fulcrum that take his servo, before looking back up as Jazz says, "Ya said 'monster', Prowler. What did ya mean?"

The roar. Earth shattering. The screams. The shots overhead. Metal crunching beneath metal. The screams. Those terrible, horrible screams.

Prowl blinks, frame stiffening as his optics dark toward the door leading down towards the basement storage. To the dark steps leading into the silence below. The suffocating emptiness. A feeling he knows very well. The walls closing in around him, choking him like fluid in his vents. Muffled screams both near and far. And the terror. The only thing he's ever felt strongly. The terror.

"Prowler?" Jazz calls out softly, squeezing his servo and it takes a moment for Prowl to realize he's shaking. He flips the switch on his emotional cortex, feeling overwhelmed, and is thankful when it all shuts off immediately. The three Spec Ops operatives' frown at him as he turns to look back over at Jazz.

"I'm alright. I don't know why I said monster." His voice is calm, even, as it should be in a civil conversation. Thankfully his limbs stop shaking too.

Jazz opens his mouth, but a voice cuts him off. "Hey, Shameless! Come here!"

Prowl perks up, turning to look at Barricade and a few other Enforcers waving him over. Prowl detangles from Jazz, standing up and moving between the three operatives and over to his fellows. "Yes?"

"Sorry about your fans," Barricade says, clasping Prowl's shoulder like he's witnessed him do to so many other Enforcers. Barricade is like Jazz in a way. Always very nice. And apparently very touchy too. It's not so much that Prowl minds the touch, he's just not used to it. From either mech. "I didn't realize that you would need them yesterorn. You forgive me, don't you?"

Prowl nods. "Yes. I forgive you." It's all done. No point in being angry about it. The past can't be changed.

"Interesting," Bumblebee says, sliding up next to Prowl. The Enforcers around them have complicated looks on their face plates while looking at Bumblebee. It's not disrespectful, necessarily, but there is definitely something lack luster about their reactions to the yellow half-Praxian. Which makes Prowl think about why Bumblebee approached him to begin with. How Prowl had been the only one to not show any displeasure at the yellow Praxian's appearance. But Bumblebee doesn't seem to mind or care as he says, "You didn't know he would need fans for a situation in which they are only used for? Very interesting."

Barricade's smile is unwavering. He gives a little tug of Prowl into his side, giving Bumblebee a once over. "Honest mistake. Really. Shameless here knows I was just trying to help. Right?" He gives Prowl's shoulder a squeeze.

Prowl tilts his helm. "Is that so? I was unaware of why you had moved it when you knew I needed it. You were trying to help me, somehow? Can you explain how, so that I may understand?"

Barricade heaves a heavy sigh that makes the other Enforcers snicker, but he pats Prowl's shoulder again. "You like puzzles, right?"

Prowl frowns, unable to understand the connection. "Yes. I do enjoy puzzles." One of the Enforcers barks a laugh and turns to walk away.

"Then you can figure it out, hot-shot," Barricade says easily, still smiling that friendly smile. Prowl, though, is still confused. He doesn't know if he will be able to figure it out with the context he has, even with the tacnet chewing on it.

"Listen," Barricade says, turning to Bumblebee, before a split hesitation, then, "What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't," Bumblebee says, voice even. The two mech stare at each other for a long time. Long enough that another Enforcer just turns and walks away, rubbing at the back of his neck. Barricade's smile falters slightly.

"Well, no matter," Barricade continues on, "You seemed to have the wrong impression of us. You seem to think bad about us. We are just playing around with our OOIU. He knows this is all jokes. Don't you, Shameless?" He gives Prowl's shoulder another squeeze.

Prowl frowns. "I am not able to accurately tell what is said in jest and what is not. You simply have to be clearer next time and say that it is a joke so that I will be able to understand."

Bumblebee looks at Prowl, then back to Barricade. "You know, in Iacon, and probably the rest of civilized Cybertron, when the subject of the joke doesn't find it funny, then it's not a joke. In fact, there is a different word we use for it. Especially in the workplace. An HR complaint."

Barricade stares at him for a long moment, contemplating. Then he nods. "Okay, you're right."

"I know I am," Bumblebee says easily. "So why do you call him 'Shameless', anyway?" His forehelm creases with an arched brow ridges.

Another Enforcer offers up, "He spends more time in a brothel than half the city combined. And he doesn't even have the decency to hide it."

"Either ya ain't informed on how a cold construct operates, or ya are," Jazz says, sliding up next to Bumblebee. "If ya aren't than we got a problem, 'cause Praxus got the largest cold construct population in almost all of Cybertron save for Tarn. And if ya don' know about a big portion of ya own population..." Jazz trails off, shrugging. "And if ya do know about cold constructs and how they are, then ya just a fraggin' bully. Ya know he's going down there 'cause he's smart enough to know tha' he goes to places like the brothel to protect the buybots from unruly customers. And that he travels the streets on and off shift looking after the destitute, downtrodden. After the high-risk bots and femmes out there 'cause tha's what an Enforcer is 'pose to do. He's bound by his coding - Enforcer coding - and so he obeys it. Not 'cause he's tryin' to get a good frag in.

"And another thin'," Jazz continues, holding up a data pad, the energon flecked rag is gone now. He looks through the pad, curiously. "Files here tell a story 'bout just how good an Enforcer he is. Impeccable record. He made almost a dozen more arrest than you did in the last decaorn than ya did," he says to one of the Enforcers, "all of them, clean, unlike six of yours." He tisks, then looks at another, who immediately looks unnerved. "Almost two dozen for you, bud. What's goin' on? Ya seem to be on a steady incline since the beginning of this vorn?" His voice is light, airy, as if he's genuinely curious. Maybe even concerned, which Prowl thought was nice of him, but Jazz didn't wait for the Enforcer to speak, instead he turned to Barricade, "I ain't gonna even bother to look for ya file, nor do I think I gotta, to know that ya all the same. In one way or anothe'."

