Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunlight trickles down through the crystal skyscrapers of Praxus as Prowl finishes his morning energon.

It’s not a scene he gets to see often, not from the comfort of his own balcony. Ordinarily, he’d be at work by now, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the tac-room at Enforcer South, being given his patrol - or else elbows-deep in his own casework.

Instead, he considers the vividly-colored datapads before him almost meditatively, leaning back and letting the cool morning breeze flow undisturbed over his doorwings. The sensors are tuned high - there’s no risk of anyone grabbing them, here in his own home, so he can indulge - and it’s going to be a clear day: no acid rain, and no need to close the windows and stifle the breeze.

He picks up a datapad, and begins sifting through finance records. It’s not the first time he’s reviewed Feldspar’s finances - it had taken orns of delicate reconstruction work, joors of off-shift processing time, and more energon than he really wanted to think about to get even this complete a view of them - but it’s the first time he’s had to do more careful analysis. Before, with stopping Feldspar quickly his primary priority, he had pulled the information he wanted and moved on - now, with two orns and no other responsibilities, he has the time to piece together more useful info.

He spends almost four joor on that, letting his conscious awareness of the world around him slip into background processes in favor of immersing himself fully in the calming numbers. The ATS runs analytics, occasionally tagging a point for review - by the time Prowl bothers to reemerge from his own mind, he’s got half-a-dozen potential raid locations to scout, a loose web of funneled rents and black-market ties to other criminal groups. He sets the ATS to planning his daily route, feeding it the locations - he can’t risk getting caught hacking into their security from a home-console, but he doesn’t keep a regular routine for his wanderings through the city, and if he should happen to pass by a few of Feldspar’s warehouses and get a good look at them from the outside, well… as long as he’s unobtrusive, it shouldn’t be an issue. Publicly, he’s on vacation, after all. Nothing wrong with getting out and seeing the city - everyone knows enforcers can’t sit still.

Prowl can - the ATS means that he’s well-used to spending long joors, even orns at a time, almost-stationary - but he’s worked at enough different stations to know better than to underestimate the wanderlust of his coworkers. Their frametype isn’t built to need speed the same way a racer would, but most enforcers get deeply anxious without the ability to go out and patrol a territory - and, here in Praxus, surrounded by enemies, Prowl has never felt comfortable revealing the absence of the same need. It’s useful, to have mechs expecting him to wander - faking the anxiety when he gets locked up in medical is easy enough, and now, on vacation, it would be more odd if he didn’t go out.

The ATS produces a handful of potential paths as he gathers his datapads, returning them neatly to their rack before stashing it in the lockbox underneath his berth. It’s carefully filled to provide the illusion of personal storage - there’s the ornaments he wore at his Academy graduation, a few tins of ceremonial paint, a tub of fancy high-gloss import polish sent to him by his brother in Crystal City - nothing valuable, but things of close personal worth, to provide cover as to why he’s storing romance datapads in such a secure location. Hopefully, it will be enough to keep anyone who breaks into his house from looking too closely - or taking them to a data-analyst talented enough to break the encryptions.

That done, he idles his way back out to the kitchen.

It doesn’t take long to set up the press for another cube of energon - and to check his stock; using the ATS for long hours uses a lot of energon. He’s got plenty, though - neatly-stored boxes of crystal rough under the counter, and a double-handful of high- and med- grade cubes tucked away in a closet. It’s another careful layer to the illusion that he’s not working - anyone who tracks his purchases will see that he can’t be using the ATS, not realizing the extra he was stashing with every purchase while he was still working. Anyone who infiltrates his apartment will know, of course… but then, by that point, they already suspect it.

He goes to the balcony, swings the door almost shut, and chains it with a few inches of give - five links on the seven-link chain, today. It changes, day by day - enough extra space to give him a little airflow, and never the same number of links twice. It’s impossible to see how many links are in use from the outside - if someone does open the door, he’ll know.

Returning to the table, he sets a datapad down, the news loaded onto it. It looks like a standard pad - the only difference is the small number scratched inside the case, and the magnetic ballast in the port that will break loose if a data-cable is inserted. He returns to the kitchen, drains the fresh cube of energon, and sets it on the table at a precise thirty-degree angle to the datapad with a casual movement - if anyone is observing through the balcony, they won’t think twice about it.

No one watching will think twice about any of it. Fastidious, socially-inept officer-on-vacation Prowl drank a cube watching the sun rise, then methodically worked through a half-dozen romance novels for his brother before tidying up. When he was done, he closed up his balcony, and brewed another cube while glancing over the day’s news - drank the cube, and in a display of total normality, didn’t put it away before going to take a shower. When he’s done, he’ll leave, taking a seemingly-random route as he wanders the city until the evening, when he’ll return home and retire to his room for the night after taking his evening energon and tidying up again. It’s a solid routine, easy-to-keep, and very visible; he’s not trying to hide anything, obviously.

He’s not foolish enough to think there aren’t watchers. It’s a dangerous city; Barricade, at least, will have mechs checking in on him, and no doubt Feldspar is watching, too.

No doubt Meister is watching.

But there’s no helping it. To hide, to be seen trying to hide, would be far more dangerous - better to control the image than cut the cameras.

Prowl flares his plating as he steps into the shower.

It’s hot, and for the first time since breakfast, Prowl lets his ATS go offline, background processes going quiet as he sinks into the moment. He leans his helm back and just stands for a moment - the feeling of liquid solvent flowing over protoform is blissful, and he relaxes into it, frame going limp.

It’s several kliks before he bothers to return his attention to anything in the world beyond his frame.

Though he doesn’t concern himself overly with polishing, it’s beneath the dignity of an enforcer to be seen on the streets looking anything less than presentable - and his enforcer colors mean that, even off the job, he has a duty to represent Praxus. So he spends the extra time to detail his tires, and work the delicate seams between plating, before proceeding to work over his armor - whatever he gets out now would only smudge it later.

As he does, Prowl contemplates his polish - not so scuffed that he needs a new coat right away, but before he returns to work, certainly.

It’s soothing, getting clean. Helps settle something deep inside him, to set his plating and paint to rights - the little voice inside him that says his job is a lie, that the entire precinct is a lie -

He kills that thread before it can go any farther, shutters his optics, and ignites the solvent.

It burns merrily, rippling sheets of hot gas rushing over his sensors, and he waits patiently as it wicks off, shuffling his plates with delight at the heat - much as it bites at him to admit it, the vacation has done him some good. He’s less tense, less sore - he’s had a chance to visit the training yards every orn this week, and the stretched, limber feeling of regular joint maintenance has left his whole frame pleasantly loose.

