Work Text:
“Did you hear? Some new bot turned up today.”
Prowl’s doorwings gave the faintest twitch as the distant voice vibrated over his panels. Outwardly he was fully absorbed into his work, the scrolling text on his terminal reflecting off the polished smoky glass of his visor in an unintelligible blur. Inwardly he was snatching up the topic and turning it over in his clawed servos in a greedy, desperate bid to satiate himself.
Auxio Junction was little more than a communication hub out along the border of a no-bot’s zone that referred derogatorily as the Wastes by his fellow Cons. The nearest blip of civilization was in Autobot territory on the other side of the parched earth of nothing, with only rocks, dust, and the occasional ziplizard that hitched a ride on someone’s undercarriage during patrol to look at. The most excitement came from the scheduled supply drop-offs, if only because there was a contraband trade with one of the delivery mechs.
It was monotonous. Dull. Boring. Prowl may not express his dislike for this stagnation by taking it out on his fellows like some who were stationed here, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it at all like others claimed. His version of entertainment was beyond them, and he made no move to correct their assumptions and accusations. They certainly had tried to get a rise out of him early on with the occasional needling or blatant argumentative posturing, but they soon grew bored of him and he settled into the background where he’s stayed ever since.
It was the perfect place for him to sit back and collect data.
Gossip was typically the only new thing he could sink his teeth into nowadays, although even that had lost its flavor. There were only so many different versions of “who’s interfacing with who” in Auxio Junction before he’s already calculating who’s next on the rotation.
But someone new was promising. A new bot meant new datapoints to collect. Like a stone dropped into a placid pool, this new person and all their new habits, actions, and personality, would ripple across everyone else, pinging new mannerisms and disturbing the status quo. It wouldn’t last forever- as waves in a pool will eventually settle, but forever marked by the change.
Prowl was already chewing on this new topic as his primary and secondary HUDs lit up to full function. He combed through the communication logs- internal and external- running a filter program to pinpoint any mention of a new arrival as he remotely accessed the camera feeds through the backdoor he’d made early on in his station. Visuals on the rumored new bot were confirmed easy enough, flicking back through the timestamps to reveal the hub’s commanding officer- a surly brute of a mech named Timeout, leading the much smaller mech into his office. He doubled the feed windows, one a live reading on the office door waiting to see it open, the other chasing the pair into the past as they walked backwards through the halls and out the door.
Prowl had written many complaints about the state of the cameras in this place. The system was old and outdated, often lagging or skipping segments entirely. What it did record was blurry and pixelated at best, incomprehensible at worst. The angles were horrendous with several manually turned to look at walls. Very few recorded in color, and none of them had audio equipment. For a communication hub, it was terribly inefficient and a security risk.
His complaints always went unheeded. This place was old, small. Insignificant. What data it did relay was often inconsequential, often nibbling on civilian chatter from the other side of the Wastes and nothing more. If they did manage to pick up anything of note, it went the way of a courier via the scheduled shipment drop-offs. Only once did something vital had to be picked up by a mechbird that Prowl quickly flagged as Laserbeak, one of Commander Soundwave’s cassettes. Timeout had been so chuffed about the importance of it all- up until he realized he wasn’t going to get any sort of promotion or transfer out of the black hole that was Auxio Junction.
His annoyance over this lack of proper equipment flared once again as he had to trace the footage all the way back to the exterior gate before he got his first clear sighting of the newcomer. By then he had already extrapolated the mech’s height and width compared to Timeout’s recorded dimensions, another window blinking into existence in his HUDs as a modeling program happily started tracing out measurements to add to his collection.
The newcomer was on the shorter end out of the rest of the personnel stationed here. Prowl spun the personnel lineup and slotted the newcomer’s growing model into it- three down from Prowl’s own placement. The visual from the gate feed was quickly dissected and the pixels flayed out to be copied onto the model with whatever information the cameras could pick up. The rest would be filled in later once Prowl got his optics on him.
The mech was interesting in a way that he shouldn’t be. Prowl internally hummed to himself as he rotated the model. The diameter and height of his audial horns, paired with the number and distance between them were carefully estimated and recalculated. The width of the visor, the angled slopes of his shoulders- everything he could extrapolate or accurately infer based on surrounding markers was added. There was no regional hallmark to make an accurate origin city, as audial horns were common among various subgroups, and with no audio to use to infer an accent. He could be anyone from anyplace, someone physically common and nondescript. There were hundreds of similar frame types in the Decepticon ranks, which made pinpointing whether he was new or a transfer difficult.
