Chapter Text
“You stupid, stupid boy!”
Prowl wasn’t listening – couldn’t listen. Bluestreak clung to him like a lifeline, frame shaking and trembling. His arms were wrapped around him tightly, and Prowls around him in kind. He patted him gently, hoping the movement was soothing.
“What were you thinking?!”
He wasn’t. Not really. He’d panicked – he saw Bluestreak was gone, he saw the strange mechs shoving him into the transport, and he’d panicked. He knew there wasn’t time. He knew that they wouldn’t be fast enough to stop them. They’d all seen the stories, the photos. The mech was a horror story they told to younglings to keep them inside at night, where it was safe. It was unthinkable that it could happen in broad daylight too.
Bluestreak sobbed loudly, and the tension in the air snapped like an elastic band. He wailed into Prowls chest, clinging onto him as if he thought he’d disappear if he let go.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t fast enough, Blue.” Prowl’s face was creased as if he were about to cry himself. It was only then that their creators noticed the state of him – dented, scraped, covered in energon that didn’t seem to be his. His frame looked sharper, his fingers at a cruel point, his teeth flashing sharp as he spoke.
They realised with a sense of trepidation that whatever happened had begun to change their creations beyond recognition .
Prowl had wanted to be an enforcer. He liked helping people. He liked maintaining the order that kept them safe, and ensuring their people had what they needed to remain that way – housing, food, safe employment. The scientists and medics assigned to him had suggested the enforcers academy at first as a way to keep his mind and body occupied, to keep him from launching himself across the city as if it were an unstable assault course, forever changing – somewhere safe and conductive to put his seemingly endless energy. It had ended up shaping his sense of identity, the core tenets aligning near perfectly with his own. The rules had weighed him down at first, but he had eventually come round to it once he’d dropped the cape and picked up the badge. The enforcers were long behind him, and yet whispers of his time there were still visible on his frame.
The spectre of Barricade and the ever increasing pressure of war had pushed him away, towards the Autobots. He couldn’t do enough within the walled fortress of Praxus. He couldn’t do enough on his own, with the limited support offered to Sigmas. It was never enough. He was never enough.
And yet the city was still waiting for him, maw wide open ready to swallow him whole, to lock him within its jaws. And the ornate mech in front of them was preparing to give him a push.
The King of Praxus sat upon a crystal throne, flanked on either side by kneeling mechs donning elaborate armour with optics of pure gold. He was backed by tall green crystals, falling down above him like great leaves. The atrium was filled with crystals, and if it weren’t for the expansive glass ceiling pieced together with gleaming precious metals above it could easily have been mistaken for the famed gardens. They could hear the twittering of wildlife within, however nothing strayed close enough to be seen.
The three Autobots bowed, hands to their chest lowering their doorwings in respect.
“Ah! I’ve been waiting for you! Please, please, stand – no need for the formalities.” He knitted his fingers together as he watched them. His optics were a burning orange, and he was looking straight at Prowl.
“Apologies for the late invitation. Parliament can be so dire.” He rolled his optics. “Please, do take a seat. Wont you join me for tea?”
Prowl ended up sitting closest to the King, and the King looked upon him gleefully. He swallowed hard, and hoped nobody noticed how uncomfortable he was. The guards that flanked him stood on all four corners of their table, staring outwards and giving them the illusion of privacy.
Prowl looked at the King. He’d only ever seen him from afar or in photographs and video – sitting right next to him put him in a completely different light.
Other Cybertronians had imperfections that only those with extremely good optics could see. Metal tended to do that – crystals would form within them, creating freckles and blemishes, birthmarks. His whole family had the exact same pattern that looked like a burst of stars across their noses, flowing out over their cheeks- Jazz had clusters on his cheeks just under his visor like bright suns. The twins had marks that spiralled out over their faces, starting at the chin and stretching up to their optic ridge on the other side in a perfect mirror image of the others. It wasn’t limited to their faces – the imperfections appeared wherever their native metal was. Jazz had markings on his midsection that reminded Prowl of blank sheet music.
The King did not. He was perfect and unnerving. Not a single thing marred him, not a single plate out of place. His hands were linked together, fingers intertwined, and he wasn’t blinking. Gold was dusted upon his cheeks, shimmering under the glass dome above.
