One Month Later…
"What the frag?"
His partitioned office space might not be Lennox's favourite place on base, but it was at least his. When he headed in here – when he couldn't avoid it – he at least had the consolation of knowing the endless drifts of paperwork would be where he'd left them. It might not be much, but in the fast moving and never predictable world of NEST there was a certain comfort in that fact.
Now the familiar pillars of paper, stacked high enough that he had only the vaguest idea of what lay at the bottom, had gone. His desk's scratched, chipboard surface was visible for the first time in months. What paperwork remained had been sorted into folders, stacked neatly in one corner of the space, and both labelled and colour-coded. Even his ever-growing collection of chewed pencils and half-used biros – some buried in the accumulating drifts for well over a year now – had been recovered, sorted, and propped up in a couple of coffee mugs: one for blue and black, one for the rest.
Stunned, Lennox reached out blindly to snag his office chair, and dropped into it without looking. His instinctive reactions took over before the yelp even left his mouth. He leapt back to his feet, his own cry melding with an electronic squeal. The sounds merged into a high-pitched whine of electric motors, as a foot-tall, remote-control monster truck motored off the chair, bounced once on its wheels as it landed on the floor, and headed for the relative safety of the far wall.
Rubbing his posterior, still throbbing from sitting on the irregular shape, Lennox stared down at it.
"Wheelie?"
The tiny ex-Decepticon transformed, rubbing his own helm as if to remind Lennox he hadn't been the only one to get an uncomfortable surprise.
"When will you people learn to look out for the little guys?" The dimunitive bot's accented tone was caught, as always, halfway between accusation and whining apology. "I mean, hey, you wouldn't be, like, singing with glee if Optimus Prime sat on you, would you?"
Lennox blinked at him, trying to banish the mental image, and then letting his eyes sweep across his unnaturally tidy desk before returning to the young mech.
"Wheelie, what the frag are you doing here?"
"Prowl borrowed me." Wheelie shrugged one mechanical shoulder, ignoring Lennox's baffled look as he nodded in righteous indignation. "Talk about unfair, right? I mean, there I am minding my own business, keeping an eye on the squishy and the barkers, and then Jolt comes roaring up and says Prowl wants to see me. Thought it was gonna be somethin' excitin', not more housework." The small mech whistled, rolling backwards and forwards a little on his wheel-pedes. "Like I was gonna say no though? I mean I'd be talking guard duty for the next millennium. Besides, the mech has a serious rep, if y'know what I mean."
Lennox sank once more into his seat, taking care to look this time before doing so. He rubbed his brow, wondering when the day was going to start making sense.
The month since Prime's quiet, thoughtful second in command joined their command meetings had been… interesting. Patrols had been rearranged on almost a daily basis, training exercises had become more varied and unpredictable. And NEST's expenditure, wastage and overall stress levels had all dropped almost twenty percent for no apparent effort on the part of its commanders.
Prowl was experimenting, learning the resources he'd have to work with in a battle situation, and slowly bringing millions of years of experience to bear on optimising every aspect of the organisation. Rationally, Lennox knew that and, sure, he was glad that the worryingly fragile Autobot seemed to be recovering. Emotionally, he couldn't help finding the sheer competence of the mech just a bit creepy.
"Major Lennox? Is there a problem?"
Lennox looked up, past the partition walls, into a pair of deep blue optics that he'd swear concealed more than just polite concern. Prowl's door-wings bracketed his helm, the glint of silver-white that seemed to be spreading from their tips reflecting the light as they twitched. The NEST major gave him a look of resignation.
"Really, Prowl? My office?"
"Optimus has commented on your lack of pleasure in administrative tasks. I believe you will find the new arrangement rather more ergonomic and satisfying than the old."
"Look, I appreciate the thought," Lennox rubbed his brow, "But, well, I can't say I have a lot of truck with fancy theories for red tape."
Now the laughter in Prowl's expression was unmistakeable. It might not have reached his faceplates, but his optics were bright, his door-wings spread wide and shivering.
"I would ask you to trust me, Major. After all, I have a great many years experience with a truck who feels much the same."
