Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prowl comes online with a deep, chassis-rattling groan.

His abdomen aches—sharp, gnawing pain that ripples through his sensory net as it pings him relentlessly. A flood of warnings fills his HUD, a chaotic blur in the corner of his optic feed. It takes a klik to clear them, another to send them to cache. Only then does he get a servo on his foggy processor, forcing it into something resembling functionality.

He doesn’t remember going to recharge. It’s been a long time since he last visited a bar—let alone drank enough for more than a mild buzz. They were celebrating. Or rather, the ex-Decepticon and the childish Prime were celebrating, and Prowl had once again, been stuck on babysitting duty. It wouldn’t be the first time the younger bots dragged him out, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, regardless of his preferences.

But there is a gap in his memory. A concerning one.

He pings his primary medic. He waits. And waits. And waits a little longer before realizing the comm didn’t just fail—it was denied. No… not just denied. The systems themselves are malfunctioning.

Prowl shifts his weight, pushing forward—something stops him. A chain, judging by the sound and the rough bite against his wrists. It loops beneath the reinforced plating of his wrists, cinched so tight the softer protoform beneath swells with trapped energon. Uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as the pain in his abdomen. The movement reignites his sensors.

Frag.

A sharp shock of anxiety snaps through him, making his vents hitch and his glossa go heavy. Instinct-driven dread coils in his frame, war-honed and insistent. He digs deep, reaching for the manual overrides to his tacnet. Increasing the bandwidth to 50%, he splices the battle chip into his main systems, monitoring its throughput. It dulls the fear—blessedly silent, or as silent as it can be while his processor drags itself out of whatever slag is poisoning his tanks. He rarely pushes over 60%, but 50% should be manageable. As long as he watches his fuel consumption. As long as he disengages later.

Annoying. But worth it. He needs to focus on his predicament, not his emotions. Ratchet was going to yell at him later.

He refocuses on the pain. A major vein is torn. Bright, luminescent energon coats the front of his abdomen, drying in a way that makes his plating itch and catch with every deep ventilation he forces through his frame. Prowl chokes, winces, spits out a glob of coagulated lubricant, sour with energon. His tacnet pings back his fuel levels—43%.

Acceptable. It means either the bleeding has stopped, or it's slowed to a trickle. His real concern is what’s keeping him from leaking out.

The source? A jagged vibroblade, hilt-deep in his rightmost ventricle pump.

Prowl’s vision goes blurry as he stares at the decorated hilt jutting out of his frame. His tacnet provides, unhelpfully—95% survival if he leaves it. 17% if he pulls it. Prowl manually shuts down the pump, letting the energon crust internally. The percentages adjust—99% and 33%. Marginally better.

Now, the real question: Why was there a blade still stuck inside of him?

His last memories are blurred—flashes of light, laughter, mechs pressed too close, a swimming processor, a burst of bright blue, a scream. His? When he tries to access deeper data, a warning pops up. Corrupted files. The manual link fails and Prowl bites back a growl of frustration.

He won’t be piecing this together anytime soon. Not without Ratchet. Or Red Alert. He shunts the thought aside, queues a memory defrag, and lifts his helm. Gritting his denta against the pain, he forces his optics away from the dagger. Static bursts through his vision and he gets his first look at his surroundings.

The room is nearly pitch black. Only a thin strip of light leaks in from under the door. Presumably locked. His optics cycle through settings, flicker uselessly, then default back. Infrared is offline. A reboot attempt returns more errors.

Then—

A twitch.

Panic surges through his lines, burning, smothering—Prowl clenches his denta, refocusing his attention on the movement slicking through his meta.

There’s something inside his firewalls. Hovering. Waiting. It hadn’t meant to move, hadn’t meant to alert him. It seeps into the cracks it tore through his defenses, attempting to hide its presence. Prowl won’t let it—his tacnet focuses on it and viciously screams at him to do something about the intrusion.

How long has it been there?

His systems can’t determine time of entry.

How long. How long. How long—

A strangled groan claws its way from his throat. How much information was stolen from him while he was offline? How much time did he waste figuring out where he was, when he should have been—

—Not much, mech.

The words are quiet. Melodic.

There’s music in his processor.

Why is there music in his processor?

—Oh, whoops. Sorry ‘bout that. Lemme jus’—wait—there ya go.

The music cuts off.

Prowl reels, disoriented.

Panic spikes again. His tacnet should be suppressing it. It isn’t. Should he push the bandwidth higher? Would the drain on his fuel reserves be worth it? He needs to focus. Needs to stay in control. Needs to—

Laughter rings in his audials, out loud this time, mimicked by the ghost in his processor that is only a nano-second behind.

A soft shift in the air in front of him. A whisper of ventilation against his plating. A faint outline—a mech, crouched, servos buried in some unseen device.

Prowl should have seen him earlier. The Mech blends in amongst the wall of supplies, perfectly hidden. If he hadn’t laughed, Prowl wouldn’t have noticed him, 87%.

—Heh, that’s a fancy trick ya got there. Ya like your numbers doncha?

His doorwings flare—pain explodes through his net. Something binds their base. Baffles?

—Ah… yeah, don’t do that, mech. You’re gonna—hey, I said stop.

His field spikes—terror. The mech laughs again. Soft. Almost a bell-like chime. Short. Genuine. With a sharp, tad bit feral edge to it. Prowl flattens his plating, forces himself to be still. He doesn’t need his captor telling him what hurts.

The voice is unfamiliar.

A 30% decrease in the likelihood of betrayal by a fellow Autobot. A 59% increase that the mech is a complete stranger. Running the tone through his datastores returns no match. The number rises by another 3%.

Freeing himself isn’t an option. The baffles suppress his senses, the disorientation scrambles his spatial awareness. His restraints pin him too tightly to reach into his subspace for the laser scalpel or lockpicks he keeps for exactly this reason. Intentional? Or an unfortunate coincidence that leaves him with fewer options than before?

His captor isn’t hiding anymore. Blue light spills from his visor, casting soft illumination over the space. Enough for Prowl to make out wires trailing from clamps spliced into his auxiliary port. A hardline. Straight into his medical overrides.

—Get out.

Prowl finally engages, snarling with denta bared in a grimace-sneer. He focuses on the hardline. It is significantly harder than it should be.

The mech’s field twitches—amusement, worry, frustration. Prowl fights the shudder when the presence in his meta surges deeper. Urgent. Slipping through broken firewalls, dragging him into the pathways it’s carving.

The mech is fast.

And skilled.

A giggle. —’Course I’m skilled. Always workin’. Got mechs to slaught—ah. Well. Not you. Hush now. Not gonna hurt ya.

A deceptively dainty servo pulls away from the device and gently pats the leg closest. His tank sinks and he tries to ignore it—it’s easy. Prowl is reeling, stumbling through his own processor like an overcharged sparkling. He should be processing faster. He’s been drugged. He knows he has. But there’s no sign of processor damage outside of shattered firewalls.

The mech sinks deeper.

Prowl’s tacnet buckles.

Panic overwhelms him. Logic shatters. He surges forward, thrashing, ignoring the sheer idiocy of his actions. Chain snapping taut, he slams his chevron into the mech’s device.

Something gouges, plates shrieking. Metal sinks deeper and Prowl slips. Something sharp and jagged cuts along his browridge.

The mech yelps—both in Prowl’s head and out loud.

"WHAT THE SLAG, MECH?!"

Prowl screams—but no sound escapes. The mech is fast, already in his vocal controls, silencing him.

Pain detonates in his frame.

His engines choke.

His spine arches.

Bright pink energon gushes from his abdomen in heavy streams.

Prowl’s vision sparks, a burning keen is clawing at his throat, unable to escape.

Black servos clamp down on his jerking frame as pain blooms deep in his gut. The blade sinks further into his abdomen, slicing through the adjacent cords laced around his vein.

—Slag, slag, slag—what? Why would you—are you stupid?! ARE YOU STUPID?! Why the fragging—I’m TRYING to keep you from offlining—

His helm swims. He can hear his lifeblood sloshing into the cement beneath him, gumming up the gears in his joints.

Bad decision. That was a horrifically bad decision.

—YOU THINK?! The mech sounds hysterical.

Prowl flinches at the loud voice echoing through his helm. He’s losing energon too fast. Tacnet lags, percentages flashing across his HUD faster than he can process the gravity of his situation. The mech in front of him is panicking, thoughts crashing into his own in an abrasive caress of dismay.

—Stupid, stupid, stupid. Shouldn’t have given you—should’ve tightened those better—slag, if it couldn’t be the right one, then why did I stab the dumb one? Hey, mech, weren’t you supposed to be, y’know, a genius?

The words tumble out in a chaotic frenzy, fragmented, the mech’s mind working faster than his mouth. Prowl groans and shifts his attention.

—Intelligence is usually impeded when drugs, engex, or damaging viruses are introduced to the system.

—Are you… are you joking? No—that’s—are you sassing me? Mech, are you actually sassing me right now while you’re bleeding out in a stranger’s arms? Slagging—the bearings on you, mech. HA—gotta—oh Primus, where in the pit is the override in here..…

There are no secrets between them now.

Prowl must’ve shattered the device keeping their metas separate. They’re intertwined now. Thoughts rush through the hardline connection, and suddenly, Prowl’s mind is filled with noise.

If he could smirk through the pain, he would.

He won’t let his intelligence be used against the Autobots.

—Hey, wait a minute. Bad cop, bad cop—HEY, I am hacking YOU! Cut it out, mech. Tryin’—no, wait, don’t go there—

Prowl races down the hardline, tracing the residual data back to the mech crouched in front of him. His smaller servos dig into Prowl’s shoulders, grip so tight it dents the plating. There was power hidden in this mech. He goes after the few files that were stolen, momentarily confused by the disturbing amount of files that could end the war that remained untouched. Just what was this mech after? None of his firewalls are intact, pulling the documentation back through the link would only result in a game of tug of war.

So instead, he sabotages the data. The mech whines in annoyance as the files are eviscerated, leaving only scraps in the front of the mech’s meta.

—are you kidding me….

Just as Prowl is going to pull back, Handshake protocols—what should have populated before, but were bypassed when the mech forced his way in while Prowl was offline—pop up. They are barely acknowledged. Prowl slaps them aside in frustrated indignation, twisting to get his bearings in a consciousness so unlike his own.

It’s pure chaos.

Prowl’s concentration falters, his mouth parting in disbelief. There’s music blasting. A game of sabacc is running in the corner where the mech plays against himself. Data files are strewn everywhere like a vortex tore through his processor, and he never bothered to clean up. He knew he didn’t cause that mess, that was too deep into his firewalls….

—No, don’t look at that. You’re not allowed to figure out all my award-winning moves.

Was he talking about the sabacc? The music—Prowl thinks he recognizes it. It reminds him of elevator music.

—Well, that’s just rude.

Prowl shakes off the distraction, once again moves to leave, then hesitates.

—Slaggin’—do you not? Do—hey, mech, I’m talking to you! Do you not care that you’re dying?! HEY, hellloooooo? Mech?! Mech?! He’s really just ignoring this?!

Distantly, Prowl feels servos press into his wound, his body arching back as the mech tries to staunch the flow of energon still spilling around the vibroblade.

Prowl makes his decision. Ignoring the terror of self-preservation clawing at his spark is easier said than done.

His subconscious tears through data files faster than his captor can quarantine them. He doesn’t bother surging deeper for more restricted files, he doesn’t have the time—but as he works, he notices something strange.

—…Are all your files labeled as song lyrics?

—Duh. Gotta keep out the little voyeurs somehow—The words sound appropriately pissed—Now how about you get out of my helm, yeah? Listen, your energon is getting all over me. It’s in my joints. Ugh. So gross.

Dismay sinks its claws into Prowl’s spark.

Is this mech a psychopath?

—Kinda.

—That was rhetorical.

It doesn’t matter. Even if this chaos was organized to a standard even Red Alert would admire, Prowl doesn’t have time to sift through it all. And even if he could—his energon loss is too severe. Tacnet isn’t reading properly. Percentages don’t make sense in his pain-addled processor. Exhaustion drags at his limbs, darkness creeping into his awareness. He doesn’t have much time so he strengthens his determination.

His firewalls are down, but he still has subroutines that activate upon new data retrieval. If he can pull something back, his tacnet will do the rest. Desperate, Prowl spitefully—no, not spitefully, because he is not a spiteful mech, he is not, he is just angry and panicked, he is NOT spiteful—grabs the nearest stack of files and yanks them down the hardline into his own meta.

A furious engine snarl erupts in the small space and Prowl barely slams the files behind quarantine, battle chip wrapping around them protectively, infecting them with viruses, before the mech’s subconscious crashes into his own.

There’s a pop—internal or external?—and feedback shrieks through his battered systems. Prowl’s spark skips a beat, panic spiking.

He’s going to crash.

And this time, he might not come back online.

—Slag, shit, didn’t mean—wasn’t gonna hurt you—dammit, why wouldn’t you just let me help?! Wasn’t gonna take much, just enough—only needed enough to satisfy—slag, mech, you’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay—maybe—trying—okay, yeah, I’m not a medic. No, that doesn’t go there. That definitely doesn’t look right—

Prowl’s vocalizer spits static. His frame seizes, slamming against the smaller mech. Servos slap against his chest trying to steady him. His doorwings snap upwards, delicate sensor panels caught and breaking under the pressure of the baffles.

Prowl arches backwards again and frantic servos follow after, sliding under his helm to keep it from hitting the cement. His intake feels thick with solidifying energon, his glossa swollen. 

—You’re alright… you’re alright…

Prowl crashes harder than he ever has before.

Chapter Text

Everything is fine.

Everything is fine, dandy, fragging miserable and sticky—superb. It’s all going exactly the way Meister planned, stabby actions and all. Except, when Meister got stabby, he kinda stabbed the wrong mech. And from there, everything had gone downhill, because you really shouldn’t stab the wrong mech when committing deeds most would view as blatant homicide instead of the necessary evil Meister knows it to be.

It’s not his fault, no matter how many times Siren insists otherwise while screaming complicated directions in a code Meister has to mentally scramble to decipher. Siren lead him to a maintenance closet—of all places—in the middle of the tower he needed to disappear himself from. Meister can’t tell if this was Siren’s best calculated plan to get him and his impromptu buddy-for-the-cycle out of optic sight or some twisted way to make him atone for ignoring his—admittedly paranoid yet insightful—warnings. Either way, Meister really kinda just wants to go crawl into a cave somewhere.

Meister likes a challenge. He truly does. It’s fantastic practice, especially when you live a function as wild as his own. However, when Siren approached him with the timesheets and specs he requisitioned earlier that decacycle, he did not expect to cross off ‘running like the Pit from the entire Primal Guard’ from his bucket list so soon. He’s getting up there in age, but well, it’s called a bucket list for a reason. That means ‘preferably later.’ But apparently, ‘preferably later’ has shotgunned its way to ‘unfortunately now.’

And all that while carrying a mech a good bit larger than himself and attempting to not leave a trail of energon straight to his spontaneously convenient yet cramped hidey-hole. It’s great. Meister is having the time of his life. He totally isn’t regretting every life decision he’s made in the last forty vorns that may or may not have guided him to this exact moment in time.

Prowl is the unexpected variable that throws his entire fragging operation to the scraplets. An entire stellar cycle—just gone. All because the enforcer he could have sworn was overcharged threw himself in front of Meister’s mark like some sort of self-sacrificial idiot.

And Primus, if that doesn’t surprise the absolute slag out of Meister, the baby Prime bursting into high-pitched, hysterical laughter definitely does. That has to be a nervous tic. Has to be. Meister also laughs at fairly inopportune times. It really shouldn’t be such a shock, so why is he so fixated on that? And—and—if neither of those count, the ex-fraggin-Decepticon’s knee-jerk reaction in the shape of a nice, long, shiny sword aimed straight at his intake definitely covered all the bases.

Meister is fairly certain the only reason his helm is still attached to his frame is thanks to the copious amounts of engex he and the others have ingested over the course of several joor. The blade swung so close to his visor that if it moved any slower, Meister could have easily read the Cybertronian inscriptions carved along its center.

In retrospect, he probably should have put a little more thought into the Prime’s companions for the evening instead of solely focusing on the Prime himself. Siren will never let him hear the end of that later. His companions changed at the last damn klik; Meister was annoyed and short on information, leaving him to scrape the bottom of the barrel for questionable plans of action he could haphazardly smoosh together so his entire fragging cycle didn’t go down the drain.

Swerve’s bar has been open to the general public for several orns now. With the Lost Light back on Cybertron, the mech still wanted to make money somehow without moving his bar to a permanent off-ship location. Perfect for Meister. Having the ship’s bar full of neutrals was a great boon for hiding his own presence. Not only that, the ship’s crew was spread thin as many of them took the chance to enjoy being planetside while they’re stuck here for an unknown length of time.

Even if Deadlock has been playing around with the good guys for several vorns by this point, it obviously does not make him any less deadly. Especially since it seems like the assassin has buddied up with the Prime of all mechs.

Long story short, stabby fun times in bars? Great idea. Stabby fun times in the vicinity of imbecilic martyrs and ex-murder-hungry guard hounds? Not such a great idea.

If Meister was an intelligent mech, he’d be rethinking this whole ‘mutinous facet of his personality’ situation right about now. Instead, he’s covered in energon—not his own—with his digits jammed around the base of his favorite vibroblade, currently nestled inside the oh-so-delicate internals of the unluckiest mech of the orn. Simultaneously, he’s trying to hold together the fraying edges of his processor because woah, would you look at that? Having your psyche hooked up to another individual when they crash is apparently detrimental to your health.

::Silencer. SILENCER!::

A loud shriek crackles over the comm, and Meister finally stumbles his way out of his sparking processor. His vision wavers, and he bends low over the body of the mech—he hasn’t deactivated yet, he hasn’t, he hasn’t. Right? Yeah, internal readings confirm it. Meister forces himself to focus on something other than the disorganized feeling of regret floating around his meta, where he can unfortunately see it in all its irritating glory.

Now is really not the time to have an existential crisis.

::SILENCER, SO HELP ME—::

Meister snaps back to attention again, cycling his optics as he stares down at the mess coating himself and his surroundings. This whole focusing situation would be a pit of a lot easier if he hadn’t just been hardlined to a mech that crashed while Meister was playing hooky inside his processor. His cortex is unbelievably scrambled, and fitting the tiny pieces back together later is going to fraggin’ suck. He needs to queue a defrag but doesn’t think this is the best place to do so. Shoving a temporary patch on the mess will have to work for now.

::I—ah..ahm h-h-here::

Eh, good enough.

Meister can almost feel the rage over the comms. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s stuck in a closet in the middle of enemy territory. That also means said enemy territory is acting as a buffer between himself and his incredibly slagged-off friend consultant-for-hire.

::I have been trying to comm you for breems. What is going on? I need a status report. There are no cameras in that room, and the last thing I saw was your panicking aft disappearing into the darkness.::

::U-uh w-w-w-w….::

Groaning, Meister resets his comm link, clears his vocalizer, realizes he doesn’t need to do that because he isn’t speaking out loud, and then tries again.

::C-cop bot is down f-for the count. C-Cr-Crashed out.::

Plan A failed spectacularly. Plan B also failed spectacularly. Time for Plan C. Except Plan C depends on him stopping the bleeding. Otherwise, all his efforts in attempting to save this mech are going straight out the proverbial window.

Meister takes a deep vent to quell the black spots in his vision. He lays his left servo on the handle of the blade and promptly rips the weapon out, peering into the hole. Energon starts gushing again, but he pays it no mind. Instead, he presses all the digits of his right servo together and shoves them into the wound, pinching off the largest leaking vein while putting pressure on the smaller ones.

Dropping the blade somewhere to his left, he digs through his subspace and pulls out a miniature welder. Not ideal, but it’ll do. He flicks it on.

Maybe it’s a good thing the mech is offline.

This is going to hurt.

::...Have you tried infracting the medical coding in his subcortex and overwriting the designated flow cycles to a portion of the frame not suffering from breached energon lines?::

Siren’s voice drones on and on, and Meister does his level best to give it at least a sliver of attention as he works. Bringing the welder down to the lines, he melts the delicate ends together. The stench is sickening, and whoever has to replace these lines later is definitely going to be slagged off about it, but as long as it stops the bleeding, he couldn't care less. It doesn’t have to be pretty—just functional.

::N-Naw. I decided to play house in his meta instead. O-Of course I di-d-d. Mech onlined—by the way, you-your link-up c-code failed—and fre-freaked him out. D-doubt he realized he was ina-inadver—slag. Mech-Sabotaged-Himself.:: Meister forces out. Prowl’s defensive subroutines, of course, had kicked in just as he tried to take a little something for his troubles, dragging the enforcer back online at the worst possible time. Why does he ever think his luck will improve? Between getting trapped in a closet and this mission going to the smelter the klik he actually leapt into action, he should know better.

Because he panicked, that’s why. Still kind of is.

The welder slips in his distraction, scorching a charred edge along the mech’s fuel tank. Paint bubbles along the seam, seeping into the wound. Meister quickly pats it out, ignoring the sting of pressing his bare servo against molten metal. Wincing, he hurriedly finishes the hack-job of a field repair and pulls his servos free from the wound. It should hold—at least until he can dump this heavy aft somewhere in a high-traffic area without getting himself nabbed.

And not getting nabbed is definitely the priority. The longer he lingers, the worse his chances get. Time to move.

::If you get caught, I can’t help you.::

Obviously. Meister knows exactly how much he’s risking just by speaking to him right now. Rolling his optics, he finally surveys the dimly lit room. He hadn’t taken the time to look around when he first barreled in, but now that he does, he realizes it’s bigger than he first assumed. A maintenance closet, judging by the variety of supplies crammed onto the shelves. His gaze catches on a vent in the upper right corner, and he bites his lip, considering. He could fit through that. Prowl, on the other hand—not a chance.

::I know, we went o-o-over this.::

Sighing, he snags his blade off the ground and wraps his arms around the waist of his shiny brand-new enforcer. He could totally keep him. But that’s probably more work than he wants. He barely remembers to fuel himself, let alone another mech. With a low groan, he hoists Prowl up over his shoulder, nearly staggering under the weight. His vision swims, and a little static-laced giggle tumbles out. Slag, this mech is heavy. How the frag did he outrun the guards in the first place while carrying a bot not even in his weight class—even with the sedatives?

::I can give you a map updated with the new patrols—but after that, I have to go radio silent. Blaster’s too close. He could catch onto the airing systems any klik now. And when you get back, we are going to have a nice, long talk about your decision to drag that mech with you instead of just leaving him like I fragging told you to.::

The comm clicks off audibly, and Meister grimaces. When Siren gets angry, he gets hysterical. And loud. And physical. True to his word, within nanokliks, Siren drops off a package just outside of his firewalls—it’s fragging creepy when he does that—and Meister immediately unzips the file. Attaching the program to his HUD, he pulls up the map in the corner of his visor and sets it to monitor. With one last shift of Prowl’s weight, he presses the door open and peers out into the hallway.

No one in sight.

To a normal mech, that might bring some peace of mind. But for someone like Meister, who lives and vents paranoia, it twists his tanks into knots. For once, he appreciates his chronic malnutrition—hard to purge when there’s nothing in your tanks.

Meister hates not knowing where the enemy is. And he’s not stupid—despite his tendency to make incredibly questionable decisions with incredibly questionable odds—so he doesn’t believe for a klik that the enemy isn’t there. A quick check of his chronometer tells him it’s been at most two joor since he first stabbed Prowl. That means the Autobots are still on high alert, still searching for the mech slung over his shoulder like a sack of bolts.

So, not seeing anyone? Not great.

