Chapter Text
“Please, have mercy…” Prowl pushed the crumpled wad of bills across the table, his fingers trembling. “The child is innocent—don’t punish the family. He’s just a kid…”
The guard who seemed to be in charge glanced at him coldly, not even bothering to reach for the money. “A half-grown brat, no hair on his lip and hasn’t even read a handful of books,, dares come buy someone’s release? This pathetic sum wouldn’t even buy me a decent drink!”
Another guard snorted. “We could talk if it at least covered a day’s meals!”
Prowl’s face flushed scarlet. He drew back the money, lips parting soundlessly. For a long moment he stood frozen, then stomped his foot as if making up his mind and bolted home. From the depths of the wardrobe he pulled out a cloth bundle, unwrapping it layer by layer until a small, timeworn jewelry box appeared. With a soft click, the lid lifted to reveal a few delicate pieces left by his late mother—the most valuable among them, an old silver bracelet.
His fingers hovered over it, throat tightening. “I’m sorry, Mother…” he whispered to the empty room, voice breaking. “But I have to save Streetwise.” He bowed his head and touched his forehead lightly against the corner of the box, drew in a sharp breath, and swallowed the tears that burned his eyes. Then he slipped the bracelet into his pocket, shut the cabinet, and ran out into the street—the sound of his footsteps echoing hard against the stone pavement.
“This isn’t enough money,” he said, slamming the bracelet down on the table, his whole body trembling. “But maybe this will do. It’s my mother’s—take it if you want, just give me the boy!”
The chief guard took the bracelet, twirling it between his fingers while puffing out a ring of smoke. “Now we’re talking. You’ve got guts, kid—real guts. Lucky for you we’re in a good mood today. Otherwise I’d have kicked you out on your ass already. That little bastard’s been crying his head off anyway. Take him. If he starves, that’s on you.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Prowl said, voice shaking. “If I have meat, he’ll have meat—if not, we’ll starve together.”
“Big talk for such a young hero.” The guard chuckled, pocketed the bracelet, and took the keys from a subordinate. With a screech of metal, the cell door swung open, and he dragged out a filthy, shivering bundle. “Remember this,” the man warned, thrusting the child forward. “You take him, you’re one of those rebels now. If the higher-ups come asking, don’t you dare mention us.”
Prowl nodded frantically and reached out just in time to catch the sobbing child. The boy’s face was streaked with tears and snot; the moment he felt someone’s arms around him, he clung tight and refused to let go.
He was the child of Prowl’s teacher. The couple had been arrested months ago—no one knew why—and “dealt with” three months later. No official explanation ever came. Their son had been locked up along with them. Their relatives wanted nothing to do with the case—fear of implication, fear of ruin. The teacher and his wife had eloped years earlier, cutting ties with their families. Now that disaster had struck, their kin dismissed it as “their own fault”. None of Prowl’s classmates, nor the teacher’s fellow colleagues, dared to intervene; most could barely protect themselves. And so the child had been left in prison like a forgotten parcel, waiting for someone—anyone—to claim him.
The boy trembled in his arms, and Prowl’s chest ached. He thought of his own parents, gone three years now. His father had run a small business, his mother kept the books and sewed for extra income. They’d never been rich, but they’d lived decently—food on the table, school for the boys, doctor’s bills paid. There was even a sewing machine, a gramophone, a few silver trinkets, a cabinet of books. A small, honest, steady household. Then came the car accident. Both parents killed. Overnight, everything changed. The house and their savings kept the three brothers afloat, but barely. The eldest, Bluestreak, buried himself in factory work and rarely came home; the second, Smokescreen, had been arrested for joining a student protest the same year their parents died. He’d vanished ever since.
One evening, a few days later, Prowl had just lulled Streetwise to sleep when there came a knock—three sharp raps at the door. When he opened it, Smokescreen stood there. His hair was cropped short, his face leaner, older, a faint weariness about his eyes. A bundle hung from his shoulder, a dead cigarette stub lay by his boot.
“You’re back?” Prowl said in surprise.
