Disclaimer: Hasbro and Takara-Tomy own The Transformers, I just enjoy harassing their giant robots.

Warnings: Large, overdue chap. It's been a rough and weird few months…please, stay safe. It's getting crazier than pre-war Cybertron out here.

In story, no one is doing well, but its lighter going than the last chapter. Everyone makes questionable decisions. Healing. Making up for how rushed last chapter was. (Don't edit while on a movie binge, kids.)

Also, random song title references if you squint, because social distancing and caffeine are rotting what's left of my inhibitions.

Some Nights (Clean)—Fun.

"Bone"

Prowl shifted under the tangible sensor weight of Perceptor examining him. He was trying to ignore the freshly welded patches on the scientist's arm.

The same ones he was responsible for not a joor ago, that earned him stasis cuffs and a firm set of servos holding him still, via Hound.

After having something mind-numbing injected into his neck, pure fear dulled down to mild discomfort. At least Percy was empathetic enough for that.

Maybe it was the overly detailed vocal analysis of his frame from before or the scent of labs on Perceptor, but he reminded him too much of Tarantulas. They'd probably figured it out those were the stressors setting him off. Other than the occasional hum, Perceptor was quiet now as he stared into his murky optic.

"And the bolder colors are your associates? Ingenious."

Prowl snapped it shut, imagined pain stabbing through his processors.

"It's not worth it."

Seemingly remembering himself, Perceptor added, "My apologies."

At long last the scientist stepped away. "Excepting the obvious scarring, I'm clearing you for release. They did an interesting job of repairing you."

Prowl forced out a begrudging "Thank you" and went on his way, back to sift through what was left of his belongings before being kidnapped. The Wreckers didn't take kindly to potential traitors. He could still feel the coldness when he entered a room.

At least in Iacon fewer 'formers would know him.

The Wreckers, and all who allied with them, were leaving Letalis. The Autobots had pulled together enough to promote a new Magnus, renamed: Ultra, and wanted to pool their fragmented resources.

They were going as observers, sleeper agents.

Hound adjusted his vocalizer, setting up a tone to be as friendly as ever with no trace of his other allegiance. Lingering phantoms of distrust over the bond attacked the edge of his thoughts. They might have escaped Koa but the fragments were everywhere.

Prowl still forced himself not to cringe away when the mech matched his quickening pace.

"Don't take it personally, Percy isn't used to people specim—patients. Scrap, I meant patients. They don't want much information on you getting out."

He nodded with a stiff jerk. "They" meaning either the Wreckers or Dreads or both groups.

"I won't be around much in Iacon, but if there's anything you need, anything weird you see, let me know."

From the fluctuations of his EM, that was to be read as: "Keep your optics open, Crankcase's orders."

On cue, Prowl nodded again like preprogrammed drone.

Hound lowered his voice, "But seriously, getting another form isn't fun. Its ten times worse if it's not your choice… Are you sure you're okay?"

Prowl let the feeling of four-legged revulsion flow through his frame before stuffing it back. He didn't have time for this.

"All the reports came back positive, its locked up again. So, I guess I am."

Hound let out a resigned vent and let the topic drop. "Okay then. Take care."

He found his way to their old quarters on autopilot.

Arcee was stuffing what the few of Lockdown's trinkets that hadn't been obliterated into her subspace. Jazz was pretending not to care.

It was too domestic …For a nano, he didn't feel like he was a part of his own frame.

~ Cybertron to Prowl. ~

He made optic contact with the same set of yellow optics he'd seen way too much of recently.

~ You have that freaked out look again. What did our new owners say? ~ Arcee growled the last part.

~ To keep an optic on things. We won't be killing anyone. ~

~ They know we're too close to some of the 'formers here. ~ Jazz said, ~ Unless it was absolutely necessary. ~

~ Yes. We have a break for now. ~ Prowl tucked himself into a corner and said nothing else.

Beryl came to pick them up shortly after. She didn't bother goading him into talking.

Since Koa he'd lost the desire to.

He should have watched the city skyline with the rest of his team. Instead, he'd sat back in their corner of the transport alone. Jazz came back to sit with him. Coming to Iacon should have meant more, now it only meant Lockdown broke his promise.

Things went wrong.

He was stuck with this horrendous alternate mode.

Someone nudged him that wasn't part of his team and his talons came out in defense. They were short, bronze scythe-like things, perfect for rending. They were the only new part of his frame he liked.

Kup had his wrist in a vice grip, before his new additions could complete the arc that would connect with the elder mech's face.

His arm was forced against a crate.

"We're going to have to work on that."

Prowl replied with a nod and ignored the numbness spreading in his chassis.

~o~o~o~o~o~

Jazz watched him retract those things in his servos with the ease of an ingrained habit before returning to a blank-faced lean against the hull, Prowl's whole frame was rigid, digits laced.

Prowl wasn't doing well. He knew it. Arcee knew it. The adults knew it.

But they were "safe". Allegedly.

So, his twin blowing his last fuse wasn't his primary problem right now, adjusting to Iacon's social climate was.

The Wreckers were never the nicest bunch. Iacon had a different vibe.

They were a mix of the battled hardened and the newly recruited. Any threatening rumors could and would spread easily. Paranoia was a powerful motivator, they had to be on their best behavior…not threatening bodily harm.

Sometime later he finally had his action plan together.

~ Guys, you can't act like you normally would. ~

~ I know how to act around vehimodes. ~ Arcee huffed.

Jazz gave her a sidelong glance, ~ And not start a mass panic? You can't act like—you. People won't understand. To them, we're the monsters they tell stories about. Most 'formers in Iacon have never been outside of a city, let alone have to deal with an end-of-times scenario. They're skittish. ~

Arcee's plating puffed out in disgust. ~ So, you want us to suck up? Long term? ~

~ Every little bit helps. Put on the nice act again, please? ~

After long she let out a lengthy exvent of heated air, ~ Okay. ~

~ I wasn't planning on anything. ~ Prowl mumbled.

And they meant it. Jazz took it at face value, they really couldn't afford to lose anything else. He kept a servo in the center Prowl's back.

HotRod sidled over automatically, "Ready to slay Iacon?"

"Phrasing, Roadburn." Arcee said flatly, "Some of us might take it to spark."

"You know what I mean… It's a new start, you ready?"

He'd rebounded like a rubber ball, all jokes and smiles now.

Maybe that why they got along so well…Or it was the fact masking what you felt was the key to survival. He didn't blame HotRod for being spaced out for the next few cycles; especially with the murderer still hanging around. What their former leader had done to his former client was horrific by anyone's standards. When Kup finally came to pull their tails out of the fire, though, their flaming showoff had straightened and played everything off.

He couldn't fault him for wanting to please his sire-figure. He missed his own—

That thought got punted faster than liquid metal before he started bawling like a sparkling again.

"Sure! Mor'n ready."