Keeping himself glued to the wall, Meister slinks down the corridor. His matte black armor serves him well in most situations, but right now, it makes him stick out against the pristine white of the tower—why is everything white here?—which, ironically, means Prowl blends in better than he does. And ain’t that a sobering thought.

He has half a mind to ditch Prowl and stir up just enough commotion to get the enforcer the medical attention he needs. But the likelihood of that backfiring so badly that he ends up with the full force of the Autobots on his aft is a little too high—even for him. He really doesn’t feel like getting thrown in the smelter today. Stabbing important mechs tends to be just a tad illegal. Illegal enough that it warrants being shot on sight. Not that the alternative—getting taken into custody and having his processor picked apart—is much better. But at least he still has slag to do, so for now, it’s debatably preferable to deactivation.

And his poor, abused brain module is already half-slagged from overclocking on mods that toe the line of what’s considered ethical anyway. The Autobots would have a fantastic time trying to extract anything from it.

Fighting off a grin, Meister readjusts Prowl, the enforcer’s bound arms slapping against his spinal strut with little pings every step. The sound is faint, but to him, it might as well be gunfire in the silence.

Finally, he reaches the branching corridor marked on his HUD and ducks into another hall. The vertigo keeps hitting in waves, and he’s pretty sure he has a sparking wire somewhere in his helm that’s short-circuiting his finer motor functions. Leaning against the wall, he gives himself a moment to scan the map. The copy Siren provided is an interactive module—meaning he had been updating it in real-time until he pulled out less than a breem ago. Patrol locations flicker in red. Meister marks a route that keeps him out of their search radius. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll have to be close enough.

The hall branches in three directions.

One leads toward the hangar—he could nik a ship.
One heads toward the main entrance and the prison hall—tempting.
The last goes toward the barracks and the tower’s medbay—and certain death.

Pursing his lips, Meister glances at the little yellow dot marking the medbay.

Meister considers his options. He could dump Prowl in a random location with a high likelihood of someone stumbling across his offline frame in time for medical intervention. Or he could take him to the medbay himself. Logically, with the tower still on high alert, the search parties would be scattered, likely farther from the medbay itself. If he moves fast and keeps his head down, he might be able to slip past unnoticed.

And he has options. The tower’s medbay is one, but there’s also the Lost Light’s medical wing. The massive quantum ship is docked at the hangar entrance, its crew coming and going for personal time while the trial proceedings continue. He knows exactly how to get to it—Swerve’s bar is on board, after all. It’s closer, and Prowl would likely be found sooner.

A small scuffling sound snaps his attention back to reality.

Meister immediately abandons the thought and scurries around the corner, pressing himself against the wall just as a cleaning drone rolls past. He pauses. Rethinks. Backtracks.

Going to the Lost Light is suicide. He can’t just waltz through the front door. Well—he could, but that would be an even worse decision than most of the other questionable choices he’s made lately. Even he knows returning to the scene of the crime is a special kind of stupid.

Primus, he wishes he could just crawl into a vent and disappear, forget all this guilt-ridden heroic slag. But wishing is pointless. He’s already in deep—he really needs to stop fixating on how much he’s regretting this—and at this point, he might as well make sure the mech survives to tell the tale of how he stupidly jumped in front of the pointy end of a knife.

The cleaning drone is easy enough to sneak up on. Even with Prowl’s added weight, Meister is light on his pedes, and the drone’s point of view sweeps in predictable arcs. Timing it is simple. As soon as it finishes its latest scan, he strikes.

Gripping it beneath what could generously be called a chin, Meister drives his claws into its integrated comms and rips downward, tearing out the rudimentary vocalizer along with the comm system. Static crackles over his forearm, prickling the circuitry beneath. The drone writhes in his grasp, attempting to break free, but he holds firm, digging his pedes into the floor to maintain balance.

His fingers skim over its casing, searching. The old models should still have a manual port—a small slot where they plug in with the other drones at night.

Where… where…

There.

Meister releases a controlled series of EM pulses into the drone’s processor, feeling the magnetic locks latch onto the array greedily. Excess energy filters through his frame, grounding out beneath him, and he shudders, clenching his denta. He’ll never get used to that sensation, no matter how many mods he rigs into his system to help disperse excess current.

Shifting his weight, he starts the tedious but straightforward process of rewiring the drone, configuring its systems into something he’s more comfortable with. As he works, his optics flicker to the mech precariously balanced on his shoulders.

He isn’t sure how long a mech stays offline after a crash that bad. Can an injured mech come back online on his own? The concern worms its way to the front of his processor, and he quickly initiates a scan. He doesn’t have the kind of advanced medical scans a proper medic would, but he’s got a mod that gives a rough estimate of internal functions.

Convenient when your self-appointed occupation revolves around helping mechs “recharge”.

Getting a read on Prowl’s vitals proves more difficult than it should be. No way it’s his scanner acting up—it has to be the feedback loop. He sifts through his own coding, searching for the transfer leak, gritting his denta as another burst of static fizzles somewhere behind his optics. That sparking wire in his helm is definitely not helping.

Eventually, he manages to pull up Prowl’s vitals, though not without difficulty. The crash did a number on him, and Meister doesn’t like how inconsistent his own readings are right now. Prowl’s fuel levels sit at 12%—too low for comfort, but not low enough to redline. He has an emergency cube in subspace, but it’s packed with additives that could overload an already stressed spark. Last thing he needs is to accidentally offline Prowl after all the effort he’s put into doing exactly not that.

For a breem, Meister works in tense silence, constantly checking over his shoulder, his field brushing against Prowl’s in absent reassurance. By the time he’s done, he’s effectively turned the drone into a walking EMP bomb wrapped in an unsuspecting shell.

Pulling the paneling back into place as best he can, he hacks into its system, programs its route, then cross-checks it against his HUD.

A static-laced snicker escapes him as he giddily sets his new pet loose.

Now, all he has to do is follow it.

Chapter Text

Meister stumbles around the corner, his pedes clumsy with exhaustion. Pain burns through his struts, licking up his legs with every step. Lugging around a mech not built like himself for over half a joor—no wonder the fatigue is setting in. Prowl remains limp against his spine, arms swaying with the rhythm of his unsteady stride.

He should be worried. He isn’t, but he should be. Maybe it’s the three cycles without recharge dulling his sense of urgency. A second-hand cortical crash would knock anyone flat, and Meister should—should—well. He should hole up somewhere, maybe wedge himself into one of these laughably thin walls, and let his systems run the defrag he has queued. But that requires time—time that doesn’t fit neatly into his current plans. He has a beat to follow, and his mission-impossible playlist is already two-thirds of the way through.

Meister isn’t worried. He isn’t worried because he’s an idiot who stabbed the wrong mech and then made progressively worse decisions, one after the other, that do not align with any definition of self-preservation.

He’s going to die.

Marginally sure he’s going to die anyway.

Okay, maybe he’s a little worried.

His mind has had too much time to wander, and logically, there’s no reason he should still be alive by the end of this cycle. He’s being practical when he’d really rather not be.

Trailing several paces behind the EMP bomb he jerry-rigged out of a cleaning drone, Meister watches as it hums along its pre-programmed route. It hadn’t taken much effort to slip his claws beneath weak plating to tickle the little fiber cables controlling its motor functions. Once the attenuation of the signal was thrown off, its engineered electromagnetic field became moldable to his needs. At a glance, it looks like nothing more than a malfunctioning drone in need of a tune-up. Up close, the hastily patched frame damage would be noticeable, but by then, it wouldn’t matter. In theory, anyway.

The real challenge had been planning its path. The tower is still on high alert, and guards are actively searching for him and Prowl, forcing him to reroute the drone more than once. He’s had several close calls—one, in particular, where he’s almost certain the Prime’s pet Decepticon spotted him. His spark had skipped a rotation when the mech’s optics passed over the darkened screen of his visor. Meister hadn’t dared to vent, lest the slightest disruption in the air gave away his position. The mech had been close enough to touch.

Meister exhales soundlessly, leaning forward to peek around the next corner. The drone carries on without a care, rolling toward the three guards stationed at the base of the massive open hangar doors. The entrance to the shipyard is wide open, allowing mechs to come and go freely. It’s both a blessing and a curse—easier to reach the ship without a crowd blocking the way, but also painfully exposed. He weighs his odds of making it across unnoticed. He’s survived worse.

He chews his lip, forces himself to stop before he bites a hole through it, then taps his claws against the back of Prowl’s thighs. His frame buzzes with nervous energy. He wants to believe this will work—needs to believe it. It has to. Mostly because he wants it to. And because he’s not ready to die just yet.

Placing all his bets on a tiny cleaning drone isn’t the smartest decision he’s ever made—just not the dumbest.

He watches, claws still scraping self-soothingly against Prowl’s plating, as the drone rolls up beside the guards. One of them bends at the waist, saying something Meister can’t hear as he idly pats the drone’s helm.

Meister silently counts down with the beat of the song playing in the back of his processor. Tenses. His grip tightens around Prowl’s overheated plating in anticipation.

…The moment passes. Nothing happens.

Slag.

The drone remains perfectly still, content to be fussed over like some lost pet. Meister groans inaudibly, pressing his face into Prowl’s thigh in sheer mortification.

Of course it didn’t work. Of course it didn’t. His systems are glitching, and certain stupid decisions had seemed a lot smarter in the heat of the moment. Or, in this case, in a different helmspace. Yeah, he’s definitely blaming this on the circuits Prowl fried in his processor.

One of the other mechs catches on that something isn’t right. He shoves his companion aside, crouches down, and reaches for the wiring Meister had twisted together to manipulate the EMP signal. The third guard shifts uneasily, her servo lowering toward the rifle clutched against her chassis.

Meister is halfway through digging through his subspace for another distraction when static crackles through the air. Instinct locks his frame rigid against the wall, his helm snapping toward the hangar doors.

Alarm flashes across the second mech’s face. He jerks his arm back—too fast.

His wrist plating catches on a wire, yanking the drone toward him.

Electricity bursts across his frame in a violent arc. His optics go white, and he collapses into a twitching heap of plating. The other two guards startle into action but don’t get far before the EMP fully activates, dropping them like stones.

The sound of their bodies hitting the floor is obnoxiously loud. Meister flinches, then hesitates for only a klik before slithering out from his hiding spot. He breezes past the downed mechs, biting back a giggle of disbelief.

Primus.

He can’t believe it.

That was dumb luck. Shouldn’t have happened like that—shouldn’t have happened at all.

…You know what? He’s not overthinking it. His hack job was sketchy at best and a fragging death sentence—both for himself and everyone involved—at worst. That was one of the better outcomes he could have hoped for.

Meister grins—broad, exhilarated, and just the slightest bit deranged—as he sweeps a calculating glance over the unconscious mechs. Then, without wasting another klik, he bolts. His run is less of a sprint and more of a controlled fall, his pedes barely managing to keep up with his momentum. He sticks to the outskirts of the shipyard, ducking behind scattered shipping containers as he makes his way toward the only docked ship: the Lost Light.

Not once does he glance back. He’s gotten this far without drawing attention, and he has no intention of wasting whatever miracle that just graced his aft.

Bypassing the main entrance, he veers toward the ship’s side, where his HUD highlights a large ventilated engine fan. If he breaks it open, he should be able to squeeze through—even with Prowl’s bulky aft bumper. It’ll be a tight fit, but the mech is already covered in half-dried energon, which, while deeply concerning, will at least help with lubrication.

Come to think of it, Prowl’s frame is running too hot. That’s not good. Heat means coolant issues, and Meister can’t even tell where he’s leaking from. Probably an internal bleed. That means coolant contamination. That means Prowl’s energon lines are compromised. That means—

Slag.

Prowl being offline is suddenly a good thing because coolant contamination burns like hell, and Meister wouldn’t wish that on anyone. He’ll need a medic to flush his lines before he wakes up.

Exhaustion finally catches up, hitting him like a freight train. His pedes falter as he trips over himself, trying to duck out of sight when a mech turns toward the ship. He stumbles, redirects his momentum, and skids the last few feet into the side of the hull.

A loud bang echoes through the shipyard.

Meister goes rigid. Plates snap shut over his weak points—all except for that one twitchy panel on his helm.

He’s primed. Ready. Fully willing to shoot and bolt if necessary.

And he really, really hopes it won’t be necessary.

Several beats pass, filled only with the music in his helm and the distant sounds of unbothered mechs traversing the yard beyond the ship. Meister remains still, tension locked in his frame, until he finally forces himself to relax enough to face the hull of the Lost Light. His plating unsticks, no longer fused tight like bulky protoform, and he shakes out his pedes as he straightens to his full height.

For the first time that joor—maybe two? He has no fragging clue; his chronometer keeps glitching, and he’d forgotten to check the new playlist before starting it—Meister drops Prowl from his shoulder and settles him on the edge of the vent shaft. His spinal struts ache. He bends back into an impressive stretch, cracking an air pocket between them. The relief is immediate, and he slouches forward, gaze settling on his next task.

The fan is far larger in person. Meister is sick of hiding behind a mask of effortless hilarity and competence, but he gets to work anyway, prying the outer fan blade into a wide enough angle to shove Prowl’s aft through the vent covering. His face refuses to emote properly—too much of his processor is focused on just making it through the fragging cycle—but no one's around for him to slagging care. It takes a full breem of careful maneuvering, some creative positioning, and a lot more effort than he’d like, but he finally pushes the larger mech through without nicking anything important on the stupidly sharp fan blades.

Within a klik of Prowl hitting the ground on the other side, Meister slips through after him, landing in a crouch. His visor flickers to a stealth setting as he shifts external kibble—flipping plating around his pedes and waist into something closer to the speedster frames he’d seen waltzing on and off the ship. His bumper isn't quite like the Prime’s—more reminiscent of Prowl, really—but it should be different enough that his frame doesn't immediately scream Assassin to the world. His nanites tingle, static washing over him as matte black bleeds into high-gloss white and blue. Some get stuck in the rushed transition, and he has to reset the micro-transformation a few times—sloppy, but there’s no point in getting tetchy about it when he's already hauling around a half-dead enforcer as optic-candy. If anyone spots them, he’s banking on it being more of a distraction than anything else.

It takes two—maybe three—tries before he gets Prowl resituated on his shoulder. The slap of bound servos smacking against his aching spinal strut echoes in his audials, and he smooths over the reflexive wince pinching his faceplates. He’s still fragging tired, vacillating between irritation and exasperation, his stubborn streak losing to exhaustion. Meister forces his pedes into motion before he keels over and takes a sorely needed nap. Ignoring the way Prowl’s limp arms slide over his plating with every step is… hard.

His HUD confirms what his optics already tell him—they've landed in the engine room instead of the adjacent space he’d aimed for. Not ideal. The Lost Light is a quantum ship, and Meister has no interest in being anywhere near this room if the engines cycle online. He doesn't think they will, but there’s no way to guarantee it, and he’d rather not find out the hard way.

His vents deepen, anxiety masquerading as a self-imposed breathing exercise as he slips out and around the corner, pressing himself against a wall that is definitely not the same color as himself and definitely not helping him hide despite his situational denial. Fortunately, no one seems to be around to witness the mech leaking a bright pink stain down his spine, but his frame remains wound tight.

Meister has no desire to linger. The urgency to get out is barely restrained by long-ingrained stealth protocols. He wastes a klik wishing Siren were here before pulling up his HUD again. The medbay is actually closer than he thought—but that only makes the anxiety worse.

Meister is competent. He knows this. He’s survived odds no mech should have. Infiltration is his specialty. Reading and planning routes is child’s play. But something is wrong, and just thinking about how wrong it is, takes far more energy than it should.

He rounds a corner, heading down the hall toward the medical wing while keeping an optic on the patrols—little red dots trailing the opposite corridor adjacent to C5. They're getting close, but none seem to be cutting across his path. It’s after hours; Swerve’s bar is definitely closed by now.

It’s too slagging easy. Of course it is.

Which is why he only now registers the pitter-patter of tiny pedes slapping against the floor—way too fragging close to his position.

What in the Pit—? There’s no red dot on his HUD that should be anywhere near him.

His field teeks with dread, but his frame doesn’t show it. Meister straightens as much as possible with Prowl hiked over his shoulder and keeps walking, purposeful and confident. There’s nowhere to hide—nowhere Prowl’s fat aft would fit anyway—but the medbay is right there in sight. His servos tighten around Prowl’s hip, readying to lift him—

—just as a minibot youngling sprints around the corner and slams face-first into his waist.

Meister is prepared.

Prepared, in that the extra weight doesn’t knock him flat on his aft.

He is not prepared for the giggling youngling staring up at him in sorely misplaced awe.

For a klik, Meister stands in abject horror. Then, with the kind of plastic grin that only sheer desperation can produce, he schools his expression. He pats the mechling’s shoulder with the servo he’d definitely used to steady him with and not to grab for a hidden knife, while subtly sliding the blade back into subspace with a flick of his wrist.

“Woooah. You came outta nowhere,” the mechling breathes, optics wide, mouth dropping open.

Meister grimaces at the traces of energon staining the brat’s denta and hums noncommittally. His vocalizer is burning from the yelp he’d barely swallowed, and if he tries to speak right now, he’s pretty sure he’s going to fragging scream.

He vents slowly, twitches with barely restrained aggression, and locks his kill protocols behind layers of overrides. He is, understandably, stressed. His other servo tightens around Prowl’s hip hard enough to dent the plating. He had almost murdered a slagging youngling on reflex, and that is absolutely going to haunt him in his defrag later.

Misjudging frame weight like that? That’s a mistake that gets good mecha killed. Meister is pissed. He’s slipping, and he knows it won’t get better before it gets worse. His slagged luck continues to be slagged.

“Nah, mechlin’, I think you did.” His voice is steady despite everything. “What’re you doin’ out so late? Ain’t ya got a carrier frettin’ somewhere for ya?”

The kid grins, optics bright with something Meister can’t place in his overclocked state.

“Nah,” the little brat mimics, tone and all.

Meister barely hears it. His focus flicks to the junction just past the medbay doors. His HUD updates, red dots converging on his location.

Slag. Someone must have heard something.

Meanwhile, the kid keeps talking, oblivious. Meister hmm-haws, words going in one audial and out the other as he scrambles for a plan that doesn’t end with him dead in the next breem.

He could just run.

This was close enough.

Fragging drop Prowl and book it. Let the kid report it.

“—wever it was definitely a bad idea, and it really hurt to—”

Meister side-eyes the kid. Not the brightest, is he? For a fleeting moment, he considers dropping Prowl right then and there. Would the brat even realize something was wrong? Because seriously—how has he not commented on the unconscious mech draped over Meister’s shoulder?

“—and then Sire made me sit down while he checked my leg. I was so good. Didn’t even cry—okay, I wasn’t quiet, but I was a big mech about it! But then Carrier came home early and freaked out, and no matter how much I told him I didn’t wanna go, he still dragged me to Uncle Ratty’s—”

The mechling flails dramatically, miming an explosion, sound effects and all.

Meister barely registers the theatrics. His processor locks onto a single word like a rail spike to the helm.

Ratty?

No. No, no, no. Fragging Ratchet?

Meister is done. Slag this. If Prowl offlines in the kid’s arms, that ain’t his problem.

Meister dodges like he is only adjusting his weight and brushes just out of reach of grabby paws. His grip tightens around Prowl’s hips, and he cuts off whatever nonsense the kid is rambling about. “Yeah, hey, do me a favor. Take this.” His voice is light, casual—except for the shrill static threading through his words. He’s already repositioning Prowl, ready to dump the enforcer and bolt just as heavy pedesteps thunder down the corridor.

Meister freezes.

Slag.

He moves to drop his cargo—jerks—

And then he’s on the floor.

It takes him a klik to process it. One moment, he’s upright; the next, he’s staring up instead of down at the brat, who is absolutely cackling.

Pain lances through his spinal strut, sharp and electric. When he scrambles to his pedes, something yanks—like his own frame is fighting against him. He chokes on a yelp. Panic spikes through his field like static discharge.

Behind him, Prowl groans.

Meister cranes his helm back and shudders.

Prowl’s optics are online—glowing bright, blue, beautiful, and fragging spiteful.

Meister is going to die.

A sickening burning smell taints the air. Meister’s gaze tracks a length of chain leading from Prowl’s wrist that disappears behind his own back. A terrible realization dawns. Somehow—when the frag did that happen—Prowl picked the stasis cuffs. And instead of making a run for it, he looped the unlocked cuff around the one structural weak point in Meister’s spinal strut.

“D-Do not kzt…s-struggle. Y-You’re… under arrest.” Prowl’s voice grinds through a wall of static, his denta bared in agony and fury.

Meister barks out a laugh—sharp, high, hysterical—right in the enforcer’s face.

Then he bolts.

Bad idea. Again.

His pedes barely find purchase before Prowl yanks him back. His strut cracks. The scream dies in his vocalizer, cut short, but he’s moving, and that’s all that matters.

Prowl’s plating screeches across the floor as he gets dragged along, and Meister is already calculating how much of his spine he really needs intact. If he can get to a vent, he can crawl his way to freedom—

“—yeah, so, I should’ve done this sooner, but I was having fun talking to you. You’re actually, like, really cool! But I was also kinda confused because I thought you were supposed to be black? I mean, I guess your servos and helm are—oh, whatever. Point is, I gotta do this, or Sire’s actually gonna kill me, and Carrier will wrap my frame in bubble wrap forever. Or was it bubble wrap? Do you know what bubble wrap is? Carrier says it’s—”

The kid’s voice speeds up, like he’s racing against time itself.

Meister is no longer listening.

His optics lock onto the object in the brat’s hands, crackling with arcs of blue electricity.

“Oh, you little bastard.”

He barely has time to hiss—to swipe futility, to fight—before the taser hits.

A thousand volts rips through his frame.

The last thing he sees is the youngling’s smug grin before stasis crashes over him like a tidal wave, slamming him into oblivion.

This is, irritatingly, familiar.

Chapter Text

A door slams somewhere in the medbay, making Prowl’s spark skip a few rotations before settling back into rhythm. He mumbles under his breath and flinches when Ratchet tosses a tool onto the rolling medical trolley beside his berth. The medic shoots him an exasperated glare before sliding the spark monitor and coolant drip closer, ensuring Prowl doesn’t accidentally jostle the intravenous line spliced into a main relay running through his spark chamber.

Ratchet has been overbearing ever since Prowl came out of medical stasis. While his concern is understandable—as it always is—Prowl doesn’t appreciate being the primary focus of his ire.

He’s too tired for this. And frankly, he’s over it. He has reports to review, files to organize, and someone needs to make sure a certain Primal idiot doesn’t get himself killed making new friends.

“Primus, Prowl. The assassin is locked up in a spare surgical room on the other side of the medbay. You’re out of danger, you’ll be fine. Can you stop fragging twitching at every sound?” Ratchet growls, irritation thick in his tone.

Prowl raises an optic ridge, unimpressed. The CMO has been just as twitchy—if not more so—than he has. Ratchet is nervous (23%), distracted (56%), or concerned (74%). More likely, it’s a mix of the last two (93%).

Shifting his weight, Prowl sits up straighter, running his glossa along the back of his denta. The three that had been loose no longer shift under the pressure. His departure from the assassin was spotty at best but landing on his face was a bit too memorable for his tacnet to let go of. His nanites have been hard at work repairing the structural damage from the impact. A small improvement, among others.

If Prowl was bitter, no one bothered to mention it.

“I cannot control how my frame reacts unless you fully restore my tactical suite,” Prowl states, his tone tinged with accusation. “You did not disengage my survival subroutines.”

Ratchet snorts, grabbing Prowl’s left forearm and twisting it to reconnect a wire buried beneath his protoform. “And I won’t until I’m satisfied your sensory net has reintegrated properly,” he replies, his voice frosty, his words ground through clenched denta. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you suppressing your emotional protocols with the tacnet again. I found heat damage at the base of your processor—your battle computer was cooking your internals.” His servos tighten as he slams another tool onto the tray. “You need to give it a break, but apparently, you don’t give a slag about long-term thermal trauma.”

