Chapter Text
Another day, another never ending pile of data pads. The Autobots had been stranded on the planet known as Earth for 1 year and 8 months, ignoring the 4 million spent in stasis. It was long enough for the mundane routines to have been ground in: shift, double shift, battle with the Decepticons, recollect and recuperate, argue with the Earth officials over the damage, rinse and repeat. Prowl was currently at step 5 in the never-ending cycle, writing an apologetic but firm letter to a naval commander confirming that, yes, his prize frigate may have been damaged in the crossfire of the previous skirmish, but would he rather the entire west coast had been erased from the map? For the second in command of the entire Autobot army, days off were practically non-existent. It wasn’t uncommon for the officers in general to be caught sleeping at their desks, something that their medic Ratchet often fumed over, despite being a regular offender of it himself.
That last battle had been a particularly harsh one. Prowl shuddered in remembrance, wiping a slightly shaky servo down his tired faceplate. The Decepticons had attacked an experimental and, as had been made clear many times by an angry human; expensive, offshore naval base, which just so happened to store a few million gallons of oil. It had been an Autobot victory, but at a cost. 6 of their already small group remained in a critical state 3 days after the battle had been won. Worst of all, their leader Optimus Prime, who the army’s morale essentially relied upon, was one of them.
Prowl opened his optics, bringing his attention back to his office and the obscene amount of paperwork cluttering his usually organised desk. He had found his attention drifting to the what-ifs of the battle often in the past few days. What if he had sent Trailbreaker to back up the front lines instead of the rear? How many less casualties would have arisen if he had reacted to Skywarp’s change of position 0.3 seconds faster? His damned battle computer was on a loop over the numerous variables, not that Prowl would stop it. Megatron could launch another raid at any time, the Autobots had to be prepared, he had to be ready. Any causalities, mech or human, were on his shoulders. It was the burden of being second in command and the chief tactical officer.
The chime of the doorbell dragged him from his musings.
“Come in,” He spoke, placing the datapad he held in one servo onto the desk. The door whisked open, and a mech with stubby sensor horns and a bright blue visor swaggered in.
“Hiya Prowler. Wanna hang?” The cheeky greeting was accentuated with a casually cocked hip and broad grin.
“Jazz, what have I told you about social calls when on duty?” Prowl chastised.
“But Prowl!” Jazz whined, “You’ve been off shift for 2 hours, I checked this time.”
Prowl’s optics widened at this. When had it gotten so late? He was badly behind schedule! Prowl didn’t work by hours or shifts, he had to complete 50 data pads a day in order to be allowed to finish. The army couldn’t afford for him to work any less. Of course, this was his own expectation, he’d likely be forcibly placed on medical leave with a nice wrench imprint on his helm if Ratchet ever caught wind of how much he demanded of himself.
“Prowl?” Jazz’s tone sounded concerned this time, and Prowl realised he had been asked a question.
“I apologise,” He quickly regained his composure, “Please could you repeat that?”
Jazz leaned onto his desk with both hands getting into Prowl’s personal space, “You’ve been cooped up in this office all day, wanna come refuel? Y’know, with me? We can discuss reports n’ stuff if you want.”
It sounded nice, a break, especially with Jazz, a mech who Prowl greatly enjoyed the company of. But he had only completed 39 data pads today. His preoccupation with the previous battle had taken up approximately 30.2% of his processing power, and evidently his productivity had taken a hit.
“I don’t know Jazz, I have so much to-“
“Don’t give me that excuse Prowl,” He used his actual designation, he must be serious, “You must have filled in 5 billion data pads with how long you’ve been in here!”
If only Prowl thought.
“Besides,” Jazz continued, “You can always come back afterwards, pleaaase Prowler!”
Prowl sighed, resigned to his fate, “Fine, but just for a little while.” He smirked at the triumphant expression on Jazz’s faceplate, pushing his chair back from the desk and stretching his door wings slightly as he stood. His vision suddenly blurred, energon rushing to his feet. The ring of his frame colliding with the ground echoed throughout the small office, and was the last sound he registered as his world turned black.