Prowl takes a moment to bask in it before onlining his optics, and meeting Meister’s gaze in the mirror.

It’s astonishing how quickly he feels the crash build - it rises, a sudden cold wave flowing up his legs and across his frame. His frame - he locks it, he can’t collapse, not now - what is going on -

Meister’s hands are on his doorwings, holding him upright. The assassin’s face - delight is the only word for it, an unkind, pleased grin.

“Aw, Prowl, you didn’t have to get all prettied up for me… Here I was, thinking this was just gonna be a casual ‘lil chat, and you’re going through all this trouble…”

The words only half-register. His ATS is offline - he was taking a shower - but he can’t stop his processor from rerouting data down restricted bandwidths, trying to force a boot, and he can’t focus enough to offline his doorwings so there’s too much, too much data - he needs to restrict and redirect but he can’t -

Meister is looking down at him, somehow is above him now, and reflex makes him check his gyros, one more point of data he doesn’t have the processing power for and it’s too much too much too much -

Chapter Text

This time, when Prowl boots, he knows immediately where he is, even without onlining his optics.

The cuffs are familiar, the rope familiar - the hands on his wings familiar. And the agonizing pounding of his helm is achingly familiar - the tell-tale heat of a tactical crash.

Two in an orn is a record, even for him.

But this time, he has memories. The moments immediately before his crash are hazy - will stay hazy, until he onlines his ATS - but with his last capture in long-term storage, Prowl has a good idea of what’s going on. He tries to focus on that - to let it divert the rising panic in his spark.

He had behaved. A two-orn vacation, no public investigations - he was doing what Meister wanted! He -

- he pushes the thoughts, the frustration, down. Forces his field to stay the steady hum of an unconscious mech, to buy himself time - impossible as that might be with the assassin so close.

And as if thinking about him is enough to draw Meister’s attention, the assassin lets out a slow chuckle. One hand slides up Prowls neck, pulses magnetic charge that cuts through the helmache - cuts through everything, and he can’t keep from slumping into the relief.

After another klik, the hand slips away. Meister slips away, although Prowl can’t hear it, can’t even sense the mech who must have been standing right between his doorwings - and as he realizes that, he registers the numbness of the static baffles at their bases again. He hesitates only a moment - weighing the advantages of feigned recharge over confrontation - and onlines his optics to the blue streak of Meister’s visor.

Meister grins.

“Vacation’s treating you well, mech. Not perfect, but you’re not half as tight-wound as last time we talked - taking better care of yourself, huh?” The grin slides into a smirk - not a kind one. “Bet you’d be in even better shape if you’d listened when I told you ta lay off the case.”

Prowl can feel himself react to that even as he begins the reboot sequence for his ATS. He stays quiet, though - the oldest of enforcer tricks. Let the suspect see his surprise - his silence will keep Meister talking until he can figure out what’s going on. Never interrupt a suspect who wants to talk - not even if the suspect is a captor - and Prowl is very, very sure that Meister wants to talk.

It works.

Meister gives an amused purr. He’s straddling a chair, arms crossed loosely over the back of it, helm resting on them - he leans it forward on two legs and reaches out to tweak Prowl’s chevron. Prowl can’t help the flinch, half expecting the delicate sensor to be bent - but the touch is teasing, and there isn’t any pain.

“Ain’t gonna hurt you, officer. I told you that.” Meister lets his hand drop. “Not that I ain’t slagged with you, ‘cause I am, but I ain’t here to beat you up for it. You’re gonna walk out of here when we’re done, same as last time.”

He pauses. “Well, ‘walk.’” Grins, casual again - but his visor is bright, and Prowl knows spark-deep that the assassin is baiting a reaction.

With his ATS still half-booted, it’s harder than usual to avoid giving one - but Prowl does his best, ignoring the pounding in his processors and the deep relief he feels at the other mech’s words. It’s only when he sees the victory in the other mech’s gaze, the way Meister straightens just a hair, that he realizes he’s failed - registers the slight way his doorwings slumped at the other mech’s words, and knows his facade has been broken.

Meister doesn’t push it, though. “You still coming outta that crash, officer?”

When he gives a terse nod, vocalizer still offline, the assassin relaxes. “Take your time. I won’t pester you.”

It’s another relief - crashes from surprise are easier to manage than ones that happen when he’s already stressed, but it still takes time to reorder his processor. Once he’s sure Meister isn’t intent on saying anything else, Prowl offlines his optics and turns his focus inward, letting the reboot run at full-speed rather than the less demanding partial-speed he had been using to split his focus on the assassin. It takes only three kliks - as it wraps up, he sends the order for his vocalizer to queue for a reboot, also.

A klik later, he speaks - stealing what little advantage he can before onlining his optics.

“I did as you requested. I have been on vacation - I have not worked on the Feldspar case publicly in over an orn.”

Meister laughs at that.

“Really. Because you ain’t been that quiet, mech. Been seen quite a bit, outside Feldspar’s little warrens - he’s starting to get real nervous, and that ain’t good for anyone. Especially not you.”

Prowl can’t help but feel defensive about it, but he lets the ATS push it down. Gives the ATS more power, in fact, even if it’s idle - he can’t risk a third crash, not here with this mech.

“I have been patrolling. No particular attention has been paid to Feldspar’s warehouses - he should not be suspicious.” He pauses again. “You asked me to step away from the cases publicly. You said - you explicitly told me that I could continue my investigation, and make the arrests when your business concluded. I am not doing anything that lies outside the bounds of our initial agreement.”

“I did.” Meister’s response comes easy, but there’s a faint tension to it. “But I’m changing the agreement. You need to back off, mech. Completely. You ain’t as sneaky as you think you are. Dump the case - get out of Praxus for a few orn, maybe.”

“No.” Prowl can’t help the flicker of betrayal that flashes through his meta, but he ignores it - the assassin is a liar, but he had no reason to expect honesty from a murderer. “I will not.”

“And I wasn’t really asking. You need to drop the case. Make it real clear you ain’t picking it back up, and then stop slagging looking, ‘cause if you stay on it, it’s gonna get you killed.”

“Then kill me.”

That does get a reaction - Meister freezes, and there’s a choked catch of vents that doesn’t sound faked.

“What?”

“Then kill me.” The tactical suite keeps his voice steady, hides his fear. If this is how he dies, he’ll die boldly - but he doesn't think Meister will kill him. “I won’t drop the case, I’m not leaving Praxus - I appreciate the warning, but I’m not letting Feldspar go. I will see him answer for his crimes, or I will die trying.”

