Chapter Text
In Commander Jazz’s absence, Prowl strove to behave as a model prisoner.
How exactly he ought to accomplish this objective preoccupied Prowl’s processor for several cycles. Prowl had agreed to serve out his sentence working for Commander Jazz instead of being remanded to an Autobot prison. However, Prowl’s warden had provided no detailed rules or expectations before returning to Iacon and leaving Prowl behind in Uraya, nor did the Autobot Code or existing criminal law cover Prowl’s circumstance.
Prowl concluded that this was a test. Commander Jazz wanted to see whether Prowl could self-administer punishment purely on the basis of Prowl’s own recognizance. Rather than letting himself off easy, Prowl calculated it would be best to set stringent restrictions and show his dedication toward properly paying for his crime.
The next step was to determine which legal precedents might apply. Prowl’s victim was an Autobot, and Prowl had been apprehended by an Autobot agent, but he was not himself a member of the military, nor was he a prisoner of war. The crime had occurred in Uraya, but probability analysis suggested that jurisdiction would have been given to Iacon, since Giltedge was an Iaconian Towers mech (and since Prowl could not be returned for prosecution in the territory where he held legal recognition – technically, Praxus’ destruction left Prowl stateless).
After several cycles’ worth of research and self-reflection, Prowl decided on an appropriately restrictive code of conduct for himself. Each shift he was permitted to pick up his energon ration from the commissary, but otherwise he had freedom of movement only when going between his work area and his hab. Once every five cyles, Prowl was allowed one joor of exercise in alt mode (Prowl had debated whether he ought to rely upon the Autobot code instead, which would have decreased this interval to one joor of exercise per lightcycle, but he’d remained firm and refused himself leniency).
During his duty shifts, Prowl continued running the Urayan tactical office. Giltedge’s death had no discernable effect other than requiring Prowl to obtain a different mech’s glyph on outgoing documents.
Commander Jazz sent more interesting work by secure courier. The Autbots’ pivot to Uraya had been abandoned until they finished completely overhauling the base’s security and officer corps. Prowl was asked to submit a proposal for redirecting those intended resources without tipping off the Decepticons. Prowl sent back several scenarios, including suggestions for how the Decepticons could be occupied in the interim, which Commander Jazz seemed pleased with.
Thus, it was no surprise when Prowl was ordered on a transport bound for Autobot headquarters on the very same lightcycle the Primacy reclaimed Prowl’s lease.
Commander Jazz took custody of Prowl as soon as Prowl disembarked. Prowl’s wings gave a nervous twitch before he locked them into an appropriately submissive position. Commander Jazz was Prowl’s warden and deserved proper deference. He had been kinder to Prowl than anyone: he had given Prowl the chance to continue doing meaningful work.
“Prowler!” The commander beamed and caught Prowl by the shoulder, overlapping Prowl in his warm field.
Prowl shivered. Commander Jazz was a naturally tactile mechanism, but Prowl was unused to such friendliness. “Commander, thank you for your time. Please show me my designated area of activity and I will begin my duties.”
The commander had indicated during their previous interactions that he wished Prowl’s prisoner status to remain secret. Prowl was unskilled at subterfuge but would do his best to comply during any public contact.
“We’re makin’ a detour first,” Commander Jazz replied, and whisked Prowl away to the base’s medbay.
Prowl did not require repairs. Perhaps the Primacy had requested proof of condition when reclaiming their asset?
Upon entry, the commander flagged down a boxy red and white medic, size class seven, whose ID transponder loudly broadcasted his rank on all available channels. Chief Medical Officer Ratchet took one look at Prowl, scowled, and jerked his servo in the direction of an exam room. Prowl was not offended. Medics familiar with Prowl’s crash history usually behaved that way.
“I’ll be waitin’ outside once you’re done,” Commander Jazz managed to get out before the medic shut the exam room door with a snap.
In Prowl’s experience, a mechanism should not test a medic’s temper without good cause. He took a seat on the berth while the chief medic collected his tools, overseeing tacnet as it built a scale model of Autobot headquarters (while reassessing prior calculations involving Autobot morale, battle readiness and supply chain stability based on newly observed data).
A short-range transmission pinged Prowl’s comm. When he opened it, it contained only an unfamiliar comm code and instructions for a paired-key data encryption.
