#anon-e-miss writes

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“Carryin’ suits ya,” Jazz told him as they sat down at the table.

“Oh?” Prowl asked.

“Got a glow ‘bout ya,” Jazz explained. “‘Specially since ya been on yer own.”

“Apparently my frame is well suited to carrying,” Prowl replied. “Even for a Praxian.”

“That bother ya?” Jazz asked. He was a perceptive mech.”

“I only agreed to carrying for Tumbler because he insisted I would would be a poor contributor,” Prowl explained. “He was going to stay home with the bitlet. I was going to go back to work. I caught him cheating the mega-cycle I was seeded. I was not thinking when we met. I just assumed the seeds had all absorbed. According to my medic, extras were deposited at my request,” Prowl explained. “Which might explain it but I did not make such a request. So it must have been Tumbler.”

“He know ‘bout... this?” Jazz asked.

“Oh he knows,” Prowl said. “He was outraged when he realized I had interfaced with someone else,” Prowl explained. “The whole precinct made a joke of it. He tried to proposition me when he realized I had not... walked a certain way for a while. Stupidly, he did it near one of my subordinates so he could not claim to Flatfoot I was lying. The Praefectus had no choice but to fire him. They were both annoyed. Tumbler was studying at the New Institute at the Praefectus’s request. He wants to start a mnemosurgery unit.”

“Might run into ‘m at the New Institute when we make our calls,” Jazz said.

“I do not care,” Prowl replied. “I am happy to annoy him with my existence.”

They did not interface the dark-cycle, when they went home to Prowl’s habsuite. But Jazz pulled Prowl on top of him in the light-cycle and took Prowl for a ride. His armour was even snugger with the fullness of his gestational tank. Jazz made a couple of adjustments and it hugged his aft even more too. All the better to make his ex made with jealousy. It turned out the Polyhexian had a petty streak on Prowl’s behalf and Prowl enjoyed it. Tumbler had made him feel like less of a mech for not being up to spike a lot. He would not mind taking him down several pegs. He could not transform anymore. Really, it had not taken long. Prowl was carrying three bitlets, each a good size. When Praxians carried trines, they did not deliver preterm. They really were forged for carrying. It still did not sit right with Prowl how easy it was for him but at the same time, he could not help but enjoy it.

“We’re here to see Highbrow,” Jazz said as they approached the New Institute’s reception desk.

“Do you have an appointment?” The mech asked.

“No,” Jazz replied and showed the mech his insignia. “We got somethin’ better. A warrant.”

The left the New Institute with a list of every employee and student, past or present. Highbrow had done everything he could not to honour the warrant. When he handed the list over to Jazz, the IIA field officer immediately called him out for giving him a retracted list. Prowl did not know how he knew it was not a complete list. He reminded Highbrow, IIA did not need warrants to arrest suspected traitors and the head of the New Institute quickly turned over every thing Jazz demanded. As they left, Prowl saw Tumbler. He turned his helm but not fast enough to stop Jazz from doing the simple math. Thank fully, he said nothing and they took the lists back to the precinct and started to cross reference the designations and IDs to other records.

“Ya wish he could see this, don’t ya?” Jazz whispered in his audio as he fragged Prowl with his digits.Prowl was panting as Jazz bent him over the couch. He moaned, cheekplates flushed. It was true. Tumbler, now going by Chromedome as per New Institute records, had made him feel like an inferior mech. If he saw Jazz, saw his spike, saw the way it left Prowl’s valve and aft port gaping, his spike would shrivel up into nothing. “Ya was tight like a purus the first time I had ya. Reason he went for a minibot size Casseticon’s cause he was lazy. He didn’t wanna have to work so hard to make his lover feel it. He couldn’t handle this juicy aft.”

“Unh!” Prowl gasped as Jazz railed him, talking dirty the whole time.

He was not an exhibitionist by nature but Jazz’s glyph made his hotter, and he was already burning. All the ways Tumbler had complained, that Prowl was “getting” too big were just him feeling too small. Nothing could make Jazz feel small. He may not have been a tall mech but he had a mechahood that would have made an Iaconian feel smug as he walked through the public baths. Prowl did not know he could get off being dominated like this but he did, Primus, but he did. Carrying had made a bigger slut of him than Prowl could have imagined and Jazz’s glyphs just encouraged him. Jazz was behind him, still fragging his loose valve, well after his gestational tank had filled to capacity. He played with Prowl’s swollen wells, even thought they spilled out of his servos as he squeezed them.

“Every enforcer in that precinct wishes they could tap this aft,” Jazz told him. “They thought ya was untouchable ‘n now that they know different, they wish they’d shot their shot. I can hear their spikes ping against their panels when ya waddle past.”

Surely they did not. Prowl tried not to flush when he walked through the bull pen to the makeshift office he and Jazz shared. None of them wanted to frag him. They had not lusted after him when he had been with Tumbler. They would not now when he was swollen with spark. Though his doorwings, Prowl saw them staring at his back and he waddled faster toward the door. It was bad enough his belly was so bit he could not help but waddle, but with the way Jazz fragged him, well it was that much more extreme. Flatfoot had his hackles up but what could he say to Prowl? Carrying was a protected status in Iacon. Jazz walked into the Praefectus’ office. He may have said something to Jazz but when Jazz joined him, he said nothing on the matter.

It had been stupid to take Prowl hostage. When he and Jazz had realized that Tumbler had been connected to the mnemosurgery of Senator Shockwave, an arrest warrant had been put out for him. Prowl was still in a state of shock over the revelation. When they had met, Tumbler was only supposed to have been a new student, when he had been in fact performing mnemosurgery for vorns. He told Prowl he was going to reprogram him to be the cumdumpster he was pretending to be to keep Jazz’s attention. He said he would implant command glyphs that would make him pop his hood and drop his panel wherever he might be. He threatened a lot of things but said nothing more when Jazz dragged a knife across his throat. It was a strange choice of weapons for an Autobot agent.

“Ya deserve a holiday,” Jazz told him. “Let me take ya to Damaxus.”

“Damaxus?” Prowl asked.

“Where my family lives,” Jazz replied. Prowl sputtered. “Their gonna wanna meet the ori o’ their grandbitties.”

“I...,” Prowl stammered.

“We started casual, but don’t ya think it’s safe to say we’re datin’ now?” Jazz asked.

“Well... yes,” Prowl said. They could have called it friends with benefits but dating sounded better.

“I figure we outta see how we do together, for the bitties at least,” Jazz explained. “Part o’ that is meetin’ the family.”

“I only have Barricade,” Prowl said. “My foster brother.”

“Bring’m along.”

Sideswipe chased Sunstreaker as Red Alert watched on from his perch. Prowl stood at the counter, pouring citrine energon from a pitcher and filled the tray of glassed. It was awkward. Not because the jug was large but because Prowl was. Carrying the triplets had triggered hyper fertility in him, something he had never heard of before. When the medic had deemed it safe for him to interface again, Prowl had not bothered with an implant, Praxians did not need them. It turned out he did. Twins this time instead of triplets but they were large. Even larger than the triplets had been and he was due any mega-cycle. Just being the screen door, Barricade was sitting with Ricochet and his, their, in-laws. Tripwire nursed from his well. His foster brother had not needed seeding at all to kindle with Ricochet, early in their visit to Damaxus, a visited that had not ended. He had not returned to work after giving emergence. Fuelling them from his wells had been a full time job and then he had been worried he would miss all his firsts. Prowl had planned to go back to work after the triplets entered school but he had kindled again. Well, once the twins were in school. For now, he would see to his family.

“How many does this make?” Nightbeat asked as they caught up at an energon cafe.

“Thirteen,” Prowl replied, stroking his swollen belly.

“Thirteen!” Nightbeat gasped. Prowl shrugged.

“Two sets of twins,” he replied. “Barricade is about to have his fifth.”