Meister seems to consider that. He rises, unfolding his frame from the chair with the grace of a cybercougar. Prowl forces his frame to stay still as the assassin circles, visor bright, as if examining him from every angle - circles again, and this time, doesn’t reemerge. Prowl knows, with a knot of dread, that the assassin is behind him, not touching him, this time, just waiting. Watching. He stands there, silent, for a long klik, until the silence has begun to grate at Prowl again, but before Prowl gives in and speaks to break the tension, the assassin does.

“I don’t think you’re getting my point, mech. I ain’t warning you for Feldspar. I ain’t working for him, either.” He pauses. “What if I told you Feldspar was gonna pay for what he’s done, regardless?”

Prowl flicks his wings against the restraints, confused. “What do…” He trails off, but Meister seems to understand his meaning.

“I’m gonna kill him, mech. He’s had it coming for a long time. But he knows you’re looking into him, and if you don’t lay off, he’s gonna get to you before I get to him, if you catch my drift.” Meister pauses. “I’d rather he not. Drop the case. He was never gonna survive long enough for you to nab him.”

“You can’t just -” The thought makes his processor fritz - but with the ATS held at full cycle, at least there’s no feeling of an impending crash. Nonetheless, Prowl lets out a burst of surprised static. “You can’t just kill him!”

Meister lets out a soft note of confusion. “I mean, I definitely can, I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“No, I mean - that’s not justice, that’s just murder!” Prowl hesitates for a moment. “Even if he does deserve it, you can’t just go around murdering mechs! That’s… that’s…”

“Vigilantism?” supplies the assassin with a helpful cant to his voice - almost as if he thinks Prowl might be pleased -

“Yes! And a crime!” Prowl almost snarls the word. “He needs to go in front of a judge! They need to see -” He cuts off, and this time his engine does snarl, orns of bitter frustration bubbling up in his spark.

To his surprise, Meister snarls back, his engine silent despite his obvious fury. “Ain’t no justice in a Praxian court, officer. Don’t try an’ play me the fool - there ain’t no justice left in this city but what mechs make of it!”

The frustration is too much - vorns of failed investigations turned into abandoned cases, disappearing suspects and disappeared witnesses, clues that lead to closed doors and orders to “get back to something useful.”, all boiling over into white-hot fury. Prowl can’t keep the anger down, and even as he does, he realizes that it’s suicide to argue with this mech, that he should just hunch his shoulders and promise to obey - but it’s too much, and this time, he’s not going to give in. Not if it kills him.

He can hear his engine - built for speed and power, long, exhausting pursuits - roar in the dark of the factory, echoing off the walls, flooding the room with noise that would deafen him if not for the baffles on his wings. He roars with it, furious, snarling past bared dentae: ”There will never BE justice in this city if we don’t make it!”

He surges forward, struggling against the restraints, chains and ropes snapping taut against his plating as he fights to twist and face Meister. He manages the turn, though the chair is sturdy and doesn’t yield to his struggles, and sees the assassin pulling back from him, visor bright - with anger or fear, he’s not sure, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

He revs his engine again, still half-lost in the fury of it, and strains against his restraints, ignoring the pain of the cuffs biting into his wrists. He feels something give - his wrist? The restraint? The chair? He can’t tell what, anymore - but he gathers himself and slams all of his weight against that one point, and there’s a snap of overstrained metal and his arm is free.

The force of it is enough to make him stagger - and, ankles still bound to the chair, he has only a moment to realize that staggering is enough to make him fall. His freed hand flies out in front of himself as Meister dodges nimbly out of the way, is enough to roll him sideways as he lands, but bound to the chair, there’s no way to protect his doorwing as he slams down on top of it, no way to keep the full weight of his frame from twisting it out of position.

He’s screaming almost before he can process the pain, engines choking with it and falling silent as his frame cuts off power to them. He tries to brace, to lift his weight off the wing with his free arm, but it’s too much - too much weight on an injured arm, too much pain to focus - but then, just as he thinks he’s going to lose the fight with gravity, Meister is there, above him, looming overhead like a shadow blocking out the sun. It would be terrifying, if he could process anything beyond pain.

Meister is saying something - but Prowl can’t understand, he can’t do anything except fight to keep his weight off the wing and scream. The pain is overwhelming, casting flashes of lightning across the darkness. He might be begging - there are hot wet tears of coolant running down his cheeks - but he can’t hear his own voice, deafened by the overwhelming flood of agony from his doorwing.

Meister bends over him, and suddenly, the world starts to tip, the worst of the weight on his wing sliding off of it. It takes a moment for it to register - every movement brings new pain as the wing swings limply on its hinge - and then Meister gives a heave and the chair is rocked back onto its feet, and the pain is no less blinding but at least he’s not crushing it any further.

He’s not screaming anymore - he’s saying something, begging, maybe, but he can’t tell what, and Meister grabs his injured wing and does something, pries at the plating, and then he rips a whole palmful of cables out of his joint and the whiting edge of the pain is gone.

Prowl slumps, ripples of agony twisting through his frame, exhausted. Everything is sore. He tries to speak - to say something, anything - but his vocalizer only crackles, blown with charge. His audials have blown, too - he can’t hear anything, even when Meister turns to look at him and mouths the words. His vision glimmers with white sparks, and it’s impossible to focus - he can feel one set of optic calipers trigger wildly, dilating and contracting uselessly as his vision blurs and warps.

Meister leans down again, and even if he wanted to, there’d be nothing he could do to protect himself as the mech unspools a data cable. The brush of another mech jacking in, blazing through his firewalls, overriding his permissions, is barely noticeable through his exhaustion. Prowl doesn’t resist at all as he’s forced into the inky blackness of shutdown, and sudden silence follows him down.

Chapter Text

The first spark of consciousness is a touch in his mind - another processor brushing against his, unspooling lines of code, sending a command to his frame to online, to his processors to boot. It’s gentle, almost soothing - a shadow in sunlight, cooling against the heat of a Praxian summer.

It laughs at that, and withdraws, sliding out of his mind like a chromecarp. Prowl takes a moment to examine his logs as it goes - but if the hacker has done anything, it was clever enough to clear the record; his logs show nothing except him being forced into shutdown, and the insertion of the boot command.

His processor comes up slowly, frame awareness minimal. The logs are enough to tell him that he’s been offline a long time - almost thirty joors. His gyros say he’s sitting. His comms and geotracking software both report offline, physically disconnected - but undamaged, as if a medic had pulled the wires. His doorwings report similarly, not one but both of them. The rest of his frame responds to his boot commands, coming online in sections, each sector sending its own repair logs - as if a medic had been in his systems.