After a moment wrestling a kinked line back into place, Ratchet ducks into view, bending down to lock optics with Prowl. His expression is pointed, yet pinched, as if hammering home his words with sheer force of will. “At what point are you going to stop depending on that battle computer so much? When some rookie leaves you behind because they think you’re sparkless? When you melt your fragging processor and the molten metal seeps into your circuits? Or when you finally fragging deactivate from overexertion? Will that be enough for you to stop?”

“The Autobot majority already believe me to be a drone,” Prowl replies, voice carefully measured. “It is not so far from the truth.”

Ratchet scoffs, looking even angrier than before—if that’s possible. With him, it always is (99%). A servo slaps down onto Prowl’s shoulder, gripping tight. A memory of a smaller, black servo, makes Prowl tense under the Medic’s grasp. “Don’t give me that slag. I know better. You need to start caring about your fragging health. I’m old, kid. One of these days, I won’t be around to put your stupid aft back together.”

Ratchet sounds tired. The war has been hard on him—on everyone (95%), except those who thrive under the weight of the dead. But it has been especially hard on Ratchet.

For all his gruffness, the medic is soft.

Which is precisely why Prowl relies so heavily on his ATS for emotional regulation. He cannot afford to break down or falter in his decisions. He is the backbone of the command team—especially now, with everyone scattered across the universe—and reinstating Cybertron’s legal system demands unimpaired focus. Letting emotions take precedence would be ludicrous. Surely, Ratchet knows that.

There’s no point arguing with him—Prowl will never win. If he can change the subject (a debatable 58% chance of success), he will.

“How long was I offline?” he asks, frowning. “I do not remember powering down for recharge. I… do not remember even coming into the medbay.”

His catch logs are corrupted, his chronometer locked in medical shutdown. What else has Ratchet hidden behind his overrides? He should have realized it sooner—he’s been online for a joor now—but now that he’s thinking about it, he’s actually concerned about the answer.

Ratchet’s expression does a funny thing—a grimace, fury, and sheer amusement tangled together in a way that has Prowl double-checking that his ATS is, in fact, offline. The last thing he needs is for his glitch to send him back into stasis because it cannot process the emotional complexity of Ratchets. First Aid is annoyingly insistent on following his mentor’s footsteps. Exactly.

Prowl watches warily as Ratchet steps toward the door. His wings twitch instinctively, tracking the medic’s movement, but pain flares through his hinges and lower connective joints, halting the motion.

The right sensor panel hangs at an awkward angle, detached. Ratchet likely hasn’t had time to reset it (35%), or Wheeljack hasn’t fabricated a replacement yet (86%).

A door swings open behind him, and Ratchet leans around the frame. “Sundancer! Get your aft in here!”

Sundancer?

Prowl exhales sharply, hiking a pede onto the berth for balance. The movement aches—though the stab wound in his abdomen is welded shut, his sensory net is still firing off-kilter. The pain will persist until Ratchet douses him with another pain patch. It’s irritating, but manageable.

Using his pede as an anchor, he shifts carefully to face the door. Ratchet stands beside it, arms crossed over his chassis, amusement bleeding into his EM field.

A small, burnished gold helm peeks around the corner. Bright blue optics meet his.

Prowl is… confused.

Not that he minds his nephew being here, but why? What does Sundancer have to do with his question? Unless something happened to him.

Narrowing his optics, Prowl leans forward, scanning the mechling. From appearances alone, he seems undamaged. Mentally, however—that’s a whole other matter Prowl won’t touch. Not even with a twenty-foot pole.

Aside from the discomfort and embarrassment leaking from his EM field, Sundancer appears just fine (97%).

"Ratchet?" Prowl asks, glancing toward the medic.

Ratchet rolls his optics, plants a steady servo on the back of Sundancer’s helm, and unceremoniously shoves the mechling through the doorway.

"Stop lurking in the door, kid," he gruffs, his tone flat but softened with humor.

Sundancer shoots him an absolutely loathsome glare and snipes something in binary before speaking up. "But Uncle Ratty, I don—"

Before he can finish, Ratchet cuffs him over the helm again.

"Don’t backtalk me. How about you go talk to your actual uncle? He’s got some questions you might be able to help with." Ratchet snorts, then adds under his breath, "You take too much after your sire, little brat."

Sundancer whines, digging his pedes into the floor before finally twisting toward Prowl. Wringing his servos together, he slowly shuffles forward.

"Hey... Prowl..."

Tipping his helm forward, he stares up at his uncle from beneath his nubby black chevron. It’s a pitiful attempt at looking small and innocent—one Prowl immediately recognizes. He keeps his amusement off his face. The last thing any of them need is encouraging Sundancer’s most recent tactic for escaping uncomfortable situations. If even one of them gives any indication that it works, Sundancer will take that knowledge and run with it.

"Hmmm?" Prowl prompts, slow and expectant.

Wide blue optics flick to the side, then back again. Sundancer’s digits click together in rapid succession, and he shifts restlessly in place.

Prowl waits.

The tapping continues. Pauses. Resumes—more insistently.

"Soooo..."

Prowl exhales sharply as the nervous tapping fills the otherwise silent room.

"Sundancer." He shoots Ratchet a flat, unimpressed look—one that only seems to amuse the CMO further. "I assume you can tell me how long I was in medical stasis for, and why?" His probability calculations estimate a 71% chance the mechling has the answer, though the odds of getting a coherent explanation within the next breem are significantly lower.

Sundancer’s vents deepen as he takes in air, holds it for a few kilks, then releases it in a slow exhale. His servos tighten together, digits interlocked in front of him.

After another moment of hesitation, he finally speaks. "You were offline for two cycles. Ratchet had to keep you in medical stasis for most of it to flush the coolant from your lines and replace several near the wound’s entry point. You should be fine now, er... mostly."

His words quicken as his little doorwings start to flutter with anxiety. "I mean, you’re mostly fine anyway. Alittlebitofelectricaldamage, but nothing Ratchet couldn’t fix. Everything else should be in working ord—"

Prowl stops listening.

Electrical damage?

His optics narrow as he tries to recall the details of his brief and muddled encounter with the assassin. The effort is futile. His memory offers only fragmented flashes—a bright blue visor, a wide, almost manic grin filled with sharp denta, and the disorienting sensation of swaying. Pain. A lot of pain.

Of course. He should have expected this. His data logs are corrupted. Eventually, his nanites will reconstruct enough to restore the missing details.

But Prowl is impatient.

As Sundancer nervously prattles on, Prowl leans back—at least as much as he can while still hooked up to a concerning number of monitoring devices. Ratchet, as always, has spared no caution. The medic is also disturbingly entertained, his amusement rolling off him in waves.

Prowl places a weary servo on Sundancer’s shoulder, halting his babbling. "Thank you. Now, what was that about electrical damage?"

Sundancer absolutely wilts. "I... got carried away?"

Prowl blinks. "Was that a question or a statement?"

"Yes."

From across the room, Ratchet chuckles while meticulously cleaning a set of surgical tools. "Go on, kid. Tell him what you did."

Sundancer hesitates. Then the dam breaks and words are flowing out of his mouth in a steady stream. "I was just trying to help! Honest! I didn’t mean to hurt you too—I mean, obviously I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m not stupid—but I kind of forgot that electricity goes wherever it wants, not just the intended target, because metal is conductive and we’re made of metal, and I may have, uh... not realized... er... forgotten that you were handcuffed to the assassin. So when I tasered him, I also tasered you, and you mayhavekindofalmostgoneintosparkfailure because all your coolant was in your energon lines and nothing was stopping you from overheating."

Silence.

Prowl processes the information. "You tasered the assassin... and tasered me in the process." He pauses. "You nearly sent me into spark failure?"

He searches his fragmented memory again but finds no recollection of the incident. If he had been that close to critical failure, it explains the residual pain in his chassis. His servo absently drifts to rub at the ache—until Ratchet smacks it away with a frustrated snarl.

"Stop that!"

Prowl exhales sharply, his attention momentarily shifting inward. He needs answers. Ratchet has made it clear that the assassin—the small visored mech responsible for several joors of command-wide panic—is securely locked in one of the medbay’s spare surgical suites. His injuries were significant, but Ratchet had prioritized cortical repairs over physical ones.

Someone will have to interrogate him.

Prowl prefers to do it himself. Smokescreen would be a suitable alternative, if only he were in Iacon. But with Megatron’s imprisonment, the impending trial, and the Prime’s frustrating tendency to attract assassination attempts, Smokescreen is preoccupied elsewhere—stationed at the ruins of Crystal City, attempting to establish a functioning legal system in Prowl’s absence.

From his last report, it isn’t going well.

A shrill burst of static yanks Prowl out of his thoughts, followed by a pitiful whine.

Ratchet barks out a laugh. "Yeah, you scared us all to slag for a breem before I got you stabilized. I would have torn into Sundancer too if he hadn’t already been bawling over your berth, babbling apologies."

Prowl catches the flicker of worry still etched into the medic’s faceplates. He had been genuinely afraid.

"Figured the kid already learned his lesson," Ratchet continues, smirking down at Sundancer. "Didn’t see the point in making him suffer for it."

Sundancer huffs and vents harshly before snapping, "You still made me tell him!"

"Of course I did." Ratchet sets his tools down with a clatter. "It’s only fair that you explain your mistakes. I’m not doing it for you—that’s not my job."

"He’s right."

The sudden voice jolts Prowl. His entire frame locks up as a high-pitched groan nearly escapes his vocalizer. He manually cuts it off, releasing a slow, steady vent.

His damaged doorwing swings loose behind him from the abrupt movement, sending a sharp pang through his frame.

He grimaces.

“Sire?!” Sundancer yelps, spinning in place.

Prowl cycles his optics in another blink before shoving his currently derailing thoughts to the back of his processor—he’ll deal with the logistics of what he’s just learned later—and looks toward the door.

A bright, golden mech leans against the doorframe, a single pede placed in the path of the automatic sliding door. The panel gently rattles, bumping against the glossy plating as it attempts to close. Sunstreaker inspects the blunt edges of his short claws, meticulously picking at the sides in an attempt to remove some unseen filth no one else could possibly perceive. He’s still slightly damp, fresh from the washracks. Prowl would be surprised if there’s anything at all clinging to his spotless frame.

After a moment of scrutiny, Sunstreaker lifts his servo to his face, then lets his optics slide sideways, locking onto his creation’s frame.

For a frontliner as large as Sunstreaker, he can be uncomfortably quiet when he wants to be. Prowl ignores the tacnet’s futile attempts to compute exactly when the yellow mech arrived and refocuses on the lines draping from different entry points in his frame. Ratchet is at his side in moments, checking over the attachments as Sundancer trots over and wriggles in under his sire’s arm—just as the door on the far side of the medbay slams open.

Sundancer and Sunstreaker both freeze in trepidation as a loud, furious voice shrieks across the expanse of the medbay. The words are nearly indecipherable through the sheer cacophony, but the intent is obvious.

Prowl, however, jolts—half disjointed anxiety, half vicious, instinctive need to get away from danger. His protocols are a slagging mess, inaccessible and tangled thanks to Ratchet’s interference, and he aches, and he’s confused, and the memory of that small, suffocating storage room presses against his plating like an inescapable vice. Like a prison. Like the false confidence of a strange mech rooting thro—

His entire frame reacts before he consciously processes it.

He moves. Too fast. Too sharp.

His balance tips, and he nearly topples off the berth before Ratchet lunges, gripping his arm in a vice. The medic plants a pede on the side of the berth, using his heavy frame as a counterweight to yank Prowl back. His damaged wing slaps hard against the edge, and the resulting shock of pain wrenches a sharp yelp from his vocalizer.

Ratchet steadies him with firm servos and then—stops. He stares at something over his shoulder.

He’s looking at Prowl again, out of the corner of his optics. That same funny look, except this time, there’s no amusement. His field is thick, oppressive, laced with something heavy and sour. Fear.

For him.

Prowl’s tanks twist.

The whole ordeal is over in less than a klik. Tame enough, no one but the two of them had noticed.

"You keep pushing yourself like this, kid.... then you aren't long for this world."

Prowl is not naïve.

He knows what that look means. He knows how his frame is wearing out on him. His spark twists uncomfortably as Ratchet’s servos hover over different parts of his exposed protoflesh, checking for any tears—there are none—before sighing heavily and bracketing him in place with his arms, servos planted on either side of his hips.

Prowl blinks. He stares. Just for a moment.

Then he realizes what exactly had Ratchet scared. It wasn't his almost tumble from the berth.

It was the spark monitor still hooked up to him, still screaming, an incessant, high-pitched whine signifying a dangerous fluctuation. And spark fluctuations are bad.

Horribly bad.

Especially when the spark in question is a sharp vent shy of outright failure.

So no, Prowl is not naïve.

But he is panicking.

Because once again, an external stimulus has shocked him into moving when he absolutely should not be moving.

Ratchet’s voice is strained, tight with something bordering on resignation. “Okay. Perhaps I do need to lower the restrictions on your ATS.”

A sharp exhale blows against Prowl’s neck, and he shivers.

“It’s not ideal,” Ratchet continues, twisting just enough to throw a scathing glare over his shoulder at the chaos unfolding right outside Prowl’s surgical suite. “But I can relinquish control back to you—temporarily. At least long enough for THESE IDIOTS TO REALIZE THIS IS A MEDBAY, NOT A PLAYGROUND!”

Sunstreaker sneers, expression twisting into something downright nasty—before a silver blur barrels into his side with the force of a carrier scorned.

Prowl winces as Ratchet’s vented frustration explodes into a full-fledged scream right in his audial.

Now three mecha are spiraling into a full-blown familial argument not more than thirty feet away.

“Perhaps,” Prowl mutters under his breath, drowned out by the obnoxious screaming that was steadily growing loud enough to make him contemplate offlining his audials.

Ratchet snorts but doesn’t shift his focus. Instead, he drags his glare back to the TIC before letting out another slow, measured vent. Then, without warning, he leans forward, flips open the cover on his medical port, and jacks in.

Prowl stiffens.

It’s a shock. It’s rude. It’s invasive.

And Ratchet does it without so much as the standard handshake.

Prowl resigns himself to suffering.

Chapter Text

There are very few things in the universe that genuinely scare Meister.

See, insanity doesn’t tend to rationalize well. What would normally ignite fear in most bots, sort of kind of just amuses him. Mortal danger? Fragging terrifying, sure. He doesn’t want to die—he’s not suicidal after all. But the situations that land him in life-or-death scenarios are usually so far out of left field that the fear of dying just ends up simmering on the backburner, overshadowed by the absurdity of it all. His waylaid survival protocols have learned to just buckle in for the wild ride.

Not that he thinks he’s insane. Other bots think he’s insane. Meister, on the other hand, is actually fantastic at rationalizing, thank you very much.

What they fail to understand is that expecting the worst from the get-go makes it easier to handle disappointment. If you don’t telegraph your emotions like an amateur, it really screws up the bad guy’s whole aft cycle. At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself.

So when Meister comes online and finds his frame magnetized to a berth in what is very obviously a fragging medical suite, he completely forgets that he’s supposed to be playing it cool. Soundwave-levels of cool. The kind of cool Soundwave exhibits while watching his little terrors commit war crimes against their own fuel tanks by ingesting sulfur or sometimes human candy just because it “tastes funny.”

To say he’s freaking the frag out would be putting it lightly.

He promised himself a long time ago that he’d snuff out his own spark before willingly putting himself under the mercy of another so-called "doctor." He has had bad experiences with doctors—botched surgeries, drugs, temporarily jarring violations of bodily autonomy, the casual realization that an organ is no longer in him but rather in a box with express-shipping to the nearest bureaucrat who snapped his spit-shined digits, etc and etc.

Name it, and somehow, someway, it has screwed him over.

Which is why he’s spent the better part of a hundred vorns avoiding them. Sure, his frame is kind of showing it. He’s vorns behind on maintenance. But he’s still functioning, and he thinks that counts for something.

And now, thanks to whatever fragged-up situation landed him here, his pristine track record of ignoring his problems is getting obliterated by the klik. Not much avoiding to be done when you’re magnetized to a hard, unforgiving slab of cold metal.

So, for an agonizingly long breem, Meister just lies there, staring dumbly at the sterile white ceiling while the overhead light swings in a slow, hypnotizing arc. His visor is tinted so dark it’s nearly black, and his spark is hammering against his chassis like it’s fit to burst—or sputter out.

The sound of it is very clear, because there’s a spark monitor beside his berth that’s practically short-circuiting from whatever the frag is going on inside him.

Or maybe he’s the one short-circuiting.

Wouldn’t be surprising, honestly.

His audials finally clear enough to pick up the furious voices echoing through the room.

Oh, wonderful.

“WHAT THE FRAG WERE YOU THINKING, SENDING OUR SPARKLING AFTER AN ASSASSIN?!”

Swallowing down the panic crawling up his intake, Meister scrambles for any kind of explanation—why the pit is he here? Why is he strapped down? But his processor is coming up empty. No answers, just an awkwardly persistent memory of a pretty enforcer leaking around his blade, a heavy helping of guilt, and the unpleasant realization that his spark feels like it’s going to jump ship.

Not great.

Then again, waking up with no idea where he is isn’t exactly a new experience for Meister. Side effect of cannibalizing your own memories. He’s taken so many undercover jobs over the vorns that maintaining a processor record—hell, having a life outside of Ops—is nothing more than a nonexistent wet dream. Splicing into his own mainframe and scrambling data to the point of confusing himself comes with the job description.

He’s learned to find humor in it. You either learn or you burn, as Rumble likes to preach.

Easy for him to say when all he has to do is dock in Soundwave and viola, instant clarity.

This time, though, Meister isn’t finding it very funny. It’s hard to lie to himself when every one of his internal alarms is screaming that something is wrong. Extremely wrong.

Frag, frag, frag—what did they do to him? What’s wrong? Why can’t he find what’s wrong?

But no matter how deep he scans, there’s nothing. No misuse, no error coding. Actually, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think his systems are running better than before.

He snorts—feels a tug in his chest again, and freezes. His visor snaps to the side, searching for any sign of movement. His optics rake over every shadow in the room, his paranoia clawing at him—until, slowly, his processor stops spinning itself into knots. There is no Hackjob, there are no containment jars lined up at his berth. His processor is hell bent on trying to convince him he’s back in the Cutter’s underground labs, but he should know better.

This isn’t Kaon. No way it could be.

He isn’t a Decepticon anymore. He cut those chains vorns ago and never looked back.

And this room? It’s too clean to be the runner’s pit back in his and Ricky’s old hideout. If it were, he wouldn’t have to be looking around the room trying to find an imagined threat—there’d already be a pair of slim, rusty servos digging through his internals to rip something out of him as payment for the twins’ latest frag-up.

No. He’s alone. At least that’s familiar.

His frame relaxes minutely. He still doesn’t want to remember the specifics of his spectacular failure, but at least this time, he recalls his own designation. Even if the location is iffy. Probably because he didn’t fully overwrite anything this time. And whatever this medic did to him—it’s not immediately obvious.

So, yeah. He’s just going to assume his processor is fine.

His frame and spark? Different story. Because some little half-bit with a fragging taser got the jump on him.

Slag, that’s embarrassing.

“I didn’t fragging do shit!” A deeper, vicious sounding voice eclipsed the lighter one with a heavy rev of an engine. “Do you really think so little of me that you’d believe I would send our sparkling after someone who had made an attempt on the Prime’s life? Someone that had done that to Prowl?!”

Oh, he sounds pissed.

Meister let out a breathless giggle—definitely not a panicked keen, no sir—and twisted his helm as far as the magnetic field would allow. He needed a better look at his surroundings, needed to get a solid read on what he was dealing with. The room was small and meticulously tidy, a row of monitors along the far wall displaying his vitals in real time. Every twitch and fluctuation, live recorded by the mechanisms latched into him. The sharp, sterile tang of cleaning agents burned his olfactory sensors, making him wrinkle his nose in discomfort.

Arching his back, Meister winced through the effort of testing just how strong his restraints were.

Pretty strong, he decided grimly. His spine felt… wet. Definitely not ideal. Something was still achingly wrong with his main backstrut, even though he could feel the repair nanites swarming the damage like overenthusiastic vultures.

“You know it isn’t about that.” The voice was sharp, biting. “What do you expect me to think when I get a frantic comm from Blaster while I’m in Crystal City visiting my brother? If you weren’t the one who put him up to it, then why didn’t you stop it?”

“Because I knew Prowl wouldn’t have let anything happen to him!”

“My brother is in a fragging berth, hooked up to a slaggin’ spark monitor because he nearly died! What if he hadn’t woken up?! What if that mech had overpowered him?! What if Sundancer had hesitated longer than he already did, or if he hadn’t been able to use the taser before the mech could retaliate?! THEY BOTH WOULD HAVE ENDED UP DEAD!”

Outside of getting a front-row seat to the best vid-drama of the century, the only thing bouncing around Meister’s uncomfortably quiet processor was that he needed to get the frag out of dodge—fast. Preferably before he became the official mascot of the Autobot’s new ‘what-not-to-do-in-an-active-stabber-situation’ training manual.

Rifling through his internal systems, Meister runs a quick assessment of what’s available to him.

“Hey now, that isn’t fair!” A new voice joins the mix, lighter, smoother. “You know Sunny would give his life for our bitlet. I know you’re scared, but don’t take it out on him.”

A quieter, more hesitant voice follows, “I-I… but Sundancer—”

“If you want to blame someone, blame Whirl.”

Meister stiffens.

Of course the Hatchet is here. Why wouldn’t the Autobot’s freaky CMO be lurking in the medbay?

“Have fun trying to get to him though,” Ratchet continues, voice heavy with something close to grim satisfaction. “Ironhide’s got him in the brig for that stunt. You’re not the only one upset, Blue.”

“…I-I… I know… Sunny?”

A groan, then a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. Just… next time, talk to me first instead of hanging me out to dry.” There’s a begrudging fondness in the words.

The argument dies down after that, voices bleeding into background noise as Meister focuses on his escape. His audials pick through the conversation, but his processor is elsewhere, searching—digging—for something, anything, that will disrupt the magnetization keeping him glued to the berth. He doesn’t have time for this. He needs to get the frag out before they realize he’s fully conscious. Before they pump him so full of sedatives he won’t see daylight ever again.

Well, not that he’s likely to see the light of day as is. Unless—

Wait.

His processor stutters mid-cycle.

He flexes his servos against the berth, sends an inquiry check down to his all-time favorite mods. The mods that have saved his aft more times than he can count.

Then he giggles, stunned and breathless, when realization slaps him across the face hard enough to make Megatron proud.

These idiots really left him alone with his fragging magnets.

Either the rumors about the Hatchet having a bleeding spark are true, or someone seriously dropped the ball. Whatever the reason, Meister isn’t about to waste the opportunity sitting in front of him on a silver platter.

With a low growl, he flexes his claws and digs them into the berth, tucking them vindictively beneath the top conductive layer. The mods lining his palms and threading through every digit activate with a pulse.

Eugh. That feels gross.

The sensation of the magnetic fields slipping and grinding against each other is unsettling at best, downright traumatizing at worst, as his frame becomes a sort of neutral polarity for ground zero—the opposing forces twisting and churning in ways that make his plating itch. At first, all he manages to do is press himself tighter against the berth—because of course he does.

Adjust. Recalibrate. Try again.

It takes several breems of calculations, far longer than he’d like—kilks of fine-tuning, nudging the strength and polarity just right—before the pull against his plating starts to weaken. Bit by bit, the field repels rather than restrains.