“I used to run a free clinic in the Dead End,” said Chief Medic Ratchet, coming to stand beside Prowl and setting down his supplies. “I treated a lot of cold constructs there. If you give me your real medical records, whatever’s in them stays encrypted in my internal archives. I don’t care what you did or didn’t report to your manufacturer, I just want to fix you.”
Commander Jazz had left Prowl in Chief Medic Ratchet’s custody. Prowl was bound to accept the order. He immediately transmitted the file as instructed. While Prowl had never sought treatment outside official medical facilities, Prowl’s official record heavily sanitized his construction and early functioning.
Chief Medic Ratchet made a sound of inordinate rage. “What idiots deliberately designed a frame to have a processor glitch?!?”
Prowl fared poorly at identifying rhetorical questions. It was better to answer and look foolish than to not answer and offend mecha, so he replied, “Eliminating the glitch reduced my tactical system’s performance by 65 percent, rendering the design useless. As I am, I outperform any other integrated tactical computer by considerable margins.”
The medic’s vents made a rude noise. “Idiots. I’m surprised your spark didn’t gutter the nanoklick you onlined in that frame. If I ever catch the crankshafts who built you, they’ll wish they were never sparked when I’m done with them.”
Prowl’s exam was completed amid a great deal of swearing. Prowl was not consulted for further discussion.
When Prowl came out of medbay, Commander Jazz was leaning against the opposite wall, tapping his servos rhythmically as he listened to music on his internal comms.
He straightened and grinned when he saw Prowl. “Doc Ratch already gave me an audioful. Here,” he said, and deposited two full cubes into Prowl’s servos. “Drink ‘em both while I show you to your quarters.”
Commander Jazz had arranged for Prowl to have his own cell. The commander apologized that it was smaller than Prowl’s old hab in Uraya – Prowl’s new space was large enough to fit a berth and little else – but Prowl assured him it was sufficient. Giltedge had given Prowl a hab in Uraya’s officer wing to hide the off-duty joors Prowl worked, and to isolate Prowl so no one questioned the rumors Giltedge and his cronies spread. Now, a solitary cell was quite suitable for Prowl. Prowl was a violent offender and it was only reasonable to keep him away from other mechanisms.
Afterward, the commander transmitted a map highlighting the base’s basic amenities, and extended a half-mischievous, half-hopeful field toward Prowl, puckering his lower lip and making his visor display sparkle. “Feel up to meetin’ somebody important and makin’ a good first impression?”
Prowl, who never made a good first impression and had already learned to be wary when the commander employed any visual special effects, frowned. “What did you do?”
“I mighta stretched the truth a lil bit to get you in Iacon.” Commander Jazz held up his pointer digits with a .004 mechanometer space between them. “Just the littlest bit.”
Prowl frowned harder. “Explain.”
“I tweaked a transport manifest and told Uraya’s new commander that you were my undercover agent there.” Commander Jazz patted Prowl’s shoulder. “That will even be true once we get the big bot’s glyph of approval!”
Prowl could feel his own field bristling with anxiety. He hastily suppressed it (he had never been good at polite field contact). Prowl did not want to lose this chance at meaningful work. “What must I do?”
Jazz placed a hand on Prowl’s back and guided him rapidly toward the area marked as ‘administrative offices’ on Prowl’s new map. “Be yourself, you’ll do just fine.”
Prowl rebooted his vocalizer twice before he trusted himself to reply. “Commander, that–that has never, ever been a successful interpersonal strategy for me.”
Commander Jazz’s visor flared. “Really? Worked on me.”
Prowl’s wings fluttered; hastily, he locked them back in position. By then, the commander had stopped outside a door marked with the Primal Seal.
“You are taking me to meet the Prime?” Prowl demanded in horror.
“Best mech I’ve ever known,” Commander Jazz said, and dragged Prowl inside before Prowl could organize further protests.
Behind the desk was Optimus Prime, looking more ordinary than he did in Autobot recruiting ads, with his finish shockingly scuffed and unpolished for someone of his high rank. The Prime glanced up, optical sensors brightening when he saw them. “Jazz, what brings you here?”
The commander grinned, and pushed Prowl in front of the Prime. “Hey OP, this is Prowl of Petrex.”
