My Thief!

by westernbluebirdie

Summary:

Prowl is the newest Inspector at the busiest precinct in Praxus.
Meister might as well be a myth: A thief that no one has ever seen.

Chapter 1: The Inspector

When Prowl arrives on the scene, it’s nearly dusk. The lead caretaker of Praxus’ Crystal Gardens is in hysterics, sobbing incoherently.

Thankfully, Smokescreen has already wrapped a shock blanket around the poor femme, and is doing his very best to calm her down.

Dealing with emotional civilians has never been Prowl’s forté. There is 42.8% chance that the caretaker had something to do with the break-in, anyways.

Prowl strides through the gates, towards the rare crystal section. He stops to examine the disarmed lock on the way; usually, this kind of high-end security system is very difficult to bypass without an optical-scan; If the wrong mech tries to open it,  there will be blaring alarms, a multitude of traps, an all-systems alert to any enforcers within a ten mile radius.

The lock has been disarmed. Not broken, or simply blown up. Disarmed. Prowl is actually quite impressed, but he keeps this to himself. He can still hear the caretaker wailing, even as he ventures deeper into the private section. His tac-net lowers the odds of her involvement to a mere 30%. She does seem quite dedicated. Prowl can respect that.

This is a place that normally, only the most privileged of Praxus ever get the chance to see; nobles, high-ranking politicians, visiting senators, wealthy benefactors and the like. But Prowl doesn’t have time to stop and admire the beautiful black opal roses, nor the exquisite yellow beryl sprouts. 

(A shame. Prowl quite enjoys reading about crystals. Perhaps one day, he will grow some of his own.)

The highest raised bed in the rare crystal section is adorned with a quartz plaque, upon which is inscribed: The Old Lord of Praxus' Diamond Rose— every Praxian knows of it. One of the cities most highly guarded treasures; A rare, singular flower, containing a thousand prisms of light. It has been blooming here, quietly magnificent, since the founding of the city.

Now, it appears to be missing.

Prowl walks up to the raised bed, foolishly allowing himself to hope, just for a breem, that the rose is simply rather small, hard to see from this angle (0.005%)— but no. The bed is empty. Prowl can barely even see the divot where it was uprooted.

Whoever stole the Diamond Rose did it with extreme care.

How rare these days; a considerate thief.

He brushes aside the looser dirt from the divot with the back of his servo— not in line with procedure, but he needs to be sure—

Ah-hah.

There is a crisp, black envelope, waiting patiently under half an inch of soil. No message on the front, so he turns it over. The back is neatly sealed with a circle of deep blue wax, the word “MEISTER“ clearly embossed on it. Prowl does not recognize the name. Is this a calling card?

The chance of the caretaker’s involvement sharply drops to a truly negligible percent.

Prowl opens the envelope, careful not to damage the seal. This will likely be invaluable evidence. The envelope contains only a folded piece of stationary, generic white, nearly impossible (97.9%) to trace back to a specific store or manufacturer. Prowl will find a way to trace it back, regardless.

The script is typed, not printed. It reads as follows:

 

Dear Inspector Prowl,

 

You found my note! Maybe you really are as good as they say— you’d be surprised how many of your peers in other cities fail to look in the most obvious places. Don’t wanna get their servos dirty, I guess, but life’s hardly any fun without a little dirt. Wouldn’t you agree?

I know you’re newly promoted, so I’ll make it an easy one, just this once:

What has three faces but no mouth? One eye on each face, but cannot see? Heavy is the helm…

 

Good luck!

— Meister

 

“Find anything, sir?”

Prowl nearly jumps. He hadn’t realized, but he’d been reading the note over and over again. What kind of thief leaves riddles?

Smokescreen is hovering a few paces away, looking at him expectantly.

Sometimes, the junior detective seems to get a little too personal with civilians: He looks exhausted, and some of the paint on his shoulder noticeably smudged from the caretaker’s crying.

Unlike his subordinate, Prowl was quite literally designed for this kind of work, so he cannot fully fathom how the young spark-forged bot’s conscience must be weighing on him. He tries to sympathize, anyway.

”Evidence,” Prowl holds up the black envelope in one servo, “Go home, Smokescreen, get some rest. You and I will review this tomorrow.”

Smokescreen nods, gratefully. The junior detective has worked two hours over his full shift already, today— the sun has just set. Prowl did not mean for that to happen. Today was only supposed to be simple how-to recon.

He watches Smokescreen jog off down the street towards the closest train station, fading into the haze of Praxus city lights. The inspector glances sidelong down the street, then slips into a narrow alley on a quiet street. He tucks the black envelope neatly into his subspace.

 

——

 

Prowl’s new office is in a highly coveted location— Top floor, southern corner of the building. Lots of natural light. The massive bay windows have shutters for privacy, though it’s hardly necessary, this high up.

Additionally, it’s a great view; Praxus in all her shining glory. He can see the whole of downtown, the racing stadium, and city hall in a neat grid. If he squints, Prowl can even make out the Crystal Gardens.

Privately, he thinks all wasted on him. Prowl doesn’t need a big office, or a secretary, (though Bluestreak is very well organized, especially for so young a mech). Nor does he need a stunning view of the city skyline— In fact, he usually keeps the windows shuttered, because he is used to working a cramped, windowless cubicle in the basement.

The promotion to Inspector had been a surprise. Perhaps “totally blindsided” would be a better description of how Prowl had felt at the time. He has never been popular at work, by any stretch of the word, nor was he one of the many enforcers who were actually trying for a higher rank.

Most cold-constructed enforcers (94.6%, in fact,) had elected to have their battle computers removed around seven centuries ago, when a freelance journalist from Iacon City had done an exposé on corruption in law enforcement.

A large part of the journalist’s findings had to do with the questionable ethics of even having pre-installed battle computers in the first place; linked to shortened life expectancies, higher rates of mental illness, and crucially, a significant lack of empathy.

The hearings had been turned into a media-circus, but it had all culminated in one council-member’s forced resignation, and several amendments to planet-wide enforcer guidelines.

No longer were cold-constructed enforcers equipped with battle computers, being that it was now highly illegal to install such coding.

Perhaps it really was for the best.

Prowl had elected to keep his tac-net, much to the chagrin of his peers. He’d considered removing it, but thought it highly unlikely (99.9%) that he could bear the quiet of his processor without its constant thrum. Steady and calculating.

Really, it was his battle computer that had won him the rank of inspector in the first place. The current police commissioner, Tail-Fin, seemed quite appreciative of Prowl’s sheer stamina, (willingness to work long hours), information gathering ability, and of his success rate in correctly identifying and apprehending perpetrators. (85.6%, highest in the force).

Despite his promotion to inspector, Prowl is not… proud of himself. There had been some sense of accomplishment at first, yes, but it didn’t last more than a few cycles; Other enforcers still avoid him like he has space-barnacles, perhaps even more so, now, and he has a much heavier caseload than he used to.

But work keeps him busy, and he likes to be busy.

Prowl has managed to avoid crashing for a while, but he is beginning to worry that a “big one”, as Bluestreak likes to call them, is imminent (66%). The only real downside (in Prowl’s opinion) of keeping his tac-net: “Crashes” are inevitable, and they never get less painful.

Smokescreen knocks on Prowl’s unlocked office door and enters at half past eight, carrying two fresh cubes. His golden chevron catches in the light from the windows.

He’s a good junior detective; insightful, intelligent, and dedicated. Prowl appreciates the fresh perspective— and Smokescreen’s willingness to work with him. Few have managed to shadow him for this long without requesting reassignment.

“Brought you a cube, sir. Sorry I took so long, the dispenser was jammed again.”

“That’s alright. Read this,” Prowl hands him the black envelope, once Smokescreen has sat down.

“Have you ever heard of a ‘Meister’?”

Smokescreen freezes in his examination of the envelope, then accidentally knocks his pede against one of the desk’s legs, jostling the cubes in the process.

Prowl’s optics sharpen with interest.

“That’s who stole the Diamond Rose?” Smokescreen coughs, shock plain on his face. “Huh. Figures. I didn’t even think it was possible.” He’s looking at the envelope wearily, now, like it’s a live explosive.

“What do you know about him?” Prowl asks, straightening in his chair and folding his servos on the desk politely.

 He has been told that his body language can get a little intense, when he is hungry for details, and he does not want to make the junior detective uncomfortable. It’s only their 23rd cycle working together, after all.

“Well, I’ve only really heard rumors,” Smokescreen begins, “He’s… sort of infamous, at least in Iacon, Rodion, Polyhex, and Nova Cronum. He’s not, uh, a terrorist, or violent, but some of the tabloids like to speculate. His biggest heist to date was one of those relics in the Hall of Artifacts. A spear from the old wars, I think?”

Prowl remembers this robbery being in the news— barely, of course, he was little more than an overworked pen-pusher at the time. Still, he recalls the whole thing being quite sensational. The Hall of Artifacts had never been successfully broken into, before Meister. There were armed guards at every checkpoint, motion-activated alarms, and more cameras than was probably necessary.

“And he’s never been apprehended?” Prowl demands.

Smokescreen chuckles, slightly nervous.

“No, sir, never. If— if Meister left you his calling card, don’t you think we ought to report it to the commissioner?”

Prowl considers this.

“If we do, there is a 78 to 80% chance that the Tail-Fin will hold a press conference regarding the robbery within the next two cycles, and it is highly likely that the local media will blow things out of proportion. I would like to gather more information to start. Please, read the note,” Prowl inclines his helm. “I want your opinion on this.”

Smokescreen nods back, expression shifting from uncertainty to one of determination.

Gingerly, he picks the note back up from the desk, examining the seal and then the stationary. His optics scan the contents. Prowl waits.

“I’m not one for riddles, sir,” Smokescreen says, finally. “But I do know— well, I read in The Iacon Chronicle— Meister likes to steal in threes. Maybe that’s why he mentioned the number?”

“Threes?” Prowl tilts his helm in question.

“As in, he usually does three big heists in a short period of time, then lays low for a while.” Smokescreen shrugs. “But that’s just how the gossip columnist figures it. He hasn’t stolen anything, to my knowledge, in at least a few solar-cycles. Or, not until today.”

Prowl hums. His tac-net is running numbers so fast that it is difficult to formulate a verbal response for several breems.

“Well, if there’s any truth to this theory,” Prowl taps his digits on the sleek, new desk. He prefers his old desk.

“We better start looking for leads, Smokescreen. As of now, we are working on a time limit.”

 

——

 

Prowl makes Smokescreen leave after the second time the junior detective falls asleep sitting up. He feels rather guilty; he hadn’t even noticed how dark it had gotten outside. They’d been pouring over all the sources on Meister they could find. Ten joors arranging and rearranging Prowl’s “evidence board” on the wall behind his desk.

Unfortunately, most speculation on Meister is, as Smokescreen had predicted, mere tabloid drivel. Some of the reporters pose mildly interesting theories:

Meister goes after priceless artifacts and sells at least some, if not all of them through black market channels, then lives off of his spoils until he needs more money (63%). Meister is actually a gang of skilled thieves who work under the same alias (45%). Or perhaps, Meister has already made enough to live like a tower-mech for the rest of his life, so he’s simply stealing for… the thrill of it? ((75%), but that last one is Prowl’s own theory.)

Two things are certain.

One: no bot has ever actually seen Meister. There is no photo, no rap-sheet, no security footage. He’s faceless. Beyond a trail of stolen art, relics, and jewels? All Prowl can find are shaky rumors.

Two: Meister almost always leaves a calling card. There is no mention of riddles of any sort, though. Apparently, he usually just signs his name and draws a smiley-face.

Prowl feels a sharp pain forming between his optics. For a few breems, he finally stops working just to cradle his helm in his hands. Maybe Bluestreak was right— he should see a medic.

What has three faces but no mouth? One eye on each face, but cannot see? Heavy is the helm…

Prowl grimaces and clenches his jaw. Riddles frustrate him. Non-literal language frustrates him on a regular basis, already. He has never been one for poetry or fantasy. Prowl finds comfort in truth.

Heavy is the helm…

Heavy is the helm?

His own helm feels quite heavy. Prowl swivels his chair around to consider the evidence board once more. Smokescreen had been right on this, too; Meister’s regular pattern is to pull three big jobs in a period of two to four quartexes, then disappear off the face of cybertron for a solar cycle or two. He must seem very ordinary, to be able to pull this off repeatedly (82.3%). Maybe Meister simply has good hiding places (100%).

Sleep-deprived and beginning to feel slightly crazed, Prowl wonders if this thief is some kind of artful master of disguise. This idea briefly amuses him, but it’s far-fetched, at best. Like a character in a scrappy, one-shanix romance novel.

“Prowl?”

He resets his optics. He hadn’t realized it had gotten light outside.

”Good morning.” He says to Bluestreak, who stands in the doorway.

”Did you… have you been here all night, sir?” The young mech asks, knitting his brow in concern.

Prowl’s door-wings twitch with embarrassment, but he manages to stifle them quickly.

“What time is it, Bluestreak?”

”Um, just five breems past eight, sir. I’m gonna get started on filing, like we talked about,” Bluestreak looks prowl up and down. “Sir, maybe you should go home and get some rest.”

”I can’t afford to rest. Thank you for your concern, and for filing.” Prowl dismisses him, gaze unwavering from the evidence board. Perhaps he should take another look at the Rodion Star Gallery robbery?

”Oh, sure. Do you still want your copy of The Examiner?” Bluestreak asks, setting his bag down on his own desk, which sits in the separate waiting room of Prowl’s office.

”Yes.”

His secretary shuffles in a breem later with the paper and a fresh cube.

”Door open or closed, sir?”

”You can leave it open. It is getting to be rather stuffy in here.” Prowl decides, sending a flare of gratitude out from his field. He had not realized how hungry he was.

Normally, he does not share his field with anyone— but Bluestreak might just be the closest thing he has to a friend— How Pathetic is that?

The younger Praxian only smiles and nods, doorwings hiking up in a pleased manner, before returning to his own work area.

Prowl flips through The Lithium Flats Examiner and sips on his cube. Today’s headline: Wing Lord of Vos to Hold Grand Ball In Honor of Creation.

Admittedly, Prowl knows very little of seekers. He has never personally traveled outside of Praxus, and Praxians and Vosians are both xenophobic cultures who, historically, do not get along— with the exception of trade relations. (Though trade deals gone bad between the city-states have caused many conflicts in the past).

Prowl genuinely has no qualm with war-frames, nor flight-frames; he does not believe in the functionalist caste order, though he is often hyper-aware that he is a direct product of the system. Prowl and his tac-net. Prowl and his cold-constructed face, nearly identical to so many others off the assembly line.

He reads on:

The Wing Lord welcomed his first and only creation, “Ulchtar”, just one-hundred vorns ago. In Vosian culture, especially among nobility, it is customary to hold a special celebration on a mechlings’ eighty-three-thousandth solar cycle; which is good-luck number in their tradition, marking a coming of age and new beginnings.

The ball will take place at the Wing Lord's Manor in Southern Vos, at the beginning of the next deca-cycle. Allegedly, a portrait of the Wing Lord will be unveiled to commence the festivities. Several other art pieces will be on display, most notably the Old Vosnian King’s crown. Now considered to be a relic and symbol of Vos’ Golden Age, the crown is worth a whopping five billion shanix.

The iconic, three sided piece was commissioned by Vos’ final king, Ulchtar’s namesake, over thirty-thousand vorns ago…

Prowl flips to the section with the photos. There is a headshot of Ulchtar, smiling. He has the makings of a classical Vosnian beauty, to be sure, but one-hundred vorns is barely an adolescent, in Praxian custom. Prowl is bewildered that they are referring to this party as a “coming of age” event— shouldn’t they wait a couple hundred vorns more?

Next to Ulchtar, there is a photo of the crown. Prowl’s tac-net begins to whirr and click furiously. It’s solid gold, trimmed with red agate. There are three clear sides, three gigantic, cut rubies inlaid on each.

Prowl gets a strange, lurching feeling in his tanks.

What has three faces but no mouth? One eye on each face, but cannot see? Heavy is the helm…

“Bluestreak,” He calls out, as calmly as he can. “Please call Commissioner Tail-Fin’s office.”

Chapter 2: The Debutante

Summary:

Starscream’s quinceañera gone wrong

Prowl heads over to the commissioner’s office directly.

Tail-Fin has always been… nice to Prowl. It can be a little much, at times, but he’s quite harmless.