The sun hung low as Jazz rode down the well-worn wagon trail towards the Dead End. It was a good designation for a town built in the twilight vorns of the Ununtrium Rush. Many a mech had used their last shanix to get to the remote town in order to stake a claim and make their fortunes. There had been no fortunes to be made. The metal found in the hills surrounding the Dead End was impure tritanium. The process required to make the metal useful cost more than the refined product was worth. Having spent their last shanix to get to the frontier, many a would-be miner settled, having no way or wage to make the journey back home. These frontier towns were interesting. They were rough, with the law being more of a suggestion than a rule, but they were oddly enlightened with mechanisms of every frametype living together. It may not be in harmony, at least not all the time, but it was something close, most of the time.

When he had first arrived at the Dead End, he had been shocked at the prospect that Ironworks would have brought the Twins to the lawless town. In time, Jazz had concluded that the lawless reputation had been part of the Dead End’s appeal to his progenitor-in-law. He had also learned that the town was not as lawless as he had first thought. Sheriff Calculus had taken the custody order Jazz had gotten signed by the judge in Iacon Staniz, and he had said he would serve it. Since he had learned of Free Wheeler’s death, Jazz had been hunting for their, for his, creations all over Iacon. Most sheriffs he had sought help from only recognized orders signed by the justices serving their small towns. The time it had taken to get new orders signed in town after town had given Ironworks the time to disappear again. He prayed that this time things were going to be different.

The saloon was loud, the drunken ruckus had not poured into the streets, but a deputy watched from the porch of the sheriff’s office, waiting for when it all but inevitably did. Jazz had met Checkpoint before and dipped his helm to the deputy before stepping inside. Before he could walk up to the sheriff’s small office, an unfamiliar mech stepped out from it, wearing the sheriff’s badge on his boxy armour. He stared. It was not subtle. The new mech took notice and stared back. A chair scraped against the floor as Kick-Off, another deputy, stood up and cleared his throat. The spell, if you could call it that, was broken, and Jazz felt a mixture of anger and defeat. This new sheriff, a Praxian mech, flicked his doorwings as he shrugged his shoulders. Was that it? After all this time, the pill had an even more bitter taste this time. Kick-Off cleared his throat again.

“This is the mech Sheriff Calculus shoulda mentioned,” the deputy said.

“Ah,” the new sheriff replied. He reached out his servo to Jazz. “He did in fact. I am Prowl, as of yester-cycle, Sheriff Prowl.”

“Yester-cycle,” Jazz said, weakly shaking the sheriff’s servo. “That quick?”

“Indeed,” Prowl replied. “Come with me to my office.”

The personal touches Calculus had scattered throughout the cramped office were gone. The walls were stripped of everything but wanted posters. Apart from the old workstation, the only thing on the sheriff’s desk was a mug of inky black energon still steaming. Prowl had been sheriff for less than two mega-cycles, so he may not have had time yet to put his personal stamp on things. Still, there were no crates, no signs he was anything but settled. Other sheriffs had kept offices like this. Very old school enforcers devoid of personality when they wore the badge. He had seen a few of them in town, at the saloon or at the store; the badge had been their whole personality there, too. Prowl gestured to the chair across from the desk Calculus had vacated. It was the same chair he had sat on before. The Praxian sheriff pulled his own chair back from his desk, and there was a sound of rustling. A large black and rust-coloured beast made a rumbling sound as he stretched. He looked at Jazz and gave a low bark.

“Note, Two-Bit,” Prowl said. “My apologies. He has been trained to alert me when someone arrives. He understands this as alerting at anyone he sees with me.”

“That why ya call’m Two-Bit?” Jazz asked.

“Yes,” the sheriff confirmed. “He has a very selective grasp on his training.”

“Does that make’m smart or stupid?” the Polyhexian​ forged Amaglii thought out loud.

“My progenitor refers to him as an idiot-savant,” Prowl replied, mercifully unoffended. “Sheriff Calculus did give me your file before he left. He wanted you to know that he confirmed the property was vacant.”

“Damn it,” Jazz cursed.

“They left last orn,” the Praxian explained. “So far as I understand the timeline. They kept the staff operating as if they were present in order to disguise their absence.”

“Yeah,” the bereft progenitor said as he rubbed his face. “I was watchin’ it. They probably figured as much. Damn it... I shouldn’t o’ listened. I shoulda just gone ‘n gotten’em myself.”

“Calculus said you would say as much,” Prowl replied. “He also said with the mecha they have hired, it would not have gone well. He was upset he could not recover your creations for you but he could not stay on the case any longer. As he told me, he has too much to lose.”

“That why he left?” Jazz asked. “Since they couldn’t buy’m they threatened his kin?”

“He did not say as much in so many glyphs, but that is my estimate,” the sheriff said.

“What about ya?” The Amalgii asked. Familiar desperation giving into despair.

“One regard in which Two-Bit excelled in his training is his defence of me,” Prowl replied. “And he is an excellent judge of character. Calculus recruited me personally. We crossed paths during a matter with the Invectus. I was not bought then, and I would not be bought now. I believe that is why he requested I replace him. The deputies have not complained. I think they believe the rank does not come with adequate reward.”

“If they’re gone, what can ya do?” Jazz asked. “I’ve heard the scrap ‘bout jurisdictions before.”

“I have contacts in the Elite Guard,” the Praxian explained. “Among others. I will put the glyph out and see if they cannot be pressed to return. I believe a proper posse puts your creations at too much of risk. Subtle pressure with the appropriate presence would be safer.”

“Thank ya,” the progenitor replied.

“Are you staying in town?” Prowl asked.

“At the inn above the station,” Jazz confirmed.

“I will send glyph when I half an update,” the sheriff said. “Good-cycle, Jazz.”

He left the sheriff’s office with a very brittle and exhausted hope. No other sheriff had suggested bringing in the rangers from the Elite Guard. Jazz had mentioned them once but had been told they were not interested in this edge of the frontier. Calculus had not mentioned them but when Jazz had given him the degree, he had seemed to believe he could resolve it himself. The mech was old with creations and grandcreations and Jazz understood why he had left. No doubt one of the dozens of scumsuckers Ironworks had employed had come around. Maybe they had come around the old enforcer’s home, and not even the station. That would make sense. That would be terrifying for him. Jazz knew the old mech loved his family. He had done right by Jazz and the Twins by bringing in a stalwart replacement.

Jazz avoided the saloon and the attached inn out of habit. He had woken up twice to intruders in his rented room and had three times caught clever buymecha slipping powders into his drinks. The spacebridge was a federal property and guarded accordingly. The inn and pub above it were frequented by travellers who avoided the town of Dead End itself. Though the Amalgus was not their sort at the best of times, he paid for the cheapest room and kept to himself. There was no stable attached to the spacebridge, but Vivace did not need one. He let them run free in the hills outside of town. They would come at his whistle, and come fast. Rather than draw additional attention to himself, Jazz went immediately to his rented room and ordered. The room cost more than those at the saloon, but it came with private washracks, which was enough of an upgrade for Jazz to think he would favour inns at spacebridge stations going forward. His armour was a mess, whether or not he bathed, his paint was chipped, and the plating itself rough from the sands he had been riding through for quartexes on end. There was no point in sanding and painting, not until he had his twins. It would just get destroyed again. Though the berth was more appealing, Jazz still ran a bath. Even on the rode, cleanliness was important, that’s what Ori had always preached. The solvent ran hot, but Jazz could not relax, however hard he tried, so he did not linger. He dried off, crawled into berth and surrendered himself to the familiar memory purges.

“A glyph, Kick-Off?” Prowl asked after the private investigators had gone.

“Yes, Sir,” the deputy said.

“By the end of next-cycle, we should receive a wire from the Elite Guard with an ETA on their arrival,” the Praxian explained. “Please confirm the receipt with them. When they arrival, inform them that the suspects of the robbery and arson escaped via the canyons.”

