In his comparatively short existence, he'd seen a lot. It came with his position and duty – it was his duty, to notice things. Moreso, sometimes, than Jazz. Jazz, of course, was designed and sparked to notice stuff, and he'd had to learn it all himself, but he still saw a lot of weird slag. Especially since accepting his position on the Ark.
It was common knowledge that the mechs on board the Ark were the elite. Any Autobot, and a lot of Decepticons, could look at the least of the Ark's team and experience instant recognition, coupled with either awe or some amount of fear, depending on the mech's faction. And in the rare cases where recognition wasn't immediate, it was gained the moment the `bot's designation was provided.
It seemed to be some sort of underlying Cybertronian law of nature, however, that any elite mech also had to be graced by some sort of freakish eccentric characteristic – sometimes an outright glitch – to balance out the elite part. After all, it would hardly be fair to all the normal bots, would it, if those with greater talent were also sane?
So, naturally, with just about every `bot on the Ark being either elite, or blessed by some special ability and a tragic background, he'd seen a lot.
But this… this went beyond the normal crazy slag. If crazy slag could be called normal… compared to what was currently perched on his helm, though, it probably could.
"Hold very, very still, Prowl," his assistant – who hadn't been assisting very well at all – coached, vainly attempting to sneak up on the tactician's assailant.
"What do you think I'm doing?" the SIC grouched, for once abandoning decorum. Seriously, how hard could it have been for his partner to notice that their prey was sitting on Prowl's head?! But no, Jazz, who was trained to be observant, who was supposed to be one the most observant mechs on base, hadn't bothered to take note of the actual location of their quarry until Sideswipe, of all mechs, had pointed it out and fled once he realized that no, Prowl had not randomly decided to wear a hat coated in metal feathers.
He didn't feel any better knowing the red twin had retreated with the promise of finding Wheeljack. The crazy inventor could blow himself up all he wanted, but Prowl wanted no part of explaining to Ratchet why he was in pieces. At least his logic center hadn't crashed yet…
Speaking of which, why hadn't he crashed yet?
Maybe he was finally starting to adapt to the insanity of this infernal ship… ?
"Shh!" the other black and white cautioned. "You might scare it."
As if on cue, the fowl roosting on the tactician let loose a squawk of agreement and shifted, talons digging into the metal of his helm. The SIC hissed and held himself perfectly still. There was no telling what surprises had been included with a certain inventor's latest creation, and he was in no mood to find out.
Naturally, it was at that moment that his com link buzzed to life. "Ratchet to Prowl."
Casting his optics heavenward, the tactician heaved a sigh. "Prowl here. Can it wait, though? I'm a little preoccupied."
"So I've heard," the medic replied. "Sideswipe says you found one of them."
"More like it found me." Prowl glanced at what he could see of his unwanted guest – just the tips of the clawed feet and a few ruffled feathers. "Has Wheeljack been freed yet?"
"No, but communications were established not too long ago."
"Then do we know the purpose of these… things?"
Prowl felt his guest shift, and Jazz stilled, trying – and failing – to appear harmless. The tactician raised an optic ridge to display his impatience. He wanted this thing off of his helm, and he wanted it off soon. Preferably before it combusted, as Wheeljack's inventions tended to do.
"Wheeljack said that, originally, they were supposed to convert metal scraps into energon eggs, whatever those are, much like the way humans' chickens lay eggs that the humans use for sustenance. Obviously, something went wrong."
The tactician snorted, doorwings twitching irritably. "That doesn't help us at all unless we know what went wrong."
"Wheeljack's still working on it. He suggested, though, that you ask your guest and try to communicate with it."
"Ratchet? I think you need to see a medic if your advising me to talk to a metallic bird."
On the other end of the line, the medic chuckled. "I am a medic, Prowl. I'll let you know when our wayward inventor solves his latest puzzle. Ratchet out."
The com link fell dead.
With a glance at his currently useless assistant, the tactician poked his guest and made an attempt at being civil. "Um… excuse me, but… do you think you could get off my head?"
Jazz, if he hadn't already frozen beneath the fowl's glare, certainly would have then. Optics wide in disbelief, the saboteur looked like Optimus Prime had just murdered Bumblebee. Prowl didn't blame him. After all, the tactician just didn't do illogical things.
Talking to a mechanical bird was one of them.
"Hello? Look, I know you're probably quite comfortable there, but I really need you to exit my helm. You're feet itch."
The bird shifted again, alternately resting its weight on each foot, seeming to consider its perch's request. Finally, to the shock of both Autobots, the fowl flapped its wings and fluttered – more like bumbled – down to Prowl's shoulder.