It is not that the commissioner isn’t attractive; He has deep blue optics, a black chevron, primarily silver and white armor. More than a few of Bluestreak’s peers from the secretarial pool have openly tried to pursue him over the astro-cycles.

Prowl simply has no interest in him. It wouldn’t be professional. The commissioner is good at his job, to be sure, but he and Prowl have nothing in common; Tail-Fin is spark-forged, from a wealthy family. He moves in impressive social circles and enjoys parties and society life. He is known to give great speeches.

Prowl is a machine crafted to serve a specific function. He has no family and no real connections outside of work. He would rather catch up on sleep than mingle with strangers during his free-time, any day. Parties make him deeply uncomfortable, as does public speaking.

As does the commissioner; it does not make sense to Prowl that a mech of his caliber would find “a walking calculator”, as some of the other enforcers like to joke, appealing. 

“Prowl!” Tail-Fin greets warmly, turning from the window he’d been gazing out of. He has a little glass of engex with copper flakes in one servo, a case-file in the other.

“Sit, sit— you wanted to ask me about something?”

The commissioner slides behind his desk gracefully, flashing a charming smile.

Prowl forces himself to hold optic-contact, no matter how badly he wants to slide his gaze over to Tail-Fin’s jar of novelty pens. Were they a gift, (67%) or is collecting them a hobby of Tail-Fin’s? (89%)

“Actually, commissioner, I have new information regarding the missing Diamond Rose— if you have the time?” Prowl asks.

“Always, for my best inspector.”

Prowl resets his vocalizer.

He does not want to be here. Prowl is a busy mech, and so is the commissioner. Their schedules rarely overlap, and usually, the only times he actually has to be around Tail-Fin are at annual work meetings, performance reviews, and the end-of-solar-cycle party the precinct holds for all the enforcers.

Prowl dips his helm, tucking his chin to his chassis. He makes a show of flaring his door-wings out behind him, obviously apprehensive and tense. Tail-Fin watches them with open interest. Is the comissioner… buzzed at work? (60%, and climbing)

He cannot say he does not understand, most enforcers really are alcoholics. But Prowl prefers to drink alone, and never on the job. It is embarrassing, being around others when he is overcharged. He tends to forget himself and say strange, rude things.

“Did you just come from a lunch meeting?” Prowl asks.

Tail-Fin chuckles. “What gave it away?” (75%).

Prowl stands and shutters the blinds of the commissioner’s interior windows. The secretary outside stares at him as he does so, craning her neck futilely to try and peek through.

“Can this stay between us?” Prowl implores, once they have some privacy. He turns and strides back to the desk, splaying his servos out on the shiny varnish, leaning towards the commissioner.

“Of course, Prowl.” Tail-Fin blinks. He looks surprised, delighted.

“The thief known as Meister is the one responsible for the robbery. I have reason to believe he will strike again, come the new deca-cycle.”

Tail-Fin frowns.

“Meister. You’re saying you found one of his little notes at the crime scene?”

Prowl un-subspaces the black envelope and holds it out.

As Tail-Fin reads, his optical ridge hikes up higher and higher.

“Well,” the commissioner sips at his drink. “It’s the right kind of wax, the right stationary. But doesn’t he usually just sign his designation? Are you sure this isn’t a copy-cat, inspector?”

“96.5% sure, yes.” Prowl nods, unblinking.

Tail-Fin leans slightly forward on his elbows, chin resting on his neatly folded servos.

“The way your mind works is so fascinating. Explain.”

“Ah, thank you, commissioner— I am nearly certain that it is Meister. Firstly, from the level of security at the Crystal Gardens alone, it is nearly impossible to break in. What other thief is so skilled?”

He pauses for emphasis, and Tail-Fin hums agreeably.

“Secondly, it fits Meister’s pattern. He has not been active, to our knowledge, for roughly two astro-cycles. It is about time he pulled another three heists,”

Here Prowl hold up three digits, silently hoping that the commissioner is not too tipsy right now, that Tail-Fin will understand the gravity of the situation.

“He has always struck in threes, before, and the riddle he left me?” Prowl jerks his helm towards the note, which the commissioner quickly looks back to.

“There is a 98.4% chance he is referring to the Vosnian Crown, which is to be on display at the Winglord’s creation’s upcoming ball. I assume you’ve read of it in the papers?”

The commissioner whistles low, optics flashing.

“Well, color me impressed. Yes, actually, I’m to be a guest of the Winglord’s at the event. We met at the last charity fundraiser for Cubes on Wheels. Very generous Mech. You’re saying… you think Meister’s going to try to steal the crown?”

“Yes,” Prowl nods. “Commissioner, I think it would be best if you notified the Wing Lord immediately. Should I contact the Vosnian Police?”

The commissioner strokes his chin.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Prowl. I’ll give the Wing Lord and his security detail a helms-up, they need to know about this— but, don’t go to the Vosnians, just yet. They may try to shut down the festivities, which would alert Meister.”

Prowl’s tac-net whirrs and beeps dangerously, though he’s already run these numbers; The commissioner has a point, as much as he doesn’t like it.

“Thank you,” he turns to leave. He is itching to get back to the quiet dark of his office. His helm is pounding. He has been using his tac-net for too long without a break, and if he doesn’t get some recharge soon, a crash is imminent.

The commissioner's servo falls onto his before Prowl can remove it from the desk.

“Would you like to accompany me to the Winglord’s ball?” Tail-Fin asks.

He turns back and peers down at his boss. This is highly unprofessional.

Slowly, he extracts his servo from underneath Tail-Fins, letting it drop to his side even though he wants to clutch it to his chassis like it’s been burned. That’s how it feels.

“Of course, sir, but it would have to be strictly for work.”

The commissioner smiles playfully. Prowl tries to reign in his offense. Tail-Fin is just a bit overcharged, and after all, he is rather… tactile.

Another thing they very much do not have in common.

“Well, of course. Only, I think it might be best if we go undercover on this one— I was already planning to dress up— all the biggest news stations will be there, Prowl. Two Praxians in a room full of seekers is already going to be uh, interesting.”

Prowl’s tac-net flares with a wave of possibilities. He does not like reporters, and this is a very risky idea. It is also, according to his tac-net, the best chance they have at catching Meister. He cannot pass up this opportunity.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, inspector,” The commissioner salutes. “I’ll have my secretary send over the details.”

 

——

 

Prowl makes it to his own office waiting room before he crashes. The last thing he hears is Bluestreak’s surprised yell, and then there is simply nothing.

 

——

 

“The commissioner asked you on a date?” Bluestreak gasps.

They are sitting together on the waiting room floor. Well, Bluestreak is sitting, legs tucked under his lap, and Prowl is laying down where he’d fallen, just a few kilks ago.

Bluestreak had shoved a cushion under his helm and rolled him onto his side, as soon as the convulsions had stopped. He appreciates his secretary immensely.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call a medic, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Prowl grits out. His helm still hurts quite intensely, but the throbbing pressure from before is gone. Now, it’s more of a constant ache.

“You only call a medic if it lasts longer than five breems— and it is not a date. I agreed to be his “plus one”, as I believe attending the Ball will provide some insight on a case.”

“I think he has the hots for you,” Bluestreak muses. “You should go for it, sir.”

Prowl sits up in a flash, bristling.

“Do not presume—!”

Bluestreak’s face falls. Prowl stops himself, vents stalling, door-wings already lowering in apology. This is not his secretary’s fault.

“… I am so sorry, Bluestreak. I didn’t mean to yell at you.” He mumbles. He doesn’t quite know what he is feeling, (a common state of being for the inspector) but it must be guilt, or something approximating guilt. His spark feels heavy.

Bluestreak looks bemused, but not offended.

“I should be the one apologizing, sir. You’re right, I shouldn’t have assumed you wanted to go out with the commissioner, just because half the station does,”

The younger Praxian cups his servo around his intake and mock whispers: “Personally, I don’t see the appeal, either. That fancy polish he uses just reeks.”

Prowl’s upper lip twitches.

“Do you need anything, sir? A cube?”

“No. I think I’m going to go home early today, Bluestreak. You should, too. Leave L though S for tomorrow.”

“Really, sir?” Bluestreak straightens, door-wings twitching excitedly.

“Yes, really,” Prowl tilts his helm forward and raises his optical ridge. “Go, before I change my mind and make you organize something.”

Bluestreak chuckles with glee, hopping up onto his pedes and dashing over to grab his bag.

Prowl stands slowly and brushes imaginary dust off of his legs. He waves goodbye to Bluestreak, who is still grinning like he’s just won the lottery, and leaves.

 

——

 

Prowl’s small, one-room flat is on the eastern side of Praxus, comfortably situated above a corner store on a quiet, mostly residential street.

The walls are still painted a soft yellow from the previous tenant, and the floor is Lithium, straight from the desert. It is polished over with a matte white finish, so as not to be too harsh on the optics when one turns on the lights.

There are no photographs or decorations in his hab. Aside from the desk he keeps by the window, and the berth tucked in the corner, it looks much the same as when he moved in, orns ago. The flat had come partially furnished, after all.

He does have one, lonely succulent, quietly growing on a shelf he’d installed above the desk especially for crystals. The shelf was intended to hold up to ten small crystals; but the succulent has been its sole occupant for the past five solar cycles— something came up at work, and Prowl supposed he never actually got around to adding more.

He feels a sharp pang of inadequacy, gazing up at the lonely turquoise plant, absentmindedly nursing a stale, leftover cube. At least he remembers to care for it, though it’s hardly a high-maintenance crystal.

Prowl should sleep, but he wants to keep reading, just a little while longer.

Who Is Meister?: Mysterious Thief Swipes Rare Polyhexian Sapphire.

The headline is from an old magazine article. Prowl had found it in the racks while buying his lunch downstairs; Mistlane, the owner and sole employee of the corner store, let him have it for free.

You’re my best customer, Prowl! Just take that dusty copy of ‘Bots’, it’s on me.

He probably is Mistlane’s best customer; It is very convenient having a supply of cheap fuel, engex, and pain patches practically in his basement, especially at the close of a twenty-joor shift.

(It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d stumbled through her shop door, half-dead.)

Prowl’s helm feels like a lead weight— Right, the pain patches— he’d nearly forgotten to put one on. Without looking away from the article, he rifles through the bag of goods he’d procured downstairs, feeling for the box of patches.

“Meister”, the notorious thief who managed to steal the Spear of Stars, (an ancient weapon of great historical import, discovered eighty astro-cycles ago in a dig near Kalis by a group of students from Iacon Technical University), has struck again in Polyhex.

‘The Eye of Primus’, as the sapphire is known colloquially, was set to be on display at Polyhex’s premiere social club, White Nebula, for the next ten cycles. However, as White Nebula’s night porter discovered early today, the sapphire has been stolen. The only thing left in the display case was a black envelope, sealed with blue wax.

Prowl’s vents hitch.

The two security guards on duty were fired shortly after the jewel was found missing. Enforcers on the scene refused to disclose the exact contents of the envelope, but assured us that they were doing all they could to retrieve the stolen gem.

Prowl rests his helm atop the magazine. It does smell like dust, to be sure, but past that, the scent of ink on paper has always comforted him. He offlines his optics. He dreams of the crystal gardens.

 

——

 

Vos is as beautiful as it is alien.

Prowl has never seen buildings so tall; spires that reach towards the stars, so colossal that he cannot see where they end.

Seekers, everywhere there are seekers. He doesn’t know how they can all move seamlessly, so close together, with how big their wings are.

As he and the commissioner step off of the bullet train, their escort strides up to them. She has mostly purple armour with accents of teal. Prowl is startled by how tall she is; how tall all of the seekers flocking around the station seem to be. Both he and the commissioner are a helm shorter than her.

”I am Slipstream,” she says. There is a 99.9% chance that she does not want to be here. “Please, follow me to the shuttle.”

”Thank you, Slipstream. The weather is just lovely, here.” Tail-Fin gushes, oblivious to Slipstream’s glare.

“We’re having a warm front.” She grunts.

 

——

 

Prowl had spent nearly three joors this morning buffing out scuff marks and attempting to give himself a half-way decent wax and polish. Still, he feels like some kind of fraud, strolling through the broad gates of the Winglord’s manor— which, hardly a manor: It’s more of a palace. Prowl hardly knows how to conduct himself.

All these seekers are so shiny.

The crowd of guests is immense; three hundred mechs at least, possibly more.

The ballroom itself is divided by hulking, golden pillars, which are decorated with purple string-lights and ornate, traditional Vosnian tapestries.

There are multiple tables of refreshments, drinks and delicacies Prowl has only ever read about, lining the room in neat sections. The dance floor is vast, as is the space in general; Vosnian ballroom dancing requires ample room for aerial maneuvers, after all.

Tail-Fin places a guiding servo on the small of Prowl’s back.

Prowl tells his commissioner that he is going to get a drink, and before Tail-Fin can even open his intake, the inspector is hurrying off to where it is quieter, past rows and rows of pillars, past the throng of other bots.

It is dark, and blessedly quieter, back here— though he can still hear the thrum of the party, the odd high note from the band—

… Is that… is someone crying?

“Hello?” Prowl calls out into the darkness, wings flared in alarm.

A wet sniff. Yes, definitely crying. There is a 65% chance it is a servant.

“Who are you?” A high-pitched, whiny voice, thick with tears.

“Just an unwilling plus-one,” he says, squinting, trying to make them out. He can’t even see a silhouette. “I didn’t know the event was going to be so… big.”

The voice scoffs. The probability of this mech being a noble of some kind climbs sharply upwards.(80%).

“Typical Praxian. You wouldn’t know a good party if it hit you upside the helm.”

A seeker steps into the dim light before Prowl. He has red and white armour, blue arms and servos. His face is a smeared disaster of makeup.

“I don’t like Praxians, at the best of times,” Ulchatr sneers, wiping one optic with the back of his servo. (If anything, it makes it worse.)

 “Who invited you?”

“My boss. I— are you alright?” Prowl whispers, lowering his door-wings carefully.

“No.” Ulchtar laughs, bitterly, and hides his face in his clawed servos. The noble’s field is rife with misery.

Prowl’s tac-net whirrs and spins unhelpfully.

“Is there a washroom nearby?” He asks, gently.

Ulchtar looks back up at him, optics already welling with coolant again. Crying makes Prowl uncomfortable. He has only cried once in his life, and that was from pain. Why is the Wing Lord’s creation sobbing in a dark corner?

“Your face.” Prowl elaborates, struggling not to look away from the seeker.

Ulchtar pulls out a compact mirror from his subspace, and examines himself, gasping in horror.

“No, no, no— ’Warp worked on my makeup for hours— what am I going to do?” He wails, fat droplets of coolant running down his cheeks.

“Calm down, I’ll help you clean up. The washroom?” Prowl tries.

The despairing seeker nods weakly, sniffing. He turns and begins walking further into the darkness. Against his better judgement, Prowl follows.

They go past three more rows of pillars, until they reach a wide, double doors. Prowl’s tac-net notes this place as a potential escape route. Ulchtar leads him through another set of doors, then they turn left down a softly lit corridor.

The washroom is as shockingly maximalist as everything else Prowl has seen in Vos; the tiles are white and cerulean, the grout may very well be gold, from the way it glimmers in the low, yellow lighting. The mirror that Ulchtar strides up to is really more of a vanity; golden frame, inlaid with various gemstones.

Ulchtar takes one look at himself and begins to sob again.

Prowl quickly takes charge, locating a stack of clean cloths in a cabinet underneath the vanity. He wets the corner corner of one cloth in warm solvent from the sink.

Prowl hesitates.

”There, there,” He pats Ulchtar’s shoulder. He saw this in some old holo-vid, once. “Please, let me help.”

The despondent seeker turns to him, hiccuping.

Ulchtar may be young, but he is a fair bit taller than Prowl. It takes a lot of awkward positioning before the seeker finally leans back against the sink, allowing Prowl to better reach his face.

The optical-paint is stubborn— it takes quite a bit of scrubbing and rinsing on Prowl’s part before the make-up has all come off. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding Ulchtar’s chin in one servo, making him tilt his helm this way and that to get every last bit of it.

”There,” the inspector finally sighs. “Much better.”

Ulchtar turns peers into the vanity, optics wide anxious.

”My sire is going to be so mad,” He hisses. Prowl is just glad that he’s stopped crying, though it seems that this improved state may not last long.

“He wanted me to look perfect. To be perfect.” He frowns, voice wavering.