The Prime’s field swept over Prowl in delight. “Prowl, welcome to Iacon! I had hoped we could speak. Would you be willing to discuss your experiences as a civilian working within the construction debt system? I am ashamed to say I have no acquaintances among your fellow cold constructs.”
“I am not surprised,” Prowl said. “When Zeta Prime’s military campaigns ended and the first civilian cold constructs were manufactured, the Dockworkers and Haulers Union campaigned successfully to have their members’ functions barred to indentured mecha.”
Optimus Prime, inexplicably, beamed (corroborating his frame language patterns, which Prowl had previously categorized as ‘positive and open’?). “That is exactly the kind of thing I need to know. Can you tell me about problems you’ve noticed within the system? The Senate has been delaying my requests for data and my own research has been unsatisfying. Prewar criticism of the indenture system was heavily censored, and I’m afraid these days any hint of critique is considered Decepticon propaganda.”
“How much time do you have?” Prowl asked.
Six joor later, Prowl’s impromptu presentation on the history and abuses of construction debt had migrated to a conference room and expanded to include not only Optimus Prime (the first four joor) but also Optimus Prime’s entire inner circle (whose reactions collectively condensed down to ‘again?’).
“My Lord Prime,” Prowl rephrased for the third time, deciding it was time to be blunt, “you cannot unilaterally dissolve the construction debt system without leading to the collapse of the Cybertronian economy.”
“Just Optimus, please,” said the Prime, also for the third time. “As you have explained it, Prowl, although the construction debt system appears fair on paper, it is in fact exploitative and actively harming the wellbeing of indentured mecha. I cannot stand by and allow it to continue.”
“Acknowledged,” Prowl replied absently, reshuffling his priority queues. “The war is a significant barrier to your objective. The Autobot-affiliated industrial sector supplying your armies functions on cheap, reliable labor provided by cold constructs. Removing that essential infrastructure will end in an Autobot defeat, 95% probability, leaving the citizens you protect to the Decepticons’ control.”
Optimus Prime slumped. “Must I buy the safety of many with the well-being of a few? Is there no way it can be done? Perhaps gradually, in stages?”
Prowl looked toward Commander Jazz, unsure if a prisoner ought to be suggesting major Autobot policy decisions. His warden, lounging with his chin on his servo, did not give him any sign.
Lifting his wings, Prowl turned back toward the Prime. “If you intend to minimize potential harm, you will have to treat this as a long-term goal. Your policy will be overwhelmingly unpopular. The common mechanism will oppose abolishment because it guarantees economic upheaval. You will also earn the enmity of the ruling class, who will lose the power and income derived from indentured labor.”
The Prime sighed. “I can live with being unpopular. I cannot live with leaving mechanisms in such conditions. Magnus, could you work with Prowl to determine what portions of the legal code will need revising?”
“Again, Optimus?” the towering field commander groaned. He’d spent most of Prowl’s presentation with his faceplate buried in his servos.
“It can be done at your convenience,” Prowl offered as consolation. “I have not completed my economic modeling yet.”
Prowl did not have any formal financial accreditation. As an Enforcer, he had not so much as known how to open a bank account. Then Giltedge had purchased Prowl’s lease and ordered Prowl to manage his investments and keep his accounts. Prowl had been desperately understimulated, mourning the loss of his function, and the math looked interesting.
He’d found a janitor (cold constructed, of course) at the Iacon School of Economics and Political Science who would pass Prowl pirated books and paywalled journals in exchange for recordings of low-quality reality netshows. Prowl’s internal archives, fortunately, had 163 seasons of ‘Cybertron’s Got Talent.’ Prowl had read through most of the university library by the time Giltedge was reassigned to Uraya (Prowl had used his new knowledge to sabotage Giltedge’s portfolio so it yielded the most plausibly mediocre investment gains he could get away with).
“I will also need access to additional government data and adequate opportunities to speak with your economics consultant,” Prowl said.
“Haven’t got one,” interjected Lieutenant Stormbreaker, the head of the Strategy and Tactics office, flapping a laconic servo toward the mechanisms seated around the table. “This lot here? We’re it.”
Optimus was a wartime prime, ascending in the midst of crisis and forced to mitigate one disaster after another. The military and scientific talent he’d managed to recruit, considering his own humble origins, was impressive. Nevertheless, Prowl saw many gaps of expertise which would need filling if the Prime was to be properly supported (Prowl was still convinced the Primacy was an outdated, undemocratic institution, but was beginning to believe that Optimus Prime was neither corrupt nor useless).