Jazz forced a smile, collected his friends and joined Springer. Max and Strafe had the same idea. There was no telling who would be on the other side of the wall and now there was no reason to separate until they knew their situation.

:: So, you've got a plan for this? ::

Jazz cast a brief glance to the triplechanger. :: I never had the chance to operate this far out. All they'll know is what we or the heads choose to tell them. ::

:: I'll vouch for you all. ::

:: Wow, so generous, Springs. ::

:: I mean it. It's been rough on your team. :: Then came the inflated pause that always preceded something uncomfortable. :: I know you don't want to hear it…but things will be easier without him around. ::

Part of him wanted to attack the mechling. The other agreed it was the right choice. Still another was checking his HUD's inbox every joor. Stepper would have called it abuse and him being addicted to it. Stepper was always right, but he'd be damned if he was going to let Springer be. Something about his squeaky clean, self-righteous nature made him want to scream.

:: Looks better on your public image too. :: he managed to snipe.

:: Yeah. It does. :: The green mech dished back. :: I thought that was your thing? ::

There always came a time when things had to end. It didn't mean he had to like it, but facts were facts. Once, going it on their own was the best option. Now, it wasn't, joining the reformed Autobots was. And a commander's charge was offering protection…

:: Thanks. :: He applied a smile and waited to disembark.

This was his element. He'd own it.

Arcee wandered around, stunned at the sleeker architecture and overwhelmed by the new 'formers along with the rest of their group. He'd had to coax Prowl through entrance.

Inside, security was tough and Ops was taken in by the Iacon head of Ops, a turquoise mech by the name of Duplex Prime. With leadership shifted, Mirage's vice-like supervision of him finally dropped. Jazz could finally vent again…

This mech seemed more at ease, willing to go with the flow of things. Yeah, it was more than likely a ruse to get him to slip up, but he was willing to go along with it. Socializing was a like dancing at a club, you had to be flexible when the music changed.

By the time he was set loose, The Wreckers were still going through Iacon's vetting process. Arcee had been snatched up by Slash. So, he was alone and bored.

Two dangerous things.

Jazz settled for retreating to the rec room to scope out the incoming 'formers.

There were more younglings here. More families—fragments of them anyway—from the look of it. And here he was by himself. He pawed at his chassis. The stability in the bond had snapped after Prowl and Cee vanished. He was looking forward to being close so they could go back to their normal again.

"Jazz?"

He hid an ingrained attempt to frown at the new face, unable to place it exactly. Looking at the other Polyhexian he was hit with a sense of awkward déjà vu. He put on a front anyway.

"Heey, not sure ah remember ya."

"Kyros? Rhinestone's daughter? Distant cuz."

"Nope."

The femme shrugged, "Ah, I don blame yah. Yah were like, still soft metal." She looked off, "Thought yah were dead like everyone else."

"Almost." He felt the faintest brush of a familial bond.

"Wish I could help but I'm going off world with my mate. We're sparked."

"Great." Jazz managed to make it sound more encouraging than sarcastic. Having traces of three cynics in his helm wasn't helping his mood.

"You should really consider getting out of here."

"I'm working on it. First, I need to get the 'formers I care about out too."

In the crowd, he caught a glimpse of a set of adult doorwings, jet black, belonging to a scarred Enforcer femme. Despite the warped, healing metal crisscrossing her frame she held herself with a regal air, casually speaking with another Praxian.

He warned Prowl immediately.

"Cool it." Kyros caught his assassin's glare leaking through every sensor. "Did a check. She's on our shuttle out."

"Good." His armor flared in place of his EM.

"Got a strut to pick?"

"The mechling I took on in Stepps place does. I don't want to be in the same room as her."

She whistled, "Good to see some traditions survived…"

They said their goodbyes and he was left staring at nothing in particular.

He'd chosen to stay here… on purpose. Why else were they still here, besides convenience and repair? And a chain of incidents that could readily be turned to blackmail...

There was a pack of newbuilds to his right, a standard civvy group, including one with a bad accent. He listened in with half a spark.

His helm gradually lowered into his arms, vison fritzing over. He hadn't had a decent recharge in cycles… Prowl and 'Cee had a habit of waking up out of a dead shut down at the slightest noise, bond feedback shocking him awake. It was getting better—or he was getting used to running on lower amounts of recharge. Sensors still alert, he dropped off into a half doze.

Some of the newbuilds left. One hung around, EM flickering to someone else in the room before he rose with a limp and made a beeline for his table. A mech's arms thudded front of him. "Mind if I sit here? Thanks."

Forced from darkness, Jazz sat up with a jerk.

The carmine racer pulled himself up to a seat, heavily favoring his right side. He slipped his right ped onto the surface to tinker with its non-standard working: wheels instead of peds. Not too weird…he seemed like he was still learning their repair though.

Jazz watched him until his tablemate stared back.

Bright Autobot blues refocused then crinkled the soft metal around them. "Well, hello there. You're newww," the mystery mech beamed. His heavily plated frame easily dwarfing his own as he leaned forward.

"Sup, my mechanoid."

"One of the Wreckers?"

"Nah, Spec Ops, officially."

"Oh." He gave him a critical look up and down before growing a devious smirk.

"You're a tiny agent and you sound young. How old are you?"

"Sixteen vorns."

"Twenty-five, so now we're both liars. Good." He leaned in closer. "You look like you could fit into a vent no problem! Tell me, you like pranks?"

"I don't think I should…things are bad right now."

"C'mon, it'll boost morale! We'll save the big stuff for later." He offered a servo, EM bursting with youthful enthusiasm, "And it'll make you feel better. I'm Sideswipe."

"Ahm Jazz."

A joor later, found him rambling on and on— "So Prowl gets this idea he's gonna hide in the truck and he won't budge. Guy sticks to stuff like solvent for some reason."

"Huh."

"Ahm fortunate he don't hold grudges like that, but his mouth—somehow he's not offline yet."

Sideswipe tucked back his second cube of assumed high-grade, Jazz kept nursing his first.

"I got you beat. That beautiful train wreck over there is my twin, angriest thing alive." He then gave a dopey wave to the threatening EM force lurking in a corner. From it, a gold version of Sideswipe with helm fins instead of horns flipped them off.

Jazz averted his gaze. "He seems nice."

"You have no idea. So, you and your twin get along?"

At some point in his rambling he had claimed Prowl as his double. He didn't remember when… It was a fifty-fifty chance he'd get a positive reaction from this stranger, or he'd cement himself as a weirdo.

"We didn't at first, but we found common ground."

"Does he look like you or no?"

"Close to the same height, black and gold, snarky, visor, and Praxian."

He could almost see Sideswipe's processors jam at the last bit of info. "Okay…"

"I can explain."

"You don't have to if you don't wanna. Things happen." Sideswipe managed to balance a cube on its tip, "Sunny and I were raised by foxes."