Prowl sidles up to him, looking at Ulchtar looking at himself.

”You’re very beautiful without makeup, you know.”

Ulchtar’s optics meet his, holding his gaze through the mirror.

”… You think so?”

”Yes,” Prowl nods emphatically. “ I don’t see why you think you need it.”

The young seeker preens.

“It’s not me, it’s my sire— he always makes me wear it! Everytime I leave the grounds, and at every stupid party— even though he knows I don’t like it. Makeup has always been more of Skywarp’s thing,” Ulchtar shrugs, then looks down into the sink, suddenly shy.

”I think it’s because I look more like my carrier. Sire doesn’t like to be reminded of him.”

Prowl doesn’t know what to say to that.

“That… that must be very hard on you. I am sorry.” His servo hovers by Ulchtar’s shoulder, but he thinks better of it. What is he doing? This is the Winglord’s creation, Prowl shouldn’t be anywhere near him.

”I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Ulchtar turns away from the mirror, towards Prowl, looking the inspector up and down. “You’re a good listener, for a Praxian.”

“I— thank you—”

The washroom door slams open, revealing a frantic-looking seeker with blue armor, red optics burning bright with worry.

”Ulchtar! We’ve been looking all over for you! Do you even know what time it is?!”

Ulchtar’s helm whips towards the intruder in surprise.

The new seeker gasps. “Your makeup!”

”I’m going without it, TC,” Ulchtar shakes his helm with new resolve. He glances back at Prowl and offers a small, private smile. Ulchtar will grow up to be quite the spark-breaker, the inspector is sure of it.

”How much time before my first dance?”

”Five breems.” ‘TC’ answers, angling his entire frame to see past Ulchtar. He regards Prowl with open suspicion.

“Who are you?”

“Oh Primus, I have to go—“ Ulchtar breathes, swiveling around before Prowl can blink, gripping both of the inspector's servos between his claws. “Yes, who are you?”

”My designation is Prowl.” He stutters. Why is everyone and their creator hellbent on touching him lately?

”Prowl,” Ulchatr grins, sly, like Prowl had just told him the passcode to his savings account. “I’ll see that you get some of our private reserve engex, later this evening. Enjoy the festivities.”

 

——

 

Tail-Fin is sticking to him like glue. Prowl downs quite a few flutes of sparkling engex, because he does not know how else to cope. He has been introduced to so many noble seekers already that their designations and faces begin to blur together in his processor; It’s all Prowl can do to nod along politely, letting Tail-Fin steer him from bot to bot.

The commissioner knows quite a few of the guests. Everyone they stop to talk with is pleased to see the comissioner, chatting with him happily for a few breems at a time. Prowl is mostly ignored, dismissed as uninteresting, as the commissioner's date. Fine by him.

Prowl is relieved at the change of pace when the lights dim, and a hush falls over the whole of the party. Overlapping laughter and chatter turns to excited whispering.

The Wing Lord steps out in the center of the dance floor, resplendent in a purple silk-mesh cape. A spotlight falls upon him.

”Distinguished guests,” He greets. “Thank you for joining me tonight to honor my wonderful creation on his one-hundredth vorn celebration!”

Roaring applause. The Wing Lord gracefully waits for it to die down.

”As most of you are aware, it was also on this day, one-hundred vorns ago, that I lost my dear conjunx, Starlight. Please join me in a moment of silence, to honor his memory.”

The Wing Lord dips his helm low. All the air has been sucked from the room; Prowl feels bad for Ulchtar, and fleetingly, he wonders what it must be like, growing up with all these optics on you, constant, judging.

No one has ever really looked at Prowl in his life.

”Thank you,” The Wing Lord finally nods, after more than a few moments.

“Now, I hope you will all partake in the first dance. Please welcome my creation and his trine as they start us off!”

The Winglord turns into the wildly applauding crowd, cape billowing, and observes from the sidelines.

He hadn’t even said Ulchtar’s name.

The band is warming up. Ulchtar steps out onto the floor, a purple seeker on one arm, ‘TC’ on the other. Prowl can see the Wing-Lord’s expression, even from here: he looks like he’s going to blow a gasket. For a blissful few kilks, Prowl simply watches the young noble dance, watches as other seekers glide up around him, swirling and moving in their trines. None of them can dance half as well as Ulchtar.

”Commissioner Tail-Fin?”

Prowl turns, ripped out of his musings.

It’s a fellow grounder, but Prowl cannot tell where he might be from: He has a white helm with two audial horns, optics hidden by an emerald green visor. Most of his armor is a similar shade of green; ample chassis, slim waist, long legs.

”Ah, Ambassador Ricochet! I almost didn’t recognize you!” Tail-Fin greets.

The ambassador grins. His denta are so white.

”Likewise, commissioner. It’s been far too long— and who is this? Your conjunx?”

”Oh, no,” Tail-Fin laughs, snaking an arm around Prowl’s shoulders. Prowl tries and fails to hold back a wince. “This is Inspector Prowl. He’s a dear friend.”

Ricochet’s visor flickers.

”Oh, an inspector. My apologies,” He glances at the dance floor, where more and more guests are beginning to join in. When he looks back, his gaze is squarely on Prowl.

He holds out a servo.

”Would you care to dance, inspector?”

“Oh, he doesn’t—“

“Yes, thank you.” Prowl cuts Tail-Fin off before he can finish. Never mind that he has no idea how to dance, has never danced once in his life. Any excuse to get away from Tail-Fin, who has been drinking for a few joors now and is begining to get grabby.

He puts his servo in the ambassador’s, who grins impossibly wider, squeezing it and offering a polite nod to Tail-Fin.

He leads Prowl away, through the crowd, towards the floor. The ambassador places his free servo on Prowl’s waist, slowly. Much to the inspector’s surprise, he does not hate the sensation.

”So. Newly promoted?” Ricochet asks. Slowly, he begins to sway from side to side, taking the lead.

Prowl peers up at him. Is it him, or are all of these foreigners ridiculously tall?

“How could you tell?”

Ricochet chuckles. He seems awfully good natured, for a noble.

”I guess you could say I’m new to this job, too. Self-recognition through the other.”

Prowl hums in reply, busy trying not to step on the ambassador’s pedes.

”Back, back, forward, back,” Ricochet coaches, a hint of amusement in his voice. “It’s the easiest thing in the world, see?”

”No, not really.” Prowl is struggling to keep up, even at this pace.

”We’ll go slowly, then.”

For a breem, they dance in silence, moving closer to the center of the floor. There are only a handful of other grounders dancing. Mostly, it is a swarm of bejeweled seekers, perfectly choreographed.

”So, what do you do for fun?” Ricochet asks, casually dodging a gigantic, purple wing.

“I don’t have the time for hobbies,” Prowl admits.

The ambassador dips him without warning. Prowl’s optics go wide, and he clings to the seams in Ricochet’s shoulder plating. His tanks feel strange and fluttery. Primus, what’s the matter with him?

The ambassador smiles down at him.

“If you did, though?”

Prowl raises a brow. Ricochet is odd, for a politician— in his experience, they become progressively less charming the longer you spend in their company. With this one, it’s the opposite.

His tac-net buzzes with activity, futilely trying to assess the ambassador’s intentions— but Ricochet is already pulling him up and spinning him, drawing Prowl’s tucked door-wings flush against his chassis as they waltz across the floor.

Prowl’s olfactory can sense little else besides Ricochet’s polish; utterly foreign, spiced, heavy, yet light at the same time. His cooling vents click to life.

”If I had the time, I would grow crystals. I would start a garden.” Prowl blurts out, not thinking. His frame is starting to overheat, and he can’t tell if it’s from the engex, the exercise, or from Ricochet. Perhaps all three. Perhaps dancing was a bad idea.

“Crystals?” Ricochet echos, mirth coloring his voice. “I can see it. You seem like you like to take your time with things.”

”I suppose that’s true. My secretary says I am detail-oriented, to a fault.” Prowl concedes.

The ambassador laughs, genuine, and spins Prowl again. He has a musical laugh, not unlike the chorus of Vosnian wind instruments that swells nearby.

”What do you do? In your free time, I mean?” Prowl asks him, truly curious.

Ricochet draws Prowl nearer. They are chest to chest, closer to the sidelines, now.

”Honestly? I like to listen to music, any chance I get. This isn’t what I usually go for,” the ambassador nods toward the band. “Not at all like back home. But they’re pretty good, don’t you think?”

”And where is home?”

Ricochet's visor abruptly brightens, then dims again.

“Staniz. I haven’t been back, not since I was chosen as ambassador.”

Prowl hums in sympathy.

”I can’t imagine that. Honestly, I—” Prowl hesitates. He doesn’t know Ricochet. Perhaps it is the excitement of the party, the engex getting to his head, perhaps Ulchtar’s earlier display of vulnerability had awakened something in him. He hasn’t spoken this freely about himself in a long time.

”I’ve never been outside of Praxus. Not until today.”

”Never?” Ricochet gasps, slowing their trot to a lazy sway.

“No, Never.” Prowl smiles.

Ricochet smiles back, but this time his mouth is closed, mirroring Prowl. He’s quite a handsome mech; oval face, a broad olfactory, full lips. Either that visor of his is sparkling, or Prowl really has had too much engex.

”You should smile more often, inspector. Do you want to get a drink with me?” He gestures towards the bar area.

“Oh, no, I really shouldn’t— the commissioner is probably—”

”Tail-Fin is fine, he can mingle with just about anybot.” Ricochet points out, and squeezes Prowl’ servo in his own again, not letting go even as they head for the bar. He can’t argue with that.

Despite the ambassador’s teasing, Prowl orders a plain cube, because he doesn’t want to get over-charged and make a fool of himself. Ricochet orders straight high-grade with a splash of argon. A true Stanizian.

”So, did you owe Tail-Fin a favor or something?” Ricochet questions, swirling his glass.

”Pardon?”

“You don’t seem like a party-mech.” The ambassador explains, sipping on his drink.

”I’m not. Actually, I only agreed to come because—”

Slag. Prowl and engex do not mix well. Ricochet is staring at him, interested.

”Because…?”

”Ah,” Prowl exvents, doorwings stiffening in cold embarrassment. “Can you… can you keep a secret?”

”I’m a politician, aren’t I?” Ricochet grins, leaning towards him subtly, conspiratorially. His servo is, once again, very close to Prowl’s.

It is a testament to how tipsy the inspector really is, that he leans towards Ricochet in turn.

”I have reason to believe that Meister is here tonight. I cannot say more than that.” He confides, whispering just loud enough for the ambassador to hear over the constant background chatter.

Ricochet straightens in his chair.

”Ohh, this is so exciting!” He says, then laughs when Prowl scowls at him.

”Don’t worry inspector, I promise I won’t tell anyone—“

The ambassador cuts himself off, dipping his helm, pressing two digits to his audial horn. The universal signal for “quiet, I’m getting a comm.”

Ricochet frowns.

”No, no, that can’t be right— I said to move her to tomorrow.” He says. Prowl waits, suddenly feeling awkward. He hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten to the ambassador. He tries to subtly scoot his chair back, but it makes a horrible scraping sound.

”Forgive me, Inspector,” Ricochet is standing, now, drink forgotten. “I have to take this.” He excuses himself, and rushes away from the bar, back into the crowd.

Prowl swirls his straw in his drink, staring down at the spiral it makes. He doesn’t know what to look at, now that he is alone. He is surprised at his own disappointment. 

Suddenly, it is pitch black. More than a few high-class voices scream in fear. Someone nearby drops their drink, and Prowl hears it shatter on the floor.

”Not to worry, not to worry, everybody!” A booming voice rises above the panicked din. The Wing Lord’s assistant. He’d given a terribly long and boring speech when they’d unveiled his Lord’s portrait, earlier in the evening.

”Black-outs happen frequently on our side of the mountain. For everyone’s safety, please, remain where you are. The back-up generator should turn on shortly.”

A collective murmur of relief.

The Crown, Prowl thinks, and stands. He un-subspaces his emergency flashlight, angling it towards the floor so as not to blind anyone.

”Excuse me, sorry. I have to get through.”

It seems that most of the Wing Lord’s servants have flashlights as well; the party guests huddle around the make-shift beacons, whispering and talking. Prowl is getting closer to the crown’s display case, but pushing through the uneasy mechs around him slows him down by 85.3%.

The light returns, and the people cheer and applaud. Prowl’s optics struggle to adjust. He stands on the tips of his pedes to see past someone’s shoulder vent, just to get a glance at the crown.

His jaw goes slack.

It’s gone. The display glass is not broken. It’s just… gone. Like it was never there at all.

“Prowl!”

Tail-Fin is making his way over, speedily maneuvering through groups of party guests.

“Commissioner, the crown—” Prowl points, struggling for words. A few seekers around them glance towards where it’s supposed to be.

Someone behind them cries out.

“Look, the crown! The crown is missing!” Yells another mech.

“Slag,” The commissioner curses. “I hoped you were wrong, Prowl. It was foolish of me to doubt you.”

But Prowl is not listening to him. He feels much more sober than he did a kilk ago, because his tac-net is screaming at him that something is very wrong, here.

Not twenty feet away from where he and the commissioner stand, there is a massive, crystal chandelier, carefully suspended above the dance floor. It must weigh at least five tonnes.

Prowl begins pushing his way through the crowd, towards the chandelier. Something is very off about that noise. His tac-net is practically spinning with possibilities, but one (75%) rises above the rest.

Is that—? Ulchtar! He’s all alone underneath the chandelier, clearly still dazed. He’s looking around the room for somebody. Perhaps his trine?

Something around here is creating a high-pitched whine, at such a frequency that Prowl can hardly even detect it. As an enforcer, though, his audials are especially sensitive.

As Prowl gets closer, his optics narrow in on the chandelier, at it’s main support chain. There is a tiny, tiny black box, with a red blinking light at the base of it. Where it’s difficult to see. The noise has gotten progressively louder; some of the guests are beginning to look around, confused.

“Bomb,” Prowl mouths, silently, then yells: “There’s a bomb!”

He shoves more than a few startled mechs to the side, pushing someone to the ground in the process. He runs for Ulchtar, who is looking right at him, now, wide-opticed.

The explosion is deafening.

For an instant, lunging towards Ulchtar, Prowl cannot hear a thing. It is not unlike being submerged in a bath.

There are shattered pieces of crystal raining down upon them, cutting, catching the red light of fire. The shards refract in a thousand different colors and directions.

The pressurized silence is replaced by high-pitched ringing, and he bodily slams himself into Ulchtar’s torso, using all of his weight to propel the squawking seeker out of harm's way.

Prowl hits the floor chin first.

The last thing he sees is Ulchtar, surrounded by a flock of worried seekers. The mechling is pushing himself up on his elbows. He is looking at Prowl, intake agape, horror in his optics.

Then several tonnes of crystal are slamming onto Prowl’s back. Something inside of him cracks, and the inspector’s world goes dark for the second time in ten breems.

Chapter 3: The Visitors

Summary:

Sorry this one took a bit longer y’all; I had a couple birthdays to celebrate, including my own! My bf came to stay for a few days too so i was occupied lol

Prowl wakes up to the steady pulse of a spark-monitor. It takes his processor about three hard reboots before he actually remembers why he’s in the hospital.

An exhausted looking nurse comes in to help him drink a cube of low grade, around the time that Prowl remembers the chandelier.

”You’re at Silver Mountain Medical Center, in Vos. You’ve sustained damage to your spark-chamber,” A seeker. His wings are massive, black arcs that block out the harsh ceiling lighting when he stands over Prowl.

The inspector struggles to lift his helm on his own. Wordlessly, the nurse helps him sit up, adjusting the hospital-berth using a control panel on the wall, going so far as to fluff the pillows so Prowl’s doorwings will be more comfortable.

”You’re going to be here until the deca-cycle is through, at least,” The nurse continues. “They had to perform emergency surgery.”

Prowl nods, weakly. It hurts to move his helm, and to swallow the energon. He drinks about half the cube before the cables in his neck just sort of short out, and his helm falls back against the pillow. His back and torso faintly ache. There is a 100% chance he would be screaming in pain, were he not so heavily drugged.

”We have you on a heavy dose of painkillers.”

The nurse stares at him for an uncomfortable breem, giant wings lowering a fraction. The nurse turns to check the monitor.

”It was a brave thing, what you did. I didn’t think any Praxian would even—“ The nurse huffs, shaking his helm. He doesn’t turn from the monitor, taking note of Prowl’s vitals on a little data pad.