Ultimately, he lacked data, so he tagged the model to continue running in the background and set it aside to focus on watching the recording with rapt attention.
The mech was speaking to Timeout at the gate, gesturing with his left servo. That would suggest he was left-dominant if compared to the data he had on the rest of the personnel (86.77% accurate). But then he started his step with his right, when he should’ve started with his left (82.03% if considering his previous position and angle towards Timeout). It took him 1.41 seconds to match the stride and pace of Timeout- atypical for a new recruit to try to mimic so quickly (the previous five recruits took 8.92, 15.60, 12.37, 6.81, and 24.55 seconds respectively). The 5 degree tilt of his head towards Timeout gave the suggestion he was listening (further data needed).
A warning pinged. The program combing through the communications came back with an anomaly: there was nothing inferring to a new recruit of any sort. Hm. Well then.
Prowl rewound the footage once more, this time going a little further back. Much to his chagrin, there weren’t any recordings from the outside of the walls, but- there, when he was talking to Timeout, the mech handed a datapad over. It wasn’t connected to the network, meaning he had no access to it, but Timeout was content with whatever it was it said. Transfer orders, most likely (91.44%). The validity of the orders? 36.82%.
News often reached Auxio Junction delayed, but word of a new recruit or transfer should not be that late. The worst offender had been three transfers ago, and they still had four days of warning prior to their arrival. They also typically (94.11%) came on a datapad already registered within their systems, not one that was disconnected entirely.
Suspicious activity: 90.98% and increasing.
Prowl mused over this revelation, brushing the warning and the communication windows aside the flagging program still in place to catch any late communication regarding the matter. He closed the one camera feed to focus on the one displaying the live feed just in time to watch several bots elbow each other as they hovered near Timeout’s door, trying to listen in.
The gossiping mechs from before, meanwhile, were actively trying to sneak past the open doorway where his desk lurked behind.
Another feature to gripe about, that. Why did the designated rooms for Supply lack a door? If they had stuck another mech into his position as Quartermaster, then they would’ve ran out of supplies ages ago from sticky digits swiping more than they needed. If Washout- the commanding officer when the Decepticons first claimed this place as theirs, hadn’t put Prowl as Quartermaster, then they would’ve all starved ages ago.
This wasn’t what Prowl was meant to be used for. He had been made for a greater purpose than merely calculating and anticipating supplies and watching over the cache like a Predacon over its meal. But alas, this was his job, and he wouldn’t let even the likes of Timeout try to bully him out of it in order to put some weak-willed sycophant in.
He had, after all, outlasted ten previous Auxio Junction Commanders. Timeout was nothing but a yapping pup to him.
Prowl dutifully pretended to still be focused on his terminal. His head did not move. His face was hidden. His doorwings were as still as a grave.
The mechs’ pedes were obnoxiously loud as they tried to slink past.
Nevertheless he ignored them, and could hear their muted cheer of success as they rounded the corner. He let his doorwings give a rolling flutter to chase away the vibrations of inept mechs, but their sneaking did ping an intriguing hypothesis.
No outside communication about a new recruit or transfer. A sudden surprise newcomer appearing at the gate. No discernible make and model. He didn’t have colored visuals yet, but he bet on dark, drab paint based on the colorless feed alone (87.29%). Not too big. Not too small. Someone perfectly normal and visually uninteresting. Someone who could also talk fast and loose enough to get Timeout to bring him in with minimal questioning.
The perfect type for a spy (48.01%) or a saboteur (47.99%).
The question was for who this mech worked for.
Prowl’s digits clacked against the terminal’s keys, setting aside allocations for the newcomer. An empty berth was selected in one of the smaller bunkrooms. A list of necessities were pulled from Supply’s catalogue to be set aside. The scheduling system looked through and bots marked to be on the list for shadowing so the newcomer could learn each position. It was the same new recruit/transfer integration program he’d used for everyone else. Perfectly normal. Expected.
He packed it all up in a neat file and pinged it to Timeout, not bothering to confirm a receiving receipt. The likelihood that Timeout would bother to read it was abysmally low, (19.11%) and would simply fling it to the newcomer (80.34%) to handle.