“Sir?” Kick-Off said. “Won’t they want to speak wit ya?”

“Yes, but I will likely be unavailable,” Prowl replied, reviewing the inventory of his subspace saddle bags. “Ironworks has become desperate to have engage the services of such reprobates. There is no telling what they will try next. I am going to ride into the hills with Two-Bit and see if I might find Jazz. If I do, I will escort him to mechanisms who will assist him if we cannot.”

“Who?” The Polyhexian asked.

“Keep this card in your subspace pocket,” the Sheriff ordered, giving his deputy one of his procreators' cards. “If you do not hear from me in an orn, sent a wire to this comm. If any other bounty hunters or private investigators come sniffing about, show them this card and they may reconsider their plans for our town.”

“The Omni Agency?” Kick-Off read the designation on the card.

“My procreators’ firm,” Prowl explained.

“I think ya must got some curious references,” the deputy replied. “We’ll hold down the fort, Sir.”

“Good,” the Praxian replied. He removed his sheriff’s badge and set it on his desk.

“Sir?”

“I am not acting as Sheriff of the Dead End in this moment,” Prowl explained. Kick-Off looked startled when Prowl unlatched the addition plates he considered his enforcer uniform. The deputy looked relieved when that was all Prowl removed.

“Here I was thinkin’ ya had a whole other set o’ armour,” he said.

“Convertible armour is the style my originator always favoured,” the sheriff explained. “It does not, however fold down small enough for saddle bags so I will leave it here.”

“But, Sheriff, we seen how dangerous Ironwork’s goons are,” Kick-Off argued. “Shouldn’t ya be... fully armoured?”

“Better to blend in,” Prowl replied. He picked up his sheriff’s badge and put it in his subspace pocket. “This armour is stronger than it looks. I am also faster. Come, Two-Bit.”

He left the office out the back and whistled for Justice. The zap-pony whinnied and trotted over to him. With another whistle, Two-Bit jogged alongside master and zap-pony as they rode towards the burned-out spacebridge. He knew from the blueprints provided where Jazz’s room had been. There was nothing for him to see in the room, from what Kick-Off had described, and no time to check his deputy’s work. The burned-out room was not what he was here to see, nor was it the ransacked spacebridge shipment. Prowl guided Justice around the station and from the outside, and looked up to the row of windows and visualized where the desperate progenitor’s room had been. A window was open. The drop was high, but he saw no energon on the floor. The fire brigade had trampled and pedprints that might have been left behind. There were too many scents for Two-Bit to find the right trail. Turning his zap-pony around, Prowl the enforcer looked to the hills beyond the station. As he scanned the ground, Prowl spotted the tracks of a shoeless zap-pony.

“Two-Bit,” he called his cyber-dog, and directed him to the prints. “Search!”

“Woof!” Two-Bit obeyed with a jubilant bark and raced into the hills.

Clicking his glossa, Prowl wanted Justice to follow. The exercise was not novel to the zap-pony. Together, they had led a posse, as well as searched for missing sparklings. Prowl hoped for better results than the last search. When Two-Bit stopped at a creek and took a drink, the sheriff wondered if his cyber-dog had decided to take him on an adventure. Then, Two-Bit jumped into the stream and jogged quickly across. On the other side of the creek, Prowl saw the same tracks as he had seen at the station, and he urged Justice to cross the creek. After some time, he called Two-Bit to him and paused the search, in order to rest Justice’s legs as well as to fuel both himself and his cyber-dog. Jazz enjoyed several joors’ head start. Would he stop before dusk? Likely not, Prowl thought the Polyhexian suffered from a high level of paranoia that was well justified. As long as they did not lose the trail, it did not matter.

“Woof!” Two-Bit barked and pawed at the ground. He was ready to go again.

“Well then,” Prowl chuckled, and he climbed onto Justice’s back. “Search!”

Dusk gave into dark-cycle as Prowl whistled softly to Two-Bit. A thin plume of smoke rose above the trees. He did not want Two-Bit to catch Jazz by surprise. If it was not Jazz, it was likely someone worse, and Prowl did not wish to risk surprising such a scoundrel either. On Justice’s back, Prowl stepped through the trees. After a bream or so, he saw the campfire, a berthroll and a tent. No one was sitting at it. Quietly, so as not to startle his quarry, Prowl slid off Justice’s back and flexed his doorwings. He searched the darkness with them. The tree created static, but still helped him form an image of the camp in the darkness. Two-Bit stared in the same direction Prowl thought Jazz was hiding. It could have been a squirrel. The cyber-dog was good, but could be distracted. Prowl did not need to glance down at Two-Bit to know his cyber-dog’s tail was wagging. That suggested their quarry was familiar to him and that they had made a good impression.

“Jazz?” Prowl called, though not loudly. “It is Sheriff Prowl. I have come to see if I might be able to assist... after last dark-cycle.”

“Ya come alone?” The shadows asked.

“Yes,” the sheriff said. “I have come alone and out of uniform. I do not believe the law is of as much help as you need.”

“‘N how can ya help outside o’ the law?” Jazz asked, stepping from between a cluster of frees.

“It is difficult for you to look for Ironwork with the brigands he has employed,” Prowl replied. “You need to employee your own investigators.”

“Pretty sure he’s got every agency on hire,” the Polyhexian said. “Even those famous Quartzmaxx... ‘Sposed to be dogooders, but don’t seem to do much good.”

“He does not employee the Omni Agency,” the sheriff assured him.

“How do ya know?” Jazz asked.

“Because they take jobs only by referral,” Prowl explained. “And mecha like Ironwork would not get such a referral.”

“‘N ya can get one?” The anxious progenitor asked.

“The owners are my procreators,” the Praxian explained. “I have a standing referral.”

“Yer kin are bounty hunters?” Jazz asked. He sounded skeptical.

“Private investigators,” Prowl corrected him. “They have never taken a bounty. They operate out of Staniz.”

“Staniz?” The Polyhexian asked. “Ain’t no way Ironwork’s’ll head back in that direction. That’s my hometown.”

“Elite Guard are on their way to the Dead End,” the sheriff explained. “He will hesitate to show himself. Moving a wealthy household attracts attention. He will likely have gone to ground already. It is only a matter of finding out where. His agents are suspects, I named them as such. There is no further west he can got with any comfort and he does not strike me as one who likes to go without he comforts.”

“Calculus gave ya the whole story,” Jazz replied. “Okay... so maybe’s he’s turned back east... or south.”

“My kin have searched for mechanism as far south as Simfur,” Prowl reassured him. “No one is better.”

“Might be biased,” the progenitor replied. “But I like it. Okay.”

“Good,” the Praxian replied. “We’ll keep to the hills as we make our way east. I do not know where Ironwork might have agents.”

“Seems like ya done this before,” Jazz said.

“I have danced with agents before, yes,” Prowl replied. “I learned my procreators’ trade at a young age.”

“Did ya bring a berthroll?” the Polyhexian asked.

“Yes,” the sheriff said. “And rations for myself and Two-Bit.”

“Outta fuel then,” Jazz suggested, directing Prowl to the fire. He took out Two-Bit’s bowl and poured kibble into it. Two-Bit drooled as he added liquid energon to the kibble. Though he was very fuel motivated, the cyber-dog waited until Prowl gave him permission.

“Free,” he said, and grabbed his own cube. Jazz watched, optics raised. “I told you he was trained. He followed your trail, I would have lost it in the brush more than once without him.”

“Doesn’t look like a scent hound,” the progenitor observed. Prowl sat across from him at the fire.

“He is not,” Prowl replied and sat across from him at the fire. “He has more stamina than one and a more than adequate olfactory ridge. It is the function he has the least training in.”

“Why?” Jazz asked.

“Because my procreators were more concerned about him being prepared to rip out a mechanisms throat in my defence, blaster fire or no, than following a trail,” the sheriff explained. “They knew I could not serve my intended function and wished to be certain I would be safe, wherever I settled.”