Memory returns slowly - but it does return.

This time, mercifully, there’s no disorienting confusion as his processor finishes rebooting, just an all-over soreness that leaves him almost whimpering with remembered pain. He’s tied to a chair. He’s been tied to a chair by Meister, who doesn’t, apparently, want to kill him. Who wants him off of his current investigation.

He should be in more pain than this. Someone’s repaired him. Someone knows where he is - someone who isn’t Meister.

It’s not much hope. The enforcers aren’t coming for him, and Prowl takes a moment as he onlines his optics to pray that whoever fixed him is safe. Stays safe - doesn’t try to get him rescued. Doesn’t walk into danger on his behalf.

Then Meister melts back out of the shadows, and Prowl takes a moment to pray for himself.

The assassin doesn’t look angry. He hooks his hand under the back of a chair as he approaches, carries it noiselessly back to his former position, and sinks down into it, visor locked on Prowl. He doesn’t say anything, and after a long moment, Prowl looks away.

He turns his focus to the chair, instead. It’s not the same one - the metal is thicker, the chair heavier. Instead of chained cuffs around his wrists, this one has welded manacles, heavy hinges with thick steel straps. Instead of ropes, flat woven cables are bracing him backwards.

A flick of his foot is enough to tell that this time, the chair is bolted firmly to the ground.

He hadn’t expected to escape before. Hadn’t even meant to try, not really - hadn’t wanted to risk it. It’s impossible, now.

He glances up, and Meister is still watching him. The visor gives nothing away.

He needs to say something.

“You… had me repaired?” He hesitates, but after only a moment, Meister nods.

“A friend. He owed me a favor.” Meister’s voice is soft, and gentle. “Doesn’t ask questions, and doesn’t talk. You won’t have any grief from him.”

The assassin is still talking like he plans to let Prowl go. It’s not what he expected, but… “Thank you.”

Meister seems to hesitate at that. “You’ve been out for most of a day. I stopped by your place, made sure it was locked up. Figured you’d rather not have the rain get in.”

The ridiculousness of that statement takes a moment to sink in, but Prowl can’t repress the hiccup of laughter it chokes out of him. “Didn’t think I’d be around to worry about it, honestly.”

Meister draws back a little, the gesture uncharacteristically defensive - as if he’s off balance, somehow, as if Prowl has somehow managed to get him on edge. “I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you, mech. I don’t want you gone, officer - I just don’t want you getting killed.” He pauses, visor flickering. “You’re right - Praxis does need mechs that’re willing to fight for her - to fight for justice. It’s just… that fighting spirit’s gonna get you shot, mech. The folks in power - they see that light of yours, realize how bright it’s burning, and they’re never gonna stop until they can stamp it out.”

“So what? I work for them?” Prowl can’t keep the vitriol out of his voice at the thought, even as he knows he shouldn’t let himself be goaded again. “I bend the knee, and get my relief out of knowing that every so often, a worse mech will pay me to get rid of a bad one? And the wheels keep turning, grinding everyone else in the city underneath - no. If they want to drive me out, I’ll make them kill me - I won’t be a cog in their machine.”

That makes Meister blink - a long, slow cycle of his visor, fading out and in again as if in shock.

“Wait, you think I work for the gangs?”

The honest confusion in his voice is enough to throw Prowl’s focus. “Yes?” He tests the word as he says it. “You’re an assassin. You’ve been killing mechs all over Praxus for - for vorns, now. No one -”

He pauses, not wanting to complement the mech holding him hostage, but it’s the truth: “- no one as good as you stays out from under them for long. Someone has your strings, even if they let you keep your distance.”

But Meister is shaking his helm. “I ain’t for hire, mech. I’m not a hitman, either - don’t work for nomech. I choose who I kill - I don’t do any mech’s dirty work.”

“What?” Fully online, the ATS leaps on the new data, pairing it with everything he’s learned about the assassin in the orn since his first kidnapping, everything the enforcers had on file about him.

“I’m not a hitman. I work solo - don’t let myself get pinned down. Don’t work for cred.” He chuckles. “Well, I don’t pick my targets for cred, anyways. Anything I might nick from them after - that’s fair game.”

The ATS spits back - not confirmation, but… it makes a certain degree of sense. Cross-referencing killings, there’s no thread of common known rivalries to tie Meister’s attacks together - no evidence that might lead Prowl to believe he had ever worked for the same mech twice in a row. On its own, he might disregard that, write it off as a result of the incomplete information the enforcers have on inter-gang politics, but with what the assassin is saying…

“So you just… kill randomly?” But that’s not right either, as he looks at the list of victims. “No… you’re targeting… what?”

Meister waves a hand, as if inviting him to continue his analysis. “Keep going, mech. You’re bright - you’ll figure it out.”

Prowl only debates for a moment before slipping deeper into the datawork. Meister’s had plenty of chances to kill him, and… and the thought of understanding what drives the other mech is too appealing to resist. He scours the data he has available, cross-referencing targets, their areas of business, their territories, known associates...

He barely notices the joor that’s slipped by when his helm shoots up. “Known associates.” He almost chokes on the word, he forces it out so hard, but his optics are fierce with realization. “A subordinate arrested by the police. You - you’re using the blotters - finding someone that interests you at the bottom levels of the hierarchy, and following the chain upward until you find someone worth targeting. It’s - there’s enough steps of removal to make it appear random - that’s how you’re hiding it. That’s how you’re making it look like you’re a hitman - you’re not organically selecting targets!”

Meister’s grin is razor-sharp, dentae bared, and his visor is near-white with satisfaction. “Ninety-four percent of serial killers are caught because they have a pattern to their victims, Prowl. I just made sure mine was too hard to find.”

“I wouldn’t have found it, not without knowing.” Prowl says it with certainty, and a not-entirely-hidden note of admiration - with that many layers between the victim and the target determiner, he couldn’t have, the calculations involved too complex for even the ATS. “Once we had you written off as an assassin, it would have been all about targeting you by tracking employers - we would never have gotten anywhere even if we were looking. Pit, even knowing... it's too many potential targets. There wouldn't be any way to render it into anything useful, not in time to do anything...”

“Glad to hear it from the source, as it were.” Meister seems pleased by the praise - he relaxes back into the chair, visor cooling to a dimmer sapphire-blue. “But happy as I’d be to sit here all cycle and listen to you call me clever, I ain’t gonna lie. I haven’t ‘charged in almost fifty joor, between grabbing you and keeping an eye on you while the medic worked - and you need some real rest, not just me knocking you offline. Medic said it’d be a few cycles before you had your energy back, after a repair that major.”