"Thought the phrase was 'raised by cyberwolves'?"

"Nah, the real thing."

"Preda foxes? Vulpine build?"

"Nope, actual turbofoxes."

A picture of Deadlock's monochrome attack fox flashed before his mind's optic. He snickered then burst into a full-on guffaw.

Sideswipe stiffened, "It wasn't that funny. They're—I mean they were—good creatures."

Not wanting to sour a new friendship, Jazz managed to mute himself to a degree. "Stress, mech. It's been a really bad mega-cycle. Wasn't expectin' that."

"I wasn't kidding. We lived in the Ferrin Depths."

"Seriously? We drove through there on the way here."

It was Sideswipe's turn to stare, "And you're still alive? Place is crawling with Vesania plague now."

"We…met someone fairly local…"

Sunstreaker stalked past, grabbing his twin by one balancer. "Maybe you did die. Come on, idiot."

Sideswipe dragged his wheels. "But he's hard to kill!"

The second twin turned and a rough servo nearly crushed Jazz's shoulder, "Fine. We need target practice anyway."

Jazz had good sense to be worried. He was pulled along to the base's designated practice rooms and was allowed to watch.

Apparently, the twins were frontline warriors, chaos incarnate while sparring. At least he hoped it was sparring.

With those blades swinging around like mad, someone was getting an amputation. Practiced pit fighters…something he wasn't. Jazz didn't really see the point in them dragging him along, until Sideswipe readily eased his twin into speaking to him afterwards.

Sunstreaker was bad at people…sorta like Prowl and whatshisname but definitely more homicidal. Sides gave him an idea. Maybe if he brought new 'formers in gradually things wouldn't be so hard on Prowl.

Jazz left with the promise he'd come back with his team and started scanning the roster for his designated room.

Prowl was already there sitting ramrod stiff with his servos folded into his lap. At least he wouldn't have to look for him… "Kup left ya here?"

"Yes."

"Whatcha up to?"

"Fielding Arcee," he said without a flinch, "She's mad that I won't tell her where we are. Beryl wants her to widen out her circle of friends."

Jazz tapped into the bond only to get swamped with the rampaging of a frustrated Terrorcon.

"You weren't kidding." He sat next to Prowl, pulling the Praxian into his side.

He responded in kind, tucking a doorwing over his back.

Slight tremors still echoed through the Praxian's frame.

"Hey. We're gonna be fine…"

"I know. We're still too useful to offline."

Jazz's insides twisted, "Prowler."

His visor darkened, "The only way I know to deal with this eventuality is to plan ahead. I can't accurately predict where we're heading."

It wasn't what his stressed companion actually meant, but Jazz slipped several schematics into Prowl's HUD. "Did some digging, this is the old capital building…There's still plenty of ways out of here. We're not trapped yet."

Some of the worry bled away from Prowl's plates.

"C'mon. Try to get some rest."

"I can't. Kup wants me in tactical."

"Already?"

~ It's a distraction. And if I'm distracted, what are they going to spring on us after? ~

Jazz pulled him down against his will, curling into the bigger 'former's side. Prowl slowly reciprocated. The cycle was winding down. People wouldn't be prone to walk in. Maybe this lunar-cycle he could rest—

~ He knows I'm smart…and that I'll attack. ~

~ And accomplish what? ~

~ I uhh... I don't know. ~

~ No attacking then. ~

Prowl's mind was still running at full tilt,~ Are you still getting feedback from Massicons? ~

~ Haven't really sat down to figure. No? ~

~ Monitor it. ~

~ More usefulness? ~

~ Exactly. ~

His tone was colder now, reserved even in bond. Jazz hoped it was just the shock of being in an enemy base.

~ Made some friends. You should meet them. Another set of twins, one is really bad at socializing too. ~

Prowl sorted through the impressions he sent, finally letting out an unhappy huff.

~ Fine…How do you think Arcee is holding up? ~

~o~o~o~o~o~

After endless clearance Arcee regulated herself to following Slash and Beryl around. Jazz had been kidnapped by a set of twins. Kup had done something with Prowl. She was left alone with the question: How was acting normal supposed to work again?

Iacon was crowded to the max with vehicle modes and it was giving her the twitches. She got the feeling where the best spot to watch the remaining stars or practice stalking wasn't a popular topic of conversation.

And 'formers kept staring.

Hundreds of 'formers coming and going and she was the one that got singled out. It was just the fact her constant companions were either associated Wreckers or Dinobots. These so-called soldiers here had no prominent scarring. They didn't seem real. And she'd thought her idiots looked freakish.

She was being pushed into rooming in a hastily put together barracks for the new influx of 'formers. Slash didn't have an objection to sharing a room as long as she got the top bunk. There would be no rooming with the guys, people would talk.

That just meant she had to be careful once she had their room number. That neither of them would spill thanks to Beryl…

Currently, she laid coiled up in her beast-mode next to Slash, watching her beat yet another level on her gaming pad. She was amazed the saurian had that type of digit coordination in beast mode. Her secondary form looked like a mini-Grimlock with longer arms, but had far more flexibility. The only issue she seemed to have was vison, fixed by switching how she held her head occasionally. This was joor three.

"Doesn't that hurt your optics?"

"Nope. Strafe thinks it's a waste of time, but my reaction time has gotten better."

"Flier Strafe or grounder Strafe?"

"Second one, duh. Used to get info from New Divide…and you don't know what that is… Multiplayer game. Some Decepticon hacked into it, started tracking people, then people started vanishing. Power is being diverted to other stuff now and most of the servers for anything good are down. I'm playing without a data-net connection for everything now. It all feels so isolated!" She clacked her jaws shut, "You play any video games down in Predaland?"

"Not really. Couldn't afford it."

Slash reset the pad and handed it to her. The screen was set to a less complicated, matching-color-smashing game, bathed in primary colors for its easy mode. "Try it out, it's great for killing time."

"Thanks."

"No, thank you." She bobbed, "That's a side quest, I need extra points."

Not long after, Beryl thought it was a good idea to organize a card game among the femmes in one of the hangers. Somehow, she'd wrangled Pyra Magna here. The name didn't mean much to either roommate, but she was a high ranked officer.

Best to make a good impression now and, to quote Beryl: "Not start slag."

There wasn't really a lead femme, they weren't Predas, but that was how these unofficial things worked. They were supposed to be for testing the oil, mingling and all that. To Arcee, that just made hierarchy even more confusing. Fighting was easier.

Instead of busting helms, Arcee watched another youngling fumble with her cards, EM field revealing she had a good deal. She was projecting badly enough, that if this femme were in the wild during a hunt, she'd be dead.

Strafe hid a smile. :: Be nice. Let her win. :: she commed even as the Dinobot smacked down akiller mix of cards for the next player.

Arcee stared across the table blankly.