He wasn’t going to mention of his thoughts on the newcomer. Not even a whisper of him potentially being a spy. Not to Timeout, not to no one, he’s already decided. Prowl couldn’t help it. He was oddly fascinated with this sudden prospect that had fallen into his lap, more so than if it had just been a surprise new recruit. A spy meant they would be lying. They would be hiding stuff. Playing pretend. All while gathering, collecting, and storing the selfsame data Prowl was wont to do.
Everyone thought Prowl was boring. They didn’t know he had all sorts of numbers on them tucked away neatly in his processor.
And he craved more.
He wondered how many would grow suspicious of the mech as well. How many would even notice. Would any? How would the spy react? Respond to the other Decepticons? He could be working for the Autobots (46.66%), but could also be an insider for another base’s commander (39.45%). Either way, he would consistently working on an immediate dislike to the bots around him. Would he play into that? Would he pretend otherwise?
Prowl sat back in his seat, folding his digits together as he let the numbers churn away.
There was only one way to find out.
He watched as the door to Timeout’s office slid open. He followed the newcomer’s progress in being introduced to one of the other Cons who’d failed to scamper out of Timeout’s sight. The mech was passed over, and Prowl kept tabs on their progression through the halls back towards Supply.
A small ping in his HUD told him that the supplies requested were ready. He sent a wordless ping back with the receipt that he’d accepted the note. It was his own little version of gratitude.
Right on time too- the not-so-subtle whispering from down the hallway tickled against his doorwings. He flicked them once, tuning in towards the voices.
“...he’s terrifying,” was what he managed to pick up first. Locktight, the voice recognition pinged, confirmed by the cameras of the back half of Locktight visible in the bottom-left corner of the view. “He’s like Commander Soundwave’s more boring impersonator.”
Ah, Locktight was talking about him, then. Prowl’s heard it all in regard to himself, but he’d always found this tidbit to be a bit ridiculous. Commander Soundwave and he were nothing alike. Complete different frame types, different colors, different methods of development, different niches filled within the Decepticon hierarchy. The only similarities were that they both covered their faces (Prowl had gotten used to wearing a battlemask and visor at all times- there was only so much spit to the face an Enforcer could take before it became nauseating. Soundwave wore his… most likely for the mysterious intimidation factor (72.23%)), and that they had… small dependents? Was that an applicable term for Soundwave’s brood of cassettes?
In any case, Soundwave had his cassettes. Prowl had a single little rover bot he’d found buried in the back of Supply. They were not the same.
A knock on the doorframe drew his greater processes back to his station, shunting the live feed and other little programs to the side. He turned his head to formally take his first look at the newcomer.
His colors were dark, black and dark greys. Scratched and chipped in areas to signify a mech who hadn’t had a decent buffing and touch-up in some time. The visor was a dusty, pale purple, the only splotch of color. Muted, easy to forget.
The bot, however, gave a lopsided smile (angled towards the right, 20 degrees. Denda exposure 20%. A fascinating equality).
“Hiya. I, uh, got told to come here for some stuff?”
He sounded nervous. Or at least pretended to sound nervous. Prowl needed more datapoints in order to make a consecutive decision, but for now he’ll play along.
“Yes.” He didn’t rise from his desk. That usually made the new recruits more nervous and the transfers miffed. The mech shifted a little, looking like he was shuffling on his feet and instead was leaning his hip onto the doorframe where he thought Prowl couldn’t see it. Keeping a part of him secured, when his back was to the hallway and his front in Prowl’s domain (likelihood: 64.61%). “New recruits require to obtain their introductory package. Do you have any medical ailments that necessitate special accommodation?”
Prowl couldn’t see the mech’s optics, but the question did freeze his frame for 0.20 seconds. Interesting. He hadn’t been expecting that question (71.34%).
“Er, no. I mean, no… sir?”
Trying to sound deferential. He’ll see how long that would last.
“Then you’re package will be arriving now.”
Out from the towering shelves that Prowl had spent his entire station here sorting came a little beep. A small rover appeared out from around the corner, a box balanced neatly on top of its small chassis.
Immediately the mech’s posture changed. Prowl watched, fascinated, as he pushed up from the doorframe, the tenseness in his shoulders easing as a smile worked its way onto his mouth (both corners upturned, 25 degrees, denta exposure, 5%). He dropped down to one knee as the rover shuttled over, making a series of happy little blats of a greeting.
“Hey there lil guy.” He didn’t reach the box first, instead giving the rover a pat on its tiny hood before collecting the package. “Thanks for the stuff!”