”What?” Prowl rasps. His voice is thick with static.

The nurse turns back to him, expression still tense, but softening.

”Before the trouble started with the hospital funding, the budget cuts— well, before the birth rate dropped, really— I specialized in spark emergence. I delivered Ulchtar, you know. It was a very proud moment in my career,”

The nurse’s helm droops, sadly. “I wish it were still safe for bots to have sparklings. With the way the elections are looking— I don’t know if I could bring a new-spark into this mess.”

Prowl resets his optics. It is frustratingly difficult to comprehend the nurse’s words, because his helm is becoming heavier and heavier, and his whole frame feels as if it is spinning, though he is lying down.

”… I just wanted to thank you. I’m sorry, Inspector. I didn’t mean to cause you distress— I— it’s been a long shift. Please, get some rest. You need it.” The nurse nods, then promptly exits the room, wings flicking in embarrassment.

Prowl drifts off into recharge confused, exhausted, and slightly nauseated.

 

——

 

As soon as he is well enough to have visitors, he is ambushed by the commissioner:

Tail-Fin shoves a bouquet of crystal flowers into his arms, and proceeds to apologize so profusely that Prowl begins to get a helm-ache. When he is done groveling, Tail-Fin informs him that all the news stories for the past cycle have been about the incident at the Wing Lord’s ball.

“The public is just eating this up, Prowl,” Tail-Fin pulls three different newspapers out of subspace to prove his point, handing them over with no small degree of anticipation.

Praxian Inspector Saves Wing Lord’s Creation From Terrorist Attack.

New Hope For Vosnian-Praxian Relations? Read All About Ulchtar’s Shocking 100th Vorn Ball.

Cold-Constructed Praxian Enforcer with Battle Computer involved with Bombing?

That last one makes Prowl wince. The Vosnian Voice has always been… firm in their political stance on battle computers, so it’s no surprise.

”Don’t worry, most of the press has been positive, or at least factual. Quite a few influential society mechs saw you save his life with their own optics, after all.” Tail-Fin smiles in reassurance, patting Prowl’s servo.

The inspector frowns at him, folding The Vosnian Voice neatly in half and resting it on his lap.

”I am not worried about what the media is saying; I am simply concerned that their focus on me will make it difficult to perform the essential functions of my job. How am I to go on patrols if I am being hounded by the media?”

Tail-Fin taps his pede on the ground and hums in consideration.

”Sorry, Prowl, there’s only so much I can do there. You’re on medical leave for the time being, of course, but it's hard to control journalists. There were already some cameras waiting around outside when I got here.”

Prowl’s door-wings sag in resignation.

”What of Meister? Did they find a note?”

“We think so, but it was all burnt up by the blast, by the time I thought to look for it. It’s just, you were pinned, and I… wasn’t thinking clearly,” The commissioner explains.

”Do you think he was involved with the attack?”

Prowl shakes his helm fiercely.

”No, sir. Meister is a thief, not a terrorist. He’s never used violent tactics before.”

”That we know of,” Tail-Fin argues, leaning forward in his chair. “Perhaps he’s grown bolder with all the… unrest, lately. The Wing Lord certainly seems to think so, though we have no real evidence, he is convinced that Meister is the one responsible for the attack,”

Tail-Fin sighs, but then his optics brighten and he straightens in his chair.

”Did you know, Prowl, when you were still in induced stasis, that that Megatronus-bot took over a government broadcast in Iacon. I just can’t believe the nerve of these guerillas.”

Prowl’s tac-net whirs unhappily at that information. Vosnians generally (roughly 63%) approve of Decepticon rhetoric. He considers asking for a transfer, perhaps to a hospital in Praxus— but no. He is still quite damaged. There is a 85.7% chance Prowl would only exacerbate his injuries, were he to travel now.

And how can they suspect Meister of planting the bomb? The chance is not zero, (8.3%), but… Prowl can feel it in his tanks. The Wing Lord is not the most popular mech, nor has he ever been; It was but fifteen vorns ago when a suspicious service drone (no name, serial number J-114), with ties to an extreme, functionist group attempted to assassinate him.

No, this attack was not Meister— someone with political motivations against Vos was behind this. (77.2%, the only reasonable explanation.)

He tells his theory to the commissioner.

”… Maybe you do need a vacation, Prowl. I don’t think you’ve taken one since…“ The commissioner furrows his brow.

”Never. I have never taken a vacation.” Prowl offers, sullen.

”Oh, well, that’s just not right! I own a place up in Nova Cronum, if you want it, oh, and I’m great friends with the owner of Trion Resorts! Here, I think I have my travel agent’s comm-link somewhere—“

”No, thank you, sir. I am fine— I will be fine, as soon as I am well enough to travel.”

The commissioner sighs, leveling him with a pitying look.

“Meister was there, Prowl. I understand that you’re dedicated to the case, really, I do. But it's far-fetched that this attack had anything to do with Primus' Pure Sparks. Their lot hasn’t been active in what? Ten vorns? Longer?“

Prowl is quietly seething. Groups like that didn’t just… disappear. How could the commissioner be so naive? So gullible? He tries to school his expression into something impassive, but the commissioner still notices his discontent.

“I’m extending your medical leave. You’re going on vacation, Prowl. I don’t want to see you at the station until at least the end of next quartex.” He sternly declares, wagging a digit.

“But this quartex just started.”

Tail-Fin’s serious demeanor melts into one of fondness.

“Relax, Inspector. Some time off will be good for you! You need to heal, and it won’t hurt to lay low while the media is still so active.”

Prowl wishes that weren't so logical.

 

——

 

He has just finished balling up the business-card of Tail-Fin’s travel agent and tossing it into the waste disposal receptacle in the corner, when there comes a knock at the door.

”Come in.” Prowl calls out, startled. The nurse wasn’t due to check in again until dinner, and hadn’t expected  any more visitors. The fare to Vos was not cheap; it would be too big an expense for someone of Bluestreak’s, or even Smokescreen’s pay grade.

To his utter surprise, Slipstream opens the door. She nods to him with begrudging tolerance, then steps inside and thoroughly inspects the room, like she is expecting to find another bomb.

“It’s clear!” She yells over her shoulder, after she has finished peeking underneath Prowl’s hospital berth.

”I’m not made of glass,” Ulchtar’s voice hisses.

The young noble steps through the door, draped in a hooded traveling cloak. It must be made from silver-mesh, from the way it ripples as he moves, reflecting the ceiling lights. Ulchtar hurries to Prowl’s berth-side. He notices that the mechling is bare-faced.

”How are you, Prowl? Is the pain terrible? I can’t believe they put you in a public hospital—“

”He means ‘thank you’”, Slipstream interjects, cycling her optics. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything, Star.”

”Why, can you believe the way she talks to me?” The younger seeker glares over his shoulder at Slipstream’s retreating back, before inventing sharply and turning to Prowl.

”But she’s right. Thank you, Inspector, for saving my life,”

“Of course. Why did she call you ‘Star?’” Prowl asks.

”Of course, he says,” Ulchtar chuckles under his breath, optics shuttering halfway as he smiles. “Because that is that name I like to be called by, though, only those close to me know it. You can call me Star.”

He says it so earnestly that Prowl almost asks him to repeat himself. He regards the young noble gravely.

”How are you?”

“Oh, very grand! The press has been following me around everytime I step outside, just begging for interviews and the like. My sire is so moody about the whole thing,” Star shrugs happily, flopping down in the chair beside the berth. “I’m just glad for a break from his incessant hovering.”

”Does he often… hover?” Prowl asks, attempting to do so with some air of delicacy.

”You don’t know the half of it,” Star huffs. “I’m still not allowed out without a chaperone. It’s not as if I’m a mechling anymore!”

Privately, Prowl disagrees.

“I can see why security is tight around you. Ul— Star. I don’t think you should be here.”

Star’s olfactory wrinkles in distaste. “I can defend myself! Slipstream thinks I’m Flight Academy material, and she graduated with honors!”

”And I’m sure she is correct, if your skill in aerial dance was anything to go by,” Prowl nods, trying to make his expression earnest. “I don’t think you incapable of defending yourself. I'm only concerned for your safety; there are always variables you can’t predict, the bomb, for one.”

“Oh.” Star blinks.

Their conversation lapses into silence. Prowl looks off into the middle distance, pretending to peer out of the window, out at the spires that constitute Vos’ city skyline. They must be a joor’s flight, at least, from the Wing Lord’s manor. He can still see Star is his periphery, those blue claws twitching over his lap.

Prowl hardly knows him, but it seems unlike Star to be at a loss for words. Something must be troubling him— the inspector has just worked up the nerve to ask if he’s alright, when:

”Is it true that you still have your… your battle computer?”

Prowl stills.

“Yes.” He replies, confidently, though he’s bracing himself. There was 67.8% chance this topic would come up. The tabloids can’t seem to let it go. Star has certainly read about it by now.

Prowl likes young bots, at least, he thinks he does; speaking with Bluestreak always makes him feel lighter, more carefree, and working with Smokescreen forces him to see things with fresh optics, so to speak.

Prowl was never young. He onlined knowing his serial number, his function, how to read, write, walk, and speak with perfect enunciation. How to shoot. How to shoot to kill. How to file a report.

Sitting in tense silence, scratchy hospital sheet chafing against his door-wings, he cannot help but wonder if the difference between him and Star is too much to cross. Insurmountable. He does not know what it is like to grow up, let alone to grow up under the thumb of a noble sire. Star does not know what it is like to have a part of yourself that betrays you, a part of yourself that is so deeply embedded in your processor, in your very coding, that the idea of removing it sickens you.

“Does it hurt?” Star asks, tone hushed, like it's a very personal thing he’s asking. Prowl supposes it is.

For a kilk, he is too stunned to speak. No one has ever asked him this before, at least not so directly. Not with any degree of concern.

”Sometimes,” He admits. “Yes. I run too many numbers at once, or there are too many variables to consider. Sometimes, I rely on it too heavily and I “crash”— My processor overheats— and I experience an altered state of consciousness.”

Star’s wings hike up in alarm.

“Why don’t you get rid of it?”

Prowl shakes his helm. “I was constructed with it. My tac-net was an experimental model, not standard. My feeling is that— I… I would compare the idea of removing it to the idea of having my door-wings removed.”

“Oh. You needn’t explain more than that. I don’t even want to imagine.” Star shudders.

”I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Prowl frowns. “Star, do you have any idea who planted that bomb?”

The young seeker fidgets in his chair, perking up a bit at the change in topic.

”My sire believes it was that Meister mech. TC thinks it was some politician. Skywarp thinks it was my sire, but Skywarp is uh. Skywarp.”

”And what do you think?”

“I really don’t know what to think, inspector. I was hoping you had a few theories.” Star raises a brow, imploring.

”Whoever did this… did it because they had something to gain. This was not a senseless act. I think you should be very careful moving forward, Star.“

”You sound quite certain about that.” The seeker says, a troubled look overtaking his features. Star crosses his legs and then crosses them the other way, like he doesn’t know how to present himself. Perhaps the both of them are out of their depth in this conversation.

”I… people have tried to offline your sire before, have they not?”

”That cult?” Star guffaws. “You—! You really think those “Pure Spark” buffoons are involved with this? You’re serious?”

“There is a 52.3% chance, yes. With the data I have now,” Prowl picks at a loose thread on his disposable sheet. He feels rather silly For bringing the fringe group up, even though it's crucial that he warn Star of the possibility. “They're the most likely culprits, so far. The use of explosives in a crowded ballroom. That’s not Meister’s style.”

Star’s EMF field flares out with curiosity.

”Are you chasing him?”

Prowl blinks in surprise. “I suppose I am. I have been. Though, I’m not officially assigned to his case, and I may not be able to chase anything, for a while,” He gestures to his chassis, which is wrapped generously in nanite-bandaging to speed up healing.

“Just— Star. Please be careful.”

The noble stares at Prowl, observing. He drums his claws on his knee.

”May I kiss you?” Star asks. Casually, like he's asking Prowl what toppings he likes on gelled energon.

”No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Star’s wings lower, field projecting semi-repressed mortification. Disappointment.

“You’re too young for me. I— It would be inappropriate, to say the least. It would be wrong.” Prowl explains, placating.

”I don’t care about that!” Star growls, sitting up straight now, wings twitching in discomfort. “You said I was beautiful.”

”That does not mean I want to kiss you.”

The young seeker’s shoulders slump in defeat, and he falls back against the uncomfortable hospital chair. He’s a rather petulant child, apperantly.

”I thought you liked me.“ Star mutters, crossing his arms.

Prowl lifts himself up on his elbows first, then his arms. He only makes one involuntary grunt of exertion as he does so, which he counts as a victory. His chassis still feels like there’s an anvil on it, and he is beginning to see little dots of light in his periphery. Still, he manages to sit up and scoot to the edge of the berth.

Prowl takes both of Star’s servos between his own, gentle pressure. The same way the seeker had grasped his own servos before, at the ball.

”I do. But I like you, as a… a friend. If. If you would like that.”

Star huffs, refusing to meet his optics. But he doesn’t reject the inspector’s touch.

”… I'd like that. I just don’t understand you. Not at all.”

Star looks up at him. Even though Prowl is sitting up on the elevated berth, they are still at level with each other's optics. Star is a war frame, he reminds himself. An overgrown mechling. He will probably get bigger. It is a miracle that Prowl had been able to shove him out from under the chandelier.

”I’d never met a seeker before I stepped off the bullet train,” He admits. “So I suppose I don’t understand you, either.”

”It’s not—“ Star scoffs, drawing his servos back to hug his own arms. He’s looking off to the side again.

“I’d never met a Praxian, before I met you. Not really. I’d exchanged pleasantries with a few noble Praxians, of course, and I’ve been jeered at by a few. I don’t have many dealings with cold constructs, either. Or enforcers. But that’s not it. I just… I don’t understand what you want. Why you saved me. I thought maybe you… it wouldn't exactly be the first time someone helped me because they wanted…”

Star’s shoulders are hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller.

Oh. Oh.

“I don’t want that from you.” Prowl assures him, all seriousness. He does his best to project comfort through his field, but it comes out rather weak. He’s not used to sharing his EMF with others.

“I helped you because it's my job. My function. And because I think you have a very bright future ahead of you.”

Star’s optics meet his again, all surprise.

”You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

The mechling’s shoulders relax. He smiles, but it is not the guarded, arrogant smirk Prowl has grown to expect from him. It is warm and honest, if a bit shy.

“Could I hug you, instead? As a friend?”

“As a friend, I suppose that would be alright.” Prowl agrees, solem. Which gets a laugh out of Star.

 

——

 

When he is well enough to return to Praxus, there is already a parcel from Star, haphazardly shoved in his work mailbox. It contains mostly energon treats.

Bluestreak very sweetly presents him with some pre-prepared energon for dinner, and the rest of Prowl’s mail, then promptly shoos him away from his own office.

Prowl meanders back in the direction of his own apartment. He stops and stares at a vending machine but does not buy anything. For some reason, he doesn’t feel up to seeing Mistlane. Or anybot, for that matter.

Praxus feels exactly the same. Prowl is one who is different, now. He will have a scar on his spark chamber for the rest of his life.

Walking around familiar avenues only depresses him further; perhaps he is feeling lonely now because at least at the hospital, he had never truly been alone. There was always a nurse. A Doctor. The patient on the other side of the curtain, softly venting in the small joors of the early morning.

Finally, standing at his own front door, Prowl sighs in relief. At least in here, there is a reprieve from the chaos. He opens the door, and just about a thousand crystals greet him. Prowl resets his optics, but they are still there.

Rare flowers he’s only ever read of; hanging amethyst, angelite trumpets, malachite seedlings. Your standard crystal roses. Tourmaline poppies and chrysanthemums. The variety in color alone is so dazzling it almost makes his processor spin; deep reds and blues, bright pinks and yellows. Resplendent oranges and purples, vibrant greens.

On his desk, surrounded by pots of much healthier looking turquoise succulents than the one above his desk, (which looks recently watered), there is a black envelope. With a blue seal.

 

Dear Inspector Prowl,

 

Thanks for the dance! I had a lot of fun, even though you have two left pedes. Sorry to hear about your stay in the hospital. The papers all say you’re lucky to be alive!

 When I heard the big “boom” I was already halfway down the mountain. (It wasn’t me, but I think you already knew that.) Anyways, I had a hunch that you wouldn’t have the chance to grab the letter I left you at the party, so here’s a copy of the riddle:

 

I lie in the belly of the beast, waiting in the dark.