The assassin looks him over as if weighing his options. “I’m gonna go grab some recharge. If you’ll give me your word as a cop you won’t try to get away, I’ve got a berth over in the corner where you can lie down. Gonna cuff you, of course, but it’s that or stay strapped to the chair, and I figure you’re aching enough already.”

“I suppose there’s no chance you’ll do the reasonable thing and release me?” Prowl doesn’t expect agreement, so he asks it with a small, but teasing smile, a reproachful flick of his wings. If he can’t escape, he needs to build rapport with his captor - old enforcer training, coming back like his senior officers are whispering it in his audials.

Meister shakes his helm, but he’s smiling like he gets the joke. “‘Fraid not. I wanna have a nice long chat with you once we’ve both had some recharge - and I ain’t sending you home to get shot before we can have it.”

That’s enough to make Prowl hesitate, and he gives in to the question that suddenly floods his processor with frost. “You… was there a chance of that?”

“Mech named Cordite took the hit, I know that much. No idea how fast he works - that’s why I grabbed you at home rather than waiting to pick you off when you went out.” All of Meister’s levity is gone, suddenly, as if it had been drained out of him. “Didn’t want to tell you like this, but… yeah. There’s a chance. Was gonna pick him off before I let you go. I cleared out your apartment - got those datapads you were working on - he’ll probably bust in there tonight, but he shouldn’t find anything.”

The frost creeps downward, a faint pricking horror tracing down his frame, and Meister looks at him, concerned. Distantly, Prowl registers that he’s teeking his fear all across his field, broadcasting it openly, but he can’t bring himself to draw it in - not with that thought in his helm.

“I didn’t - I was subtle! He shouldn’t have - I didn’t leave any proof, any evidence - what could have -”

“Didn’t need to. You… you’re an enforcer, you know how it works. They’re not cops, they don’t need evidence - you got seen maybe poking your head where Feldspar didn’t want it, and that was enough.” Meister’s visor is dim, sympathetic, as he reaches out, putting a warm hand on Prowls shoulder. “Shoulda been more clear with you from the beginning. Thought you’d scare easier, mech.”

“Never.” Prowl looks at him, vents hard. “Never. I would have been run out of Praxus years ago, if I let myself get scared. I just… this Cordite isn’t the first mech that’s been sent to kill me. But…”

He vents again. “I just need Feldspar. That’s all that matters. He’s hurt too many mechs, and killing him isn't going to do enough. The slave rings, the brothels - all of it needs to come down. After that…”

He shrugs, and Meister is silent. The assassin doesn’t say anything for a long, long time.

Then he rises, steps towards Prowl. Sharp claws make quick work of the cords keeping him in place, and Meister loops it into a loose coil with practiced ease before subspacing it and turning his attention to the manacles. Ankles first, and then, when Prowl doesn’t kick, wrists - and then Meister is behind him, one hand under a shoulder, the other on his back, helping him up.

“Let’s get you lying down, mech. We both need recharge - you’ll feel better on a clear helm.” Meister guides him around, behind the chair, to a side of the factory floor he’s never seen before - where, just as the assassin had said, there’s a wide medberth set up for a Praxian frame.

Meister gives a knowing look when Prowl glances at him. “Had to have somewhere for the medic to work - he gets titchy when I call him, otherwise. Doesn’t like me showing up at his place.” He gestures at the dense support wedges that make the berth at all usable for a Praxian. “He brought those over - they seemed to work well enough.”

Prowl steps towards the berth, away from Meister, and is suddenly very aware of how much freedom he has - no restraints, just the baffles on his wings and his offline comms and nav software. Behind a bank of machines - some sort of extruder, it looks like, and his ATS helpfully informs him that even without geonav, it knows exactly which set of factories he’s in - there’s even a door. He could run for it; might even be able to get away, given how committed Meister seems to be to not injuring him.

Instead, he takes another step, crosses the floor to the berth, and re-adjusts the foam. Lays down on it, compliant. He’s got nowhere to go, at the moment, not if Feldspar has mechs out looking for him - home isn’t safe, the Precinct won’t be safe, and he doesn’t hate anyone in the city enough to bring a killer to their door. No one who would help him, anyways - and it’s a frighteningly small list as it is.

Meister is quick but careful as he clips the berth’s cuffs into place around Prowl’s wrists, setting the berth’s mag restraints when he’s done. It’s not strong enough to fritz his sensors - with the cuffs in place, it doesn’t need to be, just needs to be strong enough to mess with fine motor skills and keep him from picking the locks. The assassin looks down at him when he’s done.

“Not too uncomfortable?” Prowl shakes his helm, the gesture only slightly impared by the magnets. “Alright. No one’s gonna come poking around here, you should be fine. Give a shout if you need something - I’ll be around.”

He pauses, then places a gentle hand on Prowls shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright, mech. We’ll talk tomorrow - sort something out. It’ll be fine.”

There’s a hint of something in the touch - faint, barely on the edge of registrable - and then it blooms outward, warm, comforting, the first hint of a field that Prowl has ever felt from the other mech. Then, just as quickly, it vanishes, and so does Meister - gone into the deep shadows of the room, even his visor vanishing as he fades from Prowl’s limited sensors.

Prowl lets his optics slip offline. He stills his ventilations - flattens his field - and waits. Lets a joor tick by, then two, running simulations in the ATS as he waits until he’s sure Meister is gone - and flicks his wing.

Nothing happens. He waits, one klik, then two. Flicks it again, then the other. If Meister is watching - and he could be, there’s always that risk, because the assassin runs quieter than any mech Prowl has ever met - he isn’t reacting.

Comms offline. Geonav offline. He’s got no way of reaching the outside world.

Prowl flicks his hand into his still-accessible subspace, and pulls out a long, thin, flat metal pick.

He’s not going to escape. Not going to run, or fight Meister - not until he’s sure there’s no other way out.

What he is going to do is destroy the baffles on his doorwings so the damned mech can’t sneak around behind him any longer.

It’s a fair bit of effort to line the pick up with the edge of the first baffle, but this isn’t Prowl’s first ride on the rail. It’s not too hard to get under the edge of the metal disk, and from there, a flick - pop - and the seal is broken, the resonance emitter moved just far enough away from his plating that it can’t mess with his cables. He transitions the pick back through subspace to his other hand, and it’s only a few minutes before he gets another satisfying pop.