The rover wiggled on its wheels before backing up and turning to go forward around Prowl’s desk. It bumped against his ankle, and he gave it a dip of his chin. Acknowledging the job well done. It chirruped before reversing into a U-turn and heading back to the shelves.
“He’s cute,” the mech stated, rising back up to his pedes and box tucked neatly under one arm. “What’s his name?”
“Roller.” Prowl calculated minimal risk in telling the mech this. Even if they were a spy or saboteur, finding out the rover’s name wasn’t going to change any of the stats relating to any nefarious ploy. He did, however, add a little tidbit just to see his reaction. “It came with the building.”
Prowl had found the rover half buried under junk when he’d been clearing the rooms when he’d first arrived here. It gave him a little side project to tinker with, and then a helper that didn’t try to walk away with half the tools to sell off or lied through their denta about not being colorblind while actively sorting color coded wires wrong.
Roller was, perhaps, the only friend Prowl had in this Primus forsaken place.
(Someone would eventually tell him that was rather sad, but now was neither the time nor the place).
In any case, saying that Roller had been here before the Decepticons would be a fun teaser for a spy to chase. It possibly meant the small bot had data otherwise unobtainable elsewhere, like ventilation, maps, blueprints, and the like. Roller had the basic map everyone else got in their welcome package, and rarely left Supply unless sent out to deliver something on the other side of the base. In other words, a dead end.
Not that the spy would know that.
“Huh.” The mech mulled it over, possibly going for a curious tilt of his head (datapoints needed to confirm). “Well, he seems like the friendly sort. I’m Meister, by the way.” The smile he gave Prowl was the same as the first, a little more teeth, a little more crooked. Fake appeasement (42.86% and increasing, more datapoints needed). His accent was also fake (40.49% and increasing), with it being a vague combination of tones and dips that weren’t indicative of any one place. So either a mech who traveled often (38.67% and decreasing), or one who was lying to make a more flexible cover story (47.71% and increasing).
Meister was clearly expecting an answer. Social norms even among Decepticons dictated an exchange of designations when prompted as a form of polite courtesy. But Prowl couldn’t make the information gathering easy for the mech, and instead gave a slow blink behind his visor- not that Meister could see it.
“Locktight is getting anxious out in the hallway,” he stated instead, giving a doorwing an obvious little flick to sell the point of how sensitive they were. And a thinly veiled warning, if the mech opted to read it as such. “You should go to him to assure I have not scrapped you for parts.”
“Slag,” Meister muttered, as if suddenly realizing the time. “Right. Sorry, sir. I, uh, I’ll see you later!”
And I’ll keep seeing you, Prowl didn’t say, already turning back to watch Meister return to Locktight through the camera feeds.
Meister’s presence, as expected, sent ripples through Auxio Junction. A social pecking order had been jostled, and Meister quickly found his place as quick-witted and laid back, but just as quick to pull a knife out on another bot when things threatened to become physical. All the while he shadowed the bots he’d been scheduled for, hung out in the rec room during his off times, and welcomed swapping shifts with others when asked. Friendly. Normal. Easy to integrate.
All the while, Prowl was munching away at all the new data. Meister had so many new expressions that he was quickly interpreting and filing away greedily. How could a mech have fifty-four expressions based on the angle and position of pede, hip, shoulder, and head? The various percentages of denta barred and lip curl angle to represent his true thoughts on a matter? And oh, the craftiness.
Meister was sneaky. He must have some sort of mod (89.44% accurate) to allow him to do proximity lifts of data off other bots’ datapads with how often he was reaching over and either his servo close or even swiping the datapad away in a teasing motion. He certainly excelled at sleight of hand, especially when he purposefully displayed a few card tricks (and discretely swapped cards during the games). He claimed he didn’t mind taking surveillance because “he could secretly nap” he’d told others with a grin with a touch too much denta to be truthful- confirmed when Prowl noticed his logistics files on his terminal attempting to be remotely accessed, conveniently when Meister was “napping” at his post (Prowl watched the attempt for several minutes to ascertain Meister’s methodology and then plonked him into the old logs from pre-occupation).
That, naturally, only drew Meister closer to Prowl and his domain.
“Mech, do you live in here?”