Prowl took a step back, his helm vanishing from Lennox's line of sight before the human could react. He satisfied himself with exchanging bemused looks with Wheelie instead. The small Autobot's optics were dilated, his wheels shifting and frame stretching as he tried to peer over the partition.
"Whoa," Lennox said softly. "Did Prowl just make a joke?"
Wheelie gave him a slightly panicked look, the ex-Decepticon's awe of his near-legendary Autobot superiors clashing with the input from his audials.
"Me? I di'n't hear nothing!" he said loudly. The little mech sidled towards Lennox, his wary optics still directed upwards as he muttered out of the side of his mouth. "Are you asking for brig-time?"
Lennox chuckled, reaching out with care to pat the sharp plates of the young mech's back.
"I thought he reserved that privilege for twins?"
His question might as well have summoned them. Sunstreaker's querulous voice rose a moment before Sideswipe's equally vehement answer. Lennox didn't wait for the inevitable hum of engines and rumble of movement as an audience gathered. Giving Wheelie another rueful pat, he headed out to investigate.
Optimus Prime couldn't be sure what the squabble was about. He knew for certain what had caused it.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker glinted in the sunlight, deep metallic red reflecting from bright yellow gold as the pair got into one another's faces. At least half of their dispute was over their internal comms. Another third seemed to consist entirely of profane insults shared in a variety of exotic languages… The admiring looks those were getting from some of the other Autobots, gathered to enjoy the entertainment, were frankly rather worrying.
Optimus's optics picked out Mudflap and Skids by the door to the main hangar. The pair were watching with dilated optics – the younger twins fresh from their latest spell in the brig and obviously wary of getting caught in another. Prowl emerged from the shadows behind them, his arms folded across his chest-plates and a rare fond look directed at the squabbling elder twins.
Irritable eruptions from Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had become almost a daily occurrence. Neither Prowl nor Optimus Prime was alone in welcoming the return to near-normality almost as much as rueing the chaos.
Thank Primus that this time at least, there were precious few humans around to add to the racket. Major Lennox had followed Prowl out of the hangar and a few others loitered suspiciously nearby, sidelong glances betraying their curiosity. The rest of NEST's personnel were otherwise engaged – either training, on patrol or in support roles occupying their full attention.
As it was not occupying the twins'.
"You do realise that this will continue until they are cleared for duty?" Prowl's half-frustrated, half-amused observation carried across the officers' comm-band. "Their life experiences have not left them temperamentally well-equipped for confinement."
"Slag experience." Ironhide's contribution was more frustrated, less amused. The weapons mech scowled across from the firing range, his cannons rotating. "Those mechs were sparked with cabin fever."
Optimus nodded in agreement with his officers. He raised a brow-ridge, glancing at the stubborn scowl on Ratchet's face-plates. The medic's chagrin was obvious. His buzzsaw blade whirred, his irritation clear in the set of his broad shoulders. There was no hint of uncertainty in his voice.
"No. I am not clearing them for duty."
"I understood from your reports that their physical injuries had been remedied."
"If you think that means I'm going to let you throw them into battle…!"
"Just lettin' them off base would be a start, Ratch."
"'Cause it's not like they could get themselves into a slag load of trouble amongst humans, right?"
Optimus couldn't quite hide his wince. Ratchet's tone was caustic enough to sting his plating. Ironhide's must be peeling and even Prowl's door-wings were noticeably lower than they had been before he spoke.
Then Sideswipe's fist drew back, fury and frustration overtaking reason in his expression. Sunstreaker sneered, unimpressed, folding his arms – almost as if inviting the blow that would turn this from argument to flat-out fistfight.
Prime took a step forward. Prowl moved faster.
Optimus gasped, not sure if he was more impressed with the speed of his second, the trust Prowl was placing in their front-liners, or the reflexes that allowed Sideswipe to pull his punch, stopping it inches from Prowl's helm.
"Enough." The tactician stood between the twins, his arms still folded across his chest-plate, his voice giving no hint of the danger he'd just placed himself in.