“Why can’t ya work in Staniz?” The Polyhexian asked. “‘Cause o’ their agency?”

“Because my progenitor’s kin are incredibly well respected in Staniz and they despise my originator,” Prowl explained. “I could not expect to make a respectable living there as the respectable mechanisms snubbed their olfactory ridges at me as they do with my brother. I could have stayed home and worked for the agency but that was not what I wanted.”

“Yer brother does?” Jazz guessed.

“On occasion,” the Praxian replied. “He is a blacksmith by trade. Common folk care more about cost than propriety so he does well enough.”

“What made ya wanna be an enforcer?” The progenitor asked.

“The law is only as just as those that serve it,” Prowl explained. “It favours the rich more than fairness. I wanted to help the same mechanisms that found their way to the Omni Agency, before their situations became so dire.”

“Sounds...”

“Fanciful?” The sheriff asked. “I am no dreamer. I am pragmatic. The best way to change anything is to drive it oneself.”

“Sounds like a good way to get shot,” Jazz said. He was weary, not hostile.

“That is why I have Two-Bit,” Prowl replied, shrugging.

Prowl blended into the crowd of Good Samaritans that had rushed to the spacebridge station when the bells had rung, alerting the town to the fire. He had not taken the time to latch his enforcer armour to what he referred to as his civilian garb. Any who had met him earlier in the mega-cycle would make the connection between the unfamiliar Praxian helping with the victims and their new sheriff when they saw Two-Bit at his side. As he gave a cloth soaked with coolant to the bartender who had been working in the bar when the fire had suddenly broken out, Prowl watched Kick-Off circle the still-burning spacebridge station. The worst of the fire was out now, but they would need to pump coolant over the embers for joors before they could safely say the danger had passed. Was the deputy also looking for Jazz amongst the shell-shocked victims? A medic went from mechanism to mechanism, checking intakes for smoke damage and plating for burns. Prowl waved him over. He could see the bartender’s servos had been burned from his efforts to save trapped guests.

“Let me see,” the Silver Age Iaconian ordered as he lifted the wet cloth. “Partial thickness burns, from the looks of it. Swerve, I’ll apply an ointment and set you up with a follow appointment at my clinic in a couple of mega-cycles.”

“Sure, Ratchet,” Swerve replied. “Sheriff... do we know yet? Do we know if anyone didn’t get out?”

“Not yet,” Prowl replied.

“Sheriff...” Medic Ratchet murmured.

“Sheriff!” Kick-Off called out as he stepped through the crowd. “I didn’t recognize you...”

“I prefer to keep my personal and professional lives separate,” Prowl explained, leaving Swerve to the suspicious medic. As he had several times since they had arrived at the scene, Two-Bit looked to the cliffs beyond the rugged town and furled his lipplates. “Armour is the cleanest way to accomplish this. You were searching the station.”

“Looking for Jazz,” the deputy explained.

“I have not see him either,” the Praxian answered the Polyhexian deputy’s unspoken question. “When the station is clear to enter, can you find the guestbook? I would like to know what room he was in.”

“I thought bandits set it by accident tryin’ to rob the spacebridge,” Kick-Off said. That was the story going about the crowd. It was the story the guards had told.

“The cargo on this spacebridge did not strike me as the sort robbers like to steal,” Prowl explained. “Given the risks associated with these robberies, the targeted spacebridges tent to be laden with payroll or valuables. Bolts of metal and bundles of grain do not strike me as being worth the attention of the Elite Guard.”

“Y’re right,” Kick-Off replied. “Guess yer callin’em in at first light.”

“I will,” the sheriff confirmed. “The sooner I comm them, the sooner I can dismiss any suggestion of bounties and posses.”

“Mecha at the saloon are probably already tryin’ to stir up the mob,” the Polyhexian warned him.

“Unless they know which was the bandits went there would not even be the weakest of points,” Prowl replied. Given how Two-Bit was behaving, the sheriff had an idea where the robbers had gone, but he kept that thought to himself. Why would spacebridge robbers escape through the town? Unless they were not spacebridge robbers at all. “I will not authorize a drunken mob to ride into the hills under my badge so that they might beat whomever they come across.”

“You’ve dealt with posses before then,” Kick-Off said.

“More than once,” Prowl said. “As soon as glyph spreads about the fire, the Dead End will be crawling with bounty hunters. If you hear the designation Lockdown, please let me know. He is not welcome in my jurisdiction, I do not care who thinks to hire him.”

“Lockdown,” the deputy echoed the designation. “He’s come through these parts before. Heard the saloon does business wit’m.”

“The saloon will need to find an alternative,” the Praxian replied. “He is a bandit who dabbles in bounty hunting. His favourite bounties are runaway buymecha. The only place I have for a mech like that in the Dead End is in the cells.”

“Understood.”

Prowl only return home long enough to shower and to equip his enforcer armour attachments. As he drank his second cube of pressed energon, the sheriff fed Two-Bit. Justice, his zap-pony, had finished his grain by the time Prowl and Two-Bit entered the small barn, and he was ready to stretch his legs. Despite being a hellhound, not one of the carriage cyber-dog breeds, Two-Bit ran alongside Justice with his glossa lulled out, absolutely delighted just to be involved. For his part, Justice was canon-proof, according to Downshift, Prowl’s progenitor, who had seen to that aspect of Justice’s training starting when he had been a vornling. In the affair with the Invectus, Justice had proven himself under blaster fire, though no canons had been involved. The sheriff trusted both his companion mechanimals to keep their helms when faced with bandits. That did not mean he wanted to provoke such an encounter needlessly.

“Sheriff,” Checkpoint was on the porch, optics on the saloon. Early in the light-cycle as it was, the seedy bar was already making a ruckus.

“Do they always start so early or are they testing me?” Prowl asked, trying to remember the town ordinances he had studied during his trip from Rodion.

“Testin’ ya, I figure,” the deputy replied.

“Fine,” the Praxian said. He left Justice in the yard and marched across the street, Two-Bit at his side. He shoved the swinging doors open and held them that way. Prowl did not cross the threshold. Beside him, Two-Bit bared his denta and growled menacingly. “Everyone, out. As per Dead End ordinances, engenx parlours are not to open before eleven joor. You are out of compliance, as such will be fined. Do not test me again or this saloon will close and it will be replaced with a temple. Good-cycle.”

“Woof,” Two-Bit barked, wagging his thick tail.

“Good dog,” Prowl told him. Kick-Off had joined Checkpoint on the porch. They had their servos on their holsters.

“I’m half surprised ya didn’t get shot,” Checkpoint said.

“Two-Bit distracted them,” the sheriff replied. “No one wanted to move first, and risk being mauled.”

“Would he?” Kick-Off asked.

“Without hesitation,” Prowl replied. “Did you get the guestbook?”

“Right here,” the second deputy said. “Jazz was checked into room 204. According to the ledger, he ordered room service. Fire looked like it burned longest right about at his door. I went inside, it’s all burnt up but there was no dead mech on the berth, or in the washracks.”

“You are sure?” The Praxian asked.

“No doubt in my processor,” Kick-Off confirmed. “He had I’d talked some. His ori’s Amalgii. Taught’m how live under the open sky. My bet’s he didn’t stick ‘round time find out if the fire was set for’m.”

“What sort of madmecha do his in-law employ?” Prowl asked himself. He prepared himself a cube of pressed energon, and took it and the guest book into his office to study it himself.