The clueless one's designation was Moonracer. A very beastmode designation, but she smelled nothing like one. Her parentages just liked the sound, then. That neon matte plating was almost iridescent but muted over with a concealer. Someone repainted her to stand out less. Sniper maybe? She wasn't frontliner material and her face gave off too many tells. The "Predacon thing to do" would be to eviscerate her, explain where she went wrong, then teach her to do better. But she had to be nice…

After a quiet giggle from the clueless one, Arcee couldn't stop a servo from entrapping her peer's. "Save that set for later."

The smaller femme flinched, "Oh. Okay."

There were optics on her from the ten others at the table, most notably that dusty blue femme's.

"So, you do talk, kibble."

"I told you so," Beryl shrugged, "Just shy."

Arcee shifted, willing the attention off herself. "Moonracer needs lessons."

The oxidation green femme's optics widened to a comical size, "Y-you know my designation?"

"Yeah. I thought you were a Preda."

That earned her a shy smile. Now she'd messed up, the clueless one was getting friendly.

Moonracer continued on, "I've been getting that a lot lately. What's yours?"

"Arcee."

"Golden age! Cute! I saw you around, I thought you were…" she wriggled her thumbs. "Kinda standoffish."

"Force of habit. Friendly gets you killed."

Another femme nudged Moonracer.

"We were wondering…what's being in your team like? Kup had you marked for Special Ops?"

"We swing from where we're needed. I like the work and the 'formers; it's never boring."

The same femme nudged her again.

"All the people?"

"Pretty sure Impactor might try to kill my team one cycle, but they're fine."

"Moony, move." The impatient femme finally leaned over, "Which one are you with?"

"What?"

"Quit playing coy. There're rumors someone in your crew is trading paint—"

One practiced look of disgust shut her down. Oh, she wanted to snap, she had a good comeback… This femme though, her faceplate gave off all the wrong tells. She didn't have the vindictive squint. The frame said…she just wanted gossip.

This wasn't Uraya. She needed to relax... this was her conversation territory. Arcee reigned in her expression.

"Hmph, people talk. Maybe it's right…. maybe it's not. My dear one is gone. Massive, spiky mechling? Red optics? The wrong 'formers pissed him off."

"Don't you mean—"

"Nope, he has the burning rage of a smelting pit and he likes to steal body parts."

"You mean The Reaper?" Moonracer gaped.

"That's Uncle Lock." Strongarm put in.

"So, you don't fear The Reaper." Reamer said without a trace of tone.

"I'll let you in on a secret: the scariest monsters wear the frame of normal 'formers."

That earned her a disbelieving snort. "You watched too many scary stories as a kid, didn't you? You don't have to lie."

"Can confirm." Beryl said, "Parts ghoul lived in my building. Lockdown and The Reaper? They're one in the same. Urban legends grow a little each time they're told."

"He taught me how to use a knife!" Strongarm chirped, in the same moment realizing she should have kept it to herself. "But he also said not to tell. And he knows how to scare off monsters." Her doorwings drooped with every sentence. "I miss him."

Beryl's servo plopped gingerly on her helm. "He'll be fine. He never got officially convicted of anything. Wrecker's just need some time to cool off."

"I dunno couple thousand vorns is a long time, even for us." Some smart aft compact in the back commented, just in time to get a death glare from the dusty blue femme.

Arcee shrugged it off, letting off the tone of wanting to drop it. "People leave all the time. It could be worse; he could be dead."

"Gloomy." Reamer looked her over, "What do you like doing for fun?"

Besides harassing the guys and practicing medicine… Scrap, she didn't have any hobbies. When had that happened?

"You're looking at it."

"If I win, you'll give me one of your knives?"

"I'll give you lessons, but these," she shifted her hips, still bearing the holsters, "Are mine."

"Where'd you get 'em?"

"The forgery of a saurian."

Reamer showed off her own sickle-like wrist blade, "I'm working my way up."

Pyra snorted, "Reamer's insecure because she's got optics for Springer. Don't give me that look, I saw you walk into the wall, same as Moony did!" The officer made a clicking noise, "I don't blame her. Kid's got a good chance with femmes ahead of him with those looks."

Arcee got a better look at the now flustered, grey and gold femme, attempting to hide her face.

"He's by the book, boring, has too many guns, and Jazz figured out if you play white noise he talks in his recharge. It's a great time killer, he says some weird scrap. If you want to get in his good graces be nice to Roadbur—HotRod. Be nice to HotRod."

"Huh. I thought all the pretty femmes were stuck up."

This time it was Reamer who got nudged.

"What?"

"Don't say stuff like that or she won't want to talk to us!" Moonracer scolded.

"You all have low standards in Iacon or something? I'm not pretty."

Reamer tossed in a card, "I can never tell if you're genuinely clueless or pretending to be modest… Hey, I won!"

Moonracer, in a rush to stop her, successfully slammed her arm down on an empty energon cube and embed the shards in her arm. One was deep enough to draw her own energon.

"Again?" Reamer deadpanned.

"Well, I beat you this time!"

Arcee sighed, "Localize your fuel flow, hold still."

It took a nano to open up and soon she was soldering a line. "You're gonna lose an arm like that and I'm fresh out of replacements. You need to be more careful."

"Sorry."

"Just take it easy, I'm almost—done."

The room around her phased into a glaringly clean, grated floor before returning to normal. Arcee lost her train of thought. Then things started to go numb, her servos twitched, and she got the urge to attack something.

Not. Here. Not. Now.

She slammed her servos on the table. "Forgot. I have to go organize my knives."

It took the sprint to her rooms for the attack to fully take hold. Scents that normally meant a job well done were getting crossed with pure unadulterated fear. Guilt burned in her lines. Terrorcons weren't supposed to get this.

She stuffed a fist into her mouth to mute her whimpering fully. Phantom pains wracked her frame. In her mind, the very blades she used in defense flayed her frame open and gashes were sealed, torn open, then resealed again.

Finally, she was left with an empty quiet only broken by the pinging of her overheated plating.

A message from Beryl blinked on her HUD. One from ten klicks ago followed by three more. :: Arcee? You only have two knives. Comm back, you're scaring me. ::

:: Kid? ::

:: Kid?! ::

:: Answer or I'm coming after you. ::

Arcee sent an all clear but nothing else.

She'd messed up. Tarantulas' torturing had tarnished all the medical skill she'd had left with trauma and now she knew it for certain.

Emptiness consumed her spark. She spent too long stitching the remainder of their team together, now she was falling apart. It was enough to wish they'd pulled up stakes and gone with the Dread.

Now they were in the same faction as their torturers.

She wanted out.

Arcee laid still on her bunk, her digits darted into subspace and she toyed with the closest thing, her courting present.

Plush creatures actually freaked her out, but for Lockdown she'd make an exception. Besides the thing made an excellent hiding spot. Arcee removed a jagged splinter of green and black plating from the cat's back, pressing the metal into her servo.