Ratchet and Sunstreaker were less sanguine. Their voices mingled in a single strangled exclamation.
"Are you fragging insane?!"
Sideswipe looked shaken, and Optimus took a moment to calm his own vents. The chances of the warrior actually striking their second had probably never been high, but of all the mechs on base only Optimus, Ratchet and the twins actually knew what the stakes of that gamble were. Prowl was stronger now – far stronger than he had been on arrival – but his condition was still serious, the balance on his systems precarious, and the sparkling safely held in stasis until he had a chance of carrying to term. Optimus had already known his friend would not allow his condition to excuse any shirking of his duties. It was sobering to be reminded of just how seriously Prowl took that commitment.
The tactician glared from left to right, his chiding expression not sparing either twin. If the other Autobots had noticed the strain in the air, the open frown on their second in command's face-plates was enough to banish it from thought.
"Enough," Prowl repeated firmly. He shook his helm. "I know you are adults and warriors, so I will not tolerate you behaving like undisciplined younglings – whatever the circumstances."
Sideswipe gave him a sour look, the front-liner bouncing back from his shock.
"You're going to brig us? Again?"
"I have no intention of listening to more complaints about you wearing the concrete flooring to dust."
"Then give us something to do!" The words burst out of Sunstreaker in a sudden torrent. He glanced at his brother, shaking his helm. "Slag it, Prowl, sitting around like this is driving us fragging nuts!"
"Slag, yeah. We should've been back on duty weeks ago."
There was a scornful huff from Ratchet. Sideswipe shot him a scowl before turning back to Prowl and adding a pleading look directed at Prime for good measure.
"Just give us something. Please."
Prowl tapped his foot, glancing down at the lines marked beneath his pedes before looking up at the twins, his optics thoughtful as he studied the pair. He turned a look of open assessment on Ratchet, humming through an ex-vent, before nodding.
"I believe you were playing 'basketball' when Sunstreaker was assaulted. I have yet to see this game played."
The twins stared. Optimus didn't so much as twitch, but it took an effort not to react. Not for the first time, he wondered just what in Primus' name was going through his tactician's processor.
Even Ratchet cycled his optics. "You're not fragging serious."
"I am perfectly serious. I wish to see the game in action. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe wish to have their time occupied. The two aims are complementary. I fail to see the reason for such scepticism."
"The humans're all out on exercises." Sideswipe spoke slowly. He shook himself, uncertain as he tried to figure out where Prowl was going with this. "The rules say mech versus human, so we're kind of stuck."
"I believe Sideswipe habitually plays on one team, with Ironhide and Jolt, while Sunstreaker plays on a second with Ratchet and Mudflap, correct?" Prowl looked around him. "Then it would seem we have two complete teams available, and the rule in question can be held in abeyance on this occasion."
"He's kind of hard to argue with when he gets into this mood, isn't he?"
Optimus looked down. Lennox was leaning against his ankle, watching in some bemusement. He hadn't raised his voice to speak, and Optimus kept his own to a low rumble as he watched the hasty preparations unfold.
"Most of us have learnt not to make the attempt."
Ironhide nodded as he strode over from the target range, his expression combining wary curiosity with anticipation.
"Up for this, Ratch?"
The medic shrugged, giving in to the inevitable. His wrist-saw rotated idly, his face-plates mirroring the weapons-mech's. "You're on.
It was a… curious… game. Prowl watched with a mixture of bemusement and amusement, his helm tilted to one side. The inflated bladder that served as a game token was delicate in the extreme, vulnerable both to piercing by sharp-clawed servos and to crushing between them. It was even possible to burst the spheroid simply by bounding it too hard against the rough concrete pan on which the court was marked out.
That concrete presented another challenge. At least twice, a mech concentrating on the 'ball' had slid out of play on the thick layer of wind-laid dust underfoot. Another time, Jolt had been virtually thrown across the line in a full contact encounter that Optimus had quickly ruled illegal.