He opened the commlink on his desk and sent a wire to Rodion, requesting the Elite Guard. If he got a response this mega-cycle, it would be close to a miracle. Even where the spacebridges were concerned, the capital had more pressing concerns than the antics of the frontier. Next to his chair, Two-Bit snored. Prowl opened the guestbook and sipped his energon. In its pages, he looked for familiar aliases and designations. Prowl did not have to go far to find some, but both RoughEdge and Fracture had checked in and had checked out in the early in the previous quartex. They did not know him, and likely did not even know of him, but Prowl knew them. He knew the majority of bounty hunters working in Iacon. Blastwave, who appeared to be a regular of the inn, worked for the largest private investigation agency in Iacon, based in Rodion, in the east, where RoughEdge belonged to an agency with more in common with gangs than it did law enforcement, and Fracture was an independent contractor. No designations from the last orn were familiar to him. It was a fact that he did not know every alias these quasi-legitimate thugs used, but it seemed more likely to the sheriff that the robbers had booked rooms in the saloon, or they were recharging rough.

“Mecha here to see you,” Kick-Off said, his knock on the door pulled Prowl out of his thoughts. The deputy sneered as he glanced over his shoulder. It was less than subtle contempt for their guests. Interest peaked, Prowl shut the guestbook and put it in the drawer of his desk.

“Send them in,” Prowl said. Three gentlemech entered his office. Their armour told him they had come from out east. They were well kept and had, without question, come in on the spacebridge, showing no signs of the sanding that came with riding in these parts. He could not be certain, but Prowl would have been willing to wager they were employed by the Quartzmaxx agency.

“Sheriff,” their spokesmech tipped his helm. Prowl stood. Two-Bit was already standing, glaring and the newcomers. There was no reason for all three to have paid a social call. It struck the sheriff as a subtle attempt at intimidation.

“What can I do for you?” He asked. Prowl was never the most emotive of mechs, but when he wanted it to, his tone at the effect of ice, and he used it now. Two of the “private investigators” glanced nervously at each other. Good.

“I’m Stalker,” the spokesmech said. “It’s not so much what you can do for us, but what we can do for you. I understand you’re very knew in your office, and you’re probably still making heads and tails of everything...”

“My office is in order,” Prowl replied coolly.

“You might have seen an order from Judge Backstop,” Stalker continued, visibly off kilter now. “Now... the judge is getting on in vorns...”

“I will stop you there,” the sheriff said. “I have testified in Judge Backstop’s courtroom and have found him to be an intelligent mech with a clear helm. He is a meticulous adjudicator of the law. As a sworn officer of the law, I will serve any lawful order within my jurisdiction. I hope I am clear.”

“We would never suggest anything else,” the bounty hunter tried to backtrack as Prowl stared him down. Stalker set a business card on Prowl’s desk. It was not for the Quartzmaxx agency but for IronEx, the mining company Jazz’s progenitor-in-law owned. “The law is... loose this far west. Sometimes... even the best judges make... costly mistakes. And with the lives of two mechlings...”

“I do not know if you are the mecha who threatened my predecessor’s kin,” Prowl replied. He placed a card for the Omni Agency over top of that of IronEx, and tapped it. “Do not think to try the same with me. The Elite Guard will be arriving shortly to investigate the incident at the station... I will not tell you to leave town as I believe they will want to have a glyph with you.”

“We aren’t common robbers!” Stalker exclaimed. He stared at the card Prowl had placed on his desk and was visibly shaken.

“Prowl... Smokey,” Jazz sighed, relieved when he found his rookie and the enforcer safe in Prowl’s treatment room.

“What happened?” Prowl asked. Smokescreen stretched out his doorwings, instinctively shielding his originator from an invisible threat.

“Trepan... he tired Wild Rider to assassinate Barricade, caught Ratchet off guard,” the saboteur explained. “Worried for a bit there he mighta come for Prowl first.”

“Trepan’s head of mnemosugery,” Smokescreen said.

“The plot goes entirely too deep,” Prowl said. “Is Ratchet alright?”

“Wild Rider knocked’m out but he’s got a hard helm,” Jazz reassured him.

“And Barricade?” The enforcer asked.

“Alive,” the Polyhexian replied. “Don’t know if Ratchet found anythin’ in his surgery. I got confirmation he was investigatin’ Flatfoot from his originator. Who ‘m damn sure is Praxian spec ops. He likes poison ‘n transportin’ himself from one place to the next in a blink.”

“He could have been part of the Omni program,” Prowl said.

“What program?” Jazz asked.

“It was a secret government program Crosscut sponsored,” the Praxian explained. “My understanding was that it was mostly a failure as few of the recipients of the mod were able to operate it. The rest were set to collapse after a nanolik’s use. The energy train was too intense. Crosscut met at the estate with one of the recipients when Smokescreen was just a newling. Crosscut left the meeting very frustrated. The next mega-cycle the program was cancelled amid accusations of misconduct.”

“Mech’s still standing,” the saboteur said. “Don’t know if he’d admit to bein’ in that program. Don’t think he would much care ‘bout me knowin’ either. Don’t think he’s much afraid o’ Autobtos. Or maybe anyone. I need to talk to Ori. He might have an idea how to handle’m.”

The question now was if Jazz was going to find Counterpunch or Punch when he got to his originator’s home. When Punch was deployed, it was his alter Counterpunch who took to the streets. After he returned, it always took a little time for Punch to regain control. Sometimes, Jazz and Ricochet could help pull him out faster, but the faster the shift, the harder it was and the more disorienting. He did not call his twin, not wanting to burden him when he was already in such a rough spot. Jazz would need to warn Ricochet that his lover’s originator was in town, so he was not surprised when he went to see Barricade again. If and when that encounter was to happen, Jazz would want to be there for support and protection. He thought he had made a good enough impression to at least convince Camshaft to talk before he got stabby. Maybe having Punch along for that would also be good, or would that make the Praxian operative more likely to turn violent.

“Ori?” Jazz called out as he entered his procreators’ habsuite. Something sweet was baking in the oven. Both Ori and Geni were bakers, but based on the smell, he was sure it was cinnabar cookies, one of his originator’s recipes.

“Hello Love,” Punch replied from the living room. “Middle of the cycle, funny time for ya to pay me a call.”

“I know how ya feel ‘bout comms,” he said. “There’s a situation at the base. We got a guest. Cry Red... the poison, was it standard issue to Praxian ops?”

“No,” Punch replied. “That was the trick o’ just one op... a real ghost. He’d appear, disappear. Like Mirage was different in a way, until he disappeared for decavorns. Figured ‘m for dead, that’s the business but one mega-cycle, weapons dealer was found dead with red bleedin’ from ever orifice. Haven’t heard o’ his work in a long time.”

“‘M thinkin’ he disappeared to raise a bitlet,” Jazz said. “His creation’s in a CR chamber at the base. One o’ the enforcers in that shooting ya probably heard ‘bout.”

“How do ya know it’s ‘m?” Ori asked.

“‘Cause a traitor tried to kill his creation and he made the mech cry red to loosen his glossa,” the saboteur explained. “Gave’m an antidote so I got a designation, maybe the ring leader in this fraggin’ mess. Trepan.”

“I never did like ‘m,” Punch said. “An antidote? Never knew there was one but never found one o’ his kills before the target was good and dead.”

“Prowl,” Jazz said. “Enforcer at the centre o’ this scrap said he might o’ been part o’ somethin’ called the Omni project.”

“Oh I heard o’ that,” the spy replied. “Dozens o’ ops from ‘round Cybertron tried to steal the blueprints. Far as I know, they were destroyed when the mess went wrong. Considerin’ what happened wit the others, seems crazy the mech would still use the thing but... it’s nice to have a good trick in the subspace in case o’ emergencies.”

“Don’t suppose ya ever met face to face?” The younger mech asked.

“No,” Punch said. “I wasn’t even sure he was Praxian. The way he moved, I figured ‘m for that or Velocitranian.”

“How much o’ a problem do ya think he can give Downshift?” Jazz asked.

“Enough,” Ori replied. He gestured to the oven. “Maybe we ought to bring a piece offerin’.”

“Ya wanna bring cookies to a Praxian assassin?” The saboteur asked.