The realization it wasn't just HotRod being HotRod and she was actually…that word…felt strange. It explained a lot; it also didn't matter. She just wanted to be "pretty" for one 'former. The one that she wasn't supposed to talk to. That nagging void in her spark rose again along with realization.

She missed waking up to someone else's exasperation with the world in general, that feeling someone else understood. That look he'd give her when she did something, he liked…and the quirked ridge when the opposite occurred.

That was it. Frag the Dread.

~ You bent one of my denta out of place. ~

Lockdown flinched over bond at the abrupt contact. ~ Yeah? Guess I did, got excited. ~

~ That's more like you're attempting to eat someone, sweet. So, when are you coming back so I can return the favor? ~

Warmth flooded her lines when he laughed. ~ I don't know, but I'm looking forward to it. ~

~ You're still around here, somewhere on planet, I can feel it. ~

~ But I can't say where. It's not a good idea to contact me like this. ~ His side gave off the same muted loneliness that had taken over the corners of their team bond, ~You okay? ~

~ Great. ~ she lied and a sharp nudge called her out on it.

~ Flamewar misses everyone. ~

~ Yeah, Strongarm's a little down too. ~

The obvious other parties went unmentioned.

~ We made it to Iacon. Don't die on us. ~

~ Right back at you. You don't get out of a fifth date that easily. ~

They detached enough not to be a distraction to the other and Arcee held on to the fact he was still alive raising pit.

"He's a Decepticon, isn't he? The Reaper." Chromia was leaning into the doorframe, ignoring her outburst from earlier. "Was he anyone I know?"

Arcee managed to recover slightly from being caught staring googly-eyed at her macabre token. "No. He'd rather die than join up," she let a sad smile spread across her faceplates, "He's a neutral. Works in the freelance bounty hunter business."

"I thought I heard there was another one of you…"

"Wreckers think he offed a mech under their protection and he's on bad terms with the rest of my team. He got kicked out. They'd kill him if he came back. Pretty sure my comm is bugged, so we can't talk to each other anymore."

"Tough."

"Yeah, he is."

Mia shifted, "Do you take constructive criticism?"

"Depends."

"Most 'formers don't keep body parts of their loved ones lying around. It freaks people out."

"That's why I'm in Iacon. Your people are weak," she clamped her derma shut.

Mia chuckled, "No wonder you're so quiet—you're not from a normal city."

"Uraya just wasn't standard. I'm used to Predacons and warriors."

"You were there when it fell. So, you're the little pit spawns who've been collecting bounties… Heard tell you four have a fan club in the Decepticons."

"You. You're one of the old Alphas!"

She nodded.

"They let you live…and Pax and Rusthide?"

"Ironhide. And yes, they're here too."

The Autobots were desperate—but smart. Out of the Elite, those three were the most impartial.

"We came to them. Can't say it was a warm welcome, but they needed the intel and support. It's just a bunch of civilians. Formed an alliance." Her faceplate twisted, "Kinda like the Wreckers and the Nequois."

"You don't like Beryl's crew?"

"I don't like her. She chased us out of Letalis in the early cycles and she's got a sick sense of justice. You didn't know her in her prime. Femme was tactical nightmare, knew every in and out of her turf, and followers that ride-or-die. Fragging back tunnel hick."

"I know. She took care of us after Uraya and came to rescue us after we were tortured."

Chromia hummed, "Civil war has a way of making everyone nuts. Never said she wasn't a nice lady to her crew. Like you."

"With all due respect, you don't know anything about me."

"You cared enough to learn medicine to protect those you care about. You stopped Moony from making a bad deal."

"I'm not supposed to be nice. I wasn't coded for that. Now I can't even be a medic. What I'm going to be is useless."

"So? I was supposed to be a cityspeaker. I sucked at it. Someone died. I left, would have been exiled anyway."

"What are—"

"You sync up with city sized Transformers. I dropped the cube, one of the two other femmes on my team got trapped inside her own mind. Maxima never stood a chance." "What about the other one?"

"Windblade," a smile threatened to tug at her derma before deteriorating into a grimace. "She was a wreck and it was my fault. You don't recover from a social stigma like that, I left Caminus. Made it to Cybertron. Got into a bar fight, picked up a few friends, and the rest will go down in history. Assuming there's anyone left alive to tell it."

"I've never met an alien before."

"Colonist."

"You weren't sparked here, you're an alien. Why on Cybertron would you come to this dumpster fire?"

"Trust me, it was a better option," she said cryptically. "It's so dark here… I can't get used to it. I can kinda empathize with your friend, sometimes you've gotta go. It all worked out. All that said, trust me, you're not useless."

Arcee glared at her servos, the shaking wasn't as bad as it had been. "It wasn't even that much energon."

"Yeah, that was pretty pathetic." The 'former Con agreed. "'I've gotta go organize my knives', real smooth."

"Will you leave her alone, ya blue buzzard. You'll be fine, Cee. Those tremors might fade and they might not," Beryl started, "Someone's worried about you."

Strongarm came speeding up to her berth, immediately launching herself over the edge. Then her tiny, face squinched up. "Ew. You still have that piece of Uncle Lock?"

"Yeah."

"Yuck."

"It smells good."

"'Cee!"

She cackled and swept her up, allowing the Praxian sparkling to crawl on her helm... only for her to hang, upside down before her optics.

"You gotta come back, Reamer and Slash are gonna fight."

"Seriously?"

"Reamer cheats. Slash is too good at games." Moonracer haunted the doorframe, shy optics darting away, "Sorry about setting you off."

"Please. If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else. I'm just glad your arms not seriously damaged."

Poor thing looked starstruck, "Thanks."

She let Strongarm entertain herself with circular patterns at either side of her helm as Chromia approached her former nemesis.

"Can your lot go a cycle without a fight?"

To her credit, Beryl smiled. "Says the Decepticon. Thought you all had blood sacrifices every other lunar cycle."

"That was the Sparkeater cult and you know it, hick."

Arcee just narrowly caught the huskily muttered, "Two-bit, Kaon dwelling, off-worlder" before her temp guardian performed a 180.

"Let's get back to the game, hmm?"

"Sure. Can't wait till we're scrimmaging; I'd like to see if you've gotten any faster. Been saving up some new pellets just for you, Twitch."

:: You have –so many enemies. ::

:: Former ones. ::

The femme Terror managed a teasing glance, :: I thought you said not to start sl—::

:: Hush, bitlet. She peppers shrapnel on my after-plating every time we fight. She's not gonna win this time. ::

~o~o~o~o~o~

Prowl had it all planned out. He'd sneak off to explore the base and keep busy and out of sight until ending shift. Easy enough, there were so many 'formers coming and going no one would notice him. But the nano he opened his quarter's door a servo snatched him forward. One that was marred by years of combat and smelled like Arcee.