He tucks the pick away and smiles, just slightly. Meister may be good - too good, better than him - but experience has its own virtues, and Prowl has played this game before. Doorwings fanning out beneath him, tracking every gust of air through the room, Prowl lets himself sink down, into recharge - if Meister wants to talk, then at the very least he's going to be alert enough to listen.

Chapter Text

The next morning, it’s his doorwings that wake him - the faint hint of airflow of a door being opened. Meister isn’t trying to sneak up on him, however - the assassin calls out as the door shuts behind him.

“G’ morning, Prowl!” The assassin’s voice is oddly light as he hums the greeting, and there’s the thump of something - a bag? - being tossed aside. It only takes a moment for Meister to come into view - and it’s obvious he’s in better shape than the last time Prowl saw him, visor bright, armor clean and loose, posture relaxed. “You gonna be a good mech and come sit with me, or are you gonna try and punch me again?”

Prowl bobs his wings at that. “You said we would talk today. I suppose I can behave for a while.” He gives the other mech another good looking over. “You were gone?”

“No one was gonna find you, mech, don’t worry. And I got a remote linkup to the berth - if I thought you were in any danger, I’da popped the cuffs and let you sort it out till I got back. Figured I’d go grab us something ta eat over, at least.” He chuckles, but the sound is good-natured. “Wouldn’t want you thinking less of my hospitality!”

Energon does sound good - really good, with how much he’s been working his ATS. It’s been a long time since his last cube - the medic, whoever they were, must have given him some on a line, but even that’s long since been burned through; his systems are reading back 28%. Not yet desperate - but close.

“Let me up, then.” He tugs illustratively at one of the cuffs. “I’ve already proven I’ll eat what you give me.”

The innuendo of that doesn’t escape him - and clearly it doesn’t escape the more-cheerful assassin, either; Meister snorts a laugh. “Fair enough.” He palms a pad at the side of the bed, and the magnetic field dissipates; it only takes a few seconds for him to work his way around the berth, and Prowl is sitting up, shaking the numbness from his wrists and ankles.

“Not too sore, I hope?” There’s a hint of concern there, and Prowl shakes his helm appreciatively.

“Not at all. Your medic does good work - I don’t suppose I could get a referral?”

The light, obvious prying makes Meister laugh again, but he doesn’t respond beyond an amused shake of his helm, already turning to gesture to the chair. Prowl lets the other mech help him up, the supportive hand on his back guiding him over, until he’s seated with Meister staring down at him.

“Gonna cuff you again, mech.”

The assassin’s visor is on him, still bright, and it’s obvious Meister is weighing him, evaluating his response to that. Obvious that Meister knows that he can tell. “I won’t let you tip fuel down my throat.” It’s a safe response, not challenging, but not wholly compliant.

Meister hums, and Prowl doesn’t struggle when he bends to snap a cuff on one wrist, then another. Doesn’t kick when the assassin kneels to cuff his ankles, either, though with Prowl fully conscious, he doesn’t bother going for the cabling. It’s not a surprise when Meister uncuffs one of his wrists - the mech knows what he’s doing, not allowing a prisoner to have a free hand above him while he’s vulnerable cuffing their pedes. It would have been an astonishingly rookie mistake.

With a free hand, getting out of the cuffs altogether… wouldn’t be particularly difficult. Blunt force would be enough to disable the stasis generators, and these are no convoy-class cuffs. Without the stasis, a sufficiently motivated mid-sized frame has decent odds of warping the metal enough to break free even without an unrestrained limb.

But he isn’t interested in testing it. Even if he wanted to escape, chances he could free all three limbs before Meister could reach and disable him are… low, to say the least - and anything less than a total success will just leave him cuffed to a metal chair bolted to the floor with marginally more mobility. Still, he lets the ATS toy with the thought until Meister returns, lugging a third chair and an unremarkable white box.

He sets the chair within reach of Prowl’s free hand, and places down the box before unsubspacing two cubes. Prowl accepts one gratefully when it’s offered, and doesn’t hesitate - he drains half the cube in two gulps. A show of faith.

“Confident, aren’t you?” Meister smirks.

Prowl shrugs in reply and takes another sip. It’s a pleasantly sour magma, probably an import from Kaon, mixed with curls of copper. Not a terribly expensive choice, but nowhere near the cheapest option even for a mech looking to impress - it’s obvious that Meister has taken his preferences into consideration, probably after poking through his kitchen. “You’ve been upfront about drugging me, so far.”

“Fair enough.” Meister lifts the lid of the box with a flourish, and Prowl hums in surprised pleasure at the contents - a mix of a dozen elegant pastries, flakey silicone delicately wrapped around gelled energon mixed with finely-peeled coils of metal, and dusted with minerals. The assassin contemplates the selection for a minute before lifting out a heavy little square one, mercury beaded beneath the outer shell, and gesturing to the box. “Help yourself.”

Prowl sets the cube on the floor beside himself and lifts out, after a moment’s consideration, a sour-looking manganese triangle dusted with magnesium. It’s fresh - the silicon crumbles between his dentae, and the gelled energon hasn’t coagulated - and Prowl lets himself purr with pleasure, earning a pleased look from Meister.

“Glad they had something you liked…”

“I’ve been to Apophyllite’s before. She does a lovely trifle, if you go by later in the afternoon - layers the leftover gel with scoria she imports from offworld. It’s delicious.” Prowl smiles indulgently as he takes another bite of the pastry; stays carefully oblivious as Meister stiffens, visor flaring with sudden alarm.

“Pits, mech, you are good.” The assassin groans it out as his plating relaxes. “Damn. I like ‘Pophs - you couldn’t have just pretended not to know and captured me on a full tank?”

“I’m not going to tell you not to go back.” Prowl gives a little smile, though - winning against the assassin feels good, even something as petty as this. “You’re the stealthy one, I thought - surely you can outwit one cop? It’s not like I can bring the rest of the force with me…”

Meister catches the teasing lilt, and grins. “I’ll hold you to that, then. Don’t worry, mech - you’ll never see me, coming or going.”

Prowl gives a dramatized, disbelieving sniff, and finishes his pastry.

Fueled, though, it’s down to business. He needs to know… “So. Feldspar.”

“Feldspar.”

“What caught your optic about him?” It’s a decent opener, even as confident as he is that he’s discovered the other mech’s selection strategy. Inoffensive. They both want the mech gone.