“If his bitty’s in a CR chamber in enemy territory, he’s gonna be on edge,” Punch explained. “Somethin’ sweet might take the edge off.”

When they stepped into the medbay, Jazz had not expected to see Camshaft in the emergency bay. He was speaking with Ratchet, his arms crossed to his chassis. The medic held a coolant pack against the back of his helm. Downshift leaned against the wall, by the door, keeping out of the way of everyone but still keeping an optic on the situation. Ratchet waved off First Aid; his expression was grave. It was not good news for Barricade then. The Praxian operative did not fall to his knees or even flinch. Whatever he was feeling or thinking, he was keeping it inside. He turned his helm as Jazz approached. When he saw who was with Jazz, he cocked his helm to the side. Punch may not have gotten a good look at the Praxian, but Jazz thought the assassin had gotten a good look at Punch... or Counterpunch, or even both. He flicked a doorwing at them. From working with Smokescreen, Jazz knew that it was an invitation to approach. Though in Camshaft’s case, it was not a particularly polite one.

“Have you found the mnemosurgeon?” He asked.

“No,” Jazz said. “We’ll confirm but my best guess, is he’s in Con territory by now.”

“All the better,” Camshaft replied.

“Oh?” The saboteur asked.

“Autobots take prisoners,” the Praxian replied. “I do not.”

“Found needle scars?” Jazz asked Ratchet.

“Yes,” the medic replied. “The placement was designed to be inconspicuous. They matched Trepan’s prints.”

“What the frag does all o’ this slag have to do with the New Institute?” The Polyhexian asked.

“Gonna have to have a real good look at there work,” Punch declared.

“Can ya repair the damage?” Jazz asked. “Prowl won’t want his death on his conscience, knowin’ he’s innocent in this.”

“What I was explaining when you walked in...” Ratchet spotted the container in Punch’s servos. “Cinnabar?”

“That’s right,” the spy said. He opened the lid and offered it to Ratchet. He took a cookie. Punch offered it to Camshaft next. “Peace offerin’. From one ori to another.”

“Mm,” Camshaft hummed but he took a cookie. “Thank you.”

“I need a graft,” the Iaconian explained. “Wiring for the power cable needs to be a precise match to allow integration and proper power supply.”

“I’m not a match,” the Praxian said.

“Already checked?” Jazz asked.

“I make a point of knowing things,” Camshaft replied. “He inherited his progenitor’s wire type. And that particularly useless cogsucker is long dead.”

“That’s unfortunate...?” The saboteur asked.

“He tried to stab me in the back so I slit his throat,” the assassin explained. Punch nodded with approval.

“I was rebooting the database before I run another search for a potential match,” Ratchet explained. “Before First Aid made me sit.”

“You were light helmed,” his intern said.

“I was not,” the medic countered. “I said I was seeing double because I was seeing double. That’s why I rebooted the database. It was matching Barricade to himself.”

“Well let’s run it again,” First Aid replied. “It’s not matching Barricade’s to himself... it’s matching him to Prowl.”

“Prowl?” Jazz gasped. He looked to Camshaft and watched the mech shake his helm, but not in denial. The Praxian took a bite from the cookie he was holding. “Ya don’t look surprised.”

“Like I said,” Camshaft replied, “he was a particularly useless cogsucker.”

“What about me?” Smokescreen spoke up from the hallway. “Origin would do it for sure but Ratchet might not want to risk it since he’s still healing from the shorts.”

“A slightly less optimal match but within the desirable range,” the intern declared. “Hoist and Fix It are more than capable of performing the surgery while Ratchet sits this one out... Since he’s concussed.”

“I guess you’re mine now,” the Praxian declared.

“Sorry?” The young rookie asked.

“Your origin is my creation’s half-brother,” Camshaft explained. “Anything tied to him, however remote, is mine... affectionately.”

“You can’t be a worse grandcreator than Crosscut,” Smokescreen declared. The elder Praxian scoffed.

In the setting with Bullmech and mechcows

As a virile Polihexian Bullmech, Jazz wants to settle down with a cute heifer and start raising bitties

Matchmaking may have been tried, blind-dating, or even close friends trying to set up matches but none appealed to Jazz, there was no spark between him or any of the mechcows he was introduced to

Until he meets Prowl. However Prowl is another Bullmech and quite a surly and cold one at that, but there’s just something about Prowl’s temperament/his frame that seemed more suited to handle bitty weight to Jazz

Thus Jazz trying to get closer to Prowl, possibly purposely butting heads with him just to build up to breaking Prowl into his new position as a heifer, Jazz’s future sweet bitty ori.

Maybe Jazz letting Prowl keep his mechhood as a way to tease him

Ruining him on Jazz’s bull sized spike, while Prowl is tied to a breeding mount and forced frag into it to waste his transfluid into the inanimate valve since he doesn’t need it with Jazz’s spend filling him constantly along with his bitties

Jazz loves having Prowl have the aggressiveness from being a Bullmech but other than that he’s a perfect heifer once Jazz is finished filling his holes

Few bulls were independent. Society was stacked against them. They were intended to be a commodity, same as cows. Licensed contractors sent from farm to farm to breed large herds. It was nothing like the Polyhex of his sparklinghood. Some bulls never saw the herds they bred. Their transfluids were collect with  a mount and a prod up their afts. So far, Jazz was concerned, that sounds like a load of scrap. He roamed between farms, cleaning up where herd bulls failed, independent of the conglomerates. Jazz gathered with other freelance bulls, waiting to see if a job would come up. He stood away from the group, as they sized each other up, comparing horns. From his perch, the long horn Polyhexian bull listened as a farmer bemoaned the failings of his new, imported Praxian bull. The complaint intrigued him. Praxian mechcows were rarely exported from Vos. They were famous for the quality of their energon and their fertility. Their breeding was so careful, there were no live covers. Mechcows and mechbulls were kept on entirely different properties. Everything was AI. This farmer had not done her research.

“Hire a bull to show him the ropes,” another farmer suggested. 

It was a job Jazz could not resist. He could have cackled at the femme farmer’s lack of research. The open mechcows of her herd lounged alongside the Praxian bull in her field, a bull that showed no interest in them. He was interested in fence, Jazz realized. He was interested in the woods beyond. The open mechcows were directed into the barn where their turn with the chute and AI. The bull was unbothered as they left. The bull was called over by the farmer and directed to the shed where she said the training bull, aka Jazz would get him up to speed. Prowl looked at Jazz and seemed no more bothered by him than he had been by the open heifers. He was familiar with these sheds and made his way to the mount without preamble. His spike, a long bit of equipment, unfolded from its sheath but stayed soft. Vos’s training of its Praxian herds terrified Jazz. 

“Relax,” Jazz told him, jovially. “I know what a bull like ya needs.”

“Oh?” Prowl asked, maybe curious or suspicious. 

“Yeah, just pull those aft segments apart, ‘n lean forward,” Jazz told him. Prowl obeyed, definitely familiar with this routine. His afthole was soft and ever so slack. “Must o’ been a favourite.”

Prowl did not reply with glyphs, but his flush told Jazz everything. A breeding bulls aft did not get loose like this from the prod. It was from other bulls. Like mechcows mounted mechcows when they were in the mood, mechbulls fragged each other, sometimes for fun, sometimes for dominance. From the way the Praxian’s spike twitched, whatever the other bulls’ intents, he had learned to enjoy it or always had. It would have been easier than loathing it. Pressing Prowl against the mount with a servo between his doorwings, Jazz lined the prod up with his soft aft and stuck it in. The result was immediate. Charge crackled, the Polyhexian bull felt it through his servos and smelt it in the air. Prowl’s spike shot to pressure, and Jazz quickly got him lined up with the sleeve. With a twist of the prod, the electrodes connected with the Praxian’s transfluid duct and the mount sealed tightly around the prone bull’s spike. He jerked against the mount.