"Rest well, kiddo?"

He stifled a moan.

"We're not having a repeat of Letalis. You will be productive."

Prowl didn't bother arguing and followed alongside Kup without complaint.

"You're not going to fight me?"

"Is there a point to it?"

:: That's what I was worried about. You need to stay busy. That trauma wears off, you're not going to be happy. ::

Funny. He wasn't happy now.

Kup seemed to be reading his EM, :: If you can do me just one favor, kid, I promise I'll ease you through this. Lay low, don't draw any attention to yourself. I know you're feeling lousy but you think you can stow it long enough to wait for help? ::

The slight sag of his shoulders and the dark tint at the edge of his optics sang of the wringer Kup had been put through in the past few megacycles. Even if it had taken too long, even if he was the "enemy" Kup was trying to help. Maybe to fill in the hole that was left by Yoketron's offlining.

Prowl still couldn't fathom forgetting that gory tidbit. If Arcee's memory dumps were anything to go by, he was missing massive sections of his own memory. If only he could switch them for what he did remember—killing his own bonded teammate—

"Hey, don't go sideways on me. Yer visors whiting out."

"Can we just go somewhere else instead? I could hack a camera…"

"Unfortunately, no. First lesson of adulthood, you're never going to want to do what needs to be done. Good sign it's the right choice. We're here."

Prowl half expected to see another lab, what he got was a cramped office with the superior waiting for them.

"Caecus."

"Kup," the well armored Seeker nodded, "And this is the new tactical assistant?"

Well-ingrained habits welled up; the youngling straightened.

"Prowl, sir."

"Any credentials?"

"Some Enforcer schooling, I was unable to finish."

"Care to give a reason?"

If Blaster had his files, the rest of Iacon did too. They were in a crowded room with plenty of listening audios… He took a chance on half-truths.

"Illness, sir. I do not remember much from the past vorn, my complete files with the Wreckers."

Caecus' wings twitched, mouth slightly askew. "The abbreviated version. Very well. You'll be here at shift change, no exceptions. Any disciplinary issues will be addressed promptly."

Prowl was socially hindered but not deaf. Either word of his parentage got out or his criminal record did.

Unfeeling optics watched him as he slipped into his new seat. With 'formers in front and in the back of him there'd be no opportunity to slack off—or sneak off. He booted up his monitor thumbing through the cycle's tasks, mostly simple monitoring of streets. He could run that as a background task and file the, astonishingly large, backlog of paperwork dumped onto his computer.

Out of his periphery, he watched the commanders trade words and Kup finally leave.

An elbow nudged him, "Welcome to pit."

He spared the two-wheeler femme next to him a passing glance. "I've got a frequent visitor's pass. Do you mind?" Without another word he jacked into the terminal and dimmed his visor.

So started the dreaded ritual.

All he did there was sit down in a tiny desk space to observe, organize files, or run scenarios. Someone else handled the sensitive materials, but he could do the work of two mechs. Something Caecus didn't mind using to their benefit. The rest of the department was accepting at first, less so when the realized he wasn't friendly. They let him be.

Prowl wasn't Jazz. He didn't want small talk, or extra ties, or to socialize outside of office joors. He wanted out of this place. Once frequent tank cramps were replaced by helmaches and discontent.

Then the tipping point came when she appeared.

He'd lost track of time, logging data ahead of time so he wouldn't have to tomorrow. Besides there was a strange coincidence that kept popping up in the team's comm log. Set on a mission, he remained completely oblivious to the world around him.

Prowl finally acknowledged the spark signature waiting at the door.

"We're closed for the evening; can I help you?"

"Prowl?"

He just managed not to stab a digit through his keyboard. If he spared just a few kliks, maybe she would leave…

"How can I help you?"

"Are you really him?" Efficient steps carried her to his desk where she loomed.

"Oh… you've got the wrong 'former. I took up with some younglings. I needed a new start. They said this designation was good to use, the other guy wouldn't be needing it."

Her wings gave no indication of being tipped off he was lying. Their bond had long been numb. With all the trauma and physical changes, maybe just maybe, his EM wouldn't register as the same.

The gamble paid off.

She gave him a once over, looking for anything that would say otherwise.

In the absence of resources, he'd been given a cheap repaint adequate enough to hide his weld marks and wing graffiti. She wouldn't recognize his optics through the visor. His old voice was gone. Mannerisms were harder to mask but—

"I thought you were someone else."

He watched her battered doorwings settle to a lower, neutral position. One of relief.

"It happens all the time."

The panels snapped back to attention just as quickly. "In the future, I wouldn't advise dressing up as dead mechs."

And she left.

It took less than a klik to pack up and make his way to his empty quarters.

Jazz warned him in advance she was here, but he still put his helm down, shoulders heaving quietly.

At least he was free of his past now. In its place, he developed an astronomical helm ache and a craving for something he didn't need.

That evening found him sitting alone, tucking back the second cube of high grade he'd stolen from Jazz's stash. In polite company, there were rules about younglings consuming adult beverages. He'd disguised his as sweet en.

Dulled senses and emotions finally embraced his processors. He quietly phased out in the far side of the rec room, feigning scrolling through his HUD. No one here knew his regular habits, or that being in a public space was extremely out of character.

He was just hitting his stride when the grate above him rattled and a heavy yellow weight dropped into his lap.

"Sorry! No one normally sits here!"

An abnormally small sparkling stared up at him, spark thudding through his oddly solid plating.

"No harm done."

His new seatmate scrambled onto the table, settling opposite of him.

"Aren't you supposed to be in recharge?"

"I have to get dinner first."

Prowl looked over his helm, "From that dispenser, the tall one?"

"Yeah."

He rummaged around in subspace and shoved him four smaller cubes of normal grade energon. "Here. Some for later too."

Fortunately, the sparkling wasn't a hallucination and the energon was accepted.

Those wide sky blues brightened immensely, "Thanks!"

He shoved the cubes into a subspace he probably shouldn't have had at his age and scooted off to who knew where.

Not too long afterward, he noted a gaggle of mechlings scanning the area.

A particularly disagreeable mechling met his optics and came closer, "You see a sparkling around here?"

Prowl let his doorwings rise in a half-sparked shrug, "Nope."

"Kinda need to find him."

"I did not. Besides, you don't seem like the type to look after a sparkling out of the goodness of your spark."

"Did I ask, doorwinger?"

"The first part, yes; second part is for being more convincing in the future. Now, you're blocking my view."

Whatever his unwelcome visitor said next was drowned out by another cube, marking his third. Recharge was setting in with a pleasant buzz. He shuffled back to his quarters to curl up with Jazz.

The only reaction the Polyhexian managed was a confused stare, then a suspicious one. He went back to recharge.