Prowl didn’t look up from his terminal, digits tapping away while Meister leaned on the doorway. This is the twelfth time he’s come to stick his head in and talk to Prowl this week alone, growing bolder and more talkative by the day. Meister was getting a bit of a reputation for it among the others, but Meister didn’t seem to mind, and Prowl never made a move to kick him out.
It was the easiest way to get some new numbers to crunch on the spy: up close.
“I’m the Quartermaster,” he stated (and noted that Meister only lasted 23.40% longer than most before dropping the honorifics). “My job is to be here.”
“Yeah, but you know other bots got, y’know, actual rotations.” Meister pushed away from the doorway before sauntering closer with a sway of his hips (98.60% confirmed: he’s plotting). He casually picked up the lone datapad on the desk before taking his seat on top of it, kicking his legs a little as he wiggled the datapad at Prowl (90.24% attempting to lift info from it). “I never see you in the rec room even to eat. And the others say you don’t have a berth in any of the bunkrooms- I asked around.”
“I have a berth.” It’s true, he did. It was just in the back behind all the shelves in a little alcove he managed to rig a door up with a dented sheet of steel. Only he and Roller knew where it was, and that was how Prowl liked it. He’d seen many a mech fall prey to an envious knife in their recharge while working under the Decepticon banner, and even before during his days as an Enforcer.
Jealousy was one hell of a drug.
“Come on, mech.” Meister was leaning forward now, the glow from Prowl’s terminal dancing off the cracked glass of one of his headlights as he smirked. The curve of his mouth and leaning posture was indicative of flirtation (62.14%), but also suggested it being false in attempt to gain something (55.09%). A servo reached up, and Prowl should flinch. Should, because he didn’t like people getting in his space. Should, because usually (87.33%) when people get that close to his face they meant harm. But the numbers were churning and spat out only a 16.40% chance of Meister doing actual harm to him now, and so he sat still while a digit curled and tapped against his battlemask.
“I haven’t seen you so much as crack this open for a breather. I bet you’re hiding a pretty face under there.”
Pretty was a subjective term. Prowl’s own opinion was that his face was very uniform. Easy to look at, easy to yell at, and easy to forget. Eyes were naturally drawn to his chevron and its bright red hue, or his doorwings as a Praxian trait or the Enforcer markings that he used to sport. His face was, typically, not a part of any sort of equation. Unless people were trying to spit at him. That seemed to be the only time his face was important. Hence the mask and visor combo.
“So you say,” Prowl stated, face turning back to his terminal but his optics never letting Meister out of his sight.
“I’ll know so, just you wait,” Meister grinned- this one more honest than the last one (72.80% of him enjoying the teasing). “Anyway, Prowl, mech, my guy. You need to get out more. Everyone thinks you’re the second coming of Soundwave.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Prowl murmured, his fingers flying across the keys without reading what he was typing. “That shade of blue doesn’t compliment my frame.”
The shocked bark of a laugh from Meister was so worth it. Prowl had to resist wiggling his doorwings in delight until after the spy eventually scuttled back out the doorway.
He hoped Meister enjoyed the little crumbs he’d left on that datapad for him.
Contrary to popular belief, Prowl did get out. Like now, enjoying the quiet first shift while everyone was either on patrol or passed out on their berths with just the skeleton crew working on their tasks. The air was crisp this early, and Roller beeped away as it rolled around ahead of him as he walked his thirty-second lap around the perimeter of the base. The usual guards at their posts were either asleep or making erotic texts to a femme the next town over to pay any attention to Prowl and his little rover, and so he got to soak in the rare peace and quiet.
As they made their way back towards the front of the base, Roller made a happy little chirp, wheels trundling along through the dirt as it sped up to bump into a pair of familiar pedes.
“Hey lil guy!” Meister bent down to pat the rover, Roller wiggling its wheels. “So this is where you’ve run off to? I thought an Autobot came and swiped you up for how cute you are!”
Roller beeped and spun in a circle, delighted.
“I doubt an Autobot would come all this way to steal a rover,” Prowl stated, making his approach with hands tucked behind his back and posture straight. It was fascinating how honest Meister was to Roller compared to everyone else on base- Prowl included. Meister genuinely liked Roller (94.62%). Roller liked Meister (100%, according to Roller itself from the pings it would send asking if Meister was visiting). Meister also hadn’t tried to punt, flip over, yell at, hacked, or disassemble Roller like the rest of the personnel. It was a very easy and convenient target to vent out one’s ire, which was why Prowl disliked sending it out for deliveries. Not that anyone had dared risking Prowl’s ire in that manner recently- the last one still had pieces left to be discovered out in the wastes.
