Chapter Text
Prowl sinks further into his chair as his off-shift drags further on. His focus returns to his datapad, shifting through the evidence files once again. The atmosphere of the habsuite slowly fades to the background, the sounds of Bluestreak playing, of Smokescreen replacing Side Burn in the room, of a window opening, falling away as he reads through paragraph after paragraph. His optics dart across the screen as he scrolls through the information, taking in each page while feeding the information to his TacNet. Glyphs sprawl into his processor and dance across his thoughts, drawing him in as time passes by around him.
Witness statements sprawl like stories in his helm, packets of information on each witness grabbed by his TacNet. Then pictures stare up at him, their descriptions and coordinates tacked on like an after thought in the rush of collection. And then old case files, possibly related budge their way in and garner up attention for themselves.
He can't say that they're not important, but what Prowl wants are the bomb analysis reports. Or at least, he wants updates on how the report is coming, not an incomplete summary that had been sent in on a rush. But considering that bombings are a rare event in Praxus (18.422%) in normal circumstances and that before the war began, the main labs dedicated to such delicate forensics were in Iacon… Prowl can't be that surprised by the lack of discipline and efficiency in Praxus' forensics department. Especially since part of the process is putting the bomb back together, from the tiniest slivers to larger chunks. The Evidence Collection team had found 314 pieces (and another 173 possible pieces), that may end up to only reveal portions of the bomb.
Considering the size of the explosion, it's a miracle there was anything left to analyze.
It leaves waiting as his only option, giving Prowl more time to worry about the rest of the files on the datapad. But the files aren't the only things weighing heavily on his processor; a portion of his TacNet ticks in the background, dedicating itself to the senate's looming threat.
Chairman, would you be able to send someone to watch over Prowl's progress?
An ache rolls through his helm at the thought, inadvertently sending more resources to his TacNet. It jumps from one thought to the next, trying to answer every possible question that comes across his worries. Who will be sent? What will they be like? What scenarios are most likely to happen? What to do if those scenarios happen? Does Hawkshaw have a senatorial spectator or is it only him?
A never ending stream of simulations scrolls through the back of his processor as his TacNet divides his attentions into two. One track follows after the incoming supervisor while the other stays attentive to the evidence, to the case.
Prowl glances through the rest of the files, heaving out a sigh through his vents. The end of the list grows closer, but the thought of opening any of the files sends a wave of pain through his helm. He stares at it, digit tapping the side of the datapad, wondering which file to select next when suddenly Smokescreen's servo swoops in and yanks his datapad away.
"Hey!" Prowl scrambles out of the chair, ignoring the sudden sting that shoots through his spinal struts, but older Praxian jumps away. Smokescreen holds the datapad high up in the air, smirking down at Prowl.
"Nope! Come on, you need to recharge," Smokescreen says as he pushes Prowl back with his free servo.
Prowl reaches for his datapad and scoffs, "I'm almost done."
"You can finish it at the start of your shift," Smokescreen argues back with a huff, continuing to keep Prowl at an arm's length. "Don't make me fight you."
A scathing remark dies in Prowl's intake as exhaustion suddenly slams through him, as his TacNet reports the struggle as a futile endeavor. Frame deep tiredness washes over his systems as another feeling slowly creeps in, crawling up from his spark to slug through his circuits. Like crude oil, the feeling settles into his protoform and squeezes into the gaps of his armor before trying to claw at his neck cables. It resonates through him and his spark, from the bond he'd tried so hard to ignore.
Prowl's helm glances to the sparkling as something in his coding ignites, snapping at his priority tree. Panic surges through his systems, squeezing his internals as Bluestreak looks up from the berth with watering optics. That crude feeling plunders further into his spark as the sparkling's face scrunches up, as his tiny servos bunch into a blanket, as his doorwings tremble with fear.
That is all it takes for the coding in Prowl to take a hold. It has him sweeping across the room, abandoning his brother behind him, and scooping up the trembling sparkling into a secure hold. All of his systems shift, focusing on Bluestreak as a pitiful sniffle escapes from his intake. Whimpers roll through the sparkling as he shuffles closer to Prowl and shoves his face plate into strong neck cables. The older mech readjusts his grip and presses a servo to tiny back struts, careful to avoid the tiny doorwing protruding from either side.