“I’ve heard much about the three of you.” The King began. “Your creators too. What a lovely family.”
Bluestreak tensed. He hoped it was acceptable to cling to the teacup like a lifeline. If it wasn’t, the King said nothing.
“Thank you very much, Your Majesty. It was a privilege to have been raised within the citystate.” Prowl replied. He had the suspicion that he wouldn’t have listened if it wasn’t him speaking – he was the only one he seemed to have optics for.
“What is the outside world like?”
“Cold.” Prowl laughed lightly. “We forgot how warm it is here in Praxus. Everything is also very… different. It’s exciting, but there’s nothing quite like home.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The King nodded. He delicately took a sip of his tea, a cue for the others that they could begin to drink. Bluestreak resisted the urge to down his in one go. “I am glad you are enjoying it out there. It is always so exciting to hear the stories beyond the walls, you must tell me more later. Now, to business. I am certain you are aware that the King doesn’t simply drop in for pleasantries when it comes to visiting Autobots.”
“Of course, Sir.” Prowls doorwings dipped. “Please. We are eager to hear what you have to ask of us.” It wasn’t like they had any other choice.
“I only have interest in you, Prowl. Your brothers, whilst magnificent in their own right, do not fit into the criteria I have set for the task at hand.” He gave them an apologetic look. “I am looking to bolster the ranks of the Royal Guard. Now, I am aware you are currently enlisted in an external military force under our esteemed sister state of Protihex, and so I cannot enforce your enlistment.” He took a sip of his tea. “However, I do have a request to make. When you leave the Autobots, you are to return to Praxus and join my royal guard. A position will always be open to you.”
When. Not if, when. The expectation of him was explicit. He was to leave this silly little insignificant war and return to Praxus, to go to him, and it would be rude to keep him waiting for too long.
“We always return to the arms of our King.” Prowl’s hand went to his chest and his doorwings dipped down. The King seemed extremely pleased with this, and pressed his hand to his chest in return.
“Excellent news!”
It felt like a shackle.
The journey back from Praxus the following cycle went by in a blink. Bluestreak spent most of it in recharge, the stress of it all taking its toll on him. Smokescreen spent most of it playing card games by himself, and Prowl simply brooded.
Cat now out of the bag, he was faced with limited options. He couldn’t rely on stupidity and incompetence any longer – Ratchet was making damn sure of that, even if they were to initially dismiss him on the grounds of his abilities and status as a sigma being wildly outlandish. It was about to become clear to all what they were dealing with. He chewed his nail anxiously.
To leave the Autobots was to return to Praxus and sit pretty on the shelf of a King who was trapped in the birdcage of Praxus. He’d have no freedom, and would become a mere political pawn. The likelihood of them allowing him to bring Jazz with him was slim – he was an outsider, and outsiders had no place standing with the royal guard. If they were bonded there wasn’t much the King could say – he’d want Prowl much more and he’d loathe to allow him to fall into the hands of another – so he’d allow it.
… Probably.
But that might have meant a miserable existence for Jazz… And, he realised as his spark flopped in his chest and heat rose on his cheeks, that meant that he’d have to be bonded to him. He would have to ask him. He didn’t even know how. Wasn’t it too soon for that kind of talk anyway? He adored him and he knew that he couldn’t be without him, but it wasn’t fair to spring this onto Jazz when it didn’t come from a place of love, but a place of desperation for freedom that was about to rapidly slip through his fingers.
Jazz deserved the world and more, and that quite simply didn’t make the cut.
The Autobots might grant him more freedoms. It was unlikely that he’d be as unrestrained as he was now, going out every night to dish out vigilante justice, and extremely unlikely that they’d allow him to remain a simple tactician. He liked it. He loved it, even. Being a tactician was fun. But he had abilities they’d simply love to exploit, and they’d reassign him to Iacon, or to somewhere on the boarder where the fighting was fiercest as their special super soldier. Prowl had seen it happen to others, so he knew that would be his most likely fate. He’d despise that, and there’d be little chance of them accepting to transfer Jazz with him.