“Yeah. They let me out.” Smokescreen hung up his coat, kicked off his shoes, tossed the bundle aside, brushed the dust from his trousers, and dropped into the sofa. “Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”
“I’ll make some noodles. Drink some tea first. And hey—don’t leave your cigarette butts at the door. Take off your outer pants before you sit down!”
It was the first meal they’d shared in three years—two bowls of vegetable noodle soup with fried eggs on top, a sprinkle of cracklings, a few drops of lard and soy sauce. Smokescreen devoured it like a man who didn’t know where his next meal was coming from.
Afterward, they didn’t talk much. Smokescreen rubbed his temple and gave a crooked smile. “The school expelled all of us who got arrested—to keep things quiet. So I can’t go back. I’ve no idea what I can do now. Can’t live off what Mom and Dad left forever. And once you’ve been inside, you’re marked for life. There’s no way I can go work at our eldest brother’s factory — with my record, I’d only bring him unwanted trouble. If there’s no honest work… well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’ll try the straight path first.”
He spent the night at home and left after breakfast, saying he’d look for a way to make a living. Weeks passed without a word. Some said he was hanging around the west side of Praxus, others that he’d found odd jobs near the station. Prowl didn’t dig deeper—life had to go on.
Then, two months later, Smokescreen appeared at the door again—this time with a small stranger in tow.
It was early dawn. Streetwise was still asleep when Prowl got up to make breakfast. The pot of corn-and-sweet-potato porridge was bubbling when the door creaked open. Throwing on a jacket, he went to see—and found Smokescreen standing there with a suitcase in one hand and a child in the other. The boy looked four or five, dressed in shabby clothes, cheeks chapped red, hair unevenly hacked as if chewed by a dog. He peeked timidly from behind Smokescreen’s leg.
“This is Jazz. From now on, he’s your nephew.” Smokescreen pulled the child forward and shoved him gently toward his younger brother, then walked straight in, setting the case down without changing his shoes. “I adopted him. His parents were my seniors at university. Three years ago, they died protecting me and some classmates. If I hadn’t been in jail, he wouldn’t have suffered like this. I had to ask several friends to help track him down, and it took a few not-so-official methods to finally get him out of his relatives’ hands.”
“You—” Prowl began.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Smokescreen cut him off. “The classmates who were arrested with me are either still inside or have disappeared since getting out, and the rest can barely feed themselves. I can’t just turn a blind eye…” He looked at the boy, who was glancing around nervously. “Hey, you. That’s your uncle now. Say hello properly!”
Prowl finally looked down at the silent child clinging to his leg. The boy was thin but bright-eyed. Something ached in his chest, though his brow tightened. “Why dump him on me? I’ve got school. No time for a tag-along like this—and keep your voice down, you’ll wake Streetwise.” He sounded annoyed but still moved quickly, ladling out a bowl of freshly steamed egg custard made with leftover milk from yesterday—meant for Streetwise’s breakfast. He drizzled sesame oil and soy sauce, poured Smokescreen a bowl of porridge, added pickles, half a salted duck egg, and a few pieces of flatbread.
Between bites, Smokescreen said, “There’s food, clothes, and a tin of snow cream in the case. The kid’s quiet and won’t cause trouble—just be patient with him. He’s been passed around like a ball these three years, probably has some scars inside. …I’m thinking of trying my luck in the underworld. If he stays with me, it’ll end badly. Look after him for now—I’ll come get you both once I’ve made something of myself.”
While he ate, Prowl helped Jazz off with his coat, soaked a towel in the hot water left from steaming the custard, and began wiping the boy’s face and hands. The moment the warm cloth touched his cheek, the child flinched and turned away, small hands twitching in defense, eyes welling with tears, lips trembling but voiceless. Irritation sparked—Prowl swatted him lightly. “Quit squirming, or I’ll dump you at the orphanage.”
The boy froze. His shoulders shook; hands dropped limp. He bit his lip hard, eyes darting upward in fearful silence—like a stray kitten, or a startled quail.
Smokescreen bit into his flatbread and muttered, “Still not saying hello? Did you forget everything I taught you on the way here?”
Prowl winced inwardly, angry at himself for snapping. “You told me to be patient, but you’re the one scaring him!” He rummaged in the drawer, pulled out a sugar lump, and tucked it into the child’s mouth, softening his tone. “There, don’t cry. It’s fine. Eat the candy.”