It was easy enough to latch onto this new crutch. Prowl should have known it wouldn't last, stealing from Jazz's stash especially at a rate of three every cycle. Maybe he wanted to get caught…

At the next rec room gathering, under the table Jazz had a vice grip on his knee the nano he pulled out a cube.

~ You've been keeping an overcharge for a megacycle. ~

~ Yes. ~

~ I would have looked over this with maybe two a week, but this has to stop. ~

There was a fiery undercurrent of worry underlying his words.

Prowl stifled his reaction, ~ Okay. ~

~ You can't stay this way because it's only going get worse and—~

Jazz was working himself up into a twitchy mess masked by nodding along to HotRod's plan to do something outrageous—and dangerous.

~ If it worries you, I won't drink. Getting harder to maintain a constant high anyway. ~

Wrong words again. He wasn't going to stop worrying. Jazz was going to send himself to an early smelting and that was without the spy work. He handed the cube back over. He still wasn't relaxed.

Somewhere across the room he caught the tiny not-a-hallucination sparkling catch his optics and start over, only to be ambushed by his pursuers.

Prowl sat up, "I've been watching them stalk him for a week…"

Sideswipe frowned, "Who? Bee? Yeah, poor kid."

"Why won't anyone do anything?"

The red mech had the conflicted expression of pain he was far too used to seeing by now. "Nobody wants a hybrid; he doesn't even stick with the guardians he's been given."

Guardians. Plural.

Prowl rose to his full height, "I'm going to."

"While you're overcharged?" Sunstreaker commented wryly. "You reek."

That bit of information caught their newer friends by surprise. Arcee just winced.

"Yup." He brushed himself off with a deep venting cycle to dispel whatever Sunstreaker caught a whiff of, and proceeded.

Bee was stuck against the wall with the lead youngling looming over him.

"So, you finally showed up, hybrid. I was getting worried."

"My name is Bumblebee."

"And who calls you that?"

"Probably named himself, I can't see anyone wanting him."

One of the group snatched him up by his thin secondary panels and Bee screeched.

His panel snapped at the same time Prowl's tolerance did.

The full-energon Praxian delicately crushed the lines in the other mechling's wrist, catching Bee with his free servo. "Is there a problem here?"

"You again?"

"Yes," Prowl focused attention on the ailing spark in his grip, "Do you need help?"

Bright blue optics winked, then the irises widened in relief. "A little."

"What are you doing?"

He looked up in annoyance, "Being a decent sentient."

"Ohhh. So, he's yours? That's the only reason a Praxian would."

New place, new reputation.

"And if he is?"

"Pull up a chair, I'd love to hear about the stiff's wild life."

"It definitely isn't as exciting as you make it out to be." He started back to their table.

"You think you're better than us or something just because you got into tactical on a recommendation and doing your good deed for the cycle?"

As it turned out, he had seen him around tactical…the chair directly to his right, actually.

Prowl made a show of looking him over, "Yes. In fact, I do."

Somewhere at his table there was an audible hiss of variations of, 'shut up'. The high grade was working a little too well, he had more to say.

"I come in and do my job. I don't harass others and slack off when I could be preventing Decepticon activity." Every word brought him closer to the mechling until he lowered his derma to his audio. "And I'm not keeping contact with my Decepticon parentage. Those messages are fake and, if you're wise, you won't contact them again, or I will report you. High command doesn't care for these things."

Prowl withdrew just as quickly to the enraged face and flaring vents of his opponent.

He laid his neutral, blank look on thick, "Let's all try to be better, okay?"

Back at his seat, he released Bee onto the tabletop.

"How's your panel?"

"Hurts…" Bee sniffled.

"Ok, hold still. Arcee, is this broken?"

"Hmm? No, strained; otherwise, its fine."

When he finally looked up six sets of optics were staring him down, "What?"

"That—was actually not-horrible." Jazz stumbled, "You made like, five enemies, but you didn't gut anyone."

"I am somewhat capable of functioning independently."

"Hi," Bumblebee squeaked.

"Hey, bug byte." Sideswipe poked him in forhelm.

"Would you like to hang out with us from now on?" Prowl asked.

"Why?" the tone of confusion was unmistakable.

"You can't tell me your life isn't complicated by people like that. We're a pack of misfits. We take applications and after that royal mess, you're preapproved."

The twins fixed him with a look that reminded him too much of a certain mercenary. He still wasn't comfortable with Jazz's new, suspect-looking cronies.

"Kinda rare to hear a vehi-mode to say 'pack' instead of team." Sideswipe ventured.

Prowl shrugged, "What we call ourselves varies, but pack is more apt."

Sunstreaker leaned across the table, "947-3 third level: if you need repairs. Ask for Ratchet."

"Aw, Sunny, you're warming up." His twin beamed…and went ignored.

"Nope, I repainted you, him, and that other one. All of you gave me fake credits. Fortunately for you, Praxian, I'm over it. You're gonna pay me back with your body."

That wasn't expected, but his face was stuck on blank-and-dead. Why not play with it? "I'm not drunk enough, give me a joor."

Springer's drink came out of his olfactory.

"Prowl, quiet," Jazz snapped. "No, to both of you."

"Relax, dude, it's hard to find models. He's perfect." Sideswipe chirped.

"I need him for a painting model. Its fine."

"Paint what exactly, pervert?"

"Wait, so theoretically you could paint me without armor," HotRod asked.

"Depends. How much time you have?"

Arcee's glinting optics were just visible over her arms, pillowed on the table.

Springer joined her, "I bet you're enjoying this."

"I love double meanings; they keep my twisted spark lit."

"Why do I hang out with you people…"

Prowl sat back to watch them wind each other up. He kept a servo over the sparkling's helm, hopefully lowering the probability of hearing all of their conversations.

Bee seemed content to watch the crowd with them. Content to have a sense of belonging.

And then Prowl got the pinching between his optics…

~ Jazz? ~

~ No. ~

Several non-higrade negotiations later, Prowl found himself being ushered back to his room by the same group. They were going to drop Bee off back at his place in the same med bay Sunstreaker named. There was a crush of 'formers coming and going for whatever shift they were in. Things seemed fine.

Bee was happy playing riding on his shoulders.

Springer didn't mind the twins.

A fist was attempting to acquaint itself with his face…

Prowl ducked, keeping his wings over the sparkling behind him and his frame low to the ground.

"How'd you know?!"

"Nyctus, come on mech! Leave him!"

"HOW!"

Bee rolled off his back without prompting, choosing to hide behind Jazz.

Prowl regained his voice, "Anyone with a clear processor could have checked the tags."

"You're a drone, a glorified calculator. You seriously wouldn't care if you're friends offlined would you?"

He was throwing out any insult that came to mind in an attempt to cause pain.

"You should leave," Prowl deadpanned. The tension in his helm was throbbing to a peak.

This Nyctus' cronies seemed nervous, more intent of dragging their raging associate off than continuing a fight. Nyctus himself seemed to just want the world to burn at the moment.