At the collective silence, the Enforcers staring at Jazz, Jazz staring back at them, while Bumblebee and the mysterious mech stand at his sides, looking completely unfazed, Prowl felt he must break the silence. "They are not all the same, Jazz," Prowl says, Barricade stiffening at his words. He looks at Prowl, then to Jazz, servo finally removing from his shoulder and lowering to his own side and away from Prowl. As he uses this opportunity to give himself a bit of space, he expounds for the Polyhexian, "Every bot is different. Every Enforcer is different. I just so happen to spend more time in places where the crime rate is higher. It is not indicative of skill or aptitude. I am simply more likely to come across somebot doing something wrong than others because I patrol outside of our jurisdiction."

Jazz slowly tilts his chin towards Prowl, his hard expression softening. "Ya right, Prowler."

Prowl nods, happy that the other mech understood. He eases off on the block to his emotional processor, allowing it to power back on. He shivers, wiggling out his wings and frame to relieve the stress that put on him. One half of Jazz's lips curls upward at Prowl as Barricade just turns and walks away, the other Enforcers splitting apart too. Not a moment later, Optimus Prime steps out of the chief's office, locks onto them and walks over. His steps are slow, purposeful, yet he clears the room quickly, Ironhide at his heels. Is he also Spec Ops? Was everybot that accompanied the Prime Spec Ops, or just the three in front of him? He didn't know. Prowl and all of the Praxians that the Prime passes, all bow respectfully to him.

"Hello, Prowl," Optimus says warmly, giving a little wave of his servo for Prowl to straighten up. Prowl tips his helm in acknowledgement, surprised that with all the bots that the Prime no doubt met the orn before, that he somehow remembered Prowl's designation.

"Hello, Prime. I hope your stay has been well."

"It has, thank you. Praxus is beautiful. It's a shame that I can't see more of it before I return to Iacon," Optimus rumbles.

Prowl feels a tentative smile pull at the corner of his derma. "I am glad to hear that you are enjoying your stay, regardless."

Optimus hums, tilting his helm slightly. "Are you well, Prowl? You ran off very quickly after the operation yesterorn." Despite the evenness of his voice, there is a twinge of something else. Concern, maybe? Prowl isn't sure how to completely identify it, but it's the only reasonable emotion he can guess at. Or maybe it's suspicion, although Prowl is unsure what the Prime would be suspicious about.

"That was some good strategy out there," Ironhide adds. "Yer one slagging good tactician."

Prowl tips his helm to the older mech. "Thank you." Then to Optimus, "I am no longer damaged. Thank you for the inquiry."

Optimus hums again, looking down at Jazz for a long time. Jazz leans heavily on one hip while crossing his arms over his chassis. After a few more beat of silence, Jazz finally says, "I think I got wha' I need fer now. Hound'll see to the rest of 'em and their transport outta here." Optimus looks troubled but nods slowly. "Wit' that settled, ya ready?"

Now, Optimus smiles. "Yes. I'm ready."

Then, the five of them; the three Spec Ops, the Prime, and his guard, all turn to Prowl. Misunderstanding their looks, Prowl steps off to the side to allow them to pass him. "Farewell." He's not sure where they're going, but he hopes that they enjoy the sights of Praxus while they are here.

Jazz grins while Bumblebee snorts, moving over to thread his arm through the crook of Prowl's. "Come, Prowl. I hear there is somewhere you can take us that we'd love to see."

Prowl perks at that. "You would like to see the brothel?"

Bumblebee laughs, Jazz's grin spreads, the unknown mech and Ironhide huff, while the Prime looks serene. Jazz opens his mouth, but the Prime says, "If that is where you'd have us go, then I am happy to accompany you. But I also hear there is somewhere else that I should visit. That there is a young femme that would like a blessing to a Primus pendant."

Prowl's wings flutter. "Oh. Yes. Tanks has made it clear to Fulcrum that she wanted to see if you would bless her pendant." His wings pick up speed. "The younglings went to see you in the parade, but I know not how close they got to see you. And the buybots don't leave the brothel, it is unsafe for them outside without me to escort them. Not unless they travel together." He starts for the exit to the bullpen, planning out the perfect route to get them to both the orphanage and the brothel without attracting a lot of attention. "I should comm them. Let Fulcrum know. And Smokescreen and the younglings." His optics brighten as he turns to look over at the Prime, now following them through the lobby towards the back of the building, excitement burning through him, through his field. Bumblebee presses warmly into his side. "Where would you like to go first?"

"I have an idea, Prowler," Jazz says, sliding up onto Prowl's other side. The remainder of the Primesguard keep to the precinct, seemingly not about to follow them, which was good. The more bots that there was the harder it would be to go unnoticed. "How 'bout ya message Smokescreen and Fulcrum and have 'em get together in one place? Brothel or orphanage, dealer's choice."

Prowl considers carefully. "It would be safer for the younglings to travel... but it is day cycle... and they would be all together. I know that Duskpan wanted to go to the market and going to the orphanage would bring them almost there... Yes. I will see if the buybots will meet us at the orphanage. It is more advantageous for all of them." He nods, plotting a course in his helm. "Yes, I will message Smokescreen and Fulcrum." He uses his code to get out of the back of building, his excitement making his wings flutter hard against his back. With a backward glance at the five mechs following him, and a wave, he says, "Come. I shall show you the way."

He sent out his messages and transformed at the street, waiting for the others to line up at his tailpipe with Jazz, then the unknown mech, then the Prime, Bumblebeee and finally Ironhide taking up the rear, they make their way through the backstreets towards the orphanage.