There was no proof that Prowl had anything to do with that, however.
“Woah, you’re out too!” Meister had that teasing grin on his face again (genuine, 83.10%). “I thought your aft was welded to that chair of yours.”
“I do occasionally have the need to stretch my legs.” Prowl wished he could do more than walk endless circles. He had to stamp down his base coding, barely scratching the urge with these mindless laps. There was little else he could do- he didn’t trust anyone in this base to leave long enough to satiate his coding, and Timeout grounded him anyway out of need for control. They didn’t have a medic to say otherwise, and it wasn’t as if Prowl had been truthful in his needs either. First rule of being a Decepticon was to deceive, and Prowl excelled at that.
Case in point: leaving a deleted file of a schedule for this very walk hidden in the other little crumbs he’d left on the datapad Meister clearly lifted from days prior.
By now, Prowl had concluded several things. One: no one else in this base had fragging optics. Or functioning processors (99.85%, with personal bias). Two: Meister was working for the Autobots, and not a Decepticon plant (95.03%). Three: Meister concluded that whatever data he needed, Prowl was the one who had it (96.22%).
What Prowl hadn’t safely determined was what the spy was looking for. It could be access to logistics for the other bases (53.00%), or it could be determining the logistics of this base for a future takeover (43.62%). There was always room for something else, but Prowl was curious what data Meister was trying to dig up. And so he purposefully left his scheduled outing hidden in some innocuous files with well-placed crumbs that a crafty little spy would easily find. A perfect window of opportunity, as it were.
Prowl could easily handle attempts of access when he was at his terminal, but when he was gone there was only so many firewalls and homemde security programs he could install on something so old. Not that he doubted Meister’s ability to sneak into something no matter how new and secured it was (72.89% estimated success rate for newest model). It was only a matter of time before he wormed his way in. And Prowl was curious. So he had added a little passive malware onto his own terminal to transmit activity to an innocuous datapad in a stack of dozens in a seemingly forgotten about drawer of his desk and took Roller out for a nice little walk.
An enticing opportunity for any spy.
It had taken him thirty-two laps around for Meister to show his face. Prowl was confident that the spy had gotten what he wanted (88.54%). He expected Meister now to make some sort of escape within the week (91.14%), with possible sabotage (67.90%) or surprise Autobot attack (22.32%) to cover his tracks.
Prowl was going to miss Meister, he realized then, watching the curve of his mouth as he smiled teasingly at him. He hadn’t collected even a fraction of the data he could obtain from him- sure he had a file on Meister, but what about Meister’s real self? He needed to know how many of those mannerisms bled through into each other, needed to know how real of a smile he could make when surrounded by friends and allies and not enemies in enemy territory. What was his real accent like? Where was he truly from? How did he react to different Autobots? Did they know how he was as Meister? Did he have any other covers and what mannerisms did they share?
Prowl didn’t want Meister to leave. Meister was going to take all those exciting new datapoints and run off into the sunset with them, and leave Prowl with nothing but the usual boring datasets he had already memorized. Sure there might be new ones- maybe some lost ones- but Meister’s numbers were so genuinely unique that he wanted to keep hoarding them away in his processor to examine at his leisure.
But Meister was going to leave. Not today- too soon- but sooner rather than later.
A digit tapped against the center of his chevron. Prowl blinked, focusing his optics on Meister’s 15 degree upturn of his mouth.
“What do you got going on in that pretty head of yours that’s distracting you from my wonderful charms?” Meister teased.
You, Prowl wanted to say, but knew that would show his hand too early.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he said instead, carefully swatting the offending hand away from his face. Meister laughed, Roller beeping merrily as it zoomed around their ankles.
Wouldn’t you like to know, indeed.
“Aw, don’t be like that.” Meister’s growing smirk was promising mischief (91.04%). “You do too much thinking. You’re not supposed to be working right now.”
“I am not working.” Prowl frowned behind his mask at the spy, who tutted at him.
“I can hear that processor grinding away as we speak. But don’t worry, I know how to distract you.”
And with a quick flick of his wrist, Meister touched his arm.
“Tag! You’re it!”
“Wh-?”