“He had an underling get caught. Real low on the totem pole - running some cash from point A to point B, that kind of thing. Nothing that should have stuck out - but one of Feldspar’s officers had ‘im shot. In prison. Probably paid more ta have it done than the kid lost.” Meister shrugs. “Offended my sense of professional decency, that. Followed the money upstream from there - he’s a slagging rapist. And he sells mechs. Seemed like my sort of target.”

It makes sense with what Prowl knows of the mech: the use of police blotters to select a case, then enough research to follow the crime to its source, and select a target. Vigilantism, removed by several degrees, targeting the root of the rot - inexpert, but effective. And an emotional response to the crimes - Meister may be a serial killer, but he’s no sociopath. It paints a not-entirely unflattering profile of the mech, if Prowl disregards the blatant illegality of it all - certainly he can’t fault the assassin’s enthusiasm.

“How about you?” Meister seems keen to turn the question on it’s edge. “Got any particular ties to ol’ Feldspar? He go after anyone you care about, or is this just another day on the job for you?”

“He’s a slaver, and a rapist. I would target him for that alone - he is a criminal.” But Prowl hesitates - Meister has been honest with him, and reciprocity builds rapport. “An operation like his… it’s a wellspring of suffering, tainting everything it touches. The mechs he steals - they suffer, but so do the loved ones who miss them, the families that try to find them, the communities and workplaces that are forced to bear their absence… Freeing them can’t fix all the damage he’s done, but… they all deserve justice. They deserve to know what happened to the ones we can’t save.”

He hesitates. “My own family… my brothers are safe. But not every mech has that assurance - and when I think about them vanishing like that, of never knowing what happened…” He trails off. It doesn’t bear contemplating.

Meister’s face softens at that, visor dimming with sympathy. He reaches out, lays a gentle hand on Prowl’s wrist, comforting - “‘s a good reason, mech. Something worth rememberin’ - something worth fightin’ for.”

Prowl shrugs. “It is. It makes the hard times easier to bear.” He accepts the soothing touch for a moment longer before raising his hand, gesturing. “Things like this Cordite. He’s welcome to take his shot, but no one’s scared me off a case yet - not when I have them to think of.”

“Not even me.” Meister chuckles, but it’s not a happy sound. “Yeah. Cordite. He… ain’t a problem anymore.”

It’s Prowl’s turn to stiffen - he can’t keep the instinctive, alarmed flare out of his wings, the brush of fear as he’s reminded of what, exactly, he’s dealing with - of who he’s eating pastries with. But Meister just meets his optics with a shrug, a dismissive wave of his hand.

“He was gonna kill you, mech. Figured you wouldn’t want me to do anything - easier to ask forgiveness, and all that. I’m not sorry I did it.”

Prowl gropes for something to say to that, but there’s nothing that springs to mind, nothing that won’t risk angering the assassin - and then, a stray thought catches his attention, and he checks his chronometer in sudden confusion.

“When did you have time?”

Meister jerks back, obviously taken aback by his line of questioning, but Prowl is doing the math - travelling time to go out and get pastries after locating another assassin and conducting a hit - “Did you recharge at all?”

Meister gapes, but he’s obviously on the defensive, and unexpectedly. “What? No, I had plenty of time - it only took a couple joors, mech, honestly -”

“I should hunt down your medic just to tell him you’re skipping recharge, I’m sure he’ll be delighted -”

“What? No!”

The assassin is delightfully off-balance, and Prowl finds it suddenly very hard to be upset that a mech that would have killed him is dead. He would have preferred to confront the mech, put him behind bars, take him before a magistrate - but, his ATS reminds him readily enough, hitmen rarely allow themselves to be taken alive. If he thinks about it that way, Meister has saved him a shoot-out, protected potential collateral - it’s almost bearable.

And Meister is catching on, rallying - too cunning to be disarmed for long. He gives a hesitant grin. “Not that upset, then? Figured you’d be ripping slagged - ‘s half the reason I cuffed you.”

“I was aware of his existence - if I noticed him and tried to defend myself, he would have used civilians against me.” It’s not the right answer, not what a good officer should say - but it’s the truth, and Meister has been honest with him. “I am grateful for your continued commitment to my survival, despite our differing methodologies.”

“He won’t be the last mech Feldspar sends. I made it look like he got got by a mech he owed money - no one will look too close at that, Cordite wasn’t any sort of name ta know - but Feldspar’s gonna hire someone else, and five cycle’s a long time ta keep you alive if you’ve got guns after you. I got my own ways of keeping track of him - but if I just waste every mech he sends, eventually he’s gonna figure something’s up, and start really looking at you.”

Meister gives a considering hum. “I could just… you know. Go off him. I was planning to wait a couple more days - he’s gonna be ‘payin’ respects’ to Nacre at some kind o’ party, thought it’d be a good show doing him there - but I ain’t opposed to movin’ my schedule up some…”

“No.” Prowl hesitates. “If you have to - please, hear me out - wait until I’m back at the station, at least. As soon as he dies, everyone working under him is going to scatter, they’re going to liquidate whatever they can of his assets and go underground - and they won’t leave any witnesses behind.”

“You think they’ll kill the slaves?” Meister hesitates at that, words taking on a faint hint of worry.

“They will - anyone they can’t move. They’ll clear out the brothels, too; we’ll be hauling frames out of the sewers for vorns.” It won’t be the first time a death in the mob has resulted in a slaughter. “They’d move slower if he was still alive - try to keep things intact, for when he bribes his way out of prison - but with him dead, everyone will be trying to cover their own trail.”

Meister goes quiet at that. “That’s never happened before…”

“Most of the mechs you’ve killed, no one was looking at too closely. But with Feldspar already suspicious…”

“... they’ll be on high alert. Tryna cover things up before the enforcers can show.” The assassin gives a long, slow vent when he nods.

“It’s what I’ve been working on - a half-dozen raids at the same time as we arrest Feldspar. Not large teams - three or four enforcers each - but the muscle won’t stick around to fight it out once they get word that we’ve captured their boss. As long as we time it right, we should be able to rescue...” Prowl pauses, debates the best way to phrase it. “At least some of them. More than if we didn’t.”

“Not all of them?” Meister’s voice is curious.

“Never.” It’s the deep, choking truth of the situation, the reason he’s been willing to risk himself visiting the potential targets in person. There are too many targets, too many warrens squirrelled away across Praxus to hit every possible location. It’s up to him to choose, to balance manpower and coverage, to select raid locations so the maximum number of mechs can be rescued - but resources are limited, and some mechs, many mechs, will die because he didn’t choose them.