"He wants to sleep," Smokescreen says from behind Prowl, shuffling closer with a light—but confused field. "He… I don't know what's wrong."
"He's not," Prowl answers as he searches through the bond between him and Bluestreak. He doesn't feel safe sleeping alone.
Smokescreen hums, dipping his helm before glancing toward the berth. "Well, I did say you need to recharge."
"I could sit with him as he rests, while doing my work," Prowl says as he looks back toward his datapad, though he knows his brother will disagree.
"Not happening," Smokescreen says as he tucks the datapad against his chassis. "You said that you were going to a draft a plan for Bluestreak, did you do that? Or did you only focus on work?"
Irritation flares out of Prowl's spark, causing Bluestreak to shuffle uncomfortably against him. Quickly the older Praxian pulls the emotion away from the bond and shoves it to the side, but not before Bluestreak's trembles grow anew. A sigh falls from Prowl's lips as he glances toward his brother, sending him a glare before turning his focus back to the sparkling.
Think faster, Barricade's voice snaps in his audials. Think faster.
As if it is that easy.
Another roll of aches suddenly bloom in Prowl's helm as he twists his gaze away from his brother. Systems sludge on in his TacNet as it picks at his thoughts and the room around him, scratching as his coding. Simulations bleed out from containment, racing across his processor as he tries to sluggishly push them back into place. But they escape past as his TacNet tries to boot up prompts, trying to pull in the thoughts running astray. The struggle continues through his processor as he closes his optics, sucking in air through his vents as they threaten to snap open.
"Sleep," Smokescreen says quietly when Prowl doesn't answer. "You can worry about it tomorrow."
Then a servo pushes softly against Prowl's pauldron and his code jolts, causing him to flinch away. He holds Bluestreak closer as he glances back to his brother and scowls, but Smokescreen only smiles at him and waves a doorwing behind him. {Apologies}
Waves of exhaustion fluctuate from the older Praxian's field as he guides Prowl toward the cohort's nest. They lick at the back of Prowl's doorwings as he gives up, letting himself get herded into the nest. The berth creaks underneath his weight as he crawls in and settles onto his side, letting his doorwings settle behind him. Carefully, he pulls a blanket closer and tucks a pillow under his helm before returning his attention to Bluestreak.
The sparkling slides down as his magnets disengage and gravity takes hold. He ends up half sprawled against the berth and half propped up by Prowl's frame. Then he squirms and twists against Prowl's chassis, pushing himself into a new, more comfortable, position. Bluestreak's tiny helm presses against Prowl's chin while his pedes kick up against Prowl's bumper, his entire frame slotting into the space between with ease.
"I barely have time to focus on everything…" Prowl mutters as his brother finally climbs onto the berth.
The older Praxian flops down with a loud huff. His frame shuffles as he get comfortable, pulling at the numerous blankets and dragging a pillow closer to him.
"You're not doing this alone," Smokescreen finally says with a yawn, his optics flickering and closing. A hum rolls through his systems as he rolls onto his front, wrapping his arms around the pillow. His doorwings give a lazy stretch, reaching upward toward the ceiling before falling back down to his back struts. A nanoklick later, his entire frame relaxes and his engines shifts to a quiet idle.
Something in Prowl's spark aches as he watches his brother fall into recharge, something the wells up through his systems and wraps around his circuits. It sits over him as he carefully holds it back from the bond, pushing it back as much as he can.
You're not doing this alone, but he doesn't want to be doing it at all. The only thing compelling him to care is the creator coding, which had dug claws deep into his systems.
Those thoughts bounce around Prowl's helm as he glances down at the sparkling curled against him. The young spark blinks up at him, optics flickering and doorwings trembling behind him. Slowly Prowl reaches across the bond and tugs at the small spark, urging him to sleep. Bluestreak huffs through his tiny vents and finally closes his optics, unaware of the struggle on the other side of the bond.