Prowl didn’t have time to protest before Meister and Roller sped away in the same directional rotation his laps have been. The warmth of his touch on his plating sent a strange tingle across the affected area. He huffed, but his doorwings gave a little flutter before he casually followed after them, making no move to chase despite Meister’s teasing needling and Roller’s beeps. No matter how much he craved to. It wasn’t the time- not yet. He had to wait. Needed to wait.
He was a patient mech, after all.
The day Prowl had been dreading arrived like all things terrible- slinking about in the dark on silent pedes. Prowl had just been ready to clock out for the night when an alarm he’d set specifically for this blinked at him in his HUD. He watched on as Meister slipped into the server room through the fuzzy camera feed, a subtle mix of nervous anticipation and steadfast determination creeping through his lines. He didn’t even need to run the numbers to know what was happening. What will happen. He clicked his terminal off and closed down the feeds, doorwings flicking once to chase away any lingering doubt before pinging for Roller.
“Come here,” he coaxed the rover gently, getting down on one knee as he crooked a clawed digit in a quiet beckon. As if sensing the weight of the situation, Roller crept forward with a muted little whistle. Prowl patted its hood like he’s seen Meister do in an attempt to soothe Roller, careful not to drag the sharper tips across the metal plating.
“I’ll be putting you in my subspace,” he whispered to the rover. “Please power down now. You can wake when you come out.”
With one last little trill, Rover did as instructed, the red beacon light on its top blinking twice before darkening. So much trust in such a small frame, and for Prowl of all mechs. He ran his digits once more over its hood before picking it up and subspacing it, wincing at the tight fit and sudden, heavy weight. He had to clear out everything from his subspace to allow enough room for the rover, but those things could be replaced. Roller couldn’t be. And wherever Prowl went, Roller was coming with him.
And they would be leaving tonight.
He rose gracefully to his pedes, setting his shoulders back and doorwings straight as he stepped out of Supply for the last time. He traversed the memorized hallways, past analyzed stains and familiar scratches. 42 doors were left behind in his trek from Supply to the front door, 1562 steps to cross the threshold to the outside. 346 more steps to the front gate, where the guard snored away at his post. 812 steps to reach the side entrance from the other side the wall- supposedly locked and barred, but he knew the others often snuck out to visit the nearest Decepticon town several hours out when they’re not supposed to be from this very same door. He was 96.99% confident that Meister would be making his escape this way.
All he had to do was wait.
Meister didn’t leave him waiting for long. The rusted door creaked something fierce as it stiffly swung on its hinges. Meister’s dusty purple visor all but vanished in the nightly gloom, but his optics shone bright underneath at this distance. He had barely taken a step outside before he clocked Prowl, freezing in place after an aborted jerk of his frame.
“I-I can explain,” he stuttered, sounding nervous (lie, 88.97%), but his digits were gripped tight on the edge of the door. Angry? Upset? Unclear. Unimportant right now.
“I assure you, Meister,” Prowl stated slow and confident, servos folded neat behind his back. Unthreatening, at least, not threatening in the way an anxious spy would think. “You need not explain anything. I come with only a word of advice.”
He leaned forward slightly (10 degrees from the waist, neck and shoulders straight). Meister stared at him with unblinking optics under his visor and digits denting the ancient metal as every joint in his frame tensed in anticipation for action.
“Run.”
The base rocked with an explosion that lit up the night sky in bright orange flames and torrent of black smoke. Alarms started blaring, the guard at the front gate startling awake with a shout. Neither Prowl nor Meister moved for a single instance before Meister threw himself away from Prowl, transformation sequence muted under the crackle of fire. The engine of the racer screamed into the empty Wastes, the dark night quickly swallowing the dark vehicle whole.
Prowl watched him go for just a moment optics tracking while his processor spiraled away calculating and rotating and gnawing. His base code cracked through its cage with starved claws of a ravenous beast as he locked onto his target with the single-minded focus of a homing missile.
How wonderful it was, that tonight he was getting everything he ever wanted.
The pursuit vehicle of his alt form roared in response to the fleeing racer as he charged after Meister into the night, the dust kicking up into furious clouds in his wake and leaving the burning Auxio Junction behind him for good. Numbers sped across his HUDs as he calculated every movement, every pitfall and hazard far before he visually saw them. Even in blackout mode, Meister couldn’t escape Prowl, not when he had long since locked in on his target. He may have a slightly superior speed, but Prowl had endurance, and it was quite the distance to reach Autobot territory from here. He had no doubt in his mind what the outcome would be. New datapoints raced at blinding speeds in the background as he hunted Meister across the cracked and pitted earth, elation thrumming through his cabling as his spark hummed.