“Yer in for a long ride,” Jazz warned him. “She wants ya well drained.”

“Oof” Prowl grunted, sweating hard as Jazz fragged his aft with the prod. Soon, he was clinging to the mount, legs trembling as he panted. He stared over his shoulder at Jazz, optics fixed on his array.

Jazz smelled his arousal and pulled the prod from his aft. He kept optic contact with the Praxian as he stroked his own, heavily ridged spike to pressure. His kind had evolved to trigger ovulation in their mates with these ridges. Prowl, a gorgeous example of his breed, was clearly an aftslut. He shivered as Jazz sidled up to his aft. It was a nice aft with large, firm segments. Jazz pulled them apart and watched his spike disappear into the Praxian’s desperate hole. Prowl mooed loudly as Jazz sank his spike to the root in him. He made a similar satisfied sound as his spike was enveloped by the other bull’s soft, hot aftpipe. Under him, Prowl bellowed as Jazz squeezed his hips and gave it to him good. His ridges stimulated the prone bull’s transfluid duct, forcing him to jerk against the mount. It suctioned every last drop of transfluids from the pretty bulls aft. Soon, Prowl collapsed against it, out of stamina, moaning and drooling against the mount. Jazz pulled his spike free and wiped it with a cloth. The odds of contaminating the other mech’s deposits were few. That would not have been his excuse. Jazz stroked his digits between the other bull’s trapped spike and his well-worn hole and found his narrow little valve was sopping wet.

“They got a pillow prince for a herd bull,” Jazz declared as he fragged the bull’s little valve with his digits. Weakly, Prowl bellowed as his gamma cluster was massaged with vibrating digits. Lubricants splattered against the floor. “Been a while but I ain’t the first to play with this sweet hole.

“Nah,” Prowl confirmed, flailing against the mount, blunt digits scraping against the thick leather for some sort of hold. 

“Just digits or have ya taken cock?” Jazz asked.

“Digits,” Prowl replied.

“Yer gonna feel my spike for an orn,” Jazz promised him. Prowl moaned. “The herd’s gonna smell me on ya.”

“Uhn,” Prowl’s moan was high as Jazz lined his thick bull spike up with the prone bull’s sweet valve.

“Oh frag that’s tight,” Jazz groaned as the Praxian bull’s valve squeezed and rippled fitfully around his thick spike. 

He took it easy on Prowl, spiking him in slow, controlled thrusts as his valve got fragging. Prowl moaned desperately, helm tossed back as his pretty valve was filled. Jazz seized one of his horns and held his helm back as he started to frag him with earnest. The Polyhexian bull felt the Praxian’s valve flex over his spike, drawing him deep. Wet clangs filled the shed as Jazz drove his spike into the other bull’s small gestational tank.  Prowl’s jaw fell open, drooling as overloads wiped out his upper processor. Under him, the mount whirled as each fresh drop of transfluids Prowl’s reservoirs made was sucked into waiting canisters. Groaning, Jazz leaned over the other bull and fragged the pretty thing with filthy clangs and desperate moos. It was not long before Jazz could hold off no longer, and he spilled his own transfluids into Prowl’s belly. For what might have been a joor, Jazz stayed there, keeping the Praxian’s tank plugged with his spike. By the time he pulled out, not a drop of transfluids spilled out with it. The farmer clapped when Prowl staggered back into the field, limp spike hanging, too sensitive to retract yet.

The farmer was thrilled with the results, intent on selling vials of Prowl’s high-quality transfluids. She may have meant to have Prowl cover her herd, but this would give her at least some return on her investment. Jazz did not feel sorry for her. She had not done her research and had not been prepared to give Prowl what he needed. Prowl came from excellent stock, or so she bragged to other farmers. It was true, but hers was not a Vosian farm, and this was a bull with no interest in her herd because he had always been a plaything for other bulls. He knew it. He even liked it. Those bulls, with Seekers monitoring too closely, had not been so daring as Jazz. Jazz learned that it was the size of a Praxian’s horns that decided if they would be raised a cow or a bull. Prowl had a nice set of horns on him, but he had an even nicer set of wells they had chosen to overlook.

“How long will it take, do ya think, for her to realize she’s a got a sweet heifer ‘n not a herd bull?” Jazz crooned to Prowl as he watched the Praxian bull writhe on his new contraption. A milker tugged on Prowl’s dry udders as his spike was trapped in the low mount. Jazz used the buzz of his own fist to abuse the other bull’s transfluid duct. “If I play this right, these won’t dry up, even when yer teets start leaking.”

“Oh! Oh!” Prowl cried out as he bounced on Jazz’s spike. They were in the stall, Prowl’s stall. There herd could hear their bull getting the servicing he needed. The most Jazz ever heard from them was a giggle. Not a one of them was as lusty as Prowl.

“That’s my sweet cow,” Jazz crooned. He squeezed Prowl’s swollen wells from behind. Energon leaked from his engorged teets. Between his legs, his limp spike flopped from side to side.

Registered to the farm as a bull, even as he belly rounded so far it could no longer be mistaken for anything but a calf, Jazz took advantage of the uniqueness of Prowl’s situation and registered him, privately, as a bred mechcow. The farmer was horrified once she realized what had happened. She and Jazz came to an agreement. He took Prowl to a small plot of land with a little cabin on it. As long as the farmer got transfluids from Prowl, she was willing to rent Prowl, or at least his contract, to Jazz. The energon Jazz milked from Prowl’s heavy udders was his use. For now, they sold it through a co-op, and it helped with expenses. Belly too round to use a mount, Jazz came up with a new idea. Prowl dangled by his wrists, kneeling on the floor as the compact pump worked his spike. Another pump drained the energon from his wells. Prowl was flushed, moaning desperately; his reservoirs were thoroughly drained. Jazz watched him suffer so sweetly for a moment, but only for a moment. He shuffled behind this first-time heifer and slid his spike home into his welcoming valve as he squeezed his hips. Even after both Prowl’s wells and reservoirs ran dry, Jazz fragged him. The Praxian’s spike dangled. There was no room inside him for it to retract. Jazz liked how it flopped around as he fragged the pretty bull he had bred from behind.

“Moo ooh yes!” Prowl wailed overloading so hard his optics fritzed.

“So desperate,” Jazz teased him. “Actin’ like I ate fragged you four times already this light-cycle.”

“Your fault,” Prowl reminded him. Jazz pulled him back hard on his spike, making him squeak and coo.

“Damn right it is.”

***

Ratchet groaned. The medic did not know how he had gotten here, sandwiched between two bulls who were reformatting his internals with their spikes. The former party ambulance shuddered as they held him up, and pulled him down, spearing his valve with both their spikes. Splitsparks, they did everything together, and that included him. He had come to the farm to see to an injured cow and somehow had ended up a plaything for some randy bulls. He was a thick mech, and far older than him, but that did not seem to dissuade them. He had said before that he was tough enough to take a bull on his own, but this was not what he meant. Bad weather rolled in, and the bulls kept themselves entertained, finding out all the ways they could frag him. Halfway through the quartex, the medic realized they had bred him and that they knew it too.

“We’re breeding bulls,” Sunsteaker said, rolling his optics. “What did you expect?”

***

Devcon covered his mouth, trying to keep quiet, knowing his grandgenitor was just outside. Impactor was slowing down. Soon he would leave the farm to his own grandcreation. What he would do if he caught Devcon like this, the young mech did not know. The bull he had contracted rutted over him, fragging his sheath with his thick breeding spike. Though Devcon had tried to warn him that was not his valve, somehow the glyphs had not come out. He realized the bull, Smokescreen knew. He held Devcon down as he wrecked his spike…. Again.  Every time Devcon brought Smokescreen into the shed, the bull fragged him, fragged his sheath every time and overload right into the farmer’s reservoirs. It was shortly after Impactor signed over the farm that his grandgenitor found them like that. Devcon could not even cover his face, since Smokescreen had him pinned.