He didn’t want to get separated from him. They’d managed to find each other again and again, but that didn’t mean he wanted to ever let go. He continued to gnaw, knowing that he’d never break through the mesh and draw energon. There wasn’t any other way of looking at it – he liked Jazz. A lot. It felt stupid, like he was a school boy with a crush, and he knew he didn’t have the right to be so spoiled about it. But he wanted to stay with Jazz. He really, really wanted to.
The journey back from Praxus the following cycle went by in a blink… almost.
Smokescreen had stopped shuffling his cards, and was watching something out the window.
“What is it?” Prowl asked.
“Wondering what they’re up to.” He nodded towards something. Prowl twisted to look behind him and out the window at who Smokescreen was watching, and saw Purple badges.
“Decepticon patrol.” He said, twisting back around. “Think they’ll try and board?”
“One’s got a rope. Want to take a bet on how many attempts it will take for them to hook it on?”
“I’ll go for four.” Prowl placed a credit on the table and Smokescreen grinned.
“Gambling now, are we? A changed mech in Praxus.” He happily took the credit. “Playing, Blue?”
“I don’t want them to manage to hook it, so I’ll say that.” He placed a credit of his own down. “My gun’s in the secure storage.” He pouted. “I’m no use without it.”
“Oop, that’s one attempt.” Smokescreen gleefully said. He took Bluestreak’s credit. “I’ll go for three. Firm believer in third time lucky.”
Smokescreen was a lucky enough mech that they often joked that it was his second ability. That cycle was one of the cycles when they had all silently wished that it wasn’t.
On the third swing, the hook latched and the transport jerked with the sudden addition of a tank, the power flickering off to gasps and screams of fright. The three of them were thrown, Prowl barely catching himself and Bluestreak on the table, Smokescreen dropping his cards.
“A little warning, next time!” Prowl hissed.
“Oh, I’m sorry for not correctly guessing it’d work this time!” Smokescreen hissed back.
Smokescreen sighed and gathered his cards, fumbling around in the dark. Bluestreak rolled his shoulders and stretched out his wings. He slipped a gun out of the subspace pocket on his lower calf – a small pistol.
“I thought your gun was in storage?” Prowl whispered.
“Yeah, the one I told them about.” Bluestreak whispered back.
“Do not let them catch you with it.”
“Their guards best not let them reach us, or they will.”
“Don’t go anywhere, or I’m telling Carrier you abandoned us.” Smokescreen warned Prowl, pointing at him. “We haven’t got our badges on yet, so we easily pass as Neutrals visiting home – our accents are a bit too far gone to completely pass as tourists heading out. So long as they don’t know we’re Autobots, they’ll largely ignore us in favour of the cargo.”
“The cargo where our guns are?”
“Yes!” Smokescreen widely grinned. It slid from his face like an avalanche. “Oh. Right. That could be a problem.”
“I’ll get them. I’ll be right back.” He quickly added at the look on Smokescreens face.
Smokescreen blinked and suddenly Prowl was gone. Bluestreak leaned forwards at a gentle brush to his doorwings, shimmying forwards as far as he could go to give Prowl the room to get behind him, before laying out on the bench.
“You could stand to look more stressed about this.” Smokescreen said.
“Honestly, I’m so stressed I’m about to shut down.” Bluestreak nervously laughed. “But I know Prowl’s got it handled.”
Prowl shimmied out of the service hatch and up onto the roof. He felt his invisibility humming in his audials, and he activated the magnets in his hands to stay on top of the train, wary of sliding off. The Decepticon patrol were noisy and opportunistic – he could hear them planning it all in the front of the train. There was a small group at the back, listening in on short range comm. Devices. He made his move, heading to the front first.
::Prowl?:: Smokescreen pinged him. Prowl sent a ping back.
::Stay put. There’s two groups::
::Try and not bring attention to yourself::
::It’ll be okay, I’m invisible right now::
::What’s the plan?::
::There’s a group at the front standing right where the entrance to the hold is, I’m going to target them first. The group at the back will probably come through when they don’t get any response from the group at the front, so you might have some company. I’ll try and get your guns to you in time::
::Very well. Be quick about it::
In the time it took Prowl to shimmy his way down the train, the mechs had split and moved – he heard doors opening and closing, hatches being swung open. He strained his audials, trying to hear footsteps.