“I want him dead.” Meister’s voice is cold, but there’s an undercurrent to it that Prowl hasn’t heard before. “I know you - I know you want to take him to court, mech, but even you’ve as good as said it: he’ll bribe his way out and be back on the streets in a vorn. You’ll free mechs, but the ones you can’t… what makes their sacrifice worth it, if he just starts snatching folks off the street to replace them? Ten vorns, twenty, and you’re back where you started - an probably with a fancy new hole in your helm for the trouble.”

It’s true, and Prowl’s wings sag with the weight of it. “I know.”

Meister looks surprised by the admission, the concession - as if he’s forgotten what he meant to say. He hesitates for a moment, visor bright. “Let me kill him, mech. I ain’t - I don’t want to get anyone hurt, but… if I off him, it’ll be decavorns before any of his subordinates can build back up to what he’s got, and they’ll be ripping each other apart all the while.”

“You don’t need my permission.” He rattles the chain on his wrist absently - he’s in no position to stop Meister from doing whatever he wants. But that the assassin is asking… He hesitates, feeding new numbers into his tactical suite as Meister flinches back.

“If you kill him, I could…” Prowl hesitates, ATS throwing up a handful of terrible ideas, bad plans that are -

- that are workable, if he can trust the assassin. That, if he reprioritizes rescuing slaves over arresting Feldspar, are more optimal than anything he had planned. If he’s willing to accept letting another mech be killed…

The ATS throws out numbers, impassive, persuasive. 50 mechs; 60. A 78% chance of improved success across the board, if the other officers are no longer concerned about Feldspar retaliating from prison. A 26% chance that all targets will be hit successfully; 89% that all but one will, and that’s as good as a guarantee, almost - 11% accounting for truly unexpected variables, but otherwise, solid.

“- I could give them the wrong location. Tell them that I anticipated him being at one of the larger raid locations - place the largest team there, rather than hunting him down at home. I could… they’d believe me, after, if I told them it was an honest error. And… if an assassin - if you - used the cover of a police raid to make a hit… It wouldn’t be the first time. Everyone would assume someone leaked, and one of the Lords decided to tidy up loose ends.”

“Feldspar ain’t popular,” Meister agrees, but his face is unreadable, and Prowl feels like he did the first time he was called to coordinate a raid - in Iacon, surrounded by expert officers, the lone new enforcer with a tac-net barely onlined and a lot of lives in his hands. It’s the same weighing look they gave him, then - not hostile, but… distrustful. Weighing if they could put their lives, their friend’s lives, in his hands.

They had chosen to, all those decavorns ago, and he hadn’t failed them. Prowl hopes to Primus he won’t fail here - if he does, there will be no second chances.

Meister seems to reach a decision, leaning back in his chair with a nod. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright. I’ll move into position, keep an optic on the warehouses. When I see your teams gettin’ ready, I’ll move in. I ain’t - you ain’t allowed to be slagged, if I make a mess. Ain’t in much of a mood to be leavin’ his mechs alive, not with the slag Feldspar gets up to.” Meister gives an ugly smirk at that, and Prowl knows without a doubt that this is the price of dealing with a devil: knowing that he’s just signed the death warrant on a dozen, two dozen mecha. “There’ll be witnesses - I’ll lock any slaves I find down, shut ‘em in an office or something, and I’ll make sure they get a good look in. Ain’t a mech in the city who’s gonna believe you made the arrangements for me ta pay ‘im a visit - just takin’ advantage, like you said.”

“They’ll think you fed me incorrect data.” Prowl nods, certainty forming. “Snuck it in somewhere - my ATS is powerful, but it can be gamed. It wouldn’t be the first time someone in Praxus has tried - just the first time they succeeded.”

“So we just need to keep you alive until the raid.”

Prowl sighs, a heavy vent. “That will, I expect, be the hardest part.” He looks up at the other mech with a gesture before taking another pastry. “If you have any ideas? This is far more your area of expertise than mine, I suspect.”

A long pause - processing, or prevaricating, he can’t tell.

“You ain’t gonna like it, mech.”

“I don’t like a lot of things I’ve agreed to in the last vorn, Meister. I expect I will have to live with it, regardless.” He gestures for the assassin to continue, ignoring the zinc powder trailing in a faint glittery puff from his hand.

“Let me drop you into stasis.”

Prowl cycles his optics in surprise - then again, because what other way is there to respond to something like that? “Wow.” It’s something utterly unlike him to say, but his delivery is flat - honestly, how should he respond to that? “You’re right - I don’t like it.”

“Hear me out - I ain’t gonna do anything to you while you’re under. But I got a life ta lead outside of this very lovely warehouse, and I ain’t keen ta lose it over Feldspar - I can’t just spend all my time keepin’ an optic on you. You let me drop you, and I’ll stash you where no assassin’s ever findin’ you. I’ll let my medic know, so he can come if anything happens ta me, and I know you got the mods ta set yourself a timed stasis.” He raises his hands as if to show that they’re empty - not that Prowl was concerned, but the familiar show of submission is soothing on a spark-deep level after so long working in the enforcers. “Wake up, spend a cycle getting your processors back in order, and go back ta work. Spend the night in the station - you mechs do that, when you’re working on a big case, right?”

Prowl nods. He doesn’t like the idea, but… there’s a certain degree of sense to it.

“No one will expect you ta patrol, your first day back - they’ve been expecting these raids for vorn, right? And so if you tell them your ATS says ta do it now…”

“It doesn’t take much effort to get the officers together, even for a raid on this scale. We try to do them short-notice, to avoid word getting out - no one will be suspicious if I decide to strike before Feldspar is ready for me.”

Nevermind. There’s a lot of sense to it, and he hates it.

Does he trust Meister? The whole plan, all of it - not just this, but involving the assassin at all - hinges on that question. He shouldn’t. He should be running everything the mech says through a dozen filters, but…

“I ain’t here to kill you, mech. Not gonna hurt you, either.”

Not the first thing Meister said to him - but close. And the assassin wasn’t lying - for all that he’s done, all the opportunities he's had, Meister has never, ever hurt him.

It’s not a lot. It shouldn’t be enough, but…

He needs Feldspar. Needs to make this work, and whatever Meister is, he isn’t a liar.

“We’ll do it.” He’s signed one deal with this devil today - might as well make it two. “I’ll need a cycle to recover before returning to work - my tactical systems struggle with stasis longer than a few cycles.”

“I can do that.” Meister seems almost as surprised as he is that he’s agreed to it, but… It makes sense. It will be enough.

Prowl finishes the pastry in his fingers, reaches down, picks up and drains his cube. And vents a sigh as he selects another pastry. It will be enough - it has to be.