Perhaps the claustrophobic playing area was less crowded with five humans rather than three mechs on the second team. Prowl rather doubted that it was any simpler for the mechs to manoeuvre in those circumstances. At least with the current arrangement, they were able to pay less attention to where they placed their pedes and more to the strategy of their opponents.
It had taken Prowl moments to access the rules of the game – both internationally-ratified and NEST-modified – from the base network. It took rather longer for him to parse the obscure terminology and unfamiliar objectives in the context of the match unfolding in front of him. Both teams had fouled at least once. Both had managed to preserve the ball and place it in the basket. There seemed to be little to choose between them. While Ironhide's team were winning eight points to five at the present moment, even Prowl's top-flight data analysis algorithms could not predict the final outcome.
For a moment, just a moment, he considered booting the tactical processor mounted in parallel to his own. The moment was long enough for him to reconsider, panic for himself and his infant flaring at the mere thought. His servo came up, its tips resting against his chest plate before he got the reaction under control. With Ratchet, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe all distracted by the movement, Jolt and Ironhide took the opportunity to stretch their lead a little further.
Sunstreaker scowled, frowning at Prowl as if uncertain whether the distraction had been intentional. Prowl forced his servo down, his return look steady and non-committal.
The way the twins were playing was… worrying. Both were skilled; Prowl had anticipated that and was unsurprised to see it confirmed. They handled the inflated spheroid with a delicacy that few would credit to their big frames. They were aware of their teammates, their passes precise, and their reception of thrown balls faultless. There was certainly no hint of physical infirmity, or sign that the exertion was causing them difficulties.
No, what troubled Prowl wasn't the way they handled the ball or passed it. It was the way they consistently, without hesitation or apparent effort, intercepted one another's throws.
Sunstreaker threw the ball, its trajectory perfect for Mudflap as the young twin slid forwards. Sideswipe lived up to his name, his pedes transforming to tyres for a few seconds as he came in at 45 degrees, skirting his twin and rising from nowhere to intercept the quick ball. If the manoeuvre had happened only once, it would have got a drawn vent of admiration. As it was, the only reaction was a confused mutter from the growing audience for the eighth such move in under a breem.
Prowl glanced sideways, unsurprised to see Optimus Prime leaning forward, a hint of a frown on his unmasked faceplates. He didn't have to check with Ironhide and Ratchet to know that they saw it too. The frustration on the field was rising. Increasingly, both senior officers were passing to their third players, bypassing the twins entirely for fear of losing the ball to their opponents.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe could hardly miss it. The two stopped on opposite sides of the court, their gazes locking for several long seconds as they conversed silently. Ironhide held the ball, watching, as all the others were watching, the unofficial time-out deviating from the strictest interpretation of the rules, but necessary nonetheless.
The twins nodded in unison, their shared look of determination making them more alike than ever. Ironhide passed the ball, and the game was back on.
For a breem or two, perhaps a full twenty minutes, it looked hopeful. The game moved fast, the twins were at its heart, and Sunstreaker's single successful attempt to block his twin brought a satisfied look of triumph to his face rather than the confusion of earlier.
Then the old pattern re-emerged, slowly at first, and then as clear and irrefutable as the start.
"Prowl," Optimus's com voice was thoughtful and concerned. "We are approaching a regulation half-time interval. Do you wish me to declare it?"
"No." Prowl didn't have to think before answering. As an Autobot-only game, the time limitations required by humans needn't apply, not when there was still more to learn. "Allow us to pause for a few adjustments. Then let the game continue."
The tactician stepped up to the edge of the court, his door-wings drawing in towards his back and his expression cool.
"Ironhide. I would like to attempt this sport myself. If I may…?"
Ironhide wasn't the only one to glance at Ratchet before agreeing to the proposed substitution. Prowl was still on very light duties, his hours of work strictly limited, and visibly tiring him towards the end of a shift nonetheless. As much as he hated to know his weakness was so apparent, he could hardly deny the fact. Even if he tried, Ratchet's deep frown would have given the lie to his words. It was something of a surprise when the medic gave a sharp, reluctant nod.
"Two breems on court. Then you're out."