The spy noticed his pursuer quickly, and immediately went into attempts to shake him off his tail by swerving dangerously at the last minute from a massive crater. When that failed, he spiraled around a wreckage, squeezing through a narrow passage at a speed that would make most fail to angle in time. Prowl slid through the gap without ever scratching his paint. He continued to dog after Meister as they drove through mine fields and graveyards of broken frames and artillery pits- and yet nothing shook Prowl off.
There was no losing him.
Prowl was closing in on the distance between them, measured and calculated with the live map reading in his HUDs. His fuel levels were hitting below 50%, but he knew how to allocate power where. He could go all the way into Autobot territory and return to Auxio Junction and still had 12% fuel left- he would be fine. Poor Meister, however wasn’t built for endurance, but he was a quick study. He had long since abandoned trying to shake Prowl, instead figuring that making a beeline straight to friendly territory was his only safe option (assumption, 93.12% correct). There he would have friends waiting for him (91.21%), so if he could only reach them in time before Prowl caught him, then the safety of numbers would take care of his pursuer. Or perhaps he hoped just entering Autobot territory would sway him off.
Like Prowl would let something like invisible boundaries stop him.
Prowl set a consistent gap between them as he continued to chase Meister’s tail through the Wastes. Not gaining, not losing, yet always within sight. Meister was stubborn, his engine whining as he pushed his racer frame to the very limits. He was going to crash so hard once he stopped. Prowl almost felt bad- almost. Mostly because Prowl was having the most fun he’s had since… well… as long as he could remember, honestly. It’s been so long since he’s been on a proper chase that he couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for putting Meister through his paces.
They were closing in on Autobot territory now. Meister’s frame was now rattling, but he was still forcing his engine to run at high torque in order to try to outpace Prowl. Unable to stop. Unable to rest. Not knowing what Prowl’s plan was once he caught up to him.
Poor, poor Meister. He couldn’t have known what Prowl’s alt was, not when nothing on base kept Prowl’s personal data and his frame was atypical for a pursuit vehicle (Praxians had too many sensitive bits to be off chasing and ramming other vehicles on the regular). And what sort of pursuit vehicle would be sitting counting cans of oil and wire harnesses all day, anyway? None Meister have ever met, surely (95.53% accurate). Instead he gambled and fumbled so badly that if Prowl wanted to, he could’ve ended this farce before they ever lost sight of Auxio Junction.
But that wasn’t what Prowl wanted.
The moment Prowl’s internal map pinged that he’d officially crossed into Autobot territory, his threat alert system blared to life. His sensor relays were tickling as several comm frequencies suddenly chirped to life, none of which he could tap into, not that he bothered trying. Meister was flagging badly, and his allies were in range and racing to regroup.
He had to end this quick before he found himself with a sniper round through his engine block. Ah well.
Prowl’s engine growled, low and dangerous as he upped the throttle, leaping across the following distance in a blink. The racer skidded sideways in surprise at the sudden charge, overcorrecting and tipping over the ledge of an artillery crater. Meister was forced out of his alt as he slid down the embankment, servos fumbling and failing to latch onto a pistol he’d pulled from his subspace and soon lost in the dirt. He couldn’t even curl his digits with how much he was shaking, plates rattling as he gasped for air, every vent steaming due to his overheated systems.
Prowl transformed before Meister slumped to the bottom of the crater, landing nimbly on the flat ground within the crater several paces away. The spy was staring at him as Prowl stood calmly and unfairingly stable while Meister trembled and bared his denta. He could barely get the vent to speak. Unable to escape. Unable to defend himself.
Caught.
A soft snap echoed above the gasps and whirling fans as Prowl’s battle mask slid away. He reached up with both servos, slow and steady, as he unclipped his smoky visor and pulled it away from silver-blue optics that peered through the early morning gloom at Meister like distant twin stars.
“Tag,” Prowl whispered, mouth curling into a ghost of a smile. “I win.”
The visor cracked as it hit the ground, his servos free to thread digits together up and behind his head. He took to his knees in perfect surrender just as Meister’s friends popped above the crest of the crater in a panic.
“JAZZ!”
Jazz, Prowl mused to himself, internally delighted as he latched onto the newfound data. Meister’s real designation was Jazz.
What a nice name (99.98% correct).