Meister forces himself to relax. Or at least, he tries to. Loosening up while battling a panic attack built upon the culmination of a lifetime of situational trauma is, unsurprisingly difficult. He needs to be limber, pliable—but the best he can do is mimic the concept of tranquility. Every adjustment feels like he’s balancing on a razor’s edge, one wrong move away from locking up entirely.

Stay in the now. Not the past.

Testing the resistance along his frame, he notes where the field still clings the hardest—his helm, shoulders, pedes. His servos, at least, are free. That’s enough.

This is probably gonna hurt.

No—Meister reroutes that thought immediately.

This is definitely gonna hurt.

Nothing new. Might as well get it over with.

Timing his movement with the pulse of his magnets, he wedges his servos closer to his spine, concentrating the counteractive force near his damaged strut and hips. Then, with a sharp twist and a brutal yank, he rips himself off the berth.

Pain flares white-hot across his back, A strangled scream gets converted into a snarl of disorientation and suddenly Meister is getting up close and intimate with a wall. Throwing his servos out in front of him, he manages to catch himself before he rearranges his faceplates and gives himself a moment to shriek internally because yeah that hurt, that hurt way fragging more than he was assuming it was gonna.

Panting through gritted denta, Meister pulls himself upright, optics flicking toward the berth he just peeled himself from. He winces at the slivers of plating and streaks of energon blotching the glossy surface. His spine throbs worse than anything else—not that it matters. Pain means he’s not dead.

Might bleed out, though. Albeit slowly.

That’s a later problem for future Meister. Present Meister’s gotta skedaddle.

Rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks, he turns toward the door, making it a grand total of three feet before something wrenches tight in his chest, jerking him short.

Oh. Right.

Meister stares at the monitor. Then at his chassis. Then back at the machine idling innocently beside him.

Groaning, he rolls his helm back and stares at the ceiling in sheer exasperation. His servos hover over the cables, toying with the idea of just ripping the infuriating device out—but the likelihood of that causing irreparable damage is a little too high for comfort. The wires are spliced tight, integrated into his systems with clear precision. Whoever installed this slag—Ratchet, probably—obviously didn’t want it coming loose. ​​Frag, screw coming loose, nothing short of brute force was knockin those babies out.

And now that he’s thinking about it, knowing medics, yanking it out might also set off an alarm. It was a spark monitor. Removing it from the thing it was monitoring, seemed like a surefire way of simulating a flatline and a one way ticket to gettin’ himself a whole slew of medics.

Meister’s optics flick toward the monitors displaying his vitals.

He shivers.

His data is right there, wide open, for anyone to see. And that’s just what’s on the screen—his records are probably already logged in some Autobot database, waiting to be dissected.

Between potentially deactivating himself via self-inflicted mutilation in the name of ‘patient privacy’ or dragging this stupid machine behind him like it was his slaggin’ pet so he doesn’t attract the attention of the worst frame caste on Cybertron, Meister begrudgingly chooses the latter option as much as it pains him to do so.

Slapping a servo on the pole of the spark monitor, he changes course, dragging it toward the other end of the room. He isn’t getting far unless he disconnects it—or at least severs its link to the mainframe.

The closer he gets to the desk, the louder the voices become. The monitor wall must be butt up against the main medical chamber, and while the earlier argument has long since fizzled out, Meister can still hear Prowl’s softer bass humming through the air, offering measured input.

Apparently, Sundancer is in trouble for taking advice from the local nutter.

Meister’s visor brightens as his optics narrow.

More than likely, the machines hooked up to him have built-in recording functions. Disconnecting them from the network should—hopefully—stop them from acting as impromptu alarm systems. But judging by the way those monitors are logging his vitals, they’ve been tracking him for a while. If he has any hope of keeping his secrets, he needs to wipe that data.

Assuming the displayed date is even correct.

Letting the Autobots keep tabs on his internals? Bad idea.

Meister already knows what his own systems look like. No one else needs to be poking around in the fragging mystery shack that is his medical history.

Flexing his servos absently, his optics drift downward.

Neat stacks of documentation sit atop the desk in perfect rows. At first glance, it all seems irrelevant—supply lists, general records. Probably some medic’s shopping list. Not surprising. Aside from the wall of monitors, this place looks more like an old storage closet than an actively functioning med-suite.

And based on the cloying scent of too-strong solvent and the dust clogging the walls, he’d bet the only action this room usually sees is of the sticky, horizontal variety.

Meister snorts. Well, isn’t he special.

Maybe if he actually wanted medical attention, he’d appreciate that someone went out of their way to sanitize the place before dumping his comatose self onto a berth. How very Autobot of them—tending to the health of a mech who just tried to assassinate their acting Prime.

Not that Meister has any interest in sticking around for more impromptu ‘care’.

Which leaves him circling back around to his unfortunate predicament: either he accepts that this slagging monitor is now a permanent attachment, or he stays long enough to disconnect it, wipe his data, and safely remove the device—while also juggling the very real risk of getting caught standing upright with his optics online.

It’s a decision he honestly would rather not think about just yet and Meister busies himself with rifling through the documentation on the desk like he doesn’t have places to be and angry mecha to hide from.

Most of the documents are useless. More than he initially assumed, in fact, as he flips through the last few stacks.

Then—he pauses. Smirks.

Shoving aside the irrelevant slag, he tugs a flimsy datapad from the bottom of the pile.

It’s a report on spark fluctuations and failures, complete with servo written notes scribbled in the margins with the ink of a lightpen. The handwriting is messy, almost rushed or frantic. It takes him a moment to parse the scrawl.

And then he realizes exactly what he’s looking at. It’s a report about him.

Patient Report:
Frame Type – Polyhexian, Subclass: Informative Runner. Likely of the A-47 lineage, though structural degradation suggests an even older model. Innermost energon testing required for precise classification.

Patient experienced simulated spark failure following exposure to an electrical surge—an event that also induced heat-based spark strain in Enforcer Prowl, who lacked the necessary coolant to regulate system function. A normal, healthy spark would have suffered only superficial corneal burns—mild discomfort, temporary pain patch recommended, no long-term damage.

Patient’s case is anomalous. Burn damage extends deeper, reaching the parietal layer of the spark—far beyond what the voltage should have caused. Underlying conditions are likely. Cause unknown. Emergency stabilization required. An energy siphon was implanted via a stent adjacent to the spark chamber. Removal will be considered once energy levels stabilize.

Further Observations:
Spark exhibits signs of repeated, uncontrolled fluctuations occurring at random. Cause unknown. A detailed medical history is imperative and will be prioritized once the patient is cleared to regain consciousness. Treatment options will depend on etiology, with several potential mitigations under consideration.

Meister snorts, but the sound does little to mask his discomfort. Lessen or mitigate the anomaly—yeah, right. They don’t have the first fragging clue what’s wrong with his spark, and if he has anything to say about it, they never will.

His servo drifts to his chest, pressing against the plating that shields his spark chamber. A stent. They installed a fragging stent while he was drugged out of his mind. He just has to hope it’s not another built-in monitor; he has enough of those suffocating his systems as it is. If it’s only there to siphon excess energy, fine. He can live with that.

Not that it makes the urge to rip it out any weaker.

Meister flexes his claws, curling them against the desk’s edge. He’s not stupid enough to dig under his plating and tear the damn thing out. No matter how badly he wants to.

Behave yourself, Meister.

Bleeding out in an old surgical suite that probably sees more action from mechs bumping uglies than actual procedures isn’t exactly on his itinerary for the cycle.

With a sigh, he flips through the flimsies scattered across the desk, scanning for anything relevant. No surprise the medics are digging into what happened. If an electrical shock actually sent him into spark failure—or something like it—then they’re going to want answers.

Simulated spark failure?

He frowns. The hell is simulated supposed to mean? ‘Failure’ and ‘spark’ in the same sentence is never good, simulated or not. If there’s an explanation, it’ll be in here somewhere. Medics are a nosy, knowledge-hungry breed, and they don’t let mysteries slide—not when it comes to things they don’t understand.

The thought both irritates and unsettles him.

Optics narrowing, Meister flips back to the page he set aside earlier before turning his attention back to the flimsy in his servos.

His question is answered in the last sheet of the stack. It’s scrawled in servowriting so tight and frantic he can barely parse the words. But the paragraphs he can read?

They send his spark plummeting to his tanks.

The flimsy crinkles in his grip before snapping under the force of his claws.

Patient-Specific Observations:

Initial assumption: spark failure. The patient collapsed moments before Enforcer Prowl, yet their reactions diverged significantly. While Prowl immediately overheated and suffered spark strain, the patient seized—suggesting a distinct or altered manifestation of failure.

In standard spark failure cases, excess energy discharges into the electromagnetic field. If not stabilized, the spark will begin drawing ambient energy instead, risking an overload cascade. Once a spark surpasses its maximum threshold, collapse is irreversible. At that point, the only priority becomes damage mitigation.

Simulated Spark Failure Hypothesis:

Evidence suggests the patient did not enter true spark failure. The seizure began immediately upon destabilization. Energy readings fluctuated erratically—dropping and rising in a pattern inconsistent with traditional failure. This suggests an external force may have been siphoning excess energy.

No known records exist within the Iconian Archives describing a similar event. The closest comparison would be the ability—------------

Meister snarls at the illegible scribbles cutting off the report and swallows hard.

Yeah. They don’t have a fragging clue what’s happening to him.

Hopefully.

Would be a hell of a lot easier to confirm if the medic’s servowriting wasn’t slag.

Scowling, he gathers the documents—flimsies, cracked datapad, all of it—and shoves them into his subspace. He’ll deal with it later. Maybe.

For now, he reshuffles the remaining pages on the desk, sliding them back into their neat, orderly stacks. A quick glance at the monitors has his visor narrowing.

Time to clean house.

Option one: Wipe the data entirely.

Option two: Replace it with misleading information.

Meister smirks. Oh, he likes option two.

With one sharp movement, he digs his claws under the edge of the control panel and wrenches it up, exposing the wiring beneath. His fingers brush over the modded sync panel at his hip, triggering the deployment of his hardline. A five-foot black cable unfurls, pulsing dark red along its length. The silver-plated plug at the end splits open, five delicate, hair-thin tendrils extending from within. Bioluminescent nodes at their tips pulse in time with the data it senses streaming through the console’s motherboard.

Meister lowers the plug, shivering at the feedback as the tendrils slither over the exposed circuits. One by one, they find purchase, embedding themselves into the system. A faint chemical glow spreads where they interface, syncing him deeper than most mnemosurgeons could manage.

Immediately, the system fights back. A security failsafe activates, attempting to flood his processor with corrupted code.

Meister’s modded sync cord activates its built in firewalls before the virus even touches his processor and he sets to sorting through the influx of information flashing across his visor as his systems target the virus on autopilot. 

With a flick of his digits, he shuts down the live feed from the spark monitor. That won’t get rid of the damn thing strapped to his systems, but it’ll stop the data collection—makes his job a hell of a lot easier. A quick scan pulls up the system’s vitals archive.

Hundreds of files. Hundreds.

Meister groans in frustration.

He sets up a search queue, narrowing the range to the last two cycles. Fifty results pop up. Muttering a curse, he flicks through them, looking for his own file.

The Autobot voices drifting outside of the room fade into background noise—soft, distant murmurs, keeping him high-strung yet oddly focused. He’s so deep into the system, so zeroed in on filtering data, that he completely misses the soft, almost silent sound of the door sliding open.

A low, furious growl rolls through the room.

Meister’s spark tightens.

For the last few breems, the occasional hum of Prowl’s damaged vocalizer had been… grounding. A balm over the gnawing pit of guilt clawing at his insides.

Now, that fragile illusion shatters.

The guilt twists, morphs—into frustration, impatience, indignation, fear.

Meister’s claws dig into the control panel as his sync cord burrows deeper, searching desperately for—something. His visor flickers as the screens in front of him glitch, system rerouting energy to its backup servers.

His file pops up.

At the same moment, a voice cuts through the air—deceptively soft, smooth as glass.

"Jazzmeister."

Chapter Text

“Jazzmeister.”

At first, he doesn’t recognize the voice.

The automatic door slides shut behind him with a quiet hiss. Meister doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. He can’t hear the mech, but he knows he’s there.

The air crackles. A sharp, electric zing prickles against his plating—static, bleeding into the room like a slow-working toxin. For a mech masking his presence so well, it’s curious that he isn’t bothering to flatten his EM field. It’s loud. Dare he say obnoxious, even.

Meister keeps his optics locked on the monitor, on the file blinking on the screen. His claws dig into the metal of the console as he swallows down the anxious twist in his tanks when he hears the mech take a single step forward.

Frag.

He figured he wouldn’t be getting out of here so easily. But damn, he really thought he’d have more than a couple groon before someone came to check up on him. Usually Meister could pass as a nobody—people ignored him. Optimism has never been his strong suit, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t trip any alarms when he pulled himself out of the berth. He checked. Twice.

So, either there are cameras where he can’t see them… or whoever just walked in has a bone to pick with him. And in the Autobot army alone….. That could be a lotta different mechs.

Well.

Shit.

Okay. Not the first time he’s been caught between a rock and a hard place.

Meister pulls in a deep vent, lets the clean air cycle through his systems before pushing it out in a slow, measured exhale. He locks his limbs in place, forcing himself to stay still.

His visor flashes with lines of data, streaming too fast to parse in real time. There’s a lot of it. Too much to ignore. Too much to just leave intact. But deleting it? Destroying the evidence and making a run for it?

Not happening. His plans to sabotage the data goes out the window. He isn’t even sure if he has time to download the slagging thing for himself.

Not with an unknown variable standing just behind him, watching. Waiting. His instincts are screaming. His processor is scrambling, mapping out possible exits, weighing the risks.

He needs time.

Buy yourself a few kliks, mech

He paints a slag-eating grin across his face, smooth and sharp as his favorite vibroblade. Meister schools his expression with an ironclad will honed over vorns of necessity, then—slowly, deliberately—he turns.

His optics land on the taller mech, and his grin ticks up higher—tinged genuine.

Oh.

Well, that explains the attitude.

“Deadlock,” he hums, playful, lilting. A greeting wrapped in mockery, wrapped in silk. He watches as the mech stiffens, optics sharpening into slits.

Meister tilts his helm forward, a casual nod, visor darkening to a deep sapphire—opacity dialed high enough to keep his optics hidden. Masks are easy. Masks are natural.

And he knows this mech.

With his back to the console, Meister remains acutely aware of the delicate sync cord still embedded deep in the circuitry. Using his frame, he shifts his weight, cocking his hip just enough to block the hardline from view, letting one servo settle lazily on the jut of his hip strut.

Deadlock sneers, optics raking over him. Meister doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Just keeps grinning.

Like he’s got nothing to hide.

Like he’s not standing on a knife’s edge.

Like he’s not already planning his next move.

"It’s Drift."

The Autobots’ pet Decepticon takes a threatening step forward. Meister raises an optic ridge, unimpressed, as the mech’s servo bypasses the blades dangling from his hips and instead aims straight for the larger greatsword hanging from his back. Meister knows the stories of that sword. Built upon the bodies of betrayed Decepticons, the river of energon that flowed in its memory fed the ghost stories he’d heard in passing. Mecha were more scared of that sword than they were the turncoat that wielded it. Meister knew better however. He knew all too well how useless a weapon could be if the wielder was incompetent. Those who feared the sword more than its master were nothing more than fools.

All pretenses of him being able to smoothly talk himself out of the corner he was backed into die along with the rest of his plans, as long claws curl around the decorated hilt. Drift was serious. Deadly serious. Discounting the vorns old history between them, it probably didn’t help that he’d tried to stab his best friend.

A nervous laugh bubbles up before he can stop it. "It’s Meister," he shoots back, voice dripping sarcasm—just a little too thin, a fraction too sharp.

Meister doesn’t deny the stark contrast between ‘Drift’ and the assassin he once knew as Deadlock. Deadlock is all brute force, a walking fortress of armor and raw strength. His frame is heavy, utilitarian, built for intimidation as much as destruction. He wields his mass like a weapon, crushing obstacles with sheer presence alone. Even a direct mortar hit barely slows him down, bouncing off his thick plating as if it were nothing.

A testament to Megatron’s strange obsession with protection.

Back then, outrunning Deadlock had been easy—almost laughable. Meister and Rico had made a game of it, taunting and teasing as they danced circles around the lumbering mech, always just out of reach. But now, staring at Drift, Meister isn’t so sure he can pull the same tricks.

But Drift? Drift is different. Drift is refined. His frame is sleek, sharp where Deadlock was blunt, precise where Deadlock was reckless. The work of a master blacksmith, sculpted for efficiency, for purpose. Meister isn’t so sure he can outrun him anymore. And from the way Drift’s sneer twists across his faceplates, he isn’t looking to play chase.

The mech seems to chew on his words for a brief moment as he begins to slowly stalk forward. Meister tenses even further and takes a hesitant step back, gritting his denta as his hip bumps against the console. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, except through, and the likelihood of achieving the results he wanted were laughably nonexistent.

“You should have never come out of the hole you crawled into eons ago.” Drift growled lowly. His pede lands oddly and he shifts his weight, taking careful steps to the side. Herding. Or trying to at least. Meister refuses to move any further, to show weakness, digging his heels into the floor, suppressing the instinct screaming at him to run.

"Aww, but then you’d miss me, sweetspark." He twists just enough to keep himself between Drift and the console still housing his sync cord. He could not afford to have that ripped from his frame too. "You know I’m always down for a wild ride."

Drift scoffs in disgust at the sticky sweet purr as he stalls—for just a moment. Meister sees the opening, but before he can take it, Drift fires straight for the throat. "Tch. Between you and your brother, I always thought you were the sane one. Moments like these make me second-guess myself."

Meister cringes and slips a servo behind himself, blindly searching for his sync cord. When he finds it, he rests his digits at the base. Initiating a download sequence, Meister’s optics flick to the top right of his visor as a status bar begins ticking down. “Ew. How about we don’t reminisce and say we did.” He could at the very least, get a copy of his statistics while he tries to figure a way out of this mess with his spark still intact. Of all the mecha in the galaxy, Drift is probably one of the last ones he wants to discuss his brother with. Only preferable over Megatron, Starscream, and Shockwave. And maybe a couple others.

Meister watches as Drift’s lips curl up in a sneer, showing off wicked sharp fangs. Huh. Meister beats back an inappropriately timed wave of amusement. Guess he never got those shaved down - didn’t the autobots frown on that sort of thing? He’d thought Drift would’ve done anything to fit in. Meister bears his own fangs in turn - edges jagged from wear - and hisses with a deep rev of his engine. Drift is shifting his weight like he’s gonna pounce and he knows he’s only got nanokliks to act.

The data file drops into his processor just as Drift moves. Meister backs out the tiny prehensile limbs and yanks the sync cord free a fraction of a klik before his back slams against the console. His chassis rattles with the impact, but the real problem is the spark monitor still attached to his frame—he barely gets a pede up to kick it away from his hip before it jerks against its cord, snapping back toward his side. Drift doesn’t care. Doesn’t even notice. A black servo slams his pede back to the floor before he could hook it up over his helm, and Meister yelps as the pull of the spark monitor on his systems sends pain lancing through his frame. He barely ducks the claws swinging for his visor, flinching as they nick the edge of an audial.

He’s exhausted, his tanks are empty, and if he wasn't being held together with abstract hopes and dreams, Meister would have absolutely - ok, probably - no problem keeping the assassin from lobbing off his helm. However, throwing his other pede up, he gets a single, good kick in before he’s got a blade kissing the underside of his jaw in nothing short of a blur of motion.

He’s too slow. Gritting his teeth, his processor begins racing as he starts running through cause and probabilities. He wasn’t a super computer, but he was damned smart when he wanted to be. Most of the time.

Reflex takes over. His blade is in his servo before his processor fully catches up, and for the first time, Drift pauses. Meister presses the serrated edge against the bands of white and red armor protecting Drift’s tanks, just enough to draw a bead of energon. Drift stares at the blade, then, slowly, his optics drag up to Meister’s visor. "Gonna stab me too?" he drawls, unimpressed.

"If I hafta, mah mech."

Another inappropriately timed giggle of discomfort leaks from Meister’s vocalizer and he audibly ‘eeps’ when the greatsword is pressed in harder against the delicate circuitry of his intake and a set of red tinged optics peer down into the opaque glass of his visor.

Getting cornered in his own slagging medroom sucks. What happened to only immediate family being allowed to visit? Nine out of ten Meisters would not recommend an Autobot staycation. The one that did was fragging tired and completely over this whole “giving a slag” situation.

"Where have you been?" Drift growls. "You and Ricky were always on my heels, causing chaos everywhere you looked. Then one night, you both vanish off the face of Cybertron." There was genuine confusion lurking deep within his EM field. For a fraction of a klik, Meister almost hears something else beneath the venom in Drift’s words. Almost. But he knows better. This is war. Mecha die every day. And Decepticons don’t get close to anyone.

Unless they’re family.

And this mech?

He isn’t family.

"Don’t call him that."

"Tch, I’ll call him whatever the hell I want, Jazz." Meister sneers and Drift cuts him off just as he opens his intake. "Why now? What the absolute frag is wrong with you?! You stabbed my commander! Frag, you tried to stab my Prime!"

Meister snaps his jaw shut and tilts his helm back. Okay. Understandable reaction, he guesses. He did kind of do that. Sort of. Well, he did disappear without a word, and then Rico disappeared for a different—he’d rather not think about that. Regardless, he’d probably be beyond confused as well if one of his old colleagues that’d been labeled ‘missing in action’, suddenly appeared once again and tried to assassinate his new Baby Prime. Especially when said Baby Prime did not get stabbed, and instead, shiny new TIC received said stabbing.

"Yeah, mind enlightenin’ me as to why he’s your Prime now? You keep bitchin’ about my actions, but what about yours?"

"My actions?" Drift leans down, and Meister resists the urge to either jam the blade hilt-deep into Drift’s main fuel tank or sink backward into the console as if he could blend into the environment. Both options are stupid. Neither will keep his helm attached to his frame.

He’s pretty sure Deadlock never lost that horribly annoying loyal trait of his. Preeeetty sure it’s an integral part of his base personality coding.

So what else did Megatron do?

Instead of answering, Meister leaps over the question and throws him a giant, fangy grin. "Hey, I thought you were an Autobot now." Which, that’s alarming to comprehend. "You ain’t actin’ very Autobot-y right now, didja know that? I know you’ve been a good boy, handling your addictive personality and all that—probably deserve a relapse or two—but maybe don’t start by givin’ into those murderous urges while you’re starin’ at me in the optics with the intensity of a static hound in heat, yeah?"

Silence. A hard, shocked silence. Drift actually falters, mouth dropping open as he stares at Meister in disbelief before his processor catches up.

"You basta—!" Drift rears back with a snarl, but the door sliding open cuts him off mid-sentence. This time, Meister doesn’t miss it.

In reality, the door is automatic, sliding open with a soft whirl. To the two ex-Decepticons, it might as well be a gunshot bursting in a silent battlefield. Both react instinctively—Meister rips his knife from Drift’s side to aim at the door, while Drift twists, stance shifting into an almost protective hunch over Meister. It’s a movement born from the necessity of surviving a war as long as theirs and of mechs that once fought together on the same field.

Mechs who, in their own twisted way, once considered each other friends.

Neither of them acknowledges it.

"What’cha doing?" The mechling in the doorway shifts, servos on his hips, helm cocked to the side, optics wide with curiosity. "Roddy’s looking for you. He’s worried about this new… uh… obsession? Yeah, I think ‘obsession’ was the word he used. Well, Roddy’s worried about your obsession with the assassin. He’s got a couple of mechs lookin’ for you already. Not sure why none of ‘em checked this room if you’re as obsessed as they say. Ha! That means I’m the smartest—" His obnoxiously loud words seem to falter and trail off as his processor finally catches up with the situation he walked in on. "Uh… speaking of… why do you have the assassin pinned against the console? Drift, Uncle Ratty told you no one was to disturb his recharge."