“I will look into appropriate candidates and submit a list,” Prowl said, bowing his helm politely.
“Prowl,” Optimus Prime spoke up, “Even if I cannot help your fellow cold constructs, could I not forgive your construction debt, and the debts of the Praxian indentured mechanisms the Primacy has inherited?”
Prowl held still while his tactical suite branched into a dizzying new possibility tree. “I would prefer you did not.”
The Prime frowned, his powerful field enveloping the room in genuine distress. “Why not?”
Folding his servos in front of him, Prowl kept his inflection carefully neutral. “It is a matter of bureaucracy. Cold constructs do not receive a citizen ID code when they online. They are assigned a model number, which is logged in a separate registry. Paying off their construction debt entitles them to apply for citizenship. However, that process can only occur within the city-state of their manufacture. Praxus no longer exists. Therefore, I have no method of obtaining citizenship. Forgiving my construction debt would strand me in a legal vacuum. Without access to legitimate employment either as a citizen or an indentured mech, I would be unable to meet my frame’s basic needs.”
It is not a preferable scenario, but it is a possible one, and Prowl had not placed conditions on his obedience when accepting the commander’s offer (much less objections on the basis of mere personal preferability), so he continues, “Forgiving my construction debt could hold considerable benefit for you, my lord Prime. As long as you continued providing my energon you could secure my service in the absence of better options, without having any legal obligation toward my treatment or being required to provide monetary compensation.”
Everyone was staring – even Commander Jazz. Prowl had erred somehow. He reviewed his behavior but could not determine what he had done wrong.
“No,” said Optimus Prime, vocalizer crackling oddly. “I do not want to do that.”
“Thank you,” Prowl replied politely. “As your first step, I suggest you determine how many indentures the Primacy holds, and call in any currently leased to other sponsors. Some mechanisms may wish to have their debt forgiven, but many will not, either due to lack of resources or because they were built in Decepticon-held territories and cannot currently obtain legal citizenship. At the very least, you will be able to ensure they are treated well.”
Prowl’s suggestion was accepted without further discussion. In the end, Commander Jazz got his wish. Prowl became the newest member of special operations–and also an analyst for Stormbreaker’s Strategy and Tactics Office–and also the Prime’s…aide? Consultant? Occasional expert?
Frankly, Prowl thought a prisoner shouldn’t be given easy access to such highly-ranked mechanisms and their sensitive data, but the Prime and his officers apparently disagreed.
At least the Autobot security director treated Prowl with appropriate suspicion. Prowl approved of Red Alert greatly. His surveillance network, stretching in an impressive web across headquarters, constantly monitored Prowl without the need for guards. A camera was mounted right outside Prowl’s cell. Every time Prowl left, he would inform his watcher of his intended destination, path, and estimated arrival time. It was equally easy to locate cameras near Prowl’s usual workspaces where he could check in upon arrival, and perform the same service when he left. Prowl had also received several random checks of his subspace and cell, which was an excellent precaution.
Commander Jazz also admirably carried out his duty as Prowl’s warden. He delivered Prowl’s energon ration almost every cycle, a convenient cover for the two of them to meet so Prowl could give a report of his movements and activities without letting on the truth of Prowl’s prisoner status.
Curiously, 92% of the time the commander also brought his own energon and consumed it in Prowl’s presence. Tacnet suggested Commander Jazz might simply be too busy to fuel otherwise, or perhaps the commander preferred to fuel in company (Prowl did not rate this possibility highly. Commander Jazz was an attractive and engaging mechanism who had many more preferable companions available than Prowl).
The commander was fond of inserting his own anecdotes into Prowl’s reports, which were either amusing (41%), informational (33%) or highly detrimental for Autobot morale (26%). Prowl enjoyed being granted these glimpses into Commander Jazz’s life and character (he suspected the circumstances of their first meeting made the commander more honest than was typical, but did not yet have data to corroborate). For his part, Prowl made sure to emphasize he was grateful for his work, which kept him outside his cell outside of his minimum necessary self-repair cycles.
In the absence of complaint from his monitors and after considering the relevant factors, Prowl concluded that his imprisonment was proceeding well.