I have no mouth, but they say I can sing.

What does my song sound like to you?

 

Get well soon!

 

—Meister

 

P.S. Hope you like the crystals.

 

He can scarcely vent.

Thanks for the dance!

Thanks for the dance!

Thanks for the dance!

He’d only danced with one mech, that whole night.

Prowl crashes.

 

——

 

Throughout the cycles following his return, Prowl often finds himself pacing back and forth in his hab, vindictively wishing he could believe Meister planted that bomb.

He is furious that the thief slipped through his digits so easily; furious that he hadn’t noticed all the little details he was agonizing over, now.

”Ah, Ambassador Ricochet! I almost didn’t recognize you!” Tail-Fin greets.

The ambassador grins. His denta are so white.

”Likewise, commissioner. It’s been far too long— and who is this? Your conjunx?”

Prowl scoffs aloud.

Oh slag, he danced with Meister. And he enjoyed himself.

He’s looked up the real Ambassador Ricochet by now, of course. Who apparently was not even invited to the ball: Prowl checked over the guest list about five times. The real Ricochet, to be fair, looks remarkably similar to… to Meister, but there are subtle differences; different shaped visor, for one. Slightly different helm shape, smaller audial horns. The real Ricochet’s smile is nowhere near as…. arresting.

Bitterly, Prowl recalls an off-handed comment Tail-Fin had once made. It had been a long time ago, back when the commissioner was freshly appointed and Prowl was hardly more than a service drone.

If he remembers correctly, Tail-Fin had just finished interrogating a suspect who was Stanizian. Something about shoplifting. His servos had still had energon on them when he’d walked out of that door, whistling to himself. 

He’d caught Prowl’s optics from across the hallway. All Stanizians look the same to me, anyways, he’d said. Then he smiled a charming smile. Prowl remembers feeling faintly ill.

He feels rather ill, now. His spark hurts again, with now familiar, aching pressure. Perhaps he’s paced enough for one day.

As the cycles pass, He finds himself devoting significant time and energy to the crystals. A bouquet is one thing, but Meister had saddled him with a whole living garden. Some of the plants have very specific needs. The hanging Amethyst can’t handle much natural light. The tourmaline poppies require quite a bit of fuel.

A few of the more delicate flowers die due to his mistreatment before the deca-cycle is up, which drives Prowl to the local library. He returns to his hab with a stack of data pads he can hardly see over, all about crystal care. He proceeds to spend an entire cycle reading about his new roommates, periodically glancing up at the plants to make sure that the roses aren’t diseased and that the amber vines are getting enough room to grow.

It feels good to be able to focus on something unrelated to work; fueling little saplings and pruning dead flowers. Idly, he cannot help but wonder where Meister had acquired all of these crystals. Roughly a fourth of them are young plants, but the majority of them are mature, and in excellent health.

Had Meister stolen these from someplace? (65%). Selfishly, Prowl finds that he does not care. Looking after the crystals is actually quite rewarding, if a little distracting. It is difficult to contemplate Meister’s new riddle for long, when an embarrassing amount of his processor-space is suddenly devoted to home gardening.

Still, he manages to wonder about the thief quite a bit. He comforts himself with what he knows:

Meister really is Stanizian. (87.4%). The idea of him being able to fake the subtle accent, the drink order, the ease with which he moved? It’s possible, but unlikely, Prowl thinks. The best lies are based in truths, after all.

Meister will strike again, and soon. When he does, it is more than likely he will steal something else around the Lithium Flats, the same continent which both Praxians and Vosians call home. (92.7%)

Meister expects Prowl to chase him. (100%). Just as Star had said.

That last point is what vexes Prowl most of all: Why does Meister want him? Why not a more esteemed detective, someone with a few more vorns of experience under their belt? It’s all one giant helm-ache.

As enjoyable as his new hobby is, Prowl does eventually grow a bit bored of tending to the crystals, day in, day out. He often catches himself day-dreaming about being back at work.

Bluestreak had recently invited him out to a popular new cafe downtown, but Prowl had politely turned him down, using the excuse of his still-healing injuries. Despite the fact that he is perfectly well enough to go on a small outing like that.

Prowl does not know why he avoids friendships, or relationships in general, for that matter. Perhaps it really is the tac-net— he is painfully aware of how it’s mere existence alienates him from others; because of his tac-net, the way he experiences life is fundamentally different from your average mech.

Sometimes he is not certain where it ends and where his own processor begins. They are inextricable. Somehow, Prowl knows he would still be quite an off-putting person without it. He is blunt to the point of rudeness. He suppresses his field almost constantly, because it is too overwhelming to feel the fields of others, brushing against his own. The camaraderie which comes easily to his fellow enforcers has never touched him.

For the time being, it is easier, somehow, to correspond with Star through the mail than it is to talk with anybot else. Perhaps it is because the seeker writes quite a bit about himself. Prowl has just finished reading his latest letter, a five-page long account of how Skywarp had gotten himself stuck halfway through a wall, practicing the use of his new-found outlier ability. He wishes he were there to see it; the mental image is quite amusing.

The inspector falls back on his berth and sighs, holds the letter to his chassis. The doctors had instructed him to “take it easy.” Does this count as easy?

He looks around his hab. All of the crystals are in perfect health. He looks out of the window. It is still quite early in the evening; the sun has just begun to set.

 

——

 

The yellow street lamps flicker to life, and for a moment, Prowl is bathed in light. He wishes that the light felt like something; warmth, perhaps. Cold would be fine too, as long as there was sensation. Any sensation.

Prowl is not used to “going out”, and isn’t sure he could handle a bar without a companion. He doesn’t want to go anywhere to lively, for fear of encountering the press.

He finds himself wandering around the few streets that constitute eastern Praxus’ shopping district, peering into closed store-fronts, through the windows of small restaurants, bustling with activity.

He is not particularly hungry, and thus, Prowl ends up at the cinema. He genuinely cannot remember the last time he saw a film; back when he was still in basic training, there had been a small theater across the street from his old precinct. He thinks it must be closed, now, and most of the films he saw were mediocre, at best.

Still, it had been a blessing, a quiet, dark place for him to kill a joor or two between classes. Maybe it is the nostalgia that drives him through the double doors, to the ticket counter. They’re showing an action film, a documentary about a fashion designer, and a period drama that looks entirely too long.

Prowl elects to see the drama. He has nowhere to be, and he cannot recall seeing a film like it before.

He purchases a bag of rust-sticks from the drone manning the concessions, and slips off down the hall, to theater five. They have just begun to show the credits. There is a older couple sitting near the front, one of them already dozing. Two young femmes and a mech sit a few rows behind them, chattering excitedly, but otherwise, the theater is empty.

Prowl sits in the last row, and chews on a rust stick. This brand is not as good as the one Mistlane carries in her corner store. Perhaps he should pay her a visit, after the film? But no, she’ll be closed by then.

Around the time that the towerling protagonist’s creators die tragically in a wreck, (five or six kilks into the film), someone slides into the seat next to Prowl. He’s admittedly rather ruffled— there are plenty of empty seats in the theater, so why—

Prowl doesn’t notice, but his rust sticks fall off his lap, onto the floor.

His paint job is different than it was at the ball, of course. His helm is black, as are his servos. Green is replaced by blue. Shining blue, like his visor, which reflects the light of the projector.

”Hey, stranger,” Whispers Meister, grinning wide. “You come here often?”

Chapter 4: The Wing Lord

Summary:

this one is a bit shorter, but dw… next few chapters will likely be horrendously long 🫶

Prowl doesn’t think; he practically rips the cuffs out of his subspace, slaps them onto Meister’s right wrist, and chains the thief to the armrest, all in one swift movement.

Meister looks down at the cuffs, then back up at the inspector, unimpressed. No, not unimpressed— he’s pouting. Pouting!

“Well, that ain’t very nice.” He whispers.

”You’re under arrest,” Prowl hisses through clenched denta. “I’m taking you into the station.”

“After the movie?” Meister pleads. “I’m a really big fan of…” The thief jerks his helm towards the screen. “Well, I’m not. I just needed an excuse to talk to you.”

Prowl stares at him, baffled. His accent is… different. Thicker, for one. Some of his kibble is noticeably different. Infuriatingly, he is still very good looking, perhaps even more so than he had been while play-acting as the ambassador.

”Why?” Prowl asks, tac-net for once coming up empty.

Meister’s visor dims, but that smile of his is back. He seems almost preternatural. Maybe it is the cast of artificial light. Maybe it is the way Meister’s field is undetectable, just like his own. All of the thief’s systems seem to be running in complete silence. 

”What do you think?” Meister asks, casually propping his uncuffed arm up on the other armrest, leaning back to rest his weight on it and better face Prowl.

The inspector briefly wonders if he is having some kind of horrible nightmare.

“Are you playing with me? Is this a game to you?” (93.4%).

Meister tilts his helm back. Like this, Prowl can see the ghost of one of his optics, burning white.

”I’ll come quietly, after the film is through, if you play a game with me. I ask a question, you ask a question, like a couple’a protoforms at a sleepover.”

For a kilk, Prowl is truly at a loss. His tac-net whirrs and clicks, but it cannot land on any numbers.

”C’mon, Prowler. Indulge me. Just one little game, one feature-length-film, then I’ll let you throw me in the brig.”

”That is not my designation.” Prowl says. There is a 97% chance that Meister is lying about coming quietly. There is a high but incalculable probability that Meister will answer all of Prowl’s questions with lies.

But there is also a chance that Prowl will learn some very useful information.

”What part of Staniz are you from?” He asks, mostly because he wants to be proven right.

”Bold of you to assume I’m really Stanizian.” Meister teases, silently tapping his digits against the armrests. Perhaps a nervous tick? (41.4%) It certainly makes Prowl nervous.

”Assuming you are not speaking with a false accent, this time, there is a 87.4% chance you are from the coast, by the rust sea.”

That unflappable grin falters. “Slag, mech, you don’t play around. Yeah, I was born to ship-builders,” 

Meister’s visor flashes.

“So. How’d you solve my first riddle?”

Is he really doing this? Playing a mechling’s game with a possibly dangerous and highly unpredictable criminal, just for a measly bit of intel?

”By reading the newspaper. I have a subscription to The Lithium Flats Examiner.” Prowl offers.

”So…?”

“I read an article about the crown. ‘Heavy is the helm’… not very subtle,” He huffs. “What did you do with the crown?”

”Sold it to the highest bidder.”

”Black-market channels? Do you sell all of your bounty?” Prowl questions.

”Ah-ah, wait your turn.” The thief leans towards him, sly, clearly enjoying the trickle of irritation that escapes the inspector’s field. “So, how’re you holdin’ up? Think you’ll get better in time for my next heist?”

Prowl blinks.

”That was two questions. And you are still under arrest. There will be no next heist.”

”Hey, I was only worried about your uh—“ Here, Meister gestures vaguely to his own chassis.

Prowl raises an optical ridge at him. “If you are referring to my spark-chamber, then you have nothing to worry about. I am nearly healed. I expect to return to active duty at the end of the quartex.”

”Oh, good, then our schedules line up!” Meister says, cryptically, and far too loudly.

Prowl shushes him, glancing down at the other movie-goers. None of them seem to have noticed, but it's better safe than sorry. He levels Meister with a very serious, accusatory expression, and leans forwards into the thief’s space, matching him.

“Did you plant that bomb?”

”You know I didn’t.” Meister answers, easily. He even has the gall to look disappointed, like Prowl was rude to ask.

”I suppose that was a waste of a question. Try telling that to the courtroom, though. The press.”

Meister hums noncommittally. Like he’s bored.

“How were the flowers, Inspector?”

”What do you mean, ‘were’? They are all still in perfect health. Ah, except for a few of the younger tourmaline poppies. I over-fueled them, before I had a chance to do some research on their needs.”

Meister does not say anything, for a few long moments.

”Right. So you kept those? And you’re not freaked out that I broke into your apartment because…?”

Truthfully, it had not occurred to Prowl to “freak out” over such a detail; he had been preoccupied with the crystals. Fixated on the crystals.

Oh, Primus.

He is hit with a powerful wave of embarrassment, then shame, and barely manages to suppress his feelings from showing through his field. How could he be so stupid? So silly, so negligent, doting over flowers like some kind of lovesick—

“I do not have to answer that, yet. It is my turn.” He deflects. He can still scarcely believe that the thief is here.

On the screen, the young protagonist waltzes with a handsome knight, shiny plating glimmering under the stars. The knight dips his partner expertly.

”Oh. Well, shoot.” Meister coughs. Something has shifted in his demeanor, like he’s off balance— which makes Prowl feel slightly better. Perhaps two can play at this game.

There is one question that has been nagging at his processor, ever since the break-in at the crystal gardens.

”Why do you address your riddles to me?”

Why not a more experienced detective? Why not someone famous, like Nightbeat? Why not someone distinguished, like Elita-One?

“When I saw you at the ball…” Meister shakes his helm, smile creeping back onto his face.

Must this night truly end? The protagonist vents, winded from dancing. The knight simply kisses him in lieu of an answer.

“Well, honestly? I guess I was getting bored. Since I was goin’ after the Diamond Rose, I figured it’d be best to choose a Praxian inspector for my riddle idea— Read that little blip they did about you in The Iaconian, that hostage situation, at the bank in central Praxus? I didn’t think anybot still had a tac-net. Sue me, I was curious, and you seemed like an interesting choice,”

On screen, the protagonist melts into the kiss, and the camera pans out away from the lovers, over the balcony, up into the starry sky.

Meister shrugs with an air of finality.

“You’re the only one who’s been able to keep up with me, Prowler. That’s why I keep writing you.”

The inspector scoffs.

“You followed me here of your own volition.”

“Well, neither of us are workin’ today. Truce?” Meister asks, visor flickering playfully. He is holding out his free servo to shake, Prowl realizes. If he remembers correctly, it was the same servo Meister had placed on his waist, when they danced.

Prowl very pointedly looks from Meister’s face, down to his outstretched servo, then back again.

“You are still my prisoner.”

“And you spilled all of your rust-sticks, but I wasn’t gonna say anything,” The thief taunts, kicking his pedes idly. He begins openly, but not very intensely fiddling with the cuff on his right wrist. Which makes Prowl nervous, agitated, even more so than he already was. Meister either does not notice or does not care.

”So, why’d you keep that tac-net of yours, anyways? Thought they outlawed ‘em.”

Prowl invents sharply. If the thief continues acting so… so infuriating, a crash is most certainly imminent. (99.9%).

”That is a very personal thing to ask,” Prowl replies, tone biting. “I am sure you’ve read all the gossip columns' opinions of me. Is that not enough for you?”

”Sorry, I was only curious. It seems like more trouble than it's worth, that’s all.” He sounds surprisingly genuine. He is no longer smiling, and his visor has dimmed in apparent uncertainty.

Meister resumes playing with the cuffs. Prowl turns his attention to the screen.

But I love him, step-carrier! Can’t you see that? The protagonist cries, coolant welling in his big, blue optics.

His unsympathetic guardian scowls, sipping on engex, facing away from the protagonist to peer out of a tall window. You don’t even know him, foolish mechling.

“I don’t think I could live without it,” Prowl admits, still looking straight ahead, at the screen. The protagonist looks almost as conflicted as Prowl feels. In his periphery, he sees Meister turn to look at him.

”I was cold constructed, but not in a batch. They built my processor over the course of a whole vorn, especially for the purpose of battle strategy. My tac-net is… entwined with my coding, my motor skills, the way I think and the way I perceive most everything. I am a computer, masquerading as a person. But I do not know any other way of being. Does that answer your question?”

Silence.

I know he has a good spark, and that is more than I can say of you! The protagonist yells in righteous anger, then turns with a dramatic pivot, slamming the door behind him just as the theme music crescendos.

Prowl dares to turn his helm. Meister is staring at him, blank-faced. Then the thief is leaning forward, cupping the inspector’s face between both of his servos. Warm, broad digits.

Prowl hardly notices that he’s freed himself of the cuffs.

The kiss is as chaste as it is quick, the press of soft, warm lips against his cheek. Prowl resets his optics. His tac-net beeps frantically in warning— he’s over-heating, rapidly, and his cooling systems are not responding.

Meister leans back, visor flashing.