Prowl raised a brow-ridge, his door-wings still carefully tucked out of harm's way.
"Then, given your time limit, I would propose an exchange. If you give me Sunstreaker, I will transfer Jolt to your command, and allow the addition of Skids."
That got another murmur. Ratchet's snort spoke eloquently for just what he thought of the swap. Lennox was the one who spoke up though.
"Splitting up twins is the rule, Prowl."
"So I understand. However, with a pair of twins on each team the potential for unfair advantage is nullified. And since Ratchet considers both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, as well as me, unfit for duty, that disadvantage must logically negate any concerns about the relative experience of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe in comparison to to Mudflap and Skids."
This time Ratchet's scowl had a hard edge that made his previous efforts pale in comparison. His snarl conveyed acceptance only in the technical sense. The medic knew what Prowl was doing. The tactician met his optics and did not apologise.
Prowl took up position in the back third of the court, his chosen role largely defensive as he gestured the elder twins forward in front of him. Ratchet did not opt to mirror him, placing himself in the attack even as he marshalled his newly augmented team. Prowl wasn't surprised when he pinged Sunstreaker's com channel only to have both twins ping back almost before the signal reached them. They were ready for this, and while he would do his part when needed, he'd spent millennia learning how to achieve a maximal result for minimal exertion.
He smiled sadly to himself, pain mingling with memory. Jazz had taught him more about that than most mechs ever knew.
"Heads up!" Sunstreaker intercepted the first ball even as Sideswipe dropped back a few steps to brush against his commander with a gesture that seemed entirely accidental. Prowl shook off the memories, and the distraction, with a flick of his tight-folded door-wings. Waving Sideswipe forward, bouncing on the sole of his pedes, Prowl concentrated on the game.
Two breems, as it turned out, was long enough for Prowl and the twins to increase their lead to more than three hundred percent of their opponents' score. The twins moved with speed and grace. Prowl played with more deliberation, but ensured that he was where he should be when Sunstreaker or Sideswipe needed to pass the ball, and directed their plays throughout.
Even so the exertion took its toll. Prowl was venting hard by the end of the first breem. He ended the second swaying on his pedes, well aware that the twins had started to avoid passing the ball to him entirely. His energy reserves pinged him a firm warning at the same moment that Sideswipe caught one elbow and Ratchet the other. The medic didn't even speak, just pressed a cube of pale liquid into Prowl's servos and gave him a meaningful look.
Prowl took a reasonable sip from the cube and lowered it, His optics had dimmed, static flickering across his vision, but he held Ratchet's gaze nonetheless.
"Do you yield?" he asked softly.
Ratchet swore, his fists clenching. First his vents and then his vocalisor cycled through a calming routine. He gestured for Prowl to drink even as he jerked a nod.
"Fine." The medic glared at the twins hovering either side of their unsteady commander. "Cleared for light duty – patrols only."
"Agreed." Prowl's acknowledgement and Prime's overlapped, both firm and a little relieved.
Sideswipe's expression shifted from surprise to confusion to irritation, his vocalisor whirring as he struggled to find something to say. Ratchet cycled his optics at the red-clad warrior.
"Prowl's a slagging idiot but he's got a point. The two of you have more energy and move faster than half the garrison. It's about time you earned your pay."
"Only patrols?" Sunstreaker asked, voice and optics sharp. "Not combat duty?"
Ironhide's snort drowned any comment from the medic.
"Until you get a grip on that fragging twin-bond, you're not going anywhere near a battlefield. You'd both be cannon-fodder, the minute one of you was distracted."
Prime and Ratchet nodded, their amusement plain as both twins looked startled to hear the verdict put so bluntly.
"Agreed," Prowl repeated, and this time the crackle in his vocalisor was obvious to all around him. He sipped again at the cube, and inclined his helm, first to Prime and then to Lennox. "If you will excuse me, I believe I should rest."
"Go," Optimus told him in a soft tone. Nodding, Prowl turned, weary but satisfied as he heard his Prime go on behind him. "Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, report to Ironhide for assignment." Optimus paused, his tone glad. "Welcome back."