He pauses again, tapping a digit against his chin. "Actually, not that anyone should be able to wake him up. Ratty drugged him to the Pit and back." He leans, peering around Drift’s larger frame with wide, fascinated optics. "How are you awake?" he breathes, curiosity bright in his field.

Meister relaxes slightly. Okay. This is fine. Everything is fine. It’s just the little fragger that tased him, not someone far more terrifying. Like the Hatchet. Or worse—Prowl. That realization quickly morphs into annoyance and indignation. Someone oughta teach this brat some manners. Didn’t he know it was rude to interrupt his elders mid-argument, less than five inches from each other’s faces?

Drift, on the other hand, winds up tighter than a bowstring. His vents stall, his grip on the greatsword wavering—undecided between pressing it deeper or pulling away. His face runs through a dizzying array of emotions, too fast for Meister to catch them all. But he definitely recognizes fear, worry, fury, and—of all things—embarrassment.

Meister latches onto that in less than a klik. A slow smirk pulls at his lips, restrained, mischievous glee thrumming in his spark.

Drift clears his throat. "R-Roddy is looking for me?" His voice is choked, hesitant. A very, very faint tinge of pink gathers at the outer angles of his cheeks where energon pools beneath his plating.

Oh.

Oh, he wasn’t supposed to be here, was he?

Meister’s got it on pretty good assumption that this little rendezvous wasn’t sanctioned. This isn’t just a mech cornering a ghost from the past. Well, it might be partly that. But more likely? This is a first-class rendition of ‘I pissed off little lover boy, and now he wants to smite me.’

Drift isn’t just pissed that Meister reappeared out of nowhere. He’s pissed that Meister reappeared out of nowhere and attacked his crush.

Meister watches Drift’s face settle on stubborn indignation. Turning his back toward the mechling, he readjusts his grip on the blade and addresses the kid without taking his optics off Meister’s overly bright visor.

"Just having a friendly chat, Sundancer. No need to worry about your new friend." Drift spits the word like it physically pains him. "Tell Rodimus I’ll meet him in his habsuite shortly. Just need to finish our talk first."

Instead of leaving like Drift clearly hopes, Sundancer seems to hunker down, excitement vibrating off his plating. He shuffles and ruffles up, making himself look a few inches bigger. "Ooooh, but that doesn’t look very friendly. Drift, are you being a bully?" His optics gleam and he wriggles in place. "Oh no, do I need to tell Roddy you’re being naughty? Maybe I won’t be the only one in trouble today!"

Meister raises an optic ridge at the kid’s clearly aft backwards logic. Drift sighs in exasperation and hunches forward. Groaning audibly, he rolls his optics back like he is searching for his last strand of patience. “I’m not being a bul-”

Opportunity. Meister just has to brave the Hatchet. Easy. Maybe. Frag, he’s gonna die.

"He’s totally being a bully, kiddo. He’s rude, hurt my feelin’s, and I’m gonna cry." Meister cuts him off, voice loud and exaggerated as he speaks over his muttering. He watches as Drift physically restrains himself from strangling the ever loving life out of him. Meister snickers—until the blade presses hard enough against his intake to draw energon. The sting is sharp, the sensation of it dripping beneath his plating is itchy.

Sundancer however, just as he'd expect would happen, latches onto Meister’s sarcastic words like he’s speaking gospel. He can tell it makes him feel important when he lights up with obvious excitement and rears back opening that fragging loud mouth of his as wide as it will go.

Yeah, kid, do your worst.

Drift stalls and stumbles over his words. One of his servos drops its grip from around Meister and swings out towards the youngling in an awkward ‘calming’ gesture. Meister tries to take the chance to reach down for his sync cord but Drift easily keeps him pinned against the console. “H-hey, Sundancer, he is fine. I’m not even doing anything to him, you don’t need to call Ratch-”

It’s too late - Sundancer’s vocalizer was already whirling to life and the kid spins in place to stick his helm out the door. “UNCLE RATTY, DRIFT IS BEING A BULLY!”

Meister giggles borderline hysterically—oh Primus, oh my Primus, what kind of soap opera is his fragging life right now—this is not how he was expecting this cycle to go but he’s not gonna second guess it. Not like there would be a point, there was still a wicked sharp slab—okay, who needs a fragging sword that thick anyway; compensating much—of metal caressing some pretty important hardware. Meister tries to reach for his cord again only for Drift to half mindedly jerk up and slam him back against the console with a frantically muttered "behave." Meister pouts frowns and settles for shifting his hip over the dangling cord.

Nothing to see here folks.

A bang echoes through the hall. Heavy footsteps slam toward their location. Drift sinks in on himself. Meister spends a quick second to pray to whatever's listening that this won't be his last moment and freezes when the Medic's large servo wraps around the doorframe.

Ratchet’s seething silhouette dwarfs the little Praxian mechling. Sundancer grins giddily up at the fragging monstrosity of a medic and Meister watches as he leans down, twisting himself so he can even fit through the doorway. He's massive. The battlefield medic is holding a heavy, battered wrench, slapping it against his other palm in rhythmic ‘pings’ as he stares down the both of them with a burning fire in his optics. Meister's own plating slams down over delicate wiring and his anxiety skyrockets - perhaps feeding into the kid’s desperate need for approval was a bad idea - Meister changes his mind. Maybe he doesn't want to deal with the Hatchet on top of everything else.

Both Drift and Meister cower back against the console as Ratchet takes a single step inside the room, pushing the kid to the side as his heavyweight frame takes up an ungodly amount of room in the tiny surgical suite.

Meister feels like he's suffocating. He quickly shutters the glitched weapons protocols that try to trigger—stabbing another autobot right now was definitely a worse idea—and shamelessly angles his body further behind Drift despite the discomfort of the blade cutting deeper into his intake. The Medic’s furious voice is not what breaks the heavy, uncomfortable silence that blankets the room however. Instead, a deep monotone sounds from behind the medic.

“What exactly is going on here?”

Ratchet visibly stalls, fighting with himself momentarily before growling and taking a step to the side. He seems to be eating the words that threaten to fall from his lips but stays silent long enough for Prowl to step out from the shadows of the door, splinted arm and doorwings bound against his chassis for support. His frame is shaky, exhaustion obvious in his stance, but his voice is strong, unwavering. Meister swallows thickly as the enforcer’s optics bypass Drift and lock steadily onto his visor.

Chapter Text

Prowl raises an optic ridge and waits.

For a response—a verbal one, preferably. He isn’t going to get one (73.8% likelihood) judging by the four vastly different expressions staring back at him, each broadcasting their own degree of distress.

His gaze flicks between them, cataloging details with keen precision. Data streams seamlessly through the partially reinstated tactnet in his helm, unfiltered and unhindered.

He isn’t impressed.

Sundancer is the easiest to read, his frame practically vibrating with barely contained energy. Somehow—and Prowl is making a mental note to reassess the emotional conditioning standards of this base if this is the level of restraint he is to expect from his soldiers—Sundancer appears to be the most emotionally composed of the mechs present.

Though anxious from the unexpected sight of his supposedly bedridden uncle actively occupying the same space as himself, Sundancer is practically alight with excitement. Likely, he believes (93%) that he will not be the only mechanoid to suffer the supposed ‘wrath’ of Autobot High Command. His self-confidence remains intact—he assumes, incorrectly, that he will get off lightly.

“...Go to your habsuite and stay there until I come to retrieve you. At that point, we will discuss what possessed you to enter the medical suite of the assassin currently in our care without permission, nor an escort of any kind.”

Sundancer’s face crumples. His frame folds in on itself, plating slumping in disappointment. He throws Prowl a pitiful pout.

“Ahhh, but Unc—”

Prowl cuts him off with a pointed glare. “Now. We will discuss your disregard for protocol later.”

Huffing, Sundancer kicks at the floor, leaving behind a fresh scuff in the metal before stomping toward the door. He knows better than to argue. His retreat is deliberately slow, the exaggerated sound of dragging pedes meant to convey his displeasure. Prowl ignores him. Instead, he shifts his focus to the CMO, currently attempting to burn a hole through his helm with sheer force of will.

“And just what do you think you’re doing out of berth?”

Ratchet is livid. His servos are clenched so tightly that something in his ancient joints creaks under the pressure. Denta bared, optics narrowed, he is visibly weighing the pros and cons of physically hauling Prowl back to the berth he had so prematurely abandoned.

Prowl is well aware that Ratchet is significantly larger than he is—outweighing him by two full armor castes, his stocky ambulance frame is built upon an old truck chassis that is just as broad as it is tall. No one would mistake him for a waspish racer. It is (99%) impossible to do so.

If Ratchet truly wanted to, he could body Prowl back onto the berth and magnetize him there. 

Prowl pointedly avoids the medic’s piercing glare.

“I heard Sundancer call out from the assassin’s temporary quarters, just as you did. As the highest-ranking Autobot in the vicinity, I made the executive decision to assess the situation and determine the appropriate response.” He knows it’s a weak excuse. Ratchet, as CMO, has the authority to override him under medical jurisdiction. If he chose to exercise that power, Prowl would be left with no choice but to comply.

Prowl hopes he won’t.

The truth is—he needed to be here. He is… twitchy, for lack of a better word. Has been since he first woke up in the medbay. Ratchet had reinstated only a fraction of his tactnet’s functionality, leaving him overstimulated and oversensitive, his systems still struggling to recalibrate after medical stasis. The residual effects are unpleasant.

And beyond that, beyond the logical justifications and the tactical concerns—Prowl had been afraid. He had nearly lost his Prime. Nearly lost himself. And now, the catalyst for it all stands pinned against the far wall, a smarmy grin plastered across his cracked lip plates as he tucks himself further behind Drift.

Prowl wants nothing more than to wipe that grin off his face.

Ratchet opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but Prowl tears his glare away from the assassin and pins the medic with a look of his own.

Something in his expression makes Ratchet pause.

The battlefield medic exhales sharply through his vents, jaw working. Then, with a low snarl, he leans back against the wall beside the doorway, crossing his arms. With a jerk of his chin, he motions for Prowl to get on with it.

::Thank you.:: Prowl transmits over a secured, private line.

Ratchet snorts, his plating audibly creaking as he folds his arms tighter.

::Don’t think we aren’t fragging talking about this later.::

Prowl resists the urge to sigh and sends back a confirming ping before turning his attention to the two mechs still standing before him.

“Sir… I was concerned about the assassin’s skillset. When I checked the berth, he was already online and staring at the monitors. I haven’t determined what he’s done yet.” The white mech gestures to a small opening in the console where plating had been ripped out of place and folded back.

That is a concern - however - Prowl’s helm tilts slightly “How did he remove himself from the berth?” He waves a servo towards it on the other side of the room. “It’s still emitting a magnetic field.” It should have been nearly impossible to get up from. Judging from the metallic debris and energon stains, it hadn’t been easy. Prowl stares pointedly at the small puddle of energon that was steadily growing larger beneath the mech Drift had pinned. Drift’s mouth drops open as his servos readjust their grip before he looks over towards the berth in confusion.

“I..don’t know.” He mutters. The sword dips away from the small black and white mech and Drift jerks like he is only just remembering its hefty weight in his servo. Drift glances at the greatsword before reluctantly pulling it away. Settling the blade in the sheath on his back, Drift catches his newly freed servo on a lip of the assassin's armor when he moves to pull away. The smaller mech invents sharply with a wince of pain as one of his digits grazes the fresh cut on his intake. Prowl works his jaw for a moment, contemplating, before glancing at the bright visor still staring at him from around the curved edge of Drift’s shoulder paneling. His fixated stare had not left his frame once since he’d spoken up from behind Ratchet’s towering stature. It was a bit unsettling.

“Would you care to enlighten us?”

The assassin’s visor flickers. Brightens. Then that grin widens, revealing jagged fangs peeking from behind cracked lip plates.

“Nah, mech. Ah’m good.”

Prowl grits his denta, forcing down the surge of annoyance.

Figures.

There’s no point needling him further—not yet. There are more pressing matters at hand.

Shifting his weight, he strides a couple feet toward the two mecha. “Go stand guard outside, Drift. We’ll discuss this later.”

Drift grimaces, flicking a glance at Ratchet before shaking his helm.

“Prowl, he’s dangerous,” he says slowly, concern thick in his tone.

“I’m well aware.”

Drift huffs out a vent, his mouth parting—only for Prowl to cut him off. “I wasn’t asking, Drift.”

A low growl vibrates from Drift’s chest, barely concealed under an exhaled vent. For a moment, Prowl expects him to argue, but to his mild surprise, the swordsmech merely adjusts his grip on the assassin’s servo, still pinned against his shoulder. Metal glints. The small mech hisses, squirming against Drift’s firm hold. Within a brief klik, Drift wrests something from his grasp, stepping away without turning his back on the feral little thing.

“Here.” Drift grumbles.

Prowl stares at the wicked vibroblade Drift all but slaps into his raised servo at the last second. It takes more bandwidth than he cares to admit to suppress his frame’s vicious urge to recoil from the jagged metal. A thin coating of dried energon still clings to the blade, its once-fluorescent hue dulled with age. His tanks churn at the acrid scent of his own lifefuel.

This is the blade that he'd been stabbed with.

Suppressing a sigh, Prowl ignores the itch of flaking energon against his plating and subspaces the weapon. Drift sends a final glare toward the mech still pressed against the console before turning on his pede and striding out. The doors slide gently shut behind him.

Ratchet’s engine snarls, yanking Prowl from his sinking thoughts.

The small mech freezes against the console, servos raised beside his bumper as his hip smacks into the metal. Prowl watches as Ratchet steps forward, his frame radiating warning.

“And just what do you think you’re doing with that?”

The assassin lifts a single digit, pointing at his own chest, visor bright with exaggerated innocence.

Ratchet’s engine rumbles louder. “Yes, you, Meister. Who the frag else would I be talking to?”

The name snags in Prowl’s processor. Something about it is familiar. His tacnet scrambles, attempting to pull fragmented calculations past the coding restraints Ratchet left during their last sync. A few hazy memories flicker to the surface, but Prowl struggles to process them while keeping track of the conversation.

Meister shrugs, flipping his servo palm-up in feigned nonchalance. “Ah mean, ya coulda been talkin’ ‘bout Prowl, for all Ah know.”

Ratchet snorts, rolling his optics as he continues his advance.

Meister explodes into motion.

Prowl’s computations stall, bandwidth instantly rerouting to the commotion unfolding before him. Meister jerks away from Ratchet’s reach as though burned, his sharp movement sending him crashing against the desk. Momentum carries him up and over it. He recovers mid-air, twisting into a roll—but neglects (34%)—forgets (89%)—to account for the spark monitor still tethered to his systems. He clears the desk but not the line, and gets his flailing pede caught in the tangled mess of wires.

A high keen rips from his throat as his frame slams into the cold, unforgiving floor. Prowl doesn’t bother suppressing his wince—Meister isn’t looking at him anyway.

Ratchet hesitates, shock flashing across his face before he shakes his helm and presses forward.

Meister groans, shaking his helm out. The moment he registers Ratchet’s continued approach, his engine snarls. He kicks off the desk, sending himself skidding backward—straight into the opposite wall with a resounding crash.

“Quit that!”

“Don’t touch me!” Meister snaps, fangs bared, his field lashing out. Prowl doubts he even realizes the lapse in control. Fear and agony saturate his energy signature more than defiance. He’s reacting on instinct (76%).

Prowl needs to de-escalate this. He just isn’t sure how.

“Calm down. We have no intention of harming you at this moment.”

At this moment? At this moment?! What happens in the next moment—when that so-called promise shatters the instant he makes a mistake? One wrong move, one wrong word, and it’s over. That flimsy reassurance will be gone, ripped apart like brittle scrap metal. Just like his scuffed, malnourished armor will be when those giant servos finally wrap around the more delicate parts of his anatomy.

His intake would crumple beneath the medic’s strength like a stale rust stick. One good squeeze, one slip of temper, and he’d be nothing but a sparking heap of twitching parts. The thought makes his cooling fans kick on, rattling from disuse. He forces them off before the noise can give away his spiraling thoughts. He doesn’t want to know what the next moment brings.

And that’s assuming they’re even telling the truth with that pitiful little promise.

Meister isn’t stupid. He knows they don’t owe him a slagging thing—he’s the reason they’re in this mess to begin with. That fact alone is enough reason for them to do whatever they want with him. If they were planning to kill him, they wouldn’t say so. That wouldn’t make sense.

That wouldn’t make sense, right?

Right?

A sharp growl cuts through his spiraling thoughts.

“Mech, I said quit that! You’re gonna rip the slagging wires out if you keep jerking around like a panicked sparkling!” Meister cycles his optics, looks down, and notices one of the wires spliced into his chassis is sparking something fierce. Whoops.

Ratchet moves toward him again, optics dark with irritation, mouth curled in a snarl that shows off just a bit too much denta. Too many denta. Meister yelps, scrambling, but there’s nowhere to go. The wall is a solid, unyielding force at his back. His pede snags in the tangle of wires still tethered to him, pulling tight with a sharp, static-laced jolt up his limb. He barely manages a few frantic shuffles before the medic’s servos clamp onto his shoulder plates.

Meister locks up—denta clenched, plating drawn tight, entire frame braced for damage. He waits for the error coding to flood his visor, for his HUD to flash with alerts. For the pain to hit.

It doesn’t.

Hesitantly, he drags his gaze upward.

Ratchet stares at him, unreadable.

“Mech, we said we weren’t gonna hurt you. Now relax.” The medic exhales like the weight of the entire war is sitting on his back struts alone. His grip shifts, large servos curling around Meister’s arms, pinning his wicked-looking claws to his side. Meister’s spark rate spikes—but before he can even think about reacting, he’s lifted clean off the ground like he weighs nothing.

He grunts, watching the floor disappear beneath him. Why is this behemoth so slagging tall? He swallows down the yelp burning in the back of his throat as Ratchet drops him onto the berth. He lands a lot lighter than he expects. The small puddles of energon he'd left behind earlier squelches beneath him, seeping into the smaller seams, thick and sticky where it coats his plating. He grimaces.

Magnetic fields clamp down next, latching onto his hips, pinning him aft-first to the berth. The same berth he’d painstakingly ripped himself from earlier. His struggles are useless—Ratchet locks down his arms and servos just as easily. He grits his denta, seething, but he doesn’t dare activate his mods—not in front of these Autobots.

His vents stutter to a stop.

In the span of only a few short joor, what has he actually accomplished?

A subspace full of damn near unreadable notes. A messy copy of his own statistics, incomplete and useless. A spark that keeps screaming at him, sharp bursts of pain jolting through his chassis thanks to the slagging machine he’d been dragging around like a toy.

His digits twitch, trapped under the field. He lets his optics drift, scanning the room, his processor running calculations he doesn’t even mean to run. The angles of the berth, the nearest exit, the time it would take him to make a break for it if the field cut out for even a klik—all of it runs in the background like an instinct he can’t turn off.

Fan-fraggin-tastic.

Ratchet counts.

One, two, three—no, four strained joints, servos trembling under their own weight. Sparking wires twist from battered plating, leaving faint wisps of ozone in the air. And there, just beneath a network of microfractures, fresh tears mar delicate cabling, barely holding together under the strain of movement.

He forces his intakes to cycle slowly, deliberately, in an attempt to smother the bellow trapped deep in his chassis.

The room stinks of energon—thick and cloying in the recycled air, saturating the enclosed space like an accusation. The tang of it mixes with the sharp bite of overheated metal, solder, and the faint, underlying scent of corrosion lurking beneath Meister’s plating.

Ratchet takes a long, steady invent and resigns himself to spending another couple of joor undoing the mess the fragging mech made of his own repairs. He barely got him functional again before he ripped himself apart like a turbofox in a snare. If the little glitch didn’t look like he was a klik away from an absolute meltdown, he’d already be getting an audial-full from the medic.

Later. He files it away for later.

Running a basic scan, Ratchet monitors the readings as the data comes through. His optics narrow as Meister flinches the moment it passes over his chassis, a barely-contained tremor running down his spinal strut.

Ratchet frowns. “Did that hurt?”

Meister grinds his denta and turns his helm away. “No.”

Liar.

Ratchet weighs the possibility of pushing for the truth and lets it go—for now. Whether or not the scan actually hurt, the reaction tells him enough. If he isn’t lying outright, then he’s so unused to a medic treating him with care that he doesn’t even recognize it as such. The way he recoiled? That wasn’t just discomfort.

Ratchet has only ever seen soldiers react like that. Soldiers with their backs to the wall, optics blown wide, bodies locked in a full-system panic.

He knows the signs well enough. PTSD. Trigger response. Shutdown imminent if we push too hard.

From the corner of his optic, Ratchet catches movement. Prowl shifts, stepping into his periphery, angling himself near the berth. The tactician doesn’t say a word, but his gaze flicks over Meister’s frame with calculating precision, cataloging every visible injury. Slowly, methodically, his optics drag from helm to pede, and Ratchet knows his processor is already running probabilities.

Meister stiffens, then scoffs, pedes digging into the berth as his field pulses with unease. “Are ya gonna kill me already?”

The forced boredom in his voice does nothing to hide the way tension coils through his frame.

Ratchet ignores the way both their frames tense—Meister’s, sharp with wary dread; Prowl, caught off guard. Barely perceptible but there. Instead, he focuses on running another scan, tracking spark stability. It’s steadier now—far more stable than it was—but the rhythm is too fast. Agitated.

Not unexpected.

Ratchet cycles his vents and transforms his servo into a finer set of tools. As Prowl recovers, struggling to reorient himself from the curveball thrown at him, Ratchet tunes him out and focuses on micro-welding the fractures in Meister’s frame.

“Why do you think we are going to kill you?” Prowl’s tone is measured, curious.

Meister scoffs again, shifting against the berth restraints. “Mech, Ah’m not stupid.” His visor dims, expression sour. “Sure, a little scattered. Not stupid, though.” He tilts his helm, testing the weight of his words before he spits them out. “Ah stabbed you, ya fragging idiot. Ya know who Ah was tryin' to stab.”

Prowl hums, nodding along as if he’s considering it. “Sure. But murder isn’t usually our first course of action.” A beat. “I would like to know why you tried to kill our Prime. What you did was a serious offense. We need to know the reasoning.”

We need to know if we have to kill you goes unsaid.

Meister’s lip twitches, and he flicks his gaze away from Prowl, locking onto Ratchet instead. His whole frame draws impossibly tighter as the medic continues his work, tension spiking as the welding torch nears a cluster of exposed cables.

“Mah reasons are my own.”

Ratchet scoffs. “They really aren’t.”

Meister’s visor darkens, and he bares his fangs—an instinctive display, more posturing than threat. Ratchet doesn’t so much as blink.

This mech barely comes up to my waist. Chipped, restrained, and barely holding himself together, he doesn’t pose much of a threat. Not physically.

“Well, Ah ain’t tellin’ ya shit.”

Prowl’s optics flash like he’s just realized something. Ratchet watches him cock his helm like Mirage does when he's found a new trail to follow. “Where did you learn to cuss like that?”

Meister’s helm whips back around with a decidedly nervous tinge to his field. “Cuss like what?”