”I think you’re a lot more than that, Prowler,” He says, then stands, brushing imaginary dust off of his lap. Prowl watches him saunter down the aisle, helplessly.

Meister stops just short of the exit, turning back to look at him.

:: 12-773-25. This is a burner, but it’ll last a while yet. Comm me! :: The thief blows him a kiss, and slips out through the exit, back into the night. It is like Meister was never here at all, a ghostly apparition of his imagination.

Prowl finds, to his total shame, that he is still touching his own cheek, (has been touching his own cheek, staring blindly at the exit), when the lights come on. Real after all, then.

 

——

 

Upon returning to active duty, Prowl is overcome with the highly irrational feeling that everybot can tell what had occurred at that cinema. That they can tell, just by looking at his face, because Meister’s kiss had left some kind of permanent mark. His tac-net reassures him the notion is, of course, ridiculous. And so, the inspector strides confidently down Praxus city streets, past whispering civilians, and through the doors of the busy precinct, past the sidelong glances, the gaggles of gossiping enforcers.

His secretary greets him warmly at the office door. Bluestreak seems to be in good spirits, if a bit overwhelmed; In Prowl’s absence, his office has still been quite busy, he learns; with reporters begging for interviews over the phone, hundreds of letters of support from civilians (many of them seekers), and an offer to do a brand deal with a small local company that specializes in rust flakes, of all things. Additionally, there are a few very… intimate photos of some seeker femme’s open panels, signed with lipstick kisses, a couple of anonymous death threats, of course, and, there is a letter from Star.

He asks Bluestreak to dispose of all non-work related mail, save the last item.

”Please set aside any letters from a ‘Star’ writing from this address,” Prowl instructs, handing his secretary the now-empty envelope. He subspaces the letter to read for later, wondering at how Star could possibly enjoy this kind of reaction from the public. How anyone could.

”Thank you, Bluestreak, for dealing with all of this in my absence. I had not realized I was receiving so much… attention.”

”Oh, that’s quite alright, sir. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” Bluestreak waves him off, already busy with another comm call.

”Inspector Prowl’s office!”

When Prowl opens the door to his own area, he finds that there is a little crystal bouquet, already in a vase. Briefly, Prowl entertains the idea of taking a few of the heartier crystals from his apartment, bringing them into his office to liven up the space— but then, he is thinking of where those crystals came from, and vehemently dismissing the thought.

”Thank you for the flowers, Bluestreak. They are lovely,” He says, glancing over his shoulder fondly.

”A speech? I’m sorry, I believe the Inspector is completely booked up that day. Pity, he loves weddings.” Bluestreak winks, mouthing ‘you’re welcome.’ Prowl gives him a nod of approval before shutting the door.

Being at work after so long an absence feels right. He actually vents a sigh of relief, examining his evidence board, (just the way he’d left it), his shelf of data-pads, the plaque with his name and rank inscribed in brass. It feels not unlike coming home.

Smokescreen comes in shortly after Prowl has gotten situated at his desk, carrying two cubes and a data-pad under one arm.

”I got a lot of recharge with you gone, but pits, it was boring. They had me doing so much paperwork,” Smokescreen complains, but he is smiling. He sets the cubes down on the desk. “Glad to have you back, sir.”

”I am glad to be back. I have a new riddle for us to work on.”

 

——

 

Out of guilt and no small degree of pity, Prowl treats Smokescreen to a much needed drink; after eight joors of ceaseless research, then three more of patrolling the streets, the junior detective is practically dead on his pedes. (Perhaps Prowl had been a tad overexcited to return to work, because to him the whole day seemed to pass in a matter of breems.)

Thankfully, their patrol ends on the south-east side of Praxus, right by the drinking district.

”Your time-blindness is something else, sir.” Smokescreen murmurs into his high-grade, already half-asleep.

”I apologize. I will block out the schedule more carefully for tomorrow, and you will be paid for the overtime, of course.”

Smokescreen raises a brow. “Out of your salary. Excuse me if I’m overstepping, sir, but I think you work too much.”

”Perhaps,” Prowl hums, swirling his high-grade in the glass, like Meister had at the ball. He wonders what it would taste like with argon, but does not think it likely that they have any, here. It is a simple Praxian bar, sparsely populated by old-timers. “But I certainly make enough shanix to compensate you for your efforts. That is all that matters to me.”

Smokescreen only chuckles, exasperated, and sips at his drink.

Junior detective and inspector both turn their attention to the holo-vid mounted in the far corner of the bar. 

Now that he is sitting down, Prowl can feel the exhaustion catching up to him; his spark chamber is healing well, the doctor had informed him at his last check-up, but he was still meant to be resting as much as possible.

So much for that.

But it is easy to ignore the ache in his chassis,  as he allows himself to be hypnotized by the brightly-colored commercials on the vid-screen; a new, ozone-scented solvent; then, by the same manufacturer, polish with glitter in it. Star would like it. (96.4%)

The weather forecast begins. Apparently a sand storm is mounting, pushed by strong wind from the Vosnian mountains, expected to reach Praxus by tomorrow evening. It looks like a bad one, from the footage they are showing of seekers blown off course, the weather-mech gesticulating animatedly at a map showing the currents.

Suddenly, the main news anchors appear on screen, visibly flustered.

We interrupt this report to bring you a special broadcast from the Wing Lord of Vos.

The footage cuts to a live broadcast of the Wing Lord, standing on a large, circular stage, behind a podium. Prowl easily recognizes the setting as the manor grounds, currently crowded with members of the press.

The Inspector sits up straight on the bar stool, glitter polish and storm warnings forgotten.

Good people, the Wing Lord addresses the reporters, As many of you know, there was an attack on my creation’s life, at his one-hundredth vorn ball. Thankfully, he was physically unharmed, due to the efforts of Inspector Prowl of Praxus,

Smokescreen looks at Prowl. Prowl does not look away from the broadcast.

However, the mental toll on my dear Ulchtar has been great. He has a delicate spark,

Prowl snorts.

And I fear it will take him astro-cycles, perhaps even vorns of therapy to fully recover. I want to thank all you good bots for the well wishes we’ve received in the mail, as well as a special thanks to that brave enforcer, and my own security detail for acting quickly, of course. The Wing Lord smiles, charismatically.

At his pause, the reporters before him erupt into a cacophony of noise, yelling out question after question. Cameras flash in a blinding light show, but the Wing Lord does not appear shaken.

”Whew, and I thought you had a lot of fan-mail already, sir,” Smokescreen says. “Just wait until tomorrow. I’m sure poor Bluestreak won’t even be able to sort through all the letters, if old wings-for-brains keeps bringing you up.”

”I told him to throw it all away,” Prowl murmurs, absently. He is quite literally on the edge of his seat, waiting for the Wing Lord’s next words. The crowd of reporters are still hollering over each other, fighting to be heard.

My Lord! My Lord— is this a new beginning for Praxus and Vos?

Will there be another ball, my Lord?

What of the royal crown? Has it been recovered?

The Wing Lord’s optics sharpen dangerously at the last question. Slowly, almost menacingly, he turns his helm in the direction of the speaker; a mini-bot reporter, who somehow seems to shrink under his gaze. 

He puts up a silencing servo, and waits until his audience falls quiet to speak.

The reason I called for this press conference, He begins, Is because the criminal known as “Meister” is, I have reason to believe, the mech who stole our crown. He is also the one responsible for the bombing.

Prowl’s venting has stalled entirely.

I am offering one-million shanix to mech that brings him to me. Dead or alive.

The Wing Lord steps down from the podium, nodding to someone off-screen. The reporters are in a frenzy once more, of course; one of the camera-mechs near the front shoves another; a security guard loudly reprimands them, practically barking to be heard above the din.

On the stage, a new mech steps up behind the podium. The Wing Lord’s Executive Assistant.

People, people! The gaudily painted seeker cries. Please! The Wing Lord must attend to his creation, now. If you have further questions about the terrorist attack, you can direct them to me.

 

——

 

“I knew something like this would happen.” Prowl says. He doesn’t know what else to say; he does not feel vindicated, like he expected to. He feels… sick, perhaps. His chassis feels tight. Maybe because he has been working too hard, straining his spark chamber? But this pain  is not that familiar pain.

Meister groans. :: Prowler? S’at you? What—::

“That is not my designation,” He spits, venomous. “And this is not a game—!”

Prowl bites down on his own glossa, hard. He had ducked into the nearest empty place to make this comm. He glances up and down the length of the alleyway, checking, scanning, but there is not another soul around.

 There is silence on the other end of the line. The inspector sighs.

“There is a bounty on your helm, Meister. The Wing Lord is offering one million shanix.”

::… Well, slag. That ain’t good… eh, not the first time someone’s tried to kill me,::

There comes the distinct sound of shifting blankets. Had Meister been in berth? Had Prowl woken him up by comming him? (89.7%).

::You said a million?::

“Please, take this seriously.” The inspector says, clipped.

:: I am, I am! Don’t you worry about little ol’ me, I’m in a safe place.::

Prowl can hear the smile in his voice.

“I should hope so. You are all over the news— I believe that if anyone actually knew what you looked like, they would be burning effigies of you in the streets already.”

Meister gasps in delight. ::Was that a joke? You can make jokes?::

“It was not intended as such, no.” Prowl grumbles, and slumps back against the filthy wall behind the bar. Normally, he would be disgusted by a surface this grimey against his doorwings, but finds that he is too tired to care. He feels the beginnings of a migraine between his optics, and allows his neck cabling to go limp. His helm dully thuds against the wall— which is, if nothing else, cold to touch.

::You don’t sound too hot, mech.::

Prowl does not dignify that with a response, instead taking a moment to message Smokescreen, informing the junior detective that his injury was acting up and that he was headed home, apologizing for leaving so abruptly. At least, he had had the foresight to open a tab when they’d arrived there.

::… Prowler? You still there?::

“Yes, I am still here.”

::You solve my new riddle, yet?::

The inspector invents, onlining his optics. He hadn’t realized they’d shut off in the first place— that cannot be good.

“What does my song sound like to you?” Prowl quotes. “ ... no, I am still working on it. I predict I will solve it within the deca-cycle.” (28.2%, a bold-faced lie.)

::Atta mech.:: Meister praises. To his own horror, Prowl’s face begins to feel warm. His cooling vents click to life.

“I will catch you.” He promises, looking out from the dark alleyway, out at a lonely street lamp. Its yellow light buzzes faintly, illuminating the street. Perhaps he should begin making his way home.

::Goodnight, Prowler. Get some rest.::

The line goes dead.

 

——

 

Tail-Fin calls Prowl to his office the next day. It feels like he has done something wrong, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs in the waiting area, with Tail-Fin’s nosy secretary pretending not to look at him.

Perhaps because he has been practically fraternizing with a thief. With Meister.

When the commissioner finally opens the door, he looks… terrible, for lack of a better word. His usually impeccable polish-job is dull, and there are shadows under his optics.

”Come in Prowl, please, sit. Can I get you anything? A cube? Some engex?”

”It is ten in the morning,” Prowl points out, as neutrally as possible. “But no, thank you, I am fine.”

”So it is,” Tail-Fin sighs resignedly, glancing at the clock behind Prowl’s helm. “Forgive me, it feels like it’s already been a very long day.”

Prowl nods his helm in sympathy. “Have you been able to get in touch with the Wing Lord?”

Tail-Fin grimaces.

”No, he's… that… that’s what I wanted to speak with you about. But, how are you feeling? Do you need me to cut back your joors?”

”No, sir, I enjoy being busy. It is good for me,” The inspector replies, automatically.

”Ha, good old Prowl. I can always count on you,” Tail-Fin smiles, weakly. “But you would tell me, wouldn’t you? I don’t want you to strain your spark.”

”Yes, sir,” He lies. “Are… are you alright?”

Tail-Fin barks a laugh, scrubs a servo over his face, and leans back in his chair.

”This whole thing is turning into a PR nightmare. Mechs want to see this Meister’s helm roll,”

Prowl’s door-wings hike up in alarm. Suspiciously high. Luckily, Tail-Fin is, for once, too preoccupied with his job to notice.

”Government’s on my aft over it, they do not like things escalating in this direction, and they mentioned your designation on that broadcast so many times— There’s not a lot we can do. Whatever Meister did or didn’t do, that bomb went off in Vosnian territory, and he definitely stole that crown. If the Wing Lord gets him in Vos?” Tail-Fin shakes his helm. “He’ll be offlined before we get a chance to say our piece.”

”Sir?” Prowl says. He doesn’t understand where the commissioner is going with this.

”Prowl,” Tail-Fin shutters his optics. “I want you to stop looking for Meister, effective immediately. You’re still not at a hundred percent, and the situation has gotten out of control—“

”But sir, Im in great condition! I am very close to—!“

”That is an order, inspector!” The commissioner snaps, optics flying open, blazing.

It takes everything for Prowl to remain complacent, seated, feigning calm. On his lap, beneath Tail-Fin’s wide desk, he clenches his servos so tightly that a warning pops up on his HUD.

”Yes, sir.”

”Good,” Tail-Fin says, deflating slightly, now, relief plain on his face. “Good. I’m sorry, Prowl. I know you were eager to work on this case. If it were my call— Well, I don’t want to see you hurt. Not again.“

”Yes, sir.” Prowl grits out through his denta, though his own words make him nauseous.

”Sir, it’s the mayor for you!” Tail-Fin’s secretary calls out, voice slightly muffled by the door.

”Scrap. I have to take this—“ The commissioner’s desk phone rings right on time, blaringly loud. “Mayor Brakelight! What can I do for you?”

Before Tail-Fin swivels around his chair, he presses the receiver to his chassis, just for a moment.

”I knew you’d understand.” Tail-Fin whispers.

Chapter 5: The Singer

Summary:

NSFW content ahead! It’s pretty clear when that’s abt to start though
Hope y’all enjoy!

As soon as the elevator doors open, Prowl is stomping down the length of the hall, frightening more than a few of the mechs in the administrative department with the fierce expression on his face.

When he rounds the corner towards his office, he almost collides with Smokescreen, who’s carrying a stack of datapads.

”Ah— so sorry, sir—“

He strides past the junior detective without so much as a nod— for Prowl is afraid that he will strike the next person that looks at him in the optics.

I knew you’d understand.

“We’re off the case. Commissioner's orders,” He grunts, the static in his voice betraying his anger. “Go on patrol, or go home.”

Thankfully, it seems Bluestreak has gone out for those office supplies Prowl had asked for the previous cycle. He locks his office door behind him, and proceeds to tear apart the contents of the room.

The desk goes first. He has always hated this desk; it is almost cathartic, using all of his upper-body strength to flip the big, ugly thing off of the ground, watch it spin in midair, watch it splinter and crack and crumple when it hits the floor.

The brass plaque with his name and rank folds under its weight.

The monitor that had fallen off of his desk is not sufficiently damaged, even after toppling to the floor. He stomps into the black screen, delicate glass crunching as it gives way under his pede. He kicks it off, and it goes flying into the wall with a thud, sparking.

Prowl rips all of his awards and metals off of the shelves and hooks adoring the walls in violent, quick motions.

How could Tail-Fin pull him off of the case when he was so close to catching Meister? How could he, when Prowl was their only shot, the recipient of all the riddles?

And how could the Wing Lord name the thief ‘terrorist’?

When the corners of Prowl’s vision stop being red, he is standing in the center of his office, venting shallow and labored. He sinks to his knees.

All of his belongings lie scattered on the floor in a spray of shattered glass and warped metal. His desk is belly up, one of its legs snapped in half, another splintered.

He looks up at the evidence board. Sometimes, Smokescreen likes to call it the “crazy board.” It is the only untouched object in the room.

Distantly, Prowl registers a pounding, unrelenting pressure in his helm.

One-time, Rare Jewel Show to Be Held In Iacon Museum of History, reads the headline of an old article, barely half a page. The story must be a few astro-cycles old, at least.

The headline is not what makes Prowl stop venting; it is the picture, a side by side comparison of the same jewel, in artificial lighting and then in darkness.

In light, it seems to be nothing worth displaying. A roughly hewn fire agate, but quite dull. It looks mostly brownish-gray, a washed out rock.

In the dark, though? The agate glows. Glows in brilliant, otherworldly shades of red, green, and yellow, illuminating it’s glass display case with fantastic patterns of light.

It is suddenly, overwhelmingly obvious.

“Sir?”

A knocking at his door. Bluestreak.

“Prowl? Are you alright in there?”

”Come in!” Prowl hollers.