When the tears stopped, he wiped the boy’s face again, then awkwardly dug out that tin of snow cream. Scooping a dab, he rubbed it between his fingers and gently spread it over the cracked skin, almost poking an eyelid in the process. The boy blinked and shrank back; Prowl hissed under his breath, adjusted his hand, and smoothed the cream more carefully this time. The child bore it quietly, only sneaking glances at him from the corner of his eye, as if testing whether he’d be scolded again.
At last he was done fussing over the child. He picked up the bowl, scooped up a spoonful of the steamed egg custard, and held it to the little one’s lips. The boy froze for a moment, then hesitantly opened his mouth and swallowed. Almost at once he looked up at Prowl again, wide-eyed and unsure.
Prowl frowned and offered a second spoonful, then a third. This time, the child seemed to relax. His small hand crept forward, brushing the back of Prowl’s fingers before gently taking the spoon, and he began to eat on his own—small, careful mouthfuls. All the while he kept stealing glances at Prowl, as if silently asking, “I’m not making you angry… am I?”
Something tightened sharply in Prowl’s chest; his throat felt oddly blocked. He nudged the bowl closer and reached for a small towel to wipe the broth from the boy’s mouth, “Take your time, no one’s going to take it from you.”
Only after the words left his mouth did he snap back to himself—and remember what Smokescreen had said earlier. That offhand remark about “trying his luck in the underworld.”
Prowl whipped his head around. “What did you say you were going to try? The underworld?”
Smokescreen didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leisurely finished the steamed bun, then drank two more bowls of porridge, as if he was deliberately prolonging the time, and only then spoke. “I’ll leave some money.” He pulled a crumpled stack of notes from the inner pocket of his coat and laid it on the tea table, ignoring Prowl’s question entirely. “Relax. He’s not mute—nothing wrong with his head either. He’s just shy around new people.”
He lit a cigarette, drew in a long breath, and exhaled. Then, without another word, he grabbed the handle of his suitcase, turned on his heel, and headed for the door.
“U…Uncle?” came the small, trembling voice behind him.
Noise seemed to drift in from somewhere outside. Prowl jolted, eyes flying open as he raised a hand to his temple, his breathing uneven. Ever since the entire Special Ops had gone missing half a year ago, he hadn’t had a single night of truly restful sleep. Perhaps it was worry—worry for his nephew, the unit’s overall commander—that made him dream so relentlessly, as the saying went: what one dwells on by day returns by night. Or perhaps it was simply that old debts, long accumulated, always demanded to be settled in dreams.
The dreams themselves were nothing more than scraps of long-past memories—old, trivial things from years ago—yet they tangled together like knotted rope, impossible to shake loose.
The war had dragged on for more than ten years. Both the front lines and the rear had been hollowed out; across the entire army, officers and soldiers alike had long since stopped caring what was technically “their responsibility”. Units below were desperately short on manpower, while command above was unable to dispatch reinforcements in time. Even high-ranking officers, military doctors, and personnel from logistics and armaments were forced to take on duties far outside their original roles. Even Optimus Prime himself was periodically leading troops to the front lines.
That constant state of strain had worn everyone down to the bone—and Prowl more than most. Even the slightest disturbance was enough to wrench him awake from sleep.
“Commander.” His secretary knocked and entered. “You need to come personally. Streetwise got into a fight on the training grounds.”
“What happened?” Prowl asked in a low voice, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“From what I’ve heard,” the secretary replied quietly, choosing his words with care, “a few enlisted men were idling around and started talking about the Special Ops being missing. Things escalated into irresponsible speculation. Streetwise heard it and lost his temper—went straight at them. It got pretty ugly.”
Prowl’s fingers stilled. His breathing deepened before he stood and pulled on his greatcoat, “take me there.”
The cold air seeped down his collar the moment he stepped outside the barracks, sharpening his senses. Before they even reached the training grounds, fragmented voices crashed into his ears—disjointed, indistinct. He caught only scattered words: “wiped out” “defected” “intelligence leak.”