“‘Shit’ is not a cybertronian cuss word. You’ve been intermixing off world expletives into your sentences.” Prowl adjusts his weight and tilts his helm forward with a gleam in his optics. Ratchet restrains a sigh and checks on the wires still splinted into Meister while the mech was distracted. After verifying the magnetic field was holding, he leans down and begins untangling the wire wrapped tight around Meister's pede. “Specifically, expletives from the planet ‘Earth’.” Meister squirms and makes a face like he doesn’t understand how it matters. Ratchet is aware it’s an attempt to make it seem far less important than it is. “Ah picked it up from a couple of other mecha. The frag that matters for?” he questions back, defensive. His plating pulls in tighter and Ratchet grunts as one of his transformed digits gets stuck in a gap of his plating before he gently tugs it out. Halfmindedly, he lightly smacks the same servo against Meister’s hip plating in reprimand. Meister jerks like he’s been struck by a live wire.

::He’s lying,:: Prowl’s voice crackles over the private comm.

::Obviously,:: Ratchet deadpans. He ignores the mech’s frantic ventilations, running a digit along the edge of a damaged spark wire. It's frayed slightly but not enough that it would need replaced. If he'd stop tugging the damn thing. 

Satisfied, he shifts his focus. Reaching for the sync cord coiled at Meister’s hip, he pulls it forward, optics narrowing at the oddity of it. The black hardline gleams in the low light, vibrant red biolights pulsing along its length. Strange. Most biolights match a mech’s internal coloration—Meister’s, from what Ratchet has seen, should be a soft teal. The contrast is... odd.

“Hey, leave that alone, will ya?” Meister mutters, restless heels kicking against the berth.

Ratchet ignores him. He finds the nearly-invisible latch and uses a fine-pointed digit to release it. The jack irises open, revealing delicate, prehensile tendrils tipped with glowing pin-orbs. Ratchet watches, fascinated, as the tiny filaments stretch and seek, waving in the air.

“What in the pit….” He mutters. Prowl steps closer, optics flickering with intrigue.

::Is that…?::

::Looks like it.::

Ratchet bends his digit, watching as the filaments latch onto it instinctively. Meister hisses.

“Don’t play with it, you’ll go blind,” he snarks.

Ratchet forces down the flicker of amusement at Meister’s attitude and straightens, careful not to give away any reaction. With practiced ease, he coaxes the prehensile filaments back into their casing, watching as they hesitate, curling in slow, uncertain movements before retreating. The plating slides shut with a soft snikt, sealing away something that, at a glance, looks completely ordinary. No one would ever suspect what lay beneath. 

This mech may be older than I am....

He gathers the loose hardline wire, coiling it neatly before tucking it behind the partially open sync panel. The sight of exposed internal systems grates on him, so before sealing the panel, he smooths a thin layer of medical lubricant over a crimped section of wiring—likely damaged when the plating tried to snap shut with the cord still unraveled. Slagging careless, that. Not that it surprises him. From what he’s seen, half of Meister’s frame is held together by bad luck and sheer stubbornness.

::We need to know why Rodimus was the target,:: Prowl says, pulling the conversation back on track.

Ratchet vents sharply. Here we go.

::Not enough to shove this brat into the Well over a few unanswered questions while he’s barely holding it together.:: He flicks over a set of scans, including the one with Meister’s designation ident—the one he pulled from the mech’s base code earlier. ::Because if you keep pushing, I’ll have a second patient in emergency surgery—for the second time—because this fragging idiot is more sensitive than a glitchmouse.::

Prowl doesn’t answer right away, but his frustration bleeds through his field. He’s masking it well, keeping his expression steady, but Ratchet has known him too long to be fooled. The tension is there, coiled tight beneath the surface. And as much as he hates to admit it, something about this situation has been nagging at him since Meister first landed on his med table.

::This mech is dangerous, Prowl. Incredibly. Even a basic scan flagged half his mods as illegal. The kind of slag you don’t install unless you’re planning to tear through the battlefield like a nightmare.:: Ratchet pauses, forcing Meister to lean back so he can get at a pinched wire. The mech grumbles, snapping his denta in weak protest. It’s about as threatening as an angry turbofox kit. Ratchet ignores him. ::Half of them are so glitched they’d probably fry his processor before they worked properly, but let’s be honest—if he really wanted Rodimus dead, he would be. No questions asked. Something changed his priorities.::

Prowl doesn’t respond, but Ratchet can practically hear the gears turning.

He takes advantage of the silence to finish the check-up as quickly as possible. Meister’s patience is wearing thin, his frame buzzing with restless, pent-up energy. He’s frayed, running on the edge of something unstable. One wrong move could push him into doing something drastic. Until they decide what to do with him, Ratchet’s medical coding won’t allow him to mistreat a patient. As long as Meister isn’t actively sabotaging himself, Ratchet will leave him be—until necessity dictates otherwise, or the long overdue meeting they've no doubt got coming up has concluded. Whichever comes first. 

His gaze flickers between Meister’s unreadable visor and the sparking console. He exhales.

At least there hadn’t been anything too important in those files.

As he finally steps back, Meister’s entire frame subtly but unmistakably relaxes. It’s barely noticeable—the smallest shift in plating—but Ratchet catches it. The space between them is only a few steps, yet it’s enough. Enough for the tension in Meister’s shoulders to ease, for the rigid hold on his field to loosen ever so slightly.

It isn’t fear.

It’s revulsion.

Ratchet has treated plenty of reluctant and even terrified patients in his time. But this? This is new.

Prowl’s voice is calm when he finally speaks. “We’ll talk again later, once Ratchet confirms your most recent repairs have stabilized. We will find out more, whether you want to tell us or not.”

It isn’t meant as a threat—just a statement of fact. But Meister tenses anyway, his armor pulling tight to his protoform as his lip curls, denta flashing once more in a sharp, defiant snarl. A guttural hiss rattles from his chassis before he turns his helm away in a display of stubborn refusal.

::Are you sure he isn’t just an overgrown sparkling?:: Prowl mutters, exasperation laced through the comm.

::You’re still alive because of him,:: Ratchet fires back.

::And you’re disregarding the fact that he’s also the reason I nearly wasn’t?::

Ratchet’s optics narrow.

::And yet, somehow, you just happened to end up outside my medbay at exactly the right time. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?::

Meister keeps his helm turned away, shoulders tense, mouth set in a firm scowl, but his visor flickers—just barely. A quick, sidelong glance, nothing more, just a brief flicker toward Prowl before snapping away again. It’s subtle, careful, the kind of movement that wants to go unnoticed.

But Ratchet notices.

He’s spent vorns watching mechs pretend they aren’t looking, aren’t checking, aren’t worried. He knows what it looks like when someone cares more than they want to admit.

And that’s what sticks with him.

For all the snarling, the snapping, the aggression, Meister had made damn sure Prowl didn’t offline. Ratchet knows the difference between a mech who fails to kill and one who chooses not to. And Meister—glitched out, half-feral, dangerous as he is—falls into the second category.

Why?

Chapter Text

Rodimus spins on pede and marches towards the opposite side of his habsuite—almost walking straight into the wall—before spinning again and marching back the way he came. His pattern repeats, and Rodimus does his level best to pace a well worn hole into his floor as the events of the last couple cycles fields the forefront of his processor.

It’s not like he was overly worried or anything. Rodimus has stared death in the face and lived to tell the tale about it on more than one occasion. Nor was it the first time someone else has gotten hurt because of it. And honestly, it probably wouldn’t be the last. Everything was fine, Prowl was fine, and he was going to figure out this new problem like every other problem that he, for some reason, seems to attract. Except, he still hasn’t debriefed the team because, two cycles later, he still doesn’t know a slagging thing about what’s going on.

Something else was bothering him though. Rodimus’s face scrunches up in discomfort as he jerks to a stop midstep with a servo running over the length of his chassis where his spark sat suspending his frame. The plating beneath his feet hums with the familiar vibration of the ship’s core, but it does nothing to ease the static that is buzzing loudly in his processor. Groaning, Rodimus continues working a new path into the ground as he resumes his pacing, trying to ignore the painful feeling in his spark.

Every turn brings him right back to the same question: Is it guilt? Is it the feeling of ever-present danger? Or is it just the discomfort of having to admit—yet again—someone nearly died because of him?

And not just anyone. Prowl.

Stiff-aft, by-the-book Prowl, who he’s pretty sure hated him, with his disapproving glare and clipped tone, yet still had thrown himself between Rodimus and an assassin’s blade. And now, that very same assassin, lay locked up in a spare medsuite on base because for some reason, Ratchet had the audacity to let his medical protocols get in the way, instead of just letting their problem offline and take care of itself.

His pacing tightens into an even smaller loop, drawing a new line where he doesn’t bother to actually pick up his pedes. He knows that it wasn’t their way—the autobot’s way—to just let a bot offline from spark failure on the cold hard floor when they could do something about it. It didn’t matter what they’d done, or why they’d done it—they always figured that out after the emergency was over. But Primus, would his life be easier if sometimes, just sometimes, they were a little more relaxed in their moral agenda. Ratchet had a ridiculous habit about picking up strays when nobody else wanted him to.

Drift and the twins don’t count. They never tried to kill him.

Rodimus swallows hard as his processor yanks him straight back to what’s really bothering him.

The memory slams into him—how the blade glinted under the dim lights of Swerve’s bar. A pair of black and white wings marked ‘Police’ flashing in front of him before they arch high in startled agony. The sharp scent of life fuel floods his senses and he rubs at his olfactory sensors as his audials remind him of the sickening sound of Prowl’s energon squelching from around the dagger as it pooled on the floor. The serrated edge of that knife had carved through Prowl’s reinforced armor like it was nothing more than mesh.

He can’t stop thinking about it. It’s burned into his processor.

Rodimus fights back a reflexive gag, rubbing the base of his intake. He swears he can still hear Prowl’s strangled vents and the way the enforcer choked on the energon spilling down his chin. It’s haunting him—it has been clawing at the edges of his awareness, leaching into his recharge. Rodimus was exhausted. He presses his digits to his forehelm, agitation thrumming hot through his systems. It’s not like this is new—they see violence every cycle. They’re still at war, dammit. Even if it looks different. Even if some of the enemies aren’t who they thought they’d be.

He shifts again and snarls when his pede slams against the edge of his berth. He stumbles, catching himself against the wall.

Rodimus really hates waiting.

The door to his habsuite slides open, and he whirls around, fists clenched, ready to unload on whatever unlucky mech just walked in. Then he sees a pair of white finials perk up, and suddenly, the weight pressing on his chassis lifts.

“Finally.” Relief bleeds into impatience as Drift steps in, calm as ever, like the world isn’t on fire around them and their plans aren’t going to pit. “Took you long enough.”

Drift arches a delicate brow ridge, cocking his helm, optics glinting with curiosity. “Uh, Roddy, were you expecting me sooner?”

“Obviously. You’re my right-hand mech.”

“Technically, isn’t that Ultra Magnus?”

He flaps a servo. “Same difference.”

Drift halts as Rodimus grabs ahold of his shoulders. Pulling his Amica in close, he rests his forehelm against soft white plating and vents, just for a moment.​ The smell of Drift’s clean frame—solvent, with a hint of oil—is soothing. Then, he leans back, scanning the bright blue optics staring at him—confused but clear.

Good. No red. That had been worrying him too.

Drift doesn’t pull away, but there’s a tension in his frame, a subtle shift that Rodimus almost doesn’t catch. Almost. Drift’s expression furrows, and Rodimus belatedly realizes he’s shaking when a servo settles on his chassis and the plating begins rattling against his friend’s digits.

He pretends not to notice, lingering a klik longer than necessary before finally stepping back. His optics stay locked on Drift, scanning for anything—concern, judgment, maybe even annoyance—but all he finds is that unreadable calm, expression slightly pinched in quiet consideration.

Then, Drift tilts his helm, audials flicking. “Roddy.”

The way he says it—slow, measured—makes something in Rodimus’s spark hitch. He knows that tone. That’s the ‘we’re about to have a conversation whether you like it or not’ tone.

Rodimus backpedals. Fast. “What? I can’t say hi to my best friend?” He forces an easy grin, throwing his arms out like that alone will distract from the way his plating is still drawn tight, trembling across his frame. “Not my fault you took forever.”

Drift’s optics flicker—mild exasperation, mostly skepticism. “You commed me exactly once.”

“Yeah! And you should’ve felt the urgency in that message.”

Drift doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he steps around him, servos clasped loosely behind his back as he sweeps a slow, assessing look over the habsuite. The room is exactly what it was two cycles ago—too small, too sterile, and now slightly more wrecked thanks to Rodimus’s inability to sit still. The floor panels are scuffed where he’s paced himself into oblivion. A datapad lies discarded on the table, its screen cracked from when he’d thrown it. The wall beside the door sports a matching dent.

Prowl had told him earlier that cycle his would-be killer’s name, and warned him not to approach the mech without an escort. Rodimus had scoured every file, every databank, hunting for a trace of him.

Nothing.

It was like the mech didn’t exist.

Admittedly, his patience hadn’t lasted long.

Drift stops beside the table, one brow ridge arching as he taps a clawed digit against the damaged screen. “So,” he says, voice even, “should I be worried that you’ve been in here long enough to start breaking things?”

Rodimus folds his arms, optics narrowing. “First of all, I didn’t break that. It just… fell.”

The lie feels empty even as he says it.

Drift stares at him.

Rodimus folds easily and huffs. “Fine. Maybe I threw it. But you’d throw things too if you were stuck waiting for Ultra Magnus to pull his giant aft out of whatever bureaucratic pit he’s been stuck in recently.”

Yeah, he didn’t actually care about that.

Drift hums, noncommittal. Then, casually, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Rodimus tenses.

He doesn’t like this. The way Drift is looking at him—like he already knows the answer and is just waiting for Rodimus to admit it.

“Roddy,” Drift tries again, voice dipping just enough to let some of that careful patience slip through. “You’re not okay.”

Rodimus bristles. “I am okay.”

Drift’s optics call him out. The swordsmech merely shifts his weight.

Rodimus groans, pressing his palms against his faceplate. “I don’t have time for this.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer you’re getting.”

Drift exhales, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t back down either. Just stands there, arms loosely folded, watching Rodimus with that infuriating, saintly patience. For a fleeting moment, Rodimus almost wishes his Amica would go back to the little rage monster he’d been two cycles ago.

Then he crushes that thought.

That had been terrifying.

Rodimus hadn’t seen Drift that angry since Delphi. Since Pharma. And his friend hadn’t calmed down until Ratchet had recovered with his new servos fully integrated. It has been a long time since. Drift’s out-of-character reaction had probably shocked everyone.

That’s another problem. Most Autobots on base don’t even know that Meister is locked up just rooms away from their own habsuites. They know there was an assassin—there was no hiding that. Not that Rodimus would want to hide it. But to them, the assassin was the lean, spiky, matte-black mech who tore through their TIC and then vanished.

Not the skittish, white-and-blue mech with soft edges and a disarming smile that was currently still in Ratchet’s medbay.

Rodimus shifts, tapping his digits against his forearm, optics darting away before snapping back. The hum of the ship feels louder now, the quiet weight of the habsuite pressing in from all sides. His spark pulses unevenly.

He feels like he’s suffocating.

‘Like Prowl had been suffocating.’—his processor whispers.

He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with Drift. Not with anyone.

“I just… feel off,” Rodimus blurts before he can stop himself. “Like…”

Drift tilts his helm. “Off how?”

Rodimus shakes his helm. “I don’t know. It’s just—” He exhales sharply, pacing again, servos moving restlessly as he speaks. “Prowl is fine,” he says instead. He is fine—Ratchet made sure of it. The old medic would drag their TIC back from the Well itself if he had to. “The assassin’s locked up. We should be moving forward, but something keeps—” He hesitates, jaw clenching.

Drift watches him, waiting.

Rodimus drags a servo down his faceplate. Contemplates. Then picks the other thing gnawing at him. Drift doesn’t need to hear about his recurring recharge flux. “It just doesn’t feel over.”

Drift’s expression flickers, just for a klik.

Rodimus catches it. His optics narrow. He presses, urging him to take the bait. “You feel it too.”

Drift doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts, tension tightening his frame before he finally speaks. “Yeah.”

Rodimus’s plating prickles. Okay. Wait. No. He doesn’t like that either. If Drift agrees with him… It would’ve been easier if he’d just rolled his optics, called him paranoid, told him to let it go. But instead, he looks genuinely troubled.

Frag.

Rodimus straightens, rotors twitching. “What do we do?”

Drift exhales. “First? We debrief the others with what we do know. Then, we play it by audial and see what happens. Prowl’s going to have to interrogate Meister eventually.”

For some reason, Drift looks displeased by that. Before Rodimus can cut in, he continues, “Ratty won’t protect him forever. It shouldn’t be long now.”

Rodimus groans loudly, throwing his helm back. “Ugh, I hate debriefs. They’re just an excuse for Ultra Magnus to lecture me about protocol and ‘poor leadership decisions.’” He gestures vaguely. “Like it was my fault an assassin tried to offline me in the middle of a bar.”

“It’s your fault an assassin tried to take you offline in the middle of a bar.”

Ultra Magnus delivers the statement with the weight of absolute certainty, as if it’s an irrefutable fact rather than a slap in the face.

Rodimus’s plating flares in agitation, vents cycling too hot, too fast. Steam hisses from his seams as his spoiler twitches—a clear warning sign. Prowl, watching from his seat at the end of the table, already sees where this is going

“Oh, so now getting stabbed is a leadership flaw?” Rodimus snaps in irritation, servos thrown up in exasperation. “That’s great. Should I start factoring that into my schedule? Breakfast, paperwork, surprise assassination attempt—”

“You failed to take proper security measures after you were explicitly told—” Ultra Magnus starts, voice unshaken, but Rodimus barrels over him.

“Security measures? I was in a bar! On our own ship!”

Ultra Magnus tilts his helm slightly. “And?” His tone remains infuriatingly even. “Did you think that made you safe?”

Rodimus’s engine revs, a guttural growl of frustration that vibrates through the room.

Prowl grimaces, his still-sensitive doorwings twitching back in protest, trying to lessen the immediate sensory overload. The motion only worsens the ache. Wheeljack had done good work reconstructing the joint, but integration is slow. Across the table, Ratchet groans, long and weary, before dragging a servo down his faceplate and pushing to his pedes.

He doesn’t bother with words. Instead, he moves toward the monitor in the corner, where Red Alert sits stiff-backed, optics locked unblinkingly onto the security feed.

The dim glow of the console screens casts deep shadows across Red Alert’s faceplate. His near obsessive attention is fixed on the live feed from the surgical suite—where their guest remains under observation. Prowl glances at the monitor.

Meister sits on the berth, wrists loose on his knees, posture deceptively relaxed. Too relaxed. More than likely a fabricated level of calm he was intentionally projecting. His visor stays dim, his frame unnervingly still. He hasn’t spoken, but Prowl is nearly certain (93%) that he knows he’s being watched. They had not been subtle with the installation of the camera.

Red Alert has already rewound the footage twice, scanning every minuscule movement, hunting for anything that might betray intent. If Meister has any.

Prowl suspects (86%) that he does.

Whether or not he would attempt to act on them was a whole other matter.

“I think if I have to start treating Swerve’s like a warzone, we have bigger problems,” Rodimus grits out.

Ultra Magnus nods once. “You do.”

Rodimus blinks. “What do you mean I do—”

“You went above everyone’s helms to approve the Lost Light as an open-access hub for the neutral community while docked. There is a chain of command for a reason.” Ultra Magnus’s optics bore into him, hard and unwavering. “If you continue making reckless, unilateral decisions without first going through the proper channels, then you must also be prepared to deal with the consequences of those decisions.”

Meister’s visor flickers to life and he turns to shoot the camera in the corner of his room a heated glance, as if he could see them through it.

Then he grins.

Prowl drags his attention away from the security live feed as the arguing becomes more intense. Rodimus stares at Ultra Magnus, optics burning like live embers. His plating remains drawn tight, his vents sharp and quick. Prowl estimates there is an 63% chance something in this room will be broken before the meeting concludes.

Still, he remains silent, watching. Not because he enjoys the argument—though their verbal sparring is revealing—but because it gives him time to think.

Rodimus isn’t exactly a popular Prime, but assassinating him now makes little tactical sense. If the goal was destabilization, this wouldn’t have been the way to do it—he’s not Optimus, not some universal beacon of leadership. The Autobots don’t rise and fall on his command.

But there are reasons someone might want him dead.

His team has made enemies. He’s had enemies on his team.

Their search for the Knights of Cybertron has been slow—frustratingly so—but they have made some progress in their mission, despite Prowl’s perpetual opposition. Though, in the process, they’ve marched over graves, disturbed secrets that certain factions might have preferred to stay buried, and in general—caused more harm than good.

But even then, Prowl doesn’t think that warrants the effort needed to go through with the assassination of a Prime. It isn’t like he’s Sentinel. He’s cocky, egotistic, and trying to live up to the shadow of someone else’s legacy—but he’s not cruel.

“So that’s it, then?” Rodimus’s voice drips with incredulity, his spoiler twitching violently. Drift sidles over and places a servo on his shoulder.

He leans in, “Roddy, calm do-”

Rodimus growls and shrugs off his Amica’s touch, pressing in closer to Ultra Magnus. The height difference doesn’t appear to deter him as he stares up with a livid sneer twisting his lips. “I should just start running every decision through the ‘proper channels’—your channels—so you can hold my servo through every little thing?”

“It means you have a responsibility,” Ultra Magnus corrects, his tone dipping. “One that extends beyond your personal whims. The position does not afford you the luxury of reckless independence.”

Rodimus barks out a sharp, humorless laugh, then steps impossibly closer, his frame squared as though ready for a fight. “Oh, right. Because you, the great Ultra Magnus, have never made a command decision without approval.”

“I do not operate outside of protocol.”

“Oh, give me a break!” Rodimus gestures wildly, frustration crackling off of him in waves. “You’ve never bent a rule? Never looked at the reality of a situation and decided to do what you thought had to be done instead of what the regs dictated?”

Magnus doesn’t answer his probing question right away, but the stiffness in his frame betrays something unspoken. It’s enough for Rodimus to latch onto.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he sneers, optics flashing. “Funny how it’s different when it’s me, huh? When it’s Optimus, it’s ‘necessary action’. When it’s me, it’s ‘reckless independence.’”

Ultra Magnus exhales, slow and controlled, like he is barely keeping himself from saying something harsher. Prowl’s optics narrow as he follows the conversation. “This is not about Optimus.”

That is a lie. Despite the argument spiralling out of control due to Rodimus’ insecurities, he has in all likelihood (an 85% chance) of being correct.

Prowl reaches into his subspace.

“Oh, isn’t it?” Rodimus’ engine revs again, louder this time, his plating lifting as if he’s fighting the urge to physically assault the officer. “You don’t respect me as Prime. You never have. And you know what? Fine—But don’t pretend this is about some ‘reckless’ decision. If it had been Optimus, you’d be nodding along, saying he did what had to be done. But me? You just can’t wait to tell me how I fragged it all up.”

Prowl watches as Ultra Magnus’s carefully blank mask finally slips.

“You are not O-”

If Magnus finishes that sentence, they will never move onto the intended topic of their meeting. Shifting his weight, Prowl interrupts before he can finish vocalizing the very thought that had gone through his own helm earlier.

“Enough.”

The single word isn’t loud, but it’s enough to snap both Rodimus and Ultra Magnus’s attention toward him.

A sharp clatter cuts through the sudden silence as a blade is pressed down onto the table. He ignores the shiver that goes through his spinal strut and stares up at the matching pair of blue optics staring him down. One still seething, the other impassive. Prowl meets their gazes in turn, expression cool and calculating.

“This debate is irrelevant,” he states plainly. “Assigning blame will not change what’s already happened, and it certainly won’t stop it from happening again.” He tilts his helm slightly, optics narrowing. “If we’re done posturing, I’d rather we focus on why someone thought eliminating Rodimus was necessary. That is the problem worth solving.”