Just one in the hold, he thought. That was doable. He could do that, right?
He dropped down as quietly as he could and slipped in behind them, gently closing the hatch.
The mech didn’t even hear him coming. He was out like a light with a swift chop to the back of the helm. Prowl carefully dragged them back up the ladder, taking care to not bash them too hard against the rungs, and carefully placed him on the floor, hidden from view from the windows.
He’d get the guns when he clears the drivers cabin, he thinks – when he’s got the time for a rummage. Gently stretching out his joints, Prowl dropped his invisibility and waited patiently by the door to the drivers cabin, stood to the side and half listening to them as he ran his tongue over his teeth. They’d said he had an adaptation to them – despite himself and his pleas to not know anything else, he wondered what it was. There wasn’t anything reflective in the room. He’d just have to hold the thought in his mind until he’d found a mirror to stand in front of and figure it out before the curiosity ate at too many circuits.
A loud thwack turned Prowls entire attention to the drivers cabin. Loud yelling followed – an argument. Quarrelling over the communications – that they hadn’t had any response from the mechs in the hold. Insisting someone went to go and investigate. Insisting that it wasn’t going to be them. Meek requests from the driver to step outside of the cabin, that there wasn’t enough room for the four of them. Admonishments and threats. Rinse and repeat.
Bread and butter stuff, really.
He knocked on the door, and the room fell dead silent.
“Hello?” Prowl called out. “I had a question?”
“Who is that?” One of the mechs whispered to the others.
“One of ours?”
“We don’t have any Praxians on our crew!”
Prowl cleared his throat and knocked again. “Excuse me?”
He could hear the drivers systems stress, the urge to call out a tight whine bundled in their chest. He heard a hand clamp down on their mouth – they must have moved to call out to him. Someone came to the door, carefully sliding away the partition at optic level to regard him.
“Who the fuck are you?” They demanded. Prowl raised an optic ridge – he hardly thought that was appropriate.
“The bearer of bad news, I’m afraid. This one of yours?” He hefted up the offline frame of one of their comrades, dragged from the hold.
“You mother fucker-!”
The door flew open and an arm grabbed him by the collar, tugging him in. The door slammed shut behind him and he was thrown against it.
“Wow, the driver was right. It is quite cramped in here, isn’t it? Barely any room to swing a cat, let alone a punch.” Prowl commented. “This is going to be quite difficult. Do you think we can take this outside?”
“You’re quite the yapper, aren’t you?”
“Only when necessary. So, can we?”
He was lifted up and slammed back against the door again, denting the metal.
“I will take that as a no, then.” He looked around the cabin – the driver was curled up by the controls, trying to stay out of the way. Every inch of floor space was taken up by the bandits and now himself – he was no acrobat and he was admittedly about as flexible as a rock. He found himself thinking what Jazz would do in this situation. The mech was bendy as a length of string, he was certain to be able to wriggle himself out and into a vantage point.
“Who are you?” The bandit spat at him.
“Just a passenger.” Prowl replied. He felt their hand tighten on his neck, but the metal didn’t give. It would take much more than that to do it.
“You’re pretty tough for just a passenger.”
Prowl shrugged. “Must be something in the coolant in Praxus.”
“Listen, you gobby little shite-” One of the other bandits had a finger pointed in his face, and Prowl had quite enough of the cramped little cabin. Twisting himself, he hooked his leg around his captor and flung himself backwards against the door, snapping it from its hinges and throwing them backwards into the carriage behind. The mech yelled in surprise, losing his grip – Prowl simply booted him in the stomach to send him flying.
The two bandits still in the drivers cabin didn’t take kindly to it, immediately grabbing hold of him. One wrapped their arms around him, holding him tightly to his chest, the other grabbing onto his legs to keep him still. They were yelling – at each other, to their comrade, at Prowl – but Prowl’s optics had locked onto the mechs hand that was dangerously close to his face.
What would Jazz do?
Bite him. Of course he would do that, wouldn’t he?
And so Prowl bit down, vague memories of him as a youngling, his doorwings barely nubs on his back, returning – a bigger, older youngling had grabbed onto him, yelling loudly into his too-sensitive audial. He had panicked, and felt a fizzing sensation as he’d bitten down as hard as he could on them, his teeth locking in place in their arm and holding on so tightly nobody could get him to let go until Smokescreen had come sprinting over.
