Chapter Text
“You’re late, Jazz,” Prowl said quietly, his doorwings flicking with impatience. He didn’t look up from the datapad he was studying, not even when Jazz sprawled himself with a loud groan on the chair across the table.
“Mech, yer askin’ a lot of me to be up this early,” was the grumbled reply, the spy slumping further into his seat. His helm fell forward against the tabletop with a thunk! and he reached forward blindly to snag the small energon cube that Prowl nudged towards him.
The Praxian set the datapad down. “This is important, Jazz. I need you to focus.” His doorwings angled up and forwards in a display of stern reproach.
Jazz wilted slightly. “Sorry, sweetspark, just got a lot goin’ on recently. Y’know, Spec Ops can’t run itself.”
“... I apologize.” Prowl’s wings went back to their resting position. “I did not intend to come across as so harsh.” Then his doorwings flicked up again, twitching this way and that, scanning the area for potential eavesdroppers. “Are we alone?” he asked, voice dropped to the faintest whisper.
“Sure, mech, I did a scan on the way in. Might be tired, but I sure-as-Pit won’t forget somethin’ like that.” Just to prove his point, Jazz gave an exaggerated look around, blue visor keen as it traced every shape and shadow in the cramped, disused meeting room.
“Good, then quickly, we must discuss.” Prowl produced another datapad from his subspace and passed it to Jazz. “Read that. It details all the new energon routes that will be coming to Iacon to help with the influx of refugees from Kalis.”
Jazz scanned over the charts and maps quickly. “You sure ‘bout this, Prowler? There seems to be a lot of ‘em. Will we even be able to protect all of these?”
"No," Prowl replied flatly, and at Jazz' expectant silence, continued. "We cannot protect all the convoys, and the Decepticons know this as well. That's why we simply won't protect all of them."
Jazz caught the implication immediately, finally sitting upright and his field flaring in excitement. "Ah ha ha! A trap! Oh, yer a devious mech, Prowl. Which ones are we thinkin'll be bait? The 'Cons are always skittish 'bout routes near the Rust Sea, so they'll almost certainly hit the one from Polyhex no matter what."
"I knew you'd have an answer." To any other mech, Prowl's would sound bland, but Jazz knew his conjunx well enough. Prowl's harmonics were definite--he hadn't just believed that Jazz would have an answer, he knew it in his spark to be true.
"Polyhex it is! I guess you'll want me to leave a coupla barely detectable gaps in our security? Just in case Sounder wants to listen in?"
"Naturally." Prowl gave a barely-there smile and a borderline arrogant flick of a sensor wing. "We wouldn't want the Decepticons misinformed on routes of vital convoys, would we?"
Prowl sighed, and reset the digital map for the umpteenth time. Tapping in some commands to the console, the display flickered and showed a new new plan for the convoy diversion. Even with being next to certain the ‘Cons would strike the decoy from Polyhex, it still left a lot to plan around: who to guard the decoy for the ambush, who to guard the real convoys, the exact timing of when each convoy needed to leave so everything would be just right…
He stared down at the map, his tac-net humming with calculations for different squad configurations, and wished Jazz were there. His mate had been absent for two orns, collecting intel on enemy movements and strength, and while Prowl’s processor understood this as necessary for proper planning, that didn’t stop his spark from feeling lonely. The planning room the two used was just so empty with only one bot. Praxians weren’t meant to be alone.
The Aerialbots and Protectobots would be going with the real convoys, his tac-net decided, as the risk of them attracting Decepticon attention was far outweighed by their combined forms’ power. The Dinobots would be excellent for the decoy ambush, but a quick calculation showed that their absence from the front would be far too costly. The ambush would need some air support and accurate sharpshooters, to handle the expected air assault. Powerglide, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Tracks would be good fits, along with Moonracer, Bluestreak, and Skyfire--the shuttle coming in case they needed to quickly retreat.
One of his internal timers went off, and he stood. Stretching out his doorwings, he turned off the map and put his racing tac-net on pause. It was time for fuel with Bluestreak.
Prowl ducked in and out of the main mess hall as fast as possible, grabbing his ration and leaving without even so much as a ‘hello’ to anyone. Not that any of the other Autobots minded; Prowl was Prowl, and he always took his energon in private.
Settled in the quarters he shared with Jazz, Prowl sipped his fuel while waiting for Blue. The younger Praxian burst into the room only a few kliks later, cube in one hand and datapad in another, his sensor wings high in excitement. Instantly, the chatter started.
“Prowl! Oh, I’m so happy we can fuel together, it’s been so long since we’ve really been able to talk. I know everyone’s so busy because of the convoys--you and Jazz and ‘Bee and--Oh! Did I tell you that ‘Bee and I managed to get a copy of The Horror from Under the Rust? We can’t figure out how to turn off the Polyhexian subtitles, but it’s the real deal! Sunny and Sides told me that vid didn’t exist anymore, so when we get some time after the convoy mission, ‘Bee and I are gonna host a…” Abruptly, Bluestreak trailed off and his doorwings wilted.
“Blue? What’s wrong?” Prowl reached out with his field and tried to push as much reassurance as he could into it. “You and Bumblebee are planning something?”
Bluestreak shook himself and forcibly smiled, but his field was still melancholy. “It’s nothing Prowl, just… Will we have more time, after this convoy mission? I feel like we’re so rushed, all the time, and I know it’s a war and we can’t just stop but…”
“You aren’t… wrong or selfish to want to spend more time with your friends,” Prowl said after a pause, needing to phrase this just right. “I wish I could spend more time with Jazz, and both of us wish we could spend more time with you. We might not have sparked you, Blue, but we are your creators and I’m sorry that we haven’t been there for you.” He knew his tone was stilted, but he hoped his field could make up for it. Bluestreak was important, was his sparkling.
Blue’s field heaved with emotions, and he lunged across the table to half-hug his creator. His energon went flying, but neither Praxian cared as they shared a gentle press of chevron to chevron.
“A few more orns, Bluestreak. We should have more time then, just wait a few more orns.”