Then the shouting came into focus—cursing, cries of pain, people yelling for others to stop—followed by dull, heavy thuds, as if someone had been knocked to the ground. Streetwise’s furious voice rose above it all, raw and unrestrained.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” Prowl barked. “Is the training ground a place for brawling?!”
The noise died down almost instantly.
The secretary lowered his voice. “Commander, this is the situation. The men who were attacked were spreading rumors about the Special Ops’ disappearance. Their wording was inappropriate—and it… involved Jazz.” He offered no judgment, but the point was clear enough. Murmurs around them quickly faded.
Hot Spot frowned and added, “In short, they started the gossip. Streetwise lost control, and it escalated.”
“Father—how dare they—how dare they say my cousin is either dead or led his team to defect!”
At the sight of his adoptive father, Streetwise’s shoulders visibly tensed. He was breathing hard, a brick clutched in his hand, veins standing out on his forehead. Blood smeared the corner of his mouth. “They’re undermining morale and slandering command! They should be thrown into confinement!”
“If it were really a classified operation, how could there be no news for over half a year?” one of the injured soldiers snapped back, his face covered in blood, chin lifted stubbornly. “Something must’ve gone wrong, and command’s covering it up.”
“Or they’re all dead. Odds are they didn’t make it.”
“If they really got wiped out, at least it saves face for the brass—everyone knows Jazz is SIC’s nephew.”
“Say one more word and I’ll knock your teeth out!” Streetwise roared, swinging the brick as he lunged forward again. Groove and Blades rushed in from either side, grabbing him just in time.
Prowl swept a cold glance over his two protégés and his son. “Let go. Let him stand on his own.” Then, turning to Streetwise, “And you—no matter what, they’re still your comrades. Put the brick down. Now explain why you struck first.”
Reluctantly released, Streetwise threw the brick aside. His gaze stayed locked on the soldiers sprawled on the ground, like a young lion that hadn’t yet learned to retract its claws.
“I already told you,” he said through clenched teeth. “They said Jazz is either dead or led his team to defect—and they joked about it. Talking it out was useless. Who could tolerate that? Father, why don’t you believe me?”
Prowl said nothing. His expression remained impassive, but his fingers trembled despite himself, his breathing growing tighter. He knew all too well that even the slightest hint of favoritism here wouldn’t just implicate him—it would put Streetwise squarely in the crosshairs.
The soldier who’d been running his mouth still refused to back down. Blood streaked his lips as he sneered. “Six months with no news. Time to face reality.”
Someone in the crowd muttered, “Just shut up already. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
“What, mouths aren’t allowed to talk—”
“That’s enough. All of you, stand to attention.”
Optimus Prime’s voice cut cleanly through the noise. The gathered crowd parted at once, opening a path. Streetwise and the injured soldiers spoke almost simultaneously, “Sir, Streetwise attacked us!” “Prime, you have to judge fairly—an officer assaulted enlisted men!”
“Optimus, they slandered my cousin—”
“Silence!” Optimus Prime’s voice was calm, but unyielding. “Until there is confirmed information, no one here has the authority to draw conclusions. Do you even understand the nature of the Special Ops? Six months, even ten, twenty years without contact is not unusual. If you have the leisure to doubt your comrades, put that energy into training, patrols, and combat readiness.”
Ironhide stood at his side, gaze fixed on Streetwise. His tone was severe. “And you. As an officer, you should know better. Military discipline applies to everyone. You’re not exempt—and neither are they.”
“I’m not wrong,” Streetwise shot back. “I don’t regret it.”
Prowl’s face darkened. “Medic—take the injured to the infirmary.” Then his gaze swept over the swollen, battered faces. “The rest of you will each submit a five-thousand-word written self-criticism. On my desk by tomorrow night.”
One of the soldiers tried to protest. “Commander, Streetwise struck first—”
“Spreading malicious rumors is no lighter a crime than throwing punches,” Prowl cut in coldly. “Once you’re healed, you’ll serve time in confinement.”
Only then did he turn back to Streetwise, his voice dropping even lower. “Streetwise. You are an officer. Assaulting soldiers—where is your respect for military discipline? Three days’ confinement. Five thousand words as well. Tomorrow night. If it’s inadequate, you double it.”