"They made you one of those operations…that's why you are the way you are. Aint it?! You've got not right to be called an Autobot."

There was a crumpling noise, like a container of cheap metal.

Prowl withdrew, left arm tingling and growing numb. An overwhelming sense of detachment mingled with dark irritation played at his processor.

At least he was quiet now.

Nyctus had four slashes carved into his lower faceplate, a stunned cough from the youngling splattered energon on the floor.

"Funny coming from you. I'm more Autobot than you'll ever be and I hate all of you." The words snapped like an energon whip. "Believe me, I'm not here by choice. Be happy I didn't follow my first choice of faction."

Split derma attempted to form words. His glossa was shredded too. "Decept—?"

"WORSE," he barked, "If you ever come near Bumblebee or anyone else in my team again, I will peel your spark casing off and let a plague fox finish the rest. It's easier than you think."

The quiet turned painful. He slung energon from his talons, marking the tile.

Now. How did one leave these situations? There was a growing circle around them but optics were largely centered on the bleeding party. Most were trying to pick out what happened before he started yelling. Prowl took advantage, picked a direction, and bodies cleared to let him through.

Sideswipe overtook him and dragged him along by a shoulder. "You have got about a klik to hide. That's outburst is gonna be all over the base."

"Kup's gonna kill us!"

"It was just me, not a pack thing," Prowl grumbled.

The carmine mech slid to a halt at the next intersection, managing to avoid a security mech in their path. "Just had to say you hate Autobots, huh?" he growled, "At this rate it might be better to turn yourself in. We're not going to make it."

"I know a way," Bee chirped. He scurried over to a recessed wall, then began yanking at a floor grate.

Springer stepped in to heft the thing aside and dropped down, followed by everyone else.

After several turns and a vertical drop, Sunstreaker popped his helm out of the next grate.

"Ratch!"

A voice beyond their line of sight swore, "What on—Suns, Sides?"

"We need help."

The medic scowled, years of reading through flimsy excuses building up on his faceplate. "The whole horde of you?"

Prowl shoved his way forward, "Just me. I shredded a youngling's face."

That harsh expression intensified, now laser focused on him. His spark rate medical decals rearranged themselves as he folded his arms. "An emergency call just came in for severe lacerations. That was you?"

"Yes."

"Corner, now. The rest of you, front lobby."

Prowl nestled himself on a berth only to have the same glare land on him once again.

The white and red mech jabbed a digit pointing further away, "Your olfactory, stick it in the corner."

"You're serious?"

When the medic summoned a wrench from his wrist compartment Prowl did as told.

Satisfied he was being listened to Ratchet turned back to repairing an unconscious mech. "So. Why'd you do it?"

"He harasses Bumblebee. Then one of them grabbed him by the wing panel and I let him in on some observations I'd made of his character as blackmail for ceasing his harassment. He realized my observation was true, became enraged, attempted to fight me, he directed insults at my character and origins, and I lost my composure."

"I'll say. He's got two glossas now and it'll take a lot of reconstructive surgery; something we don't have resources to spare on."

"I'm sorry I've made trouble for you all."

Ratchet's plating raised a fraction and he seemed to be looking for something only he could see. "You have the creepiest tone, kid."

Prowl spared a glance behind him. "Why aren't you in the main med bay with the rest of the medics?"

Ratchet gave him a sideoptic, "They send me 'formers they either want isolated or the others can't handle." He made a gesture towards the coal black frame under his care.

It wasn't anyone he recognized, until he saw the faceplate.

"Ironhide?"

"Mmhmm."

Clarity bit him like a starving scraplet, "I have a message for him."

"It'll keep until he wakes up. Now. Let me see if you've messed up your internals giving that guy a wider face hole."

Prowl kept his vents even until Ratchet pulled his plating away. He let out a sharp wheeze.

The medic looked around, lowering his voice. "Kid? Is everything okay?"

Old scars underlaid new slivery ones; he didn't remember what his protoform markings looked like anymore.

"No."

"Your overcharged and your stress levels are through the roof. What's bothering you?"

"I don't know how much I'm allowed to disclose…I was experimented on. I was rescued. I saw one of my former abusers here. The hi-grade numbs my processors."

"Brief and to the point. Had any work done on your helm?"

"Extensive."

Ratchet scanned him again, asked before removing areas of plating, replaced it, then did it all over again. It was easier just to mentally withdraw, the lack of beverage was taxing his systems already. There was a hard processor ache closing in on the horizon.

"Kid? It's over now."

The medic didn't speak for a while. He started then stopped.

"Everything is healed up, there's nothing more I can do unless I had schematics for whatever was done."

"I can't give them to you."

"I know. You're still experiencing periodic aches. I'm going to put you on a mild pain killer, we'll wean you off it, but we're going to work out a new way of coping for you."

"Just as well, my friends don't want me to drink anymore."

"Do you want to? This won't work if you don't."

"I just want to stop hurting…" he sounded exhausted and whiny even to his own audios. It took him a klik to realize he'd clapped servos over his helm and doubled up.

Ratchet was rubbing circles on his back. "You have any adults to fall back on?"

"One of them would me."

Prowl winced for the soot coated mech. Kup looked like he'd been yanked out of recharge—in an ash heap.

"Whirl," he stated, possibly explaining his condition. "I got the same story from everyone outside and that was present in the halls. I don't blame you, but that youngling's caretakers sure are. It's what you did and yelled afterwards that's got command up in arms."

"I believe that would have been expected of 'one of ours' rather than a Wrecker." Prowl caught the gaze of a massive semi-mech that hadn't been there before.

"I couldn't help but overhear."

Kup gave him a brief nod.

"Kid's got a drinking problem and pain. I don't like what I'm seeing in his frame."

Belatedly, Prowl realized the medic was monitoring his reactions through the servo still at his back.

"It's classified. Everything look okay?"

"Well, it won't kill him. He needs to come back here every so often for a checkup."

Kup grunted, "Prowl, you're in the brig starting tonight."

The idea of a cramped cell and silence was foreboding, but welcome.

Kup put a digit to his helm, "I have to take this, I'll be back."

Jazz was the first to poke his helm around the door, before being shoved in by Sunstreaker, the rest quickly following.

"Berth, squirt. You can talk in the solar," Arcee chirped, setting Bee down to run off to who knew where.

"We're heading out, thanks for the party." Springer nodded.

HotRod whistled, "You have started the wildest slagshow out there, Prowlie. They think you're nuts."

Prowl pursed his derma. "I suppose that's good, in a way."

Jazz wedged himself next to his sibling; Arcee boxed him in.

"Your friends?"

"Family." Prowl's wings raised and lowered in three cycles. "When can—can I tell Ironhide something?"

"No time soon. Type it out."

"Right."

Aside from sleeping off part of an apocalyptic hangover, Prowl got nothing done that evening.