The Prime’s gaze slides down to the table. When his optics land on the dagger trapped beneath Prowl’s servo, he stiffens. Drift takes the chance to slowly pull Rodimus away from Ultra Magnus, side-eyeing the larger mech with wary annoyance.

“It is unlikely that this will be the last attempt on Rodimus’ life. It has been, in total, four cycles since the moment Meister first acted. We need to make sure everyone in this room has the most up to date information, and from there, decide what to do with it.”

“Finally.” Ratchet grumbles from where he stood hovering over a stack of flimsies he’d pulled from his own subspace. Red Alert twitches and barely glances away from the screen for a nanoclick before his gaze falls back on Meister’s grinning form reflected on the monitor.

Ironhide nods and folds his arms, leaning back in his chair at the other end of the table. “Yeah, I gotta get back t’ trainin’ the new recruits. I ain’t got the time t’ be wastin’ here.”

Rodimus still hasn’t looked away from the vibroblade that Prowl had unceremoniously slapped onto the table. His gaze lingers on it, burning, EM field pulled tight to his plating. Prowl pulls his servo away from the energon-stained dagger, leaving it where it sat, before leaning forward. The atmosphere grows sour with the weight of the Prime’s guilt, but Prowl has no patience for it. Guilt is inefficient, an emotional response that does nothing to address the real problem.

“Prowl…..” Rodimus starts, servo grasping the edge of the table.

Prowl cuts Rodimus off before he can go off on another tangent that does nothing but waste time, firm in his decision to do so. The Prime’s guilt is misplaced—Prowl’s choices were his own, and he did not make them lightly. For Rodimus to try and shoulder the consequences as his own is illogical.

“Ratchet?”

The CMO sighs and leans back, rubbing at an ache behind his eyebrow ridge. “It isn’t much.” Pulling out a flimsy from the middle of the stack, he scans it. “I finished the repairs on the mech only a couple joor ago. He is no longer hooked up to the spark monitor, though I left the stent next to his spark. He has continued to have spark fluctuations the entirety of the time he has been with us, which leads me to believe that is, unfortunately, his normal.”

Ratchet’s expression twists like something about that bothers him.

“That being said, I have locked down his T-cog, placed baffles over all the mods that I could find, with and without the scans, and have emptied his subspace—that mech has a terrifying amount of illegal items. Substances, weapons, traps, tech…..it’s a bit insane to be honest.”

Ironhide whistles long and low, getting up out of his seat to go take a look. Hovering over Ratchet’s shoulder, he reads the report in blatant curiosity. “You think he is still much of a threat then if you took away all his toys?”

Ratchet deadpans. “Obviously. The mech is a highly efficient assassin. Once the meeting has concluded, I will need you, and whatever poor spark you pick, to take him to his new cell. I want him out of my medbay, I do not trust him near the other patients.”

“Understood Doc’.”

Prowl leans forward over the table, steeples his servos, and rests his helm in the cradle. “Ratchet, does this mean that the assassin is well enough for interrogation?”

Icy optics cut over to him, narrowed into slits. “........yes.”

“Then I will be pulling him in for questioning soon. We must try and learn more about the reasons for his actions, if we are able to.” Prowl hums in acknowledgement, then subtly shifts his gaze to Drift.

The Swordsmech has been unnervingly silent throughout the conversation, his frame partially hidden behind Rodimus’. His optics flick between the blade, Meister’s feed on the monitor, and anywhere but Prowl himself. His plating is drawn tight, his entire frame wired with tension that Prowl is 97% positive has to do with the current topic.

Prowl notices. And he acts on it.

“You know him,” he states, blunt and to the point.

Drift’s optics finally snap to him, momentarily wide before he schools his expression into a carefully neutral mask.

Prowl is undeterred. “Your reaction to Meister’s presence has been suspect from the moment he arrived. You are and have been since your indoctrination, consistently exhibited an unyielding effort in remaining aloof when in the presence of the Autobot ranks, save few. Your entire demeanor has shifted, which suggests a knowledge of the assassin on a personal level.”

Drift’s jaw tightens. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Prowl presses further. “It means everything. Because if you know him, then you have insight into his methods, his reasons, and his past affiliations. Information we could use. Information that may allow me to garner better results once I begin the interrogation.”

Ratchet glances at his conjunx from the corner of his optics, but remains silent, watching.

Rodimus finally tears his optics away from the vibroblade, brow ridges furrowing in confusion. “Drift?”

Drift exhales sharply, shoulders bunching. His optics dart briefly to Meister’s image on the screen, then back to Prowl. He doesn’t speak immediately, clearly weighing his options.

Prowl doesn’t give him an out. “Tell us.”

Drift’s servos curl into fists at his sides. He vents once, twice, then finally, reluctantly, he speaks.

“I know him,” he admits, his voice low. “I worked with him.”

The room stills. The only two mecha in the room that appear unsurprised by his admittance is Ratchet, and Prowl himself.

Ultra Magnus grows uncomfortable, undoubtedly reminded of Drift's unsavory origins. Rodimus stares, jaw open. Even Ratchet, who has seen and heard more than most, mutters something under his breath, though it appears mostly out of exasperation. Red Alert only subtly shifts, optics sharpening as he absorbs the information. He lifts a servo and fiddles with something at the console, the security feed splitting apart and fluttering between cameras. Even now, Red Alert is focused on security, as he keeps an optic on their other high value prisoner who is set up in the Brig.

Prowl does not react outwardly. Internally, he calculates the implications at rapid speed.

Drift rolls his shoulders, visibly uncomfortable with having to air out his private affairs. “Meister isn’t just an assassin. He’s more likened to a ghost at this point. The kind of bot people don’t go speaking about unless they want to invite death to their doorstep.”

Rodimus exhales, muttering under his breath. “No wonder I couldn’t find anything. Great. Fantastic.” He leans a hip against the table, turning his back to Magnus. “So, what? You were friends?”

Drift’s optics darken. “No.” A pause. He is not telling the truth. Prowl does not call him out. “But we were on the same side once.”

“Decepticon?”

Drift glances away, a grimace twisting his lips. Folding his arms, he nods.

Prowl zeros in. “Which means you know how he operates.”

Drift hesitates. “Er….not really.” In this, he does not appear to be lying. Prowl sets aside the anxiety that sparks and refrains from allowing himself to become distracted.

“Explain.”

Drift exhales sharply. “I might be able to offer insight if he acts a certain way, but I can’t tell you why he does what he does. The problem with Meister is that he’s an enigma. Always has been. Every action he takes has more than one reason behind it, and half the time, no one can even begin to understand how he reaches his conclusions.” His optics dim slightly. “And that’s assuming he’s the same as he was before he left.”

Prowl tilts his helm. “Before he left. Meister defected from the Decepticons?”

Drift gives him a look that makes the answer seem obvious. Prowl pushes down the mild irritation that stirs and leans back in his chair.

“He defected a long time ago,” Drift confirms, pausing before adding, almost reluctantly, “Way before I did.”

Ironhide lifts a servo, drawing attention. “Why’d he defect?”

Drift shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. His grimace deepens. “Because…” He hesitates, then forces the words out. “Because Shockwave murdered his twin.”

The room falls into a heavy silence.

Ratchet and Red Alert, who had been engaged in a hushed conversation, immediately go still. Red Alert’s optics widen before he shakes his helm and silently refocuses on the datapad that’d been handed to him. Ratchet, however, takes a nanoklik longer to recover, his face darkening. His jaw tightens, denta grinding audibly, and then, without warning, he moves.

The heavy thud of his pedes echoes through the room as he stomps toward the table. The flimsies in his grip crack audibly under the strain of his growing frustration.

Prowl’s optics flick to the shards Ratchet tosses onto the table, and holds back a sigh.

Drift doesn’t flinch, but Prowl notes how he avoids looking Ratchet in the optic, gaze shifting to a point just over his shoulder instead.

“What do you mean, ‘murdered his twin’?” Ratchet’s voice is a low growl, barely contained fury bleeding into every syllable. “Slaggin’ pit—did you not think that was important for me to know sooner?!”

“Ratchet, give the kid a break, will ya?” Ironhide cuts in, tone rough but measured. “That psycho ain’t some lost sparklin’ lookin’ fer a carrier—he tried to offline Rodimus just a few cycles ago.” He jerks his helm toward the Prime. Rodimus’s mouth reflexively opens but quickly cuts his vocalizer when his Amica slaps his hip with the back of a servo, muttering a low ‘Hush, Roddy’.

The medic’s helm jerks towards the gunsmech as he shoots him a poisonous glare.

“That mech is also my patient. There is–there is something exceedingly wrong with that mech, both mentally and physically, and that information would have been astoundingly helpful.” The ambulance lets out a loud rev of his engine, emotion heavy in his voice. Prowl’s doorwings once again flinch away from the painful feedback. The medic was furious, but that was common when dealing with mecha Ratchet has personally treated. He is not truly upset with his Conjunx (71%), but at the situation itself.

Ratchet grabs his helm and growls. “No fragging wonder his Primus damned spark doesn’t seem to want to work.”

“What—”

Prowl’s words were cut short by the sudden hiss of the doors sliding open, the soft but rapid click of pedes against the floor signaling the intruder before Prowl even has a chance to look. His doorwings snapped back into a precise, controlled position—and chokes back the groan of pain—as his little brother strides in, completely oblivious to the ongoing discussion.

“Prowl! I have been looking all over for you! I know you are busy, but I just got this in and—oh.”

Bluestreak’s optics widened as he finally registers the gathered officers and Ratchet’s imposing—seething—form looming over the back of Prowl’s chair. His servos flatten against his chassis, clutched datapad creaking, as his doorwings twitch with obvious embarrassment. His frame stiffens and his engine gives a stuttering rev. “Oh, frag, this is a meeting isn’t it? A super important one, I bet. I didn’t—uh, well technically I didn’t know because no one told me, and it’s not on the schedule, I checked. But I kinda just….”

Prowl sighs and closes his optics for just a klik.

Bluestreak cringes as the room turns to stare at him—everyone except Prowl and Red Alert. The security officer abruptly stands, drawing Prowl’s attention for just a moment. He’s hunched over the console, tapping two digits against the side of the monitor. Then, he rattles it. Once. Twice. The screen flickers, momentarily brightening.

Meister is no longer grinning at the camera. He sits motionless on the berth, aft magnetized to the surface. His legs dangle—too short to touch the floor—and he swings them back and forth, erratically altering the pattern and speed. Sometimes, he kicks at the berth. Prowl calculates (81%) that it’s restlessness.

Bluestreak takes a step back. “Right. Okay. Got it. I’ll just—uh—I’ll just go, then. That’s fine. Totally fine. I can wait outside until you’re done or come back later or—”

He stops mid-backpedal, doorwings twitching erratically. His optics flick to Prowl, something uncertain flashing behind them.

Then, with a sharp ex-vent, he pivots forward instead.

“Okay, wait. No, actually—I should tell you this now.” His words pick up speed. “I just got a report in, and I know you haven’t seen it yet, and you need to because it’s from Eicosher, and it’s about Crystal City, and I know, I know, I should’ve commed first, but I just had this feeling that I needed to bring it straight to you because, well—”

He cuts himself off, gripping the datapad tighter before stepping forward and setting it down on the table. With a quick tap, he lets something load, then spins it around and slides it toward Prowl.

“—You’re not gonna like this.”

Bluestreak is, unfortunately, correct.

Prowl stares down at the datapad, fists clenching as he grits his denta, grounding himself. Without thinking, he lets his tactnet’s bandwidth widen. The effects are almost immediate—his emotional subroutines disengage, slipping back into standby. The burning anxiety in his spark retreats, leaving him focused. He takes a deep, steady vent and looks back up at his brother.

“Continue,” Prowl demands, his tone flat and controlled. Bluestreak glances nervously at the others in the room, but Prowl dismisses the hesitation with a wave. There’s no point in taking this elsewhere. The mecha present are all authorized to hear Eicosher’s long-awaited report, and it will be debriefed later, anyway.

Bluestreak invents deeply before speaking.

“Okay, so, Eicosher is obviously still stationed out there with Smokescreen and they’ve been trying to track the organization and I mean, they’ve found stuff, but it’s all bits and pieces, nothing really solid yet because whoever’s running it is really good at covering their tracks and they don’t leave anything behind—no records, no traces, nothing—but they did find something and it’s bad, Prowl, really, really bad.”

Prowl didn’t move. He was waiting. Bluestreak was stalling, tangling himself in his own words, but that wasn’t unusual.

His brother leans over the table and swipes a digit across the datapad, bringing up a different document. Prowl watches as Eicosher’s familiar scrawl fills the screen, followed by a series of partially completed blueprints. The recorded data includes information gathered from handheld lasers with simultaneous localization and mapping tech. Prowl’s tanks sink, unease creeping deeper within him.

“They found tunnels,” Bluestreak finishes.

“Explain.” Prowl forgets to monitor his tone and Bluestreak recoils slightly. There’s no time to regret it, though; instead, electing to press reassurance through their bond. Bluestreak’s field settles but he nods so quickly it appears almost frantic.

“Okay, so—you know how Crystal City has a really complicated underground infrastructure? Like, with all the old transit systems and storage sectors and maintenance shafts? Well, these tunnels aren’t in any of those records. They don’t match anything Eicosher could find, which means someone built them completely off the grid—which would take forever—or they were already there, were never recorded, and somebody has been using them, which, honestly, is worse, because why were they already there, who built them, and what are they using them for now?”

Prowl’s doorwings twitch, and a weight settles in his chassis. The strategic implications are stacking in his processor, each one worse than the last. He reroutes his ATS to begin calculating worse case scenarios before it can brute force the process on its own.

Bluestreak’s words tumble over each other, speeding up. “And that’s not even the worst part because they tried to send scouting teams in, right? To map it all out? But it’s a mess down there, Prowl, it’s huge and it just keeps branching out in ways that don’t make sense—like, they’d swear a path was clear one cycle, and then the next it’s blocked off or it leads somewhere completely different, and they have no idea how—but the worst part, the actual worst part—” His voice dips into something anxious. “They’ve already lost at least a couple dozen mechs in there.”

That makes Prowl stiffen. His field wavers but his expression remains carefully composed. “Lost.”

Bluestreak nods rapidly. “Some just—just vanished. No signals, no remains, no distress calls, no nothing, like they were never there. And the ones they did recover—” He falters slightly, doorwings pressing tight against his back.

Prowl’s processor cycles through the possibilities at high speed, each more troubling than the last. Unrecorded tunnels beneath Crystal City—extensive enough to swallow teams of trained operatives—changes everything.

If the tunnels were constructed recently, it would indicate an operation of staggering scale and resources. The sheer amount of labor, time, and material required to dig out a subterranean network of that magnitude—undetected—suggests a level of organization and coordination far beyond what they previously estimated. This suggests they were not just looking at a scattered collection of criminals; it would be an entrenched, highly structured force with a long-term agenda.

But if the tunnels were already there? If someone else built them long ago? That’s worse.

Because who built them? And why?

Crystal City is old, but not so old that records of underground expansions should be missing. Infrastructure projects, even illicit ones, leave traces—construction logs, supply manifests, historical blueprints, oral accounts from builders or workers. Yet these tunnels are absent from all known records. That suggests a deliberate erasure. Someone wanted them hidden.

Prowl’s digits tighten around the edge of the datapad. The practical ramifications alone are staggering. A tunnel system of unknown depth and reach means absolute strategic disadvantage. The city’s defenses are compromised without anyone even realizing it.

Troop movements? Compromised.
Supply chains? Vulnerable.
Security checkpoints? Rendered meaningless.

Every assumption they have about controlling the city’s perimeter is useless if an enemy force can move beneath them undetected. The tunnels allow for smuggling, ambushes, assassinations, entire supply lines running outside of monitored routes. Worst of all, they provide an avenue for retreat. Even if the enemy is cornered, they have an escape route—one Prowl doesn’t even know how to begin sealing because they don’t know its full extent.

And then there’s the disappearances.

Prowl has seen loss in the field. He understands combat casualties, the grim math of war. But vanished? Without a trace? That’s something else entirely. Mechs don’t simply disappear in the middle of an operation unless something in those tunnels is ensuring they don’t come back.

His optics narrow. If mechs are being taken, where are they going? And why?

“They were in bad shape, Prowl. Worse than bad. Really fragged up, and we don’t even know why because half of them don’t remember what happened to them down there, and the ones that do aren’t making any sense, like full-on, processor-level glitches, just saying stuff that doesn’t track, doesn’t fit.”

Ironhide, who had moved over to assist Red Alert with something on the console, pauses with a bundle of wires in his servos and glances up, frowning. Ratchet, unusually silent during Bluestreak’s report, finally exhales sharply, frustration clear in the sound. “Fantastic,” he growls, venom dripping from his tone. “As if our current situation isn’t already a fragging disaster. Now we get to add problems from another city into the mix.”

Prowl ignores the comment, his optics still fixed on Bluestreak. “Has Eicosher made any further attempts?”

Bluestreak shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, but they’re being careful. Really careful. Smokescreen’s attention has drifted from trying to set the legal system into place—not really any point when he keeps getting undermined at every turn–and he’s been helping coordinate the scouting teams, but it’s risky as frag, and they don’t want to lose anyone else. They’re trying to get more intel before making any big moves, but—it’s bad, Prowl. Really bad.” His field wavers, brushing against Prowl’s in a brief, instinctive touch. “I just— I knew you needed to see this.”

Prowl swipes through the datapad until he finds the casualty reports, reading as the data scrolls across the screen. It is as grim as Bluestreak implied—perhaps worse. Twenty-seven mechs were lost in the tunnels. Eight had been recovered, though ‘recovered’ is a generous term, of which only five remained online. The reports detail their conditions in sparse clinical terms, that Prowl recognizes as First Aid’s shorthand, but he can still see the injuries in his mind: heavy structural damage, severe system failures, and in three cases, unexplained neural degradation that had no viable source of origin.

He pauses on two names.

Flagged under critical status, marked with red indicators and a note for Ratchet to review. Their injuries were the worst among the returned. Their spark cradles had been pried open, the delicate casing torn outward and left that way. The first, an Autobot scout named Fasttrack, had only been missing two cycles before retrieval. Upon recovery, his spark was erratic—not flickering from damage, but exhibiting fluctuations that don’t match any known failure patterns. First Aid had noted the oscillations were entirely wrong, neither failing nor strengthening, just… wrong.

The second case is worse. Backbeat, an engineer assistant, was lost for a full decacycle before being found unconscious near one of the tunnel exits. His spark was missing a chunk from the upper right side of the crystal, causing his signature to read as altered. No known cause. No external explanation, other than someone or something had to have done it to him. It was still functional, still keeping him alive, but the frequency and energy readouts showed a lapse in quality of life. If he ever destabilized, recovery would be unlikely.

Prowl’s expression darkens as his ATS devours the data. Spark anomalies are rare, but they’re not unheard of, usually resulting from catastrophic damage or deliberate tampering. The moment the word “tampering” enters his thoughts, his logic net immediately links it to another anomaly.

Prowl hesitates. He doesn’t believe in assumptions. He doesn’t deal in guesswork. But his tactical net calculates probability based on available data, and it doesn’t care for coincidence. It processes the injuries in the tunnels, the spark irregularities, and the chaos of the last few cycles.

31% probability of correlation.

That is not an insignificant number.

“Spark irregularities,” Prowl says, voice steady as he continues to swipe through the reports. He doesn’t look up, but he knows Ratchet is listening. “That’s twice now.”

Ratchet grunts but doesn’t respond immediately. Prowl doesn’t mind. The medic is as methodical as he is; he knows better than to comment without verifying the claim himself.

Prowl shifts the datapad, angling the screen toward Ratchet. “Three cases, counting Meister.”

That earns a snort. “Oh, for—” Ratchet reaches out and snatches the datapad from his servos, optics narrowing as he scans the information himself. Prowl watches him read, taking in the way the lines of his faceplate crease. Ratchet scoffs, but there’s no real derision behind it. “You’re reaching.”

Prowl tilts his helm slightly. “Am I?”

Ratchet flicks his optics up, briefly meeting Prowl’s. “Yeah. This is battlefield data. Half the reports are missing details. For all we know, these mechs were assaulted, discarded, and then hit with some weird local interference or contamination down there. Maybe radiation, maybe residual energy from the war. We’d need to conduct tests, a whole series of them. And then we have to consider the fact—” He shoots a bitter glare at his Conjunx, who simply stares off into the distance. Rodimus steps between them, folding his arms across his chest and scowling at Ratchet. The medic rolls his optics and turns back to the TIC. “—that we know nothing of Meister’s spark irregularities, other than they likely stem from a severed twin bond, which has absolutely nothing to do with the Autobots we’ve got in critical care. That alone could drive a mech insane, but it doesn’t prove that it has anything to do with what is happening in Crystal City. Sparks are fragile, Prowl. You know that.”

He doesn’t mention the engineer who was missing an entire piece of his spark. Prowl knows he saw it.

“I do,” Prowl concedes, his gaze unwavering. “And I also know that our last recorded cases of unidentified spark anomalies were exceedingly rare. And none of them involved missing personnel returning from an unknown subterranean system.”

Ratchet huffs, turning his attention back to the screen, looking deeper into the medical logs. “And what does that have to do with Meister?”

Prowl says nothing at first, then, “Statistically, nothing.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Ratchet mutters, handing the datapad back with a firm shove into Prowl’s waiting servos. “Meister’s issues have nothing to do with some underground tunnels. You’re grasping at bolts, trying to force a connection that isn’t there.”

Prowl accepts the datapad but doesn’t look away. His optics track as Drift pulls Ratchet aside, voice low but sharp, not quite trying to hide their conversation from the rest of the officers present, but not telegraphing it either. Rodimus steps in almost immediately, his field tense with wary anticipation.

“I didn’t know,” Drift says, quiet but firm.

Ratchet’s optics narrow, disbelief etched into every sharp edge of his faceplate. “You didn’t know?” His tone is edged with something dangerous, incredulous. “You’re telling me you seriously had no idea how a severed twin bond affects a spark?”

Drift’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t flinch, but there’s tension in the way his servos curl at his sides. “I knew it would hurt. I knew it would weaken him. I didn’t know it would—” He hesitates briefly, “—do this.”

Ratchet lets out a sharp ex-vent, shaking his helm. “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

Drift’s field ripples, flickering between frustration and restraint. “I didn’t know it was relevant,” he says, voice low but steady. “His spark’s been like this for a long time.”

Ratchet drags a servo down his faceplate, his vents hissing. “You should’ve told me.”

Drift glances at Rodimus, just for a second, but the Prime remains silent, arms crossed as he watches them both. When Drift speaks again, his voice is quieter, but firm.

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

The weight of the words settles between them, heavy but immovable. Ratchet doesn’t argue, but the tension in his stance doesn’t fade.

Bluestreak’s timid voice steals everyone’s attention, except two.

“Red? Hey, Red, are you okay?”

Across the room, Red Alert stands rigid at the console, frame locked stiff, his venting erratic. His digits claw at his plating, tugging at exposed wires beneath, sparks crackling between his audial horns in frantic bursts. His field is spiked with so much static anxiety that it grates against Prowl’s own field like an exposed livewire.

Ironhide stands beside him, lips pursed, one servo pressed to his helm as he speaks into his comm. His expression is carved from stone, unreadable but sharp. Prowl doesn’t need to hear the conversation to know it’s bad.

Bluestreak shifts awkwardly, glancing between them. “Red?” He tries again, slower this time, his voice uncertain. No one answers.

Prowl pushes himself up from his seat, stepping around Drift without a word. Rodimus starts to shift as if to say something, but Prowl ignores him, pushing forward through the gathered mecha with practiced ease. His doorwings flick sharply—dismissing the pain—as he reaches Red Alert’s side, close enough now to see the way Red’s servos are trembling, digits twitching uncontrollably as they clutch at his forearms.