Streetwise’s face flushed crimson. He clenched his teeth and said nothing. Prowl held his gaze; for a brief instant, something wavered in his eyes. In the end, he said nothing more, only gesturing for the guards to take him away.
Over the next ten days, Prowl never truly rested. He survived on brief dozes and cup after cup of strong tea. One night, the barracks were unusually quiet. After finally finishing his paperwork, he leaned back on the sofa to rest. The desk lamp was still on, the tea beside him still warm. His breathing gradually slowed—and at some point he could no longer tell when he had closed his eyes.
“Daddy, go check on Jazz, he suddenly started coughing really badly. He’s on the couch and shaking.”
Streetwise rushed into the kitchen, panic written all over his face, clutching the hem of Prowl’s coat.
Coughing came in broken bursts from the living room. Prowl set the spatula down, turned the stove to low, and was already moving toward the couch. An old blanket lay draped over it. Jazz was curled beneath, his face pale, coughing so hard he could barely catch his breath, his chest heaving unevenly. Prowl hissed softly and pressed his palm to his nephew’s forehead—far too hot.
The medicinal brew was still warm on the stove: fritillary bulb, pear, loquat leaves simmered together, a cloying sweetness lingering in the air. Jazz’s cough had dragged on for more than a month. At first it hadn’t seemed serious. Prowl had gritted his teeth and tried to wait it out—there simply wasn’t money for a doctor. Home remedies were all they could afford. But tonight, it was clear they’d run out of time.
“I’m taking Jazz to the hospital,” Prowl said, turning to Streetwise, then added quickly before the boy could argue, “You stay home and wait for us. It’s cold at night, and hospitals are crowded—easy to catch something.”
“Uncle… I can still manage,” Jazz murmured weakly, lifting his eyes. The words dissolved into another fit of coughing. “I can take the medicine at home. The hospital’s expensive—and it’s a lot of trouble for you.”
Prowl froze for half a second. “Enough talking,” he snapped.
He pulled out a mask and fitted it over Jazz’s face, clumsily wrapping him in a coat and scarf. After making sure the stove was completely out, he filled a hot-water bottle, wrapped it in a towel, and pressed it into Streetwise’s arms.
“If you’re cold, get into bed. If you’re tired, sleep. There’s steamed bread and porridge in the pot—eat while it’s hot.”
Once Streetwise was settled, Prowl went into the inner room and dug through the very bottom of the wardrobe, pulling out his father’s gold pocket watch. It had been his parents’ token of affection when they were young, their names engraved on the back. It should cover the fare, the doctor’s fee, and whatever Jazz would need to recover. "Dad… forgive me. There’s nothing else left to pawn."
Night pressed down like spilled ink. The nearest pawnshop at the street corner was just about to close, a strip of dim yellow light leaking through the half-shut wooden door. Prowl pushed inside and placed the watch on the counter. “How much can I get for this? I need to take a child to the hospital.”
The shopkeeper examined the watch, then glanced at the child in Prowl’s arms and nodded. “Fine craftsmanship. Since you’re in a hurry, I won’t depreciate it. I’ll price it as new.”
Outside, cold air poured down Prowl’s collar. The nearest hospital was still a long way off. No matter how determined he was, he was still just a high school student—carrying a shivering, feverish child, he couldn’t run, and it wasn’t safe to walk the streets at night with cash on him. Prowl hesitated beneath the pawnshop’s lamp, debating whether to walk farther, when a bell rang at the intersection. A night-shift horse carriage had stopped nearby. The thin horse tucked its neck in, snorting white breath, stamping its hooves. The carriage driver, bundled in a heavy coat, dozed against the carriage.
Prowl stepped forward and quietly gave the hospital’s address.
“All right. Get in—kid comes first,” the driver said, flicking the reins.
The carriage moved, hoofbeats and bells echoing down the empty street. After a short while, the driver spoke casually, “Your little brother’s burning up pretty bad, huh?”
Prowl didn’t look up. “…He’s my nephew.”
The driver paused, then said nothing more, humming softly to stay awake.