A beat of surprised silence. Then Bluestreak is poking his helm through the door, intake falling agape.

”Sir—?! What happened?” The secretary steps fully into the room, anxiously surveying the casualties.

”Please comm the commissioner's office and say that I am not feeling too well, after all. That my doctor has advised me to take tomorrow off.”

 

——

 

I lie in the belly of the beast, waiting in the dark.

I have no mouth, but they say I can sing.

What does my song sound like to you?

 

The Singer from The Caves was said to have been discovered by accident, close to seven million years ago.

As the old story went, the mech who discovered the singer, “Compass”, was from a noble family in the mountainous, northern part of Praxus, where the population was sparse. Sharing a border with Vos certainly made it a tense, desolate sort of country, at least back in those days.

Compass was said to enjoy wandering the rugged wilderness, often getting lost as a mechling. One day, barely grown, he strayed too far off of the roads. When a storm abruptly rolled in, as it so often did in the mountains, Compass was forced to take shelter in a cave.

It was there that he discovered the agate; glowing, “waiting in the dark”. Compass later claimed that the jewel sang to him up there, hence its name.

A handful of other bots had claimed the agate had sung or whispered to them, over the vorns, mostly from Compass’ own family line; The singer had never been sold, nor donated to any museum. It had been kept by generation after generation of descendants, the most precious family heirloom of their house.

It’s showing at the Iacon Museum of History was truly a once in a lifetime event— their most anticipated exhibit ever, perhaps, though it had only been for one day.

Prowl quickly looks it up; The Singer is not set to be on display again, not at any point in future.

Which means there is only one way for Meister to get at it. (100%)

 

——

 

Dear Prowl,

 

I hope you are well and that your recovery is still going smoothly.

Home has been a rather difficult place to be, as of late— my sire has grounded me— and not just in the sense that I am stuck on our property, no, I’m not even allowed to fly!

Even Slipstream is growing cross with him over it; I don’t expect you to know about this, as a grounder, but it is not good for flight-frames to be “grounded” for longer than a few cycles, at most. My wings ache for the sky. I hesitate to even write it down, here, but I trust I can confide in you, Prowl. You are a good friend. Our correspondence makes my days more bearable.

I am thinking of running away. Don’t worry— I shall endeavor to find somewhere safe, and I already have a few options. My trinemates have some shanix saved up, and I’ve spoken to them about this, before, but even then it wasn’t nearly this bad:

My sire looks… sick. He won’t listen to reason, and he raves on and on about revenge and Meister like some kind of mad-mech. He spends all of his time in his quarters, and only comes out to dine with me in the evenings, as we have always done. I know it sounds strange, but I find myself longing for the way things were before the bombing, when he would be away on business for cycles at a time.

I shall have to keep this letter short, Prowl. He sends someone to check up on me every joor or two. It is all I can do not to scream.

Please take care of yourself, and write back soon. I miss you.

 

Warmest regards,

 

—Star

 

——

 

“Hello. I am Inspector Prowl,” He holds up his badge for the servant’s examination. “I was wondering if the owner of the house might be available for a few questions.”

The servant before him looks less than enthused at Prowl’s request, but they nod and close the massive, ornate front door, seemingly gone to announce him.

Prowl waits uncomfortably on the front balcony of the manor, shifting his weight from pede to pede and glancing out at the Lithium flats, which begin right at the foothills of the mountains, trying not to focus on his helm-ache. Hopefully, it will not develop into a full-on migraine.

Here is the most rural area of Praxus; there is scarcely a dwelling in sight. The roads are long and straight, miles and miles of rough road.

The home Prowl has just arrived at, though, is truly something else. At least five acres of gardens make up the property, shining turquoise and amethyst in the hot sun. There is an enormous fountain, masterfully sculpted, adjacent to a gazebo painted blue and yellow.

Most impressive of all is the manor itself— it is massive, sprawling, five stories high at least, traditional Praxian architecture. Though it is nowhere near as big as, say, the Wing Lord’s residence, Prowl had still been able to see this home from miles away, a miniature castle interrupting the flat horizon.

“What a lovely surprise it is to have you here— we’ve heard all about your good deeds on the news, of course— please, come in,”

One of Compass’ only living descendants, Nautica, is a very beautiful femme. Her chevron and some of the accents on her plating are gold, while most of her armour is a rosy pink. She leads Prowl into a sitting room to talk. As soon as they are seated, she rings a bell, presumably to call for Energon.

“So,” She smiles, folding her servos primly in her lap. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? We don’t get many visitors out here, Inspector.”

“Thank you for your time. I am afraid that I am here for business, not pleasure.”

“Oh?”

Prowl nods. “As you may have heard, the thief known as Meister has been… active lately—“

”Oh, what a scoundrel. Have you any leads on him yet, Inspector? I just can’t believe that he would do such a thing; No one should have to endure such senseless violence, not even the Vosnians… but, tell me— are you quite well enough to be back at work? I heard your spark-chamber had been badly damaged.” Nautica frowns in concern, brow furrowing.

”I was cleared for duty just a few cycles ago. Thank you, though, for your concern,” Prowl adjusts his posture to mirror Nautica’s, now self conscious, wondering if she can see the near-invisible welds from his surgery. This house, if anything, increases his unease. Prowl’s own apartment could fit in this sitting room, ten times over.

“Miss Nautica, I believe Meister may target the singer.”

She gasps, covering her intake with on servo, the other gripping the arm of her chair tightly. She’s gone pale.

”No— you think he’d come here?”

”Yes, there is a high probability that he will. Where do you keep the jewel?”

Nautica stiffens.

”I’m afraid that is… secret, inspector. No one outside of the family knows its exact location in the house, but I can assure you, it is in a secure place,” She tilts her helm at him, studying. “A high probability… You still have your battle computer, correct?”

Prowl falters. His battle computer, which is currently giving him a throbbing headache.

“Oh, but news this troubles me indeed,” She frets. “Do you think he would try and harm me or my staff? I couldn’t bear it if something happened to one of them…”

“The media blows things out of proportion, sometimes. Meister is not violent, I assure you. Still, were I you, I would exercise caution— do you have any sort of security system?” Prowl questions, resting his servos on his knees.

”Yes, yes, of course. We have cameras around the property, you saw the gate outside. Should— do you think I should take other measures? Should I buy a blaster?”

Doubt floods Prowl’s processor. He did not think it likely (23%) that this femme didn’t already own at least one firearm. She is wealthy, old money, and she lives in a prime turbofox hunting destination.

”Is it just you and your servants on the property?” He asks.

“Yes, ever since my carrier passed.”

”Oh, I was not aware— I am sorry for your loss. I did not mean to pry.”

”It was a long time ago,” She dismisses with a gracious wave of her servo. “But, thank you. I miss him dearly. You… you work with Tail-Fin, correct?”

The lenses in Prowl’s optics sharpen with interest.

”You know the commissioner?”

“Miss Nautica, I have the refreshments!” The same servant that had answered the door glides into the room, expertly balancing a very full tray of energon goodies.

”Thank you, Aerobolt,” Nautica says. “Are you hungry, inspector?”

Out of politeness, he takes a small, green cube, mostly because it is closest to him. He has no idea what it is, just that it must cost more than his monthly rent. It is sour and sweet at the same time, delectable.

“But yes, Tail-Fin and I have been acquainted for some time. We’ve both served on the planning committee for the Equinox Festival for many years. And, one of his cousins in conjunxed to my brother,” She explains, examining the treats laid out before her before carefully selecting a bite sized serving of some kind of jellied energon, then popping it into her intake.

“What is he like, as a boss?”

Prowl feels his helm-ache increase in intensity.

”He looks out for his own,” The inspector decides, trying to keep himself from grimacing. “I’m sorry, but, could I use your washroom? I get migraines, you see, and sometimes splashing a bit of cold solvent on my face helps.”

”Oh, of course! Aerobolt!”

The servant, who must have been lingering just outside the door, quickly re-enters the room.

”Would you please show the Inspector to a washroom, and fetch him a pain patch, while you’re at it?”

Aerobolt inclines their helm. “This way, please, inspector.”

He follows them out of the sitting room, down a long, wide hallway, past a grand staircase. They turn left into a narrow passageway, and Aerobolt stops.

”Last door on the right,” They say. “I’ll go see about that pain patch, Inspector.”

Prowl hovers, alone in the hallway. He counts four closed doors, three on the right, one on the left. This little corridor is… much plainer than the rest of the house. Perhaps this area is meant for servants? (96.4%)

The washroom itself is actually quite fancy, at least by Prowl’s standards; the mirror is tinted blush pink, and the whole room is cast in a low, warm light. There is some sort of diffuser in the corner meant to make the washroom pleasant to the olfactory, but the inspector finds it quite overpowering. It certainly does not help with his helm.

He splashes his face with cold solvent, sighing in relief. He towels off, examining himself in the mirror. He looks… like slag, really. Hopefully, Nautica had not noticed.

For a few breems, he hovers awkwardly. Is he meant to go back out to the sitting room, and wait there for Aerobolt to return? The more he considers it, the more he wants that pain patch— but Prowl doesn’t want to face Nautica quite yet. He finds her presence, like her preference in artificial scents, overwhelming.

Curiosity gets the better of him. He shuffles out into the corridor, and comes face to face with the only door on the left. Strangely, it is painted a bold, stark white, an outlier when one considers the color scheme of the rest of the property. Is this a storage closet? (78%).

Prowl glances out towards the main hall, but there is still no sign of any servants. His helm throbs, sharp in a way that makes his optics sting.

The door has a simple lock— easy to disable if one has been studying a certain thief’s work.

The room is… certainly much larger than a storage closet. It is dark at first, but he can tell there is a lot of clutter from the shadows. Harsh overhead lighting buzzes to life above him, and he winces. Motion activated, then.

For a kilk, Prowl truly cannot comprehend what he is looking at, just feels a chill blooming in his chassis.

 On the far wall, there is a massive, hanging tapestry, no words, just the symbol; a five-pointed, white star, surrounded by a band of blue, another band of white.

The symbol of Primus’ Pure Sparks.

The inspector looks to the closed door behind him, then cautiously ventures further into the room; there are some old pieces of furniture, mostly over-sized and very expensive, he guesses. Most everything is covered in a layer of dust, except for a small, unassuming desk, which is tucked against the far wall, beneath the tapestry.

A single data-pad lies on the desk, but it needs to be charged. He takes it and subspaces it. Prowl rifles through the drawers. There is a small blaster, a gold-chain necklace with an amethyst stone. In the bottom drawer, he finds the letters. Dozens of them, all addressed to Miss Nautica.

Prowl recognizes some of the senders— two senators, the ambassador from Rodion, a holo-vid star from Iacon. Mayor Brakelight. That last one gives him pause, tac-net stalling.

Feverishly, frantically, he skims through them all.

 

Something needs to be done about those pesky Vosnians— the “Wing Lord” has gotten far too bold.

 

I’d like to see those miners put in their place as much as you, Nautica, but have patience. I must say, though, that I admire your dedication to the cause.

 

That Dominus Ambus is far too progressive for my tastes— I think I shall file a complaint against him. What do you think of him, Nautica? And what do you think of that Shockwave mech?

 

Prowl realizes that his servos are shaking, quite badly.

“Why, Inspector, don’t you know it’s rude to go through a lady’s private things?”

He swivels around, still clutching the letter from Brakelight. Nautica stands in the doorway, blocking the only exit. Her pleasant, congenial mask is gone, replaced by a cold glare. Her arm shoots out from her side, but she does not have a blaster— no, she’s flipping a switch on the wall.

”If the two of you don’t kill each other, first, you’ll certainly starve down there.” She snarls. Prowl’s tac-net informs him that a crash is imminent. (95%)

The harsh overhead lights stay on, but the floor beneath Prowl falls away.

 

——

 

When his optics online, he is lying flat on his back, his helm is on fire, and Meister’s upside-down face is taking up his entire field of vision.

”I was startin’ to worry you wouldn’t wake up,” The thief grins, peering down at him from where he’s squatting, Prowl’s helm sandwiched between his pedes.

Prowl feels his audials burn, and punches Meister directly in the visor.

”Ow, slag!” He curses, clutching his face with both servos. He falls back onto his aft, between Prowl’s legs.

”Where are we?” The inspector asks, breathless, vision swimming. Meister only groans in response.

It is dark, here, wherever here is— But now, he is remembering the trapdoor, the way his spark had climbed up into his throat when he began falling in earnest, plummeting into cool, subterranean darkness.

After a few more pained noises and curses, Meister answers his question:

”We’re in a dungeon, duh. Did you hit your helm on the way down or something? Frag. Warn a bot when you’re gonna punch him!”

The inspector props himself up on his forearms, with some difficulty. Prowl is seeing double, two Meisters frowning at him in tandem. His chassis feels tight again.

He sits up with a grunt, scoots on his servos and knees towards Meister, who flinches back. Prowl scoffs, reaches and grabs the thief by the chin; his visor has a crack, a web pattern of jagged glass against the bright blue. He will need a new one.

”How long have you been down here?” Prowl asks, tilting the thief’s chin this way and that.

Meister’s broken visor flickers, and he frowns.

”You’re sendin’ me mixed signals here, Prowler.”

Prowl lets go of the thief’s face and falls back onto his elbows.

“I did not mean to strike you. I was only— well, I suppose I am not surprised to see you, here. But, it was not an easy riddle.”

“Well, I couldn’t wait around for you forever,” Meister pouts, crossing his arms and looking away. For a moment, they sit in awkward silence— the thief’s glitching, cracked visor their only light source.

”Been down here two miserable cycles. I wouldn’ta got caught, but apparently Nautica likes her midnight snacks— caught me in her kitchen. Who in the pit has a trapdoor in their fragging kitchen? It’s like she’s a bad movie villain!” The thief rants, standing now, pacing back and forth, a brilliant haze of white and black and blue light.

“She also has a trapdoor in her secret “pure spark” room.” Prowl mutters, squinting to try and manually focus his vision. Meister looks… shorter than he remembers. Perhaps it is just his own hazy vision, playing tricks on him? (45.3%)

”Did you find the singer?”

The thief goes still, back facing the inspector.

“No, but I ain’t givin’ up. See, I have this hunch… You serious? She’s one of those—?” He slowly turns to face Prowl again, then goes deathly quiet, a look of concern manifesting on his face.

“Feelin’ alright there, Prowler?” Meister hustles over to him, assuming the same squatting position as before, only now he’s straddling Prowl’s legs. The inspector can hardly keep up with his movements. It is like watching something in a reduced frame rate; Meister is leaving ghostly trail of his silhouette every time he moves.

”You were taller when you were Ricochet.” He slurs.

Meister huffs a laugh. “Well, duh. I was usin’ body-mods for my disguise. Hey, really, you okay?”

“I think my ankle may be twisted. I think I am very close to crashing. Do you have a spare datapad charger, by any chance?”

“What’s ‘crashing’?” Meister cocks his helm. Prowl wishes that weren’t such a charming gesture.

“Charger.” He demands in lieu of an answer, then shivers, from his helm to his pedes. Its quite cold, down here, and it only seems to grow colder as the kilks pass.

Meister gives a very out-upon sigh at that, but he’s already rummaging through his subspace, glossa sticking out in concentration. Not a few kilks later, he’s dangling the wireless charger in Prowl’s face. The inspector reaches out to grab it, but Meister jerks it out of his reach.

“Nuh-uh, what are you gonna trade me for this?” He sing-songs.

Prowl’s engine growls, and he grits his denta as he makes another futile effort to snatch the charger from Meister’s servo. It is rather difficult, as he is too dizzy to do more than prop himself up on his elbows.

Perhaps sensing Prowl’s current limitations, the thief finally relinquishes passes him the charger, visor dimming.

”You low on fuel?”

Prowl ignores him in favor of plugging in the data-pad, which he is 83% sure contains incriminating, perhaps vital (62%)  information.

Meister huffs, put out at the lack of banter— but then, he does something that makes Prowl’s vents hitch— The thief is removing his broken visor.

It seems to be a careful, rather delicate process; those clever digits slide easily into the gap between his helm and his face, and there is a soft click, a low, pressurized hiss as Meister’s damaged visor comes loose. Slowly, slowly, he coaxes it off of his own face, presumably to avoid further rupturing any of the delicate wiring that is now exposed, spilling out from underneath the glass.

Prowl is not sure whether he should look away— it seems the polite thing to do, to avert his gaze, but he cannot bring himself to do so.