Maybe that’s when it happened, Prowl thought as an audible crunching sound filled his mouth, his teeth shifting to allow him to lock in tightly. Metal creased and collapsed under his jaw, energon flooding his mouth – he fought the urge to gag at the taste of it, it bubbling out the corners of his mouth as he rejected it. The mech screamed, smacking Prowl in the helm as hard as he could over and over with increasingly dull thuds – Prowl barely felt it.
He twisted his helm and wrenched himself away, the mechs releasing their hold on him with loud whimpers. Spitting out the metal, he wiped his mouth and gagged, hunching over as he fought against emptying his tanks.
“You- you freakish bastard!” The final bandit had his fists raised. Prowl saw a flash behind him as the driver bashed him over the helm with a pipe.
“You alright, young mech?” He asked him, gentle hand on his back. “That’s quite the beating you took there.”
“I’m fine.” Prowl took a deep breath. “Can the train still move? The enforcers should be able to get to us faster if you can take us to the next station.”
“Of course! Are you sure you’re alright? That’s a lot of energon.”
“Not mine.” Prowl spat, blue energon splattering on the floor. Ugh. “I bleed silver.” He rolled his shoulders, stretching out his doorwings. Right. Onto the next target – Prowl was desperate for a distraction so he would forget about the awful taste in his mouth and the sound of teeth crunching through living metal. One of the mechs on the floor moved, and the driver was quick to bash them with the pipe again.
“May I use that?” Prowl asked, hand extended. He gestured with his helm to the pipe.
“Of course.” The driver graciously handed it to him, and Prowl artfully left the four bandits bound together, the conscious ones squirming and swearing at him as they fruitlessly fought for freedom.
Time was short to look at the guns. The second group would catch on that something was amiss very quickly – he’d probably only have time to grab one of them.
He dropped down into the hold, audials strained as he listened out for any signs of the other group coming. His hands ran over the luggage, optics sweeping for names, for colours, for familiar designs-
Smokescreens. It would do. Shoving it into his subspace, Prowl tugged himself out of the hold and up onto the roof, beginning his quick shimmy across again as his invisibility hummed in his ears and magnets trembled in his hands.
They were moving. The bandits – they were moving, they were going through the carriages towards the front. There was a commotion following them, the sounds of blasters firing- warning shots. He couldn’t hear liquid hitting the floor. They had to be firing warning shots.
With a twist of fear and nausea, Prowl realised he wouldn’t make it in time before they got to his brothers. He thought of Bluestreak, so small and afraid, alone in a dark, dingey room with wide, tear-soaked optics and unable to breathe through his sobs, and something feral ran through him.
He would. He would make it in time.
There was something to be said about the way the mechs face fell as something sharp and unseen slashed at his throat. Energon gurgled in his mouth and he staggered backwards, hands pressing firmly against his neck. He wordlessly gestured to his partner as he slumped into a seat, intake bubbling and hissing.
“Who fucking did that?!” They yelled, drawing their gun. They didn’t get to breathe in for their next words – an unseen force had kicked them full force in the chest, sending them backwards through the open door at the end of the carriage.
A tense silence filled the carriage. Prowl slipped back up onto the roof, his invisibility wavering with every ragged breath he took, and dry-heaved.
The words of the researcher in Praxus rang in his head. Claws. Claws. He had claws. Why did he never use them? Why didn’t he even know about them? And with a sickening feeling, Prowl remembered why he didn’t.
Bluestreak.
The ones who had taken him had claws. He’d used his own against them to break him free.
The ones who had taken him had yellow optics. He’d decided then and there that any disguise he donned would always have a yellow visor – he’d wanted to make the colour safe again.
He breathed in deeply, fighting furiously against the rising nausea. It wouldn’t do to empty his tanks on a moving train, especially when he was up on the roof. The stars were bright above him, and he heard the intercom of the train crackle into life, the relieved voice of the driver breaking through.
They were almost at the next stop. The enforcers were waiting. He swallowed hard and counted to ten before he slipped back in and joined his brothers as discreetly as he could.