“Red Alert,” Prowl says, measured and firm, voice cutting through the static haze of the security director’s distress.

Red Alert spins, optics wild, and screams.

“It’s not working! Why isn’t it working!? He must have done something—he had to have!”

Prowl stills, his field steady even as his processor sharpens with immediate knowing dread.

He?

“Clarify,” he orders.

But before Red Alert can, the unmistakable whirr of cannons charging seizes the room.

Prowl’s helm snaps toward the source just in time to see Ironhide turning, his expression a stormcloud of barely-contained fury. His shoulder-mounted cannons glow, primed and ready, though not yet aimed.

Ironhide’s voice is a low growl, sharp as a blade’s edge.

“I jus’ had Sideswipe check ‘n Meister.” His optics lock onto Prowl’s, unwavering.

The next words drop like a bomb.

“The mech’s gone.”

Chapter Text

Meister moves like a shadow through the dimly lit medbay, steps light, measured. His chrono’s out of whack, but the whole place is steeped in that eerie stillness that only ever settles over medical wings during the dead of recharge cycles—the hum of equipment, the occasional static crackle of a loose data feed, the faintest shift of plating as unconscious mecha cycle air through their vents. It would almost be peaceful. If not for the sharp tang of sterilizer and the ever-present anxiety that anything medical sets crawling under his plating.

He slips past the occupied berths with practiced ease. He’s done this before—snuck inches away from mechs who could online and see him within the next klik. More times than he can count. There’s an art to navigating a room full of unconscious bots without stirring a single one, a balance between speed and precision. And given that he’s running on systems Ratchet has deliberately hobbled, he’s leaning real hard into precision.

A half-step stumble turns into a pause at the intake desk—with a slip of his servo, a stolen data slug slots against a port to rip a surface code. One of the younger medics—frag, he thinks it’s a medic anyway, got one of those stupid symbols on their arm—recharges deep, a diagnostic pulled up and still scrolling over their HUD. He watches the faint flicker of her optics beneath closed shutters, tracking for any sign of wakefulness after the simple hack. Nothing. Good.

Meister moves on, pedesteps light as he passes a row of consoles still flickering with half-finished preface scans. The CMO’s office isn’t far—just around the corner, its door cracked open, a clear sign that whoever had been here probably planned on returning soon. He hesitates only a klik before slipping inside, ex-venting sharply as the door slides shut behind him. The dim light inside is a welcome change, the room’s quiet solitude allowing him to breathe without feeling like the walls are closing in.

That is, until he inhales.

The scent hits him immediately—a rancid, metallic stench that clogs his vents and makes his intake sputter. He stifles a cough, fighting to keep the putrid scent from overwhelming him. His optics dart to the source: half-hidden beneath a pile of tools, datapads, and random scraps, there’s an energon cube—or what’s left of one.

Meister edges closer, the soft scrape of his pede claws against the floor barely audible. Crouching down, he inspects the cube. The pink liquid inside has turned a murky blue, thick and sluggish. He picks it up, holding it to the light, watching as the liquid sloshes inside, still viscous but unnervingly off.

What the frag is this?

It doesn’t seem spoiled—not rotten, at least. But something’s definitely been added to it, something that’s turned the smooth, iridescent energon into this... sludge. The smell wraps itself around his vents, clinging and familiar in the worst way. That sharp metallic bite. The chemical edge. He’s smelled it before, but where?

“Well, that’s not how I remember my energon…” Meister sarcastically mutters under his breath, wrinkling his nose as he sets the cube down carefully, taking care not to spill any of its contents onto the desk—and especially not onto his servo. He gives it one last, reluctant glance, then shifts his focus back to the task at hand.

If he wants to get out of here, he’s gonna have to boogie—especially since he’s already made the questionable decision to go rogue for a bit.

Technically, he’s not ignoring orders.

Meister’s technically vacating the premises—just… not in the direction Siren wants. More of a lateral movement, really. A detour. A tactical relocation.

The paranoid bot is already pissed at him for ignoring him the first time, when Meister decided to play an impromptu game of Mech Jockey with a drugged-out TIC—wherein Meister was the mech, Prowl was the jockey, and neither of them had been enjoying it.

Breaking out of his med-suite-turned-cell had been insultingly easy now that he didn’t have to drag around a spark monitor the size of a whole slagging mechling. No proximity alarms, no security overrides, not even a stationed guard watching the door. They hadn’t even bothered sedating him—which, well, was probably because the Hatchet was worried about his spark, but still. The medic had finally unwired it from his frame probably… a couple joor ago? Sounds about right. Had gone and ran a line of baffles through his mods in the same session, before emptying his subspace of all his goodies in one go. Every little contingency plan he’d cooked up and squirreled away—gone. Confiscated and locked up somewhere that ain’t here.

Annoying? Yeah. A setback? Eh. Hardly.

Aside from a few slivers of plating missing from the backside of his aft, one especially shredded ceiling panel, and the funny little gadgets the Hatchet spliced into him, Meister is free to snoop through the Lost Light relatively unhindered. He can’t quite decide if he should be appreciative or annoyed by the irony.

If they’re gonna treat him as a threat, the least they could do is put in the effort. As it stands, the hardest part of escaping had been holding back the urge to leave a sarcastic thank you note on his way out.

The one true deterrent that the medic had the fraggin’ idiotic foresight to warn him about was that there would be a mech dedicated to watching his every move through the camera they’d set up in the room. That hadn’t lasted long.

Meister ignores the rest of the room, clocks the terminal, and strides up to it. Siren’s gonna figure out he ain’t matching the beat soon if he doesn’t get his aft moving—liable to send the mech into a Primus-damned panic attack. Not that Meister particularly feels sorry for Siren’s fluid pressure levels. The mech had all but ordered him to take advantage of high command’s temporary distraction and get the frag out. Said it like Meister was some kind of helpless idiot who needed instructions on how to walk out of what was, to him, essentially an open door.

Which—rude. Also, dramatic. And frankly, unwarranted, because he was already gonna leave—had a route all mapped out, timing calculated, and an exit plan smoother than a fresh wax job—even without the aid. But then Siren got all huffy and jumped the gun, slapping him upside the helm with a tiny datapack he had all of three nanokliks to review, and not really any choice in the matter before the singular camera system watching him was forcefully tripped.

Meister isn’t sure if he has the energy to be offended by that.

He slips into the CMO’s chair like he owns the place—pretending it ain’t because he’s blatantly ignoring the very real possibility of a certain someone catching on to his dalliance in the near future. Lets his servos dance over the console before he even fully settles, pulling out his hardline and the data slug. The surface code he lifted outside gets him past the first layer of security—just enough to slip him through the front door without setting off every damn alarm in the building.

A precursory glance at the system makes him groan quietly. The CMO’s files are locked up tighter than a high-grade stash in a dry cycle. If he wants what he came for, he’s gonna have to dig.

That’s fine. He’s good at digging.

With a flick of his wrist, he jacks in, sending a string of silent queries into the system, digits tapping out an idle rhythm against the desk as he waits for the first response packets to filter back. Cycling his vents, he switches to breathing out of his mouth to avoid the lingering smell triggering his chemoreceptors. It takes all of five kliks for the console to recognize the intrusion and try to push back, but he’s already anticipating it, rerouting, and shifting his approach. The system fights him, but it’s old, and no match for someone like him, who's been doing this since he was barely old enough to hold a datapad right-side up.

A warning flashes—Unrecognized Access Attempt Detected.

He’s already working around it before the first real countermeasure kicks in, threading his access through diagnostic request channels, mimicking an automated system check. The console hesitates, uncertain. Meister huffs, not at all deterred, digits barely pausing as he buries the next alert under a series of looping code, brute forcing his way through security.

Just because Siren threw him a bone doesn’t mean Meister’s gonna gnaw on it and call it a day.

The mech might’ve set up a distraction, but Meister doesn’t trust him. Even though he thinks of the paranoid slagger as a sort of friend, he’s not stupid enough to think the feeling is mutual. Siren just wants him out of the tower before Meister starts slagging with things that weren’t part of the agreement.

‘Get in, hit your mark, get out, and don’t ask questions.’—which, a couple cycles later, had turned into, ‘Get off the fragging premises before I throw you out in pieces.’ Beautiful way with words, that one.

An alert pops up on his screen, signifying a match.

Siren’s also, a manipulative, lying little aft. Not that he’s got room to talk.

Meister isn’t about to take anyone’s word when it comes to his specs though. If Siren says his data’s been erased, odds are, it’s either half-wiped or stashed somewhere, waiting for retrieval. Meister would rather handle it himself than find out the hard way that Siren was just waiting for him to leave before digging through it for leverage.

A few more keystrokes, a couple bypasses, and—there. He’s in.

Just as he suspected, his file is highlighted, unfolding neatly on the screen.

Siren’s friend status has been officially downgraded to Afthole Glitch.

Meister doesn’t waste time reading most of it. He already knows what’s in there—read a good chunk of the physical version not long ago. Schematics, diagnostic logs, hypotheses, a bunch of useless scrap that doesn’t tell him anything new. A quick scroll confirms as much. He frowns when he realizes the CMO’s spark theories—the only thing he’d been curious about—aren’t in the file. Just some slag about damaged frame integrity. Spark irregularity numbers. And, of course, some half-baked speculation from Ratchet about whether or not he’s all there in the helm, complete with a fragging referral to some brain doc named Rung.

Meister snorts. Sure, buddy. You worry about that, and I’ll worry about rearrangin’ your filing cabinet.

He thinks for a second, then copies the whole thing onto a blank dataslug he nicks from a drawer, just in case he missed something. It gets slipped up underneath some plating near his intake, pressed tight against protoform. Uncomfortable, but it works in a pinch. Then, side-eyes a pencil holder, yoinks a lightpen, and slides it under his wrist guard before turning back to the console. One final tap of a command key, and an error alert populates. One by one, the files vanish.

Medical history? Gone.

Function logs? Shredded.

A particularly condescending note about how he “actively avoids medical intervention” and “may require forceful stabilization if signs of deterioration cause a redline”? Vaporized.

Good fraggin’ riddance.

He’s just about to back out when something snags his attention. A schedule log, tucked away in the daily entries. He almost ignores it—who cares what the Hatchet’s got planned—but then he sees the name.

Optimus Prime—Medical Consultation at 0.900 joors.

Meister stills.

That’s tomorrow morning.

Prime? Here?

That—that doesn’t make any slagging sense.

Optimus isn’t here. Hasn’t been here. Last he checked, the mech was still off-world, gallivanting around sector VX-78—too busy sticking his nose into some diplomatic slag that didn’t concern him. The war has dwindled into an assembly of smaller wars, each being conducted planets away from each other. The spats on Cybertron were as deadly as the rest, but even Meister knew it was more than just Decepticons vs. Autobots here. Here—half the time you didn’t know who or what you were fighting.

If Optimus was back, the whole fragging city would be talking about it.

His vents stutter, and he forces them to cycle slower, deeper, tamping down his frame’s stress response. There’s nothing big going on—officially. No battles, no announcements, no public-facing reason for Prime to be sneaking around Cybertron. If he’s coming here, dark, then there’s a reason.

And the list of reasons ain’t that big.

His optics narrow behind his visor.

There’s only one thing in this tower important enough to drag Optimus fragging Prime back to this base.

His spark gives an uneasy flicker.

Meister suddenly feels woefully misinformed, and he’s not quite sure where in the timeline he’s getting his info wrong.

Half of New Iacon, despite its sprawling mass, is basically still a frellin’ shanty town. The Autobots present are spread thin, split up across a handful of resurgent settlement cities. A good lot of them are still off-planet with the rest, and the current government is… guesswork, at best. Meister tried figuring out the official chain of command, but it turns out High Command is just a smattering of kinda-important mecha who now have upwards of three to five titles each.

Honestly? At this point, it feels like a Primus-damned trust fall exercise. He could squint and point at a random mech and get the same result. Someone has to be in charge. Why not random mech number thirty-two?

The schedule still flashes across the screen, blinking steadily as if urging him to move. He doesn’t. Not right away.

For a few precious kliks, he just watches. Weighs his options. The itinerary is already seared into his processor—he doesn’t need the extra time to memorize it. But something about the finality of shutting the console down makes him hesitate. There’s no going back after this.

Meister needs to know what the frag the elder Prime is doing here though. That could change everything.

He vents a sigh and starts backing out of the system, methodically retracing his steps. No loose ends, no stray data logs, nothing left to suggest he was ever here. The security features reengage one by one as he works, the system locking back into place with each careful command. Only when he’s certain it looks untouched does he close out of the terminal completely.

Sliding out of the chair, he moves to the doorway and sweeps a slow glance across the medbay.

Still empty.

The patients in the berths remain motionless, some hooked up to quiet monitors, others deep in recharge. At the front desk, the lone medic remains slumped forward, optics dim and frame slack. Out cold.

Meister steps forward, unhurried, motions smooth and deliberate as he strides into the room. The overhead lights glare down, reflecting off polished floors and sterile surfaces. He’s almost to the exit when something off to the side catches his optic.

A gleam of red.

His gaze flicks toward a metal tray on a counter, lined with a row of freshly made Autobot insignias. Their enamel shines under the harsh lights, edges crisp, nanites rippling faintly across their surfaces—primed for binding, waiting to be pressed onto plating.

That could work.

Meister doesn’t break stride.

Adjusts his course by the slightest fraction, drifting closer without hesitation. His servo lifts as he shifts his walk, digits barely brushing the table’s edge. A flick of his wrist, a shift of his weight—one of the insignias lifts seamlessly into his palm.

It’s light. Too light.

And yet, it feels heavier than it should.

He doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t acknowledge it beyond the way his digits roll it absently, feeling the subtle tingle of nanites reacting to his plating. Ignores the way it lingers against his palm, like an echo of something long buried.

It’s been vorns since he’s held one of these.

The moment the medbay fades behind him, Meister’s focus sharpens. If he’s going to do this, now’s the time. He shoves down the fear clawing at the pit of his tanks with the rest of his screaming instincts and forces his mods forward, ignoring the burning sting of the effort as inhibitors grind past each other, forcing their way into place. His claws dig under his plating, jerking at a wire that’s caught—he groans quietly when the baffle finally snaps into alignment, the strut it had been snagged on giving way with a satisfying click as it resettles itself.

The baffles suppress most of his internal systems, but he forces what little he can into effect. You can baffle paint nanites... sorta. It just makes everything feel like it’s being scraped raw. Like someone’s dragging 50-grit sandpaper across his protoform before letting a gaggle of scraplets under his plating.

With a full-framed shiver, his colors ripple and finally jitter out. Swathes of blue fade out in favor of more white and more black, thin streaks of red edging in at the seams—leaving just enough blue to highlight the center of his chassis. It’s not a drastic change, but enough to throw off someone who knows what he looks like. At least, for a klik or two.

They won’t be long. He doesn’t have much time before they come looking for him.

If he’s lucky, they won’t shoot first and ask questions second. He’s probably not going to get far, but at least he can collect as much intel as he can before they throw him back into some dark pit somewhere to forget about until something inevitably decides to finish off their planet.

Once the strut-deep itch subsides, he looks down at the brand still clutched in a fist.

Meister is, by nature, habitually impatient. Some might even call it a character flaw.

He prefers to think of it as an occupational hazard—when your entire existence is a series of split-second decisions between survival and a very permanent, very explosive death, you don’t develop much patience for leisurely decision-making.

So, yeah.

Siren is definitely gonna slag him for this one.

Prowl storms out of the meeting room, tension thrumming through his frame like a live wire. The moment the doors slide shut behind him, he’s already mapping routes and drafting a preliminary plan for the mechs present.

It had only been four cycles. Four cycles of back-to-back meetings, each more of an exercise in patience than the last. Legal discussions on the protocols they were attempting to establish in New Iacon. Coordination with Smokescreen’s team in New Crystal City to ensure procedural alignment, and just now, an emergency comm to schedule a meeting to discuss the addition of the tunnels in an ongoing investigation. The logistical nightmare of bringing Optimus back to the planet was grating on his nerves—brought back on the off chance that the elder Prime could extract something useful from their uncooperatively despondent prisoner. And he was due to arrive—Prowl winces—a full 20 breems ago. Someone should have commed him.

Through it all, Prowl hadn’t had a single cycle to dedicate to their newest problem.

He moves swiftly through the Tower’s corridors, systems running hot as his processors cycle through every possible scenario, calculating risks, and missing variables with each step. There are too many gaps. Too much uncertainty. 87% probability that the assassin is already three steps ahead.

Meister is loose. That much is certain. What they don’t know is how long he’s been loose or how much ground he’s covered before Red Alert caught the discrepancy in the security feed. That is the real problem—there is no trail, no starting point, no solid estimate of how much time they’ve already lost. At least yet.

Prowl had suspected the moment the situation was relayed to him that Meister had manipulated the security feed, but Red Alert’s confirmation only solidified it. The camera in the med suite had been tampered with. The how is still unknown, and the when is equally uncertain, but the fact remains: even under Red Alert’s near-paranoid scrutiny, Meister had found a window of opportunity. That, in itself, is concerning. He knows that there had been a lack of overall security surrounding Meister—the situation is dire and they simply didn’t have the mecha to spare right now. They are going to have to figure out something better once they catch him. If they catch him.

The lack of data is worse. He had already made calls to all standing guard stationed at every major exit to the tower, as well as the onboarding ramp of the Lost Light itself. A mech in Meister’s colors has not been seen—he has not escaped in the time it has taken them to realize his disappearance (54%) and Prowl is sure this was premeditated (78%). Meister isn’t going to just run, there is unfinished business alive and breathing—he has an objective.

Is his current objective intended to tie loose ends? Or something else? 

Prowl’s field tightens. He has to assume someone in the Tower is at risk. Someone who, given prior patterns, is highly likely to be the Prime striding beside him—Meister’s previously missed mark.

It would make sense.

With only the assassin’s most recent actions to go from, Prowl is trying not to panic. Meister has not demonstrated a functional level of self-preservation. Which means he is as much a threat to himself as he is to anyone else, or even potentially to the various neutrals currently residing inside the tower.

No alarms have been tripped. No security teams deployed. Prowl had barely won the argument against Red Alert and Ironhide, pressing the necessity of keeping the situation contained. It was their best, their only advantage.They couldn’t afford a faction-wide panic—not now. Not when everything was so precariously balanced.

It is imperative they keep control over the information—no one outside their small group knows Meister is loose. If they handle this right, it will stay that way.

He flicks through security feeds as he moves. Not because he doubts that Red Alert is already combing through every available angle, but because he needs something—anything—to feed into his tacnet. Even partial data is better than nothing.

Ironhide paces beside him, cannons still thrumming with residual energy. He shoots Prowl a sidelong look, scrutinizing.

“Yer sure this is how you wanna go about it?” Ironhide leans in, voice low but firm. “Wouldn’t it be easier to lock the Tower down? I could round up that batch o’ recruits that just transferred in. Crosshairs has ‘em now—I pull rank, we get more servos on this.”

He has a point. It would be easier.

If only Prowl was willing to sacrifice the small iota of certainty they did have—he isn’t, and will not.

“No,” he says, sharp and final. “We stick to the plan. Red Alert is still monitoring the security system—we’ll have a lead soon. Ratchet is confirming the medbay is clear. Bluestreak—” he waits until his brother turns to him. “Comm your mates. Get them ahead of the team and station them at the lowest access points. If he flees, that’s where he’ll go.”

Bluestreak nods and steps away to relay the orders. Ironhide jogs off down the corridor, heading toward the armory. If Meister got his hands on their weapons, the consequences would be catastrophic.

Prowl is about to move when he catches motion in his periphery—Rodimus, already shifting to follow Ironhide.

Prowl steps directly into his path.

Rodimus halts abruptly, optics flashing as he realizes the blockade isn’t incidental. Prowl squares his stance, wings held high in a deliberate, unmoving line.

Rodimus’ field spikes with renewed frustration. “Move.” It’s not a request.

“No.” Prowl’s voice is clipped, unwavering. “You are going to your habsuite. Drift will accompany you.”

Rodimus vents sharply, disbelief flickering across his faceplates. “Like hell I am.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

Rodimus’ expression bleeds resentment. His servos curl into fists at his sides, and Prowl watches them carefully—if he swings, he wants advance notice. The Prime is already running hot, systems taxed past their limit—partially from stress, partially from the argument he’d just had with Ultra Magnus. Rodimus is (65%) at his wits end and is (84%) feeling backed into a corner.

Prowl does not care.

“The frag I don’t!” Rodimus snaps. “He’s loose, and you expect me to sit around and do nothing? That’s not happening.”

“You are the target,” Prowl counters, sharp and precise. “You will not be out there making it easier for him—we don’t even know what his plan is.”

Rodimus throws out his arms, pacing a step back before fixing Prowl with a poisonous glare. “Then I stay with you! You need numbers, don’t you? You just said we can’t afford panic within the city—well, I’m not exactly gonna start screaming through the halls, now am I? So let me help.”

“Absolutely not.”

Rodimus’ engine cycles hard, Prowl’s obstinance stoking the coals of his prior fury. “Why? Because you say so?”

“Yes.”

The sheer audacity of the response knocks Rodimus off balance for a klik. His engine clinks, something internal grinding to a halt that echos a painful sounding churr down the hall, and he jabs a digit towards Prowl’s chassis, pressing repeatedly into the plating over his spark. Prowl fights back the desire to slap aside his servo. The Prime is upset and is showing his displeasure. “You don’t order me around.”

“In this, I do.” Prowl’s voice drops to something cold and irrefutable. “You are a liability in this situation. As the previous target, your presence in the field is a risk, and my authority in this operation outweighs yours.” He tilts his helm. “If necessary, I will have Ultra Magnus escort you personally.” He does not intend to add insult to injury—Ultra Magnus is simply the largest bot present and will have no difficulty bodying Rodimus back into line—he however strikes a nerve with impeccable aim, and Prowl watches as fire licks across the Prime’s spoiler, throwing up a plume of smoke.

“You’re not even fully healed!” Rodimus’ fans snarl, vents sharp and heavy as his frame fights off the sudden surge of heat. “This is my ship. My responsibility—”

If Rodimus wants to play this game, Prowl can, and will, win. He does not need this mech to like him—he only needs him to listen. Prowl cuts him off mid-rant. “And this is my Tower. My responsibility. You are here because of Megatron. And right now, you are an obstacle.” He doesn’t pause at the flare of hurt in Rodimus’s field that grinds uncomfortably against his own. “You want to be useful? Then don’t make this harder than it already is. Go. To your habsuite. Now.”

Rodimus glares, his optics burning with barely restrained (92%) hate. His entire frame is drawn taut, shoulders squared as if he’s one wrong word away from throwing a punch. The tension crackles between them, thick enough to choke on.

Then, with a sharp and crackling rev of his high-power engine and an agitated growl, he jerks back.

“Fine,” he grits out, voice like splintered metal. “But you’d better fragging find him.” Rodimus spins on pede and strides for the temporary residential block without another word.

Drift falls into step behind him, silent as ever. But just before he turns away, he hesitates. His gaze lingers on Prowl, unreadable, calculating. There’s no anger in his field, no outright disapproval, but Prowl can’t tell if it’s acceptance or judgment.

Not that it matters.

His image in this faction had been beyond repair long before this moment. Their approval—or lack thereof—was irrelevant. His function, his purpose, was not to be liked.

He only has one priority: keeping everyone alive.

Drift says nothing, merely watching for a second longer before turning away, following Rodimus down the corridor. Prowl tracks them until they disappear around the corner, his frame held rigid, vents shallow and controlled.

Only once they are gone does he allow himself a single, sharp ex-vent. Then, without another second wasted, he moves.

That was already the plan.