At least he could see it better now. And it wasn't on his head anymore.
"Well I'll be…" the Special Ops murmured, shaking his head slowly. Immediately the bird was glaring at him again, beady eyes trained on the potential threat. Strange, how it didn't consider Prowl to be a threat… then again, it was Wheeljack who created the thing. No doubt it was prone to be eccentric.
"Thank you," the tactician nodded curtly. The fowl bobbed its head absent mindedly, still regarding his partner suspiciously. "That's just Jazz." Why was he still talking to it? Did it even understand a word he was saying? "He's my… ah… assistant. Partner. Ally." Still no response. "Friend…?"
The bird blinked, looked at the tactician as though processing this new information, and did the bobbing-nodding thing again. The glare ceased, and its attention turned to studying their surrounding, searching for other threats.
Prowl sighed, and his guest immediately swiveled its head on its longish neck to look at him curiously. Somewhat startled, the SIC almost smiled at the bird's apparent concern.
Almost.
"I'm okay. Just… stressed, is all." Great. Now he was talking to it like it really did understand him, and was capable of sympathizing with his troubles. What was wrong with him?
The bird chirped questioningly and flexed its feet. Prowl smiled dryly. "I didn't really appreciate having you on my helm."
Sheepishly, his guest sort of shrank back with a clear apology. Jazz laughed and clapped his partner on the shoulder. The enforcer, strangely offended at the ridicule his guest was receiving, scowled. "Play nice, Jazz."
"It ain't sentient, Prowl. Besides, it's kinda cute, ain't it?" The saboteur giggled. It was rather undignified, but since when had Jazz had any dignity?
"Cute?" the tactician repeated, a dangerous tone in his voice. The fowl warbled in agreement. A thought struck the SIC then, one that sent chills down his spinal relays. Not wasting a second, he opened a channel with Ratchet again. "Prowl to Ratchet."
"Ratchet here. Is something amiss?"
"Besides having a mechanical bird using me as a perch and currently glaring at Jazz? I'm fine."
"Then why the slag are you calling me? In case you didn't know, I'm a little busy."
Prowl winced – angering Ratchet was never beneficial for the tormentor's health – but carried on nonetheless. "Has anyone else been claimed as Wheeljack and I have?"
"Ah… yes, actually. Why? Looking for someone to complain with?"
"Who?" If his theory was correct…
"Now why the slag do you need to know that?"
"Ratchet…" He really needed to know…
"Fine. Mirage, Red Alert, Ironhide, Optimus, Sunstreaker, and Blurr."
"How many… what did Wheeljack call these things again?"
"He didn't. But apparently they're the Cybtertronian version of chickens."
Chickens? Great… "How many… chickens… did he make?"
"A dozen."
"So that leaves four unaccounted for."
"Thank you for pointing out the obvious. Now what's your point?"
Prowl paused before continuing, aware of how ludicrous his theory sounded. "What if they took on a higher function than Wheeljack intended? From what I've been told, it sounds like they're imprinting on `bots and guarding them."
"But then why didn't they imprint on the first `bot they saw?" Ratchet argued, but obviously intrigued. "That would imply that they're deliberately picking and choosing `bots to protect."
"I know," the tactician agreed, smiling when his guest pecked his assistant's finger when said finger got too close for comfort. "But it would make sense."
"So you're saying they're sentient, in the same sense the Dinobots are?"
Smart medic. "Affirmative."
"Wonderful. I'll run it by Wheeljack, see what he thinks first. Ratchet out."
"Prowl out." The tactician leveled the mechanical chicken on his shoulder a Look. "Jazz, what do you think are the odds of Wheeljack creating sentient chickens?"
The saboteur shuttered his optics in surprise. "Is somethin' wrong with ya, Prowl? First yer defendin' the winged turkey –" here, his guard squawked in indignation at being called a turkey, furthering the tactician's theory of sentiency, " – and now you think it's got a spark `n everythin'?"
"Yes, Jazz," the SIC sighed. "Must I repeat myself?"
The other black and white laughed. "Nah, I heard ya. But seriously. Knowin' Wheeljack? I wouldn' put it past him."
Prowl nodded before smirking slyly, turning to his feathered guardian. "Would you do me a favor and go sit on Jazz's head? I think somebody might be after him, and I'd be depressed if something negative were to happen to him, seeing as he's such a good friend."
The chicken bobbed its – her? – head again and dropped from the tactician's shoulder like a rock. Jazz took one look at the bird and sprinted down the hallway, the fowl giving chase eagerly.
Prowl resumed his stoic expression and walked sedately after. Jazz really ought to learn to be more observant.