The road was rough. Jazz slumped against Prowl’s chest, breathing shallowly. His burning cheek pressed against Prowl’s neck. The cough was muffled behind the mask, but it sounded as though it might tear his chest apart. Prowl patted his back, murmuring, “Just a little longer—we’re almost there,” and turned his body so Jazz faced the open side of the carriage. He put his own back to the wind, shielding the child with his body. Unsure whether the illness was contagious, he did his best to let the breath and droplets blow outward instead of toward the driver.
After a few minutes of silence, the driver sighed. “Weather like this… if things weren’t tight at home, I wouldn’t be hauling fares this late. My mother’s not well, and I’ve got a seven-year-old waiting for me at home.”
Prowl only hummed in response, fingers tightening around the bills in his pocket.The feeling was the same as years ago, clutching that silver bracelet to ransom Streetwise.
At the hospital entrance, the driver reined in. Prowl paid him—twice the daytime fare. “Hey—kid, that’s too much,” the driver protested.
Under the streetlight, Prowl finally got a good look at him: early forties, weather-beaten, patched cotton jacket, hands rough as bark, joints wrapped in tape. Prowl had meant to ask him to wait, but the wind was strong and there was no telling how long the visit would take. He swallowed the thought and instead pressed his gloves into the man’s hands.
“Take them. You’ve got a kid too—it’s hard work out here in the cold. Get something warm drinks on the way home. Feed the horse something decent.”
The driver stared at him, mouth opening, then closed it and nodded.
“…You’re a good man.”
Prowl tightened his hold on the child and walked straight into the hospital.
The hospital was a welfare facility jointly funded by Iacon and the Praxus government, open to civilians. Heat and the sharp smell of disinfectant rushed out as the doors opened. Prowl went straight to the registration desk. The night nurse took Jazz’s temperature, her brow knitting.
“Your brother needs an injection. Otherwise the fever won’t come down. How long has this been going on? Did you give him any medicine at home?”
“No medicine,” Prowl said, his throat tight. “Just boiled pear, fritillary, and loquat leaves. And—he’s my nephew, not my brother.”
“Let the doctor examine him first. We’ll give a fever-reducing shot and prescribe medication,” the nurse said, scribbling rapidly. “No other patients tonight. Go straight in, then come back to pay and pick up the medicine.”
The exam was quick. “It’s been dragged out too long,” the doctor said, closing the chart. “But you brought him in just in time. Not contagious. He’ll need stronger medication. Light diet, take the meds on schedule.”
Prowl paid, collected the medicine, and carried Jazz to the injection room. The child flinched when the needle went in, biting back a whimper, fingers digging hard into Prowl’s coat. Prowl bent his head, holding him close and murmuring until the tension slowly ebbed.
“Stay for observation,” the nurse said. “If he sweats, the medicine’s working. If there’s no reaction in thirty minutes, you can go home. Don’t give him food until morning.” She glanced at Prowl, then slipped a ration ticket into the chart. “You’re just a kid yourself, aren’t you? Haven’t eaten yet? Night rations are down the hall, get something to hold you over.”
Prowl nodded. Only then did he realize how hollow his stomach felt. With the tension finally easing, hunger washed over him all at once. He folded the ration ticket into his pocket and carried Jazz to the observation area, sitting on a bench and opening his coat so the child’s head could rest against his chest.
The injection worked quickly. Jazz’s forehead was no longer burning. Prowl wiped the sweat away. Somewhere nearby, a nurse murmured softly to her colleague, “He’s very considerate for someone his age.” The words drifted past and vanished beneath footsteps.
Prowl looked down, waited until Jazz’s breathing steadied, then lifted his gaze toward the registration desk at the end of the hall. There would be no carriage at this hour. After weighing it over, he borrowed the hospital phone and called his eldest brother, Bluestreak, who practically lived at the factory.
“Hey, can you come pick us up at the hospital?”
“Why are you at the hospital? What happened?”
“I’m fine. Streetwise is fine and I leave him at home. Jazz had a fever—I brought him in for an injection.”
“All right. Stay there. Tell me which hospital, I’m on my way.”
An hour later, a factory truck pulled up outside. Bluestreak still smelled of engine oil. He shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Jazz, then gave Prowl’s shoulder a firm pat.
“Come on. Let’s go home.”