Meister is nothing short of gorgeous.

The inspector had already (begrudgingly) thought as much; but these optics are not like any Prowl has ever seen; burning, bright points of white light, surrounded by a void of black, as black as space, as black as night. 

Celestial, ethereal, otherworldly.

”Scrap, I know they’re weird, but didn’t anyone ever teach you not to stare?” Meister chuckles, but it sounds hollow. He’s clearly tense, like he’s bracing for something.

Prowl averts his optics quickly, door-wings lowering in embarrassment. “You— I’ve never… They are quite pretty, um, your optics. That is all. Forgive me— I. I am feeling out of sorts, it is difficult to keep my composure.”

”Pretty,” Meister parrots, after a lengthy, uncomfortable pause, then makes a strangled, choking sound. “Ha. Pretty, he says. Only you’d think so, Prowler.” He continues, cryptically, but there is a genuine smile on his lips now, a smile in his optics. He is looking at Prowl with… astonishment, maybe. Wonder.

The inspector cannot hold his gaze, processor spinning enough as it is. His tac-net whirrs, overheating.

Meister refocuses his attentions on his cracked visor, fiddling with the settings manually. He frowns down at it. Prowl is suddenly overcome with guilt for having damaged the visor in the first place.

”You got a mean left-hook. Luckily, I got a spare.” Meister snorts, tinkering a bit more before clicking his glossa in defeat and shoving the broken visor into his subspace. Just as quickly, he produces a nearly identical visor, (with slightly sharper angles), and affixes to his helm piece, over his optics.

The inspector is briefly sad to see them go, but then the Nautica’s data-pad Is powering on. Prowl scrambles to grab it, and Meister is sidling up to him, peeking over his shoulder.

 

To: CompassFoundation

From: noreply-PCPD-AnonTips

 

Dearest Nautica,

 

Thank you for your help with my little project in Vos— a shame that my inspector got in the way, but you know how those battle computers are. He has enormous potential, but I won’t invite him to any meetings, just yet— I know you have been eager to meet him, but Prowl is still fragile from the attack. How selfish of me, keeping him all to myself, but you know I’ve always been a sentimental fool.

His capabilities really are quite marvelous. When the time is right, his processor would be perfect for your idea— my spark sings with joy, just thinking about it— the perfect soldier, the perfect enforcer, easily replicated on the assembly line. I know the science has a long way to go, but were all of my enforcers like him, I would rest easy at night…

 

The inspector does not finish reading the message. The world dips, like he’s sinking into the cold, hard floor, it is bending, giving way beneath him, and his processor is stretching.

”Oh,” Prowl vents, and crashes.

 

——

 

Prowl

Prowl

“-owl?”

For the second time in a joor, Prowl onlines to Meister’s face, upside-down.

“Prowl, can you hear me?” His voice is raw.

Meister is holding him, cradling Prowl against his chassis. His mouth is pulled into a tight line, visor bright with worry.

“I’m alright,” Prowl gasps, shifting against him. The pounding in his helm is still there, but it’s lessened, receding into a steady ache.

“It’s through.”

Meister sags with relief, his arms still wrapped around Prowl.

“I didn’t know what to do. I thought you were—” He shudders. “Prowler, what was that?”

The inspector blinks up at him in confusion.

”I crashed. I thought I told you about…?”

Meister only stares back at him, bewilderment plain on his features. Prowl shifts self-consciously in his hold, suddenly aware of the position they are in. But Meister does not slacken his hold— if anything, his arms tighten around Prowl’s waist.

”It is a… a symptom, I suppose you could say, of my tac-net. Part of the reason why so many wanted to ban them,” Prowl coughs, awkwardly. He hopes that Meister cannot feel his frame warming, incrementally. “My processor overheats, when faced with too much information at once. I short circuit, I lose consciousness, I seize,”

At Meister’s (rather horrified) expression, the inspector quickly elaborates:

”It is not painful! Though, my crashes are often preceded and followed by rather intense… migraines…”

Meister is touching the back of his servo to Prowl’s chevron, now. Gentle, cool digits against his aching helm.

”You’re pretty warm, still,” Meister hums, EMF flaring out in worry. “Anything I can do?”

“Do you have a pain-patch?”

The thief only shakes his helm in reply, looking genuinely remorseful. His digits don’t leave Prowl’s helm, but he begins to trace the chevron with his thumb, a soft brushing motion.

”Ya scared me.” He mumbles.

Prowl’s spark flutters; He doesn’t want to think about arresting the thief, not now. He doesn’t want to think about what is above them, or what the datapad lying a few feet away means for the past, the present, the future. For Prowl’s whole world.

If Meister has been down here for two whole cycles already, and he hasn’t already escaped? The odds of their survival are negligible. Given the circumstances, Prowl thinks he can afford to be a bit selfish, just for a moment.

”Would you kiss me again?” The words tumble out before he can stop them. He had not realized how badly he wanted to ask, and now his face is aflame, stinging embarrassment making his recovering processor reel.

Meister pulls his servo away from Prowl’s helm like it had burned him, intake falling open and visor brightening as he stares down at the inspector.

For a breem, they simply stare at each other in heavy silence. Prowl is just about to apologize and attempt to successfully pass his words off as a joke (0.001%), but then Meister lets out a long exvent, and his face breaks out into a shaky grin.

”You promise not to punch me in the face again?” His voice is wobbly, like he’s trying not to cry.

Prowl tenses against the thief’s chassis— which is vibrating. With a start, he realizes that Meister’s engine is purring. “Yes, I promise not to punch you. Do you promise not to run away, again?”

Meister scoffs, turning his helm slightly, visor flickering. “I didn’t run away— you—you just didn’t follow me—“

“I’m sorry. I wanted to.” He offers, honest, startled by the thief’s bashfulness.

Meister cracks a smile at that.

“Aw, its okay. Knew you’d catch up to me, eventually.” The way he says it is so bafflingly fond, but Prowl does not dare question it, not any of this. No one has ever touched him so sweetly.

The thief’s face inches closer to his own, and Prowl strains his neck up, tilting his chin back to meet him halfway.

Meister’s lips are soft and plush against his dry, cracked ones. He is gentle, soft but full kisses pressed to Prowl’s upper lip. At first, he doesn’t move his mouth against the thief’s. He hasn’t been kissed in a long, long time— hasn’t been with anyone, not since his academy days, when the world seemed much smaller and simpler, and Prowl was not a condemned thing.

Once he begins to kiss back in earnest, tentatively at first, the soft purr of Meister’s engine begins to roar. Encouraged, he finally closes his optics and deepens the kiss.

Meister makes a soft noise of surprise at that, but then he’s holding Prowl’s face between his servos like he is something precious, nipping at the Inspector’s lower lip.

The thief is venting harshly, steam hissing out from beneath his plating. His servos are burning hot against Prowl’s face. The inspector pulls away, looking up at him in concern.

”Are you alright?”

“Great, great,” Meister nods, quite enthusiastically. His visor is all fogged up with condensation, burning so bright it is a wonder this one isn’t broken, too. The thief wordlessly knocks their helms together, still holding his face.

”I’ve just— I’ve wanted you a while. Ever since the ball,” The thief confides. His field is so open, so honest, brushing against Prowl. 

He captures Meister’s lips in a searing kiss, and hesitantly, lets his field begin to mesh with the thief’s; which is thick, dense. Dreamy, like a warm pool of solvent.

And, as Meister continues his ministrations, the inspector does his best to keep up; apparently, it feels quite nice to have one's lip bitten, softly, playfully, so he does it back. When Prowl brushes his thumb on the inside of Meister’s wrist, the thief’s engine revs.

For a moment, Prowl remembers that this is wrong, that he should not be having a petting party with a criminal, especially not one with a bounty on his helm; But then, Meister is licking at his bottom lip, which, while utterly foreign, is certainly not unwelcome. Prowl hums into Meister’s open intake, and, then— he never knew being licked on the inside of his intake could feel good.

Meister is certainly no ordinary criminal. Prowl allows a trickle of his admiration through his field, and is subsequently drowned in a wave of fascination, adoration, excitement.

When the thief pauses his attentions, they are both venting harshly, running hot. Prowl takes the opportunity to adjust their position; for as lovely as the kissing is, his neck cabling is beginning to feel the strain of leaning backwards.

”You uh,” Meister licks his lips. “ You don’t do this often, huh?”

”Is it that obvious?”

The thief chuckles. ”A little, but its… cute. Means I get to show you.”

Prowl shuts him up with another kiss, shuffling onto his lap, straddling his hips. Meister makes another strangled, barely suppressed sound at that. It sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

For several breems, they merely kiss in silence. Slowly, Prowl finds it easier to relax into the sensations, the warmth. Meister’s field is all-encompassing, blanketing. Like night. When he pulls away again, Prowl is actually quite disappointed. But not for long.

”Can I try something?” Meister asks, wiping his intake with the back of his servo, lips slightly swollen, now.

”What do you mean?”

”Can I kiss ya… y‘know, down there?” The thief’s servo slides it’s way down from where is had been on his waist, down to grip his thigh. He gives a light squeeze, which makes Prowl’s face flush almost immediately.

He nearly crashes again.

”You want to—? With— on me?” Prowl tenses, leaning away from him, though he doesn’t get far, as his legs are wrapped around Meister’s waist. He hadn’t even realized he’d done that.

”Is that so hard to believe?“ Meister laughs, incredulous. “Uh, only if you want to, I mean. I’m more than happy to continue our make out session. ’Least if we die down here, I’ll die happy.”

“I—“ Prowl spits static, flustered. It is suddenly difficult to meet Meister’s gaze. “I would certainly not be opposed to it, only, I’ve never— no one has ever actually… done that. For me.”

A beat of silence.

”… You ever ’faced anyone?” Meister asks.

“With my ports, yes, strictly for information gathering and system maintenance. And once, a long time ago, when a fellow enforcer in training spiked me. Though, I did not derive much pleasure from the act.” Prowl squirms under the scrutiny.

More steam billows out from underneath Meister’s plating, bathing them in clouds of white. The thief’s grip momentarily slackens on his thighs, then tightens.

”Are you sure you want…? I mean, It’d be an honor, Prowler…”

Prowl considers the mech he is straddling. An honor. He huffs a laugh, and reaches out a servo to trace the rim of Meister’s visor. The thief’s venting audibly stalls.

“Yes,” (100%) “But, I would prefer it if you took this off, first. I want to see your optics.”

A very attractive flush settles across Meister’s cheeks.

”You’re really somethin’ else,” The thief vents out. “Okay. Lie back, now. I’m gonna take care of you.”

The stone floor is almost painfully cold against his sensitive doorwings; But Prowl thinks it is worth it, yes, definitely worth it, because Meister is between his knees, now, removing his visor. Prowl goes stiff in anticipation, and his spark begins to beat faster, spinning wildly with anxiety. It feels like there is a lump in his throat.

”Y’know,” The thief says, lightly, conversationally, “This thing ain’t purely cosmetic— my optic-sight’s never been the best. And I got a stigmatism in the left one.”

Meister lifts the visor off of his face with a click, then those piercing optics are staring back at him, hesitant. Prowl registers a growing heat in his array. He does not think he has ever felt like this, before.

”You vex me, but I quite enjoy it.” The inspector admits.

The thief grins at him with all of the light in the known universe. He nudges Prowl’s legs further apart, guiding with his servos, and lowers his helm, maintaining optic-contact all the while. A broad digit begins rubbing the panel over his valve, eager.

”Open for me?” Meister hums. 

Prowl can feel the heat of his venting through the seams of his panels. The inspector lies back fully with a grunt, screwing his optics shut tightly. He does not realize how tense his entire frame is, how he is gritting his denta, until Meister snickers;

”Relax, sweet-spark. I ain’t gonna bite you, not unless you want me to.”

Prowl opens his panels.

Meister’s glossa is on him in an instant, circling the lips of his valve, clockwise. It is not at all what Prowl expected. It is not intense, per se, but it is invasive, and uncomfortable, and strangely, wonderfully pleasant all at once. Prowl doesn’t know what to do with his servos, at first; But then, Meister is kissing at his anterior node.

The sensation is intense to the point of discomfort; far too much attention there, all at once, and for a moment he only writhes, gritting his denta. Meister, observant as he is, adjusts accordingly, and—

Ah.

The inspector’s servos grip at the thief’s audial horns, blindly, desperately. When Meister begins to suck on it, in gentle, rhythmic pulsations, Prowl actually whines, digging the heels of his pedes into Meister’s upper back.

Prowl’s grip only seems to encourage Meister, who continues for a few breems, glancing up at Prowl periodically to test his reactions; occasionally, he pauses in favor of biting or kissing at the insides of Prowl’s thighs, pressing his left servo into the inspector’s abdomen, just below his gestation tank, increasing the intensity of sensation, the slowly building pressure.

Meister circles his node with the tip of his glossa, switching to counter clockwise. Prowl nearly moans— and does, actually, when the thief begins lapping at his valve, hot glossa teasing the sensitized underside of his node.

“Good?” Meister pants, pulling away. His chin glistens with Prowl’s lubricant.

”Good.” He affirms, shakily, quickly, trying not to sound too eager for Meister to resume. Though he is. He very much is.

The thief blows hot air onto Prowl’s dripping valve, causing him to shiver, involuntarily. The ache in his node is stronger than the one in his helm, now, stronger by far. It is all he can do to restrain his hips, to keep from thrusting up into Meister’s intake.

”You're gorgeous, Prowler,” The thief mumbles, looking positively… dazed, like he’s had far too much engex, caressing the soft spot between Prowl’s valve and his thigh. Meister’s optics are burning, like twin stars against the harsh absence of space.

 “Wish I could steal you away. All mine.”

Prowl’s vents kick up a notch, but before he can think of a reply, Meister’s glossa is back on him, rough, broad strokes teasing his node from the bottom up. By the time Prowl’s legs are shaking, wrapped tight around Meister’s helm, the thief has grown bolder, shamelessly mouthing against his throbbing node.

The quiet of the darkness around them is only broken by the obscene, wet noises. Self service never felt quite like this, so out of Prowl’s control. To his utter surprise, he enjoys it, letting someone else take charge. Letting Meister take charge.

The thief briefly pulls away to spit on two of his digits, then proceeds to pet between Prowl’s already slick lips in a torturous, zig-zag motion. Then, those digits are pushing, probing into his valve.

Prowl’s servo flies up to cover his intake, but he cannot stifle the hiss of static he emits at the feeling; it is sharp, stinging, for a moment; but the pressure breaks, and then all of his calipers are clenching down on Meister’s digits in delightful, fluttering pulsations.

Slowly, Meister begins to thrust, curling his digits up in such a way that he brushes against an interior node Prowl hadn’t even known was there— and the thief’s glossa is lapping at this anterior again, up, up, up, and Prowl is rocking against his face without meaning to, gasping and desperate for release.

The feeling of Meister’s olfactory, his chin, his whole face rutting against Prowl’s valve—

Prowl overloads with a full-body shudder, crying out as his calipers spasm around Meister’s fingers.

When Prowl’s vision fully returns, Meister is circling his still-erect node with two digits, slowly, softly.

”You alright? Want me to keep going?”

Prowl exvents, long and weary. His helm still hurts, but it is not as terrible, now that his shoulders are relaxed, and his neck isn’t tense, and his processor has gone quiet after all the physical contact. “You are quite good at that, but I— I don’t think I could take anymore, just yet.”

He emits a sleepy buzz of pleasure/contentment towards Meister with his EMF, which makes the thief grin, as he scoots back against the stone wall to support his own back, then spreads his legs out from under him. He pats his wide thighs.

”You can use my lap in you need a nap, Prowler. I’ve been told it's comfortable.”

Prowl’s cheeks flush at that. His valve is still aching, when he closes his panel back up and goes to Meister. But it is a good ache; He is too blissed out to feel awkward as he settles onto that warm lap, facing the thief’s stomach. A warm servo comes up to brush the top edge of his doorwing, soothing along the glass.

Prowl begins to check his internal systems, automatically, methodically, but finds that his processor feels far too sluggish, even for that. Still, he is not in distress. He will think about singing jewels and all of the horrible things that are going to eat him alive in the morning, he decides. Now is a respite. Meister is too.

”You are lovely.” Prowl whispers, and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

Notes:

Hi! Thanks for reading… if u enjoyed pls let me know in the comments :)?
My tumblr is also @westernbluebirdie btw come talk transformers w me