The first sign was when Prowl came online in the light-cycle so nauseous he immediately leaned over the berth and purged. As he had not consumed engex the dark-cycle before, it could not have been a hangover. Prowl blamed it on fuel contamination instead. He had fuelled on a lot of scrap in the last orn as he had moved into a new place, all his own. It had pleased him to take the bulk of the furniture from the habsuite he had shared with Tumbler; Prowl had been the one who had purchased them. He even took the couch he had caught Tumbler fragging Rewind on, but he had not moved it into his new habsuite. No, Prowl had destroyed it and the berth he assume Tumbler had fragged Rewind in and had destroyed them both. Was it petty, of course but he did not claim to be anything but petty.

He splurged on the berth and couch and covered the habsuite in crystals. The habsuite had a balony and Prowl was already planning on growing some out there. Everything was to exactly his tastes. His student accommodations had be bland by his own choice. It had been important at the time for him to show how little he cared about material things. What could he say, he had been young. Prowl brewed his energon, because nausea be damned and sat on the balcony to drink it. The air was refreshing and it settled his fuel tank. Though he still needed to sort out what he wanted for his home office, Prowl felt settled. It was a good thing he had walked in on Tumbler with Rewind when he had. At least he had not kindled with that mech; what a memory purge that would have been.

Prowl was not nauseous every light-cycle but many. Then, his armour felt tight, like he was bloated. Though it took him some time to make the connection, Prowl realized eventually that he ought to get a carrying test. Belatedly, he realized it had been careless to interface even six mega-cycles after being seeded. Though they were supposed to reabsorb after only two mega-cycle, it would have been smarter to confirm they had done so. But Prowl had been grieving and drinking and though he had not been drunk when he had gone to berth with Jazz, Prowl had still not been entirely in his right processor. He read the instructions on the test and went into the washracks to get the necessary sample. Jazz was long gone. His band had gone off to other gigs and they had not exchanged contact information. It did not matter. He checked the test after a bream and immediately cursed.

Positive.

Well. Frag. Seeded carryings were notoriously difficult to abort. Damn Tumbler for nagging him for so long. What was Prowl supposed to do now? Jazz was long gone and... and the only reason he had agreed to carry was because Tumbler had convinced him he would get gravely ill because Prowl’s intermittent erectile dysfunction would limit his ability to contribute. What was Prowl supposed to do now? The progenitor was long gone, who was supposed to contribute? He knew mechanisms budded and did well without contributions, but was it the same with kindling? Would it be the same for him? So much for the office, he was going to need a nursery. How was he going to go back to work as a single-procreator. His carrier would not stall with a short leave, but vorns? Could he go on leave until the bitlet was in school and expect to have a carrier waiting? Of course not! Prowl ran his servos over is face. The only thing he could do for now was book at appointment with the reproductive clinic.

He held three pieces of memory glass in his servos. Three newsparks. Two were split-sparks which meant there was a possibility that one or both might reabsorb but the medic thought all three looked strong. The seeds had already formed spark chambers for the newsparks. Without asking, Prowl knew there was no way out of this. Adoption, he supposed, was an option but after a vorn long carrying and all the pain and illness, would he want to go through all that and not have the bitlet at the end? Prowl would be on his own for this. He and Barricade had been in foster care together, they were not code siblings. Prowl had no procreators to lean on. Somehow or another, Prowl would manage. Surely carrying could not be as hard as the glitch business. For now, contributions were not a grave concern. The medic thought he was in excellent health. Good for him, Prowl supposed.

“Cogsuck left you high and dry, h’uh?” Tumbler’s intakes were hot against Prowl’s neck. He grabbed Prowl’s codpiece as he ground his own against Prowl’s aft. “I suppose I can help a slut out. For a price.”

It had been convenient of Tumbler to proposition him with Nightbeat in the vicinity, not that the mnemosurgeon had noticed. Prowl watched Tumbler get walked out, box of personal items in servo. He was cursing. Oh well. If anyone expected Prowl to feel sorry for him, they would be disappointed. The idea that he would let Tumbler contribute to his creations, after Prowl had caught him with another mech, please. Prowl would never be so desperate. His belly grew as the quartexes and stellar-cycles passed. After the first stellar-cycle, Prowl had no more light-cycle sickness and despite the lack of contributions his frame condition remained excellent as the triplets grew. There was no hiding his bitty bump. It was fine. He was a cold case investigator and did not neat to leave the precinct to do much of his work. Other investigators in his department would do the field work.

“Prowl!” The Praectus Vigilum Flatfoot called him into his office. “I need to pull you off your current case. You’re aware of the mass grave they found under the demolish factory in the Dockyards.”

“Yes, Sir,” Prowl replied.

“For some reason, IIA has decided they are lead on whatever... it is,” Flatfoot explained. “They asked for our best metaforensics detective be assigned to work with them. No matter how I look at it. That’s still you.”

“You support is awe-inspiring,” Prowl replied. The Praefectus Vigilum glared. The mech loathed Prowl and Prowl loathed him. He was sure that Flatfoot was waiting for the mega-cycle for Prowl to take leave. Prowl was determined to keep him waiting.

“The field commander will be arriving with his team shortly,” Flatfoot said. “Try and look presentable.”

Prowl was spiteful. Carrying may have made him more so. He went to the change room and made some small adjustments of his maternity armour. Instead of shapeless, he adjusted it so it hugged his growing curves. For good measure, Prowl did a quick polish. When Flatfoot saw him, the Praefectus glowered. Steam came out of his audial horns but before he could reprimand Prowl, Nightbeat came around and announced that the IIA team had arrived. Prowl walked past the Praefectus and went to the lobby. A single mech stood in the open room. Jazz looked much the same as he had at the bar. The armour was less flashy but the colours were the same, Out of reflex, Prowl cupped his bitty bump as he mentally prepared for an argument. Even through the Polyhexian’s visor, Prowl could see his optics widen and brighten.

“Yes, I know it’s unconventional but the Prime did ask I give you my best investigator,” Flatfoot spoke quickly as he jogged up behind Prowl. “Unfortunately, this is is.”

“This... is fine,” Jazz replied. “‘M Autobot Jazz.”

“Detective Prowl,” Prowl took the servo Jazz outstretched and followed his lead.

“Got that office, we asked for?” Jazz asked Flatfoot.

“We converted one of the interview rooms,” the Praefectus Vigilum said.

“Good,” Jazz replied. “Lead the way, Detective.”

“This way,” Prowl said, leading Jazz to the room in question. Jazz locked the door once it shut behind them. Prowl turned to the table where the evidence uncovered had been lain out. The Polyhexian ignored the desk and walked around the room, turning off all recording equipment and disabling the two way mirror.

“We should talk ‘bout... this,” Jazz said.

“I think we should discuss the case,” Prowl replied.

“We can do both,” Jazz replied.

Prowl’s jaw was hanging open and his face was flush. He stared at his own reflection as Jazz pulled him down on his spike. Prowl’s swollen wells bounced as Prowl rode the IIA officer’s girth. It was so big. Wet squelches filled the small room. This was so indecent. They were on the clock but Jazz was utterly too convincing. Everyone was going to know. Prowl was moaning as he came to this conclusion, too stuffed full of spike and transfluids to put an end to it. He had expected Jazz to be annoyed when he explained he had been seeded almost an orn before their first frag. It did not seem to matter to Jazz. Maybe because the circumstance made Prowl an easy lay. Jazz had turned him into a voracious size queen with just two frags.

“See, we can do both,” Jazz told him. They had put the evidence up on a murder board. Prowl quickly making connections between groups of victims that had been ID’d so far.

He was on his back, as he had mentioned wanting a different angle. Jazz stood between his leg’s as Prowl’s helm hung off the back of the table, looking at the board upside down. This was not, of course what he had meant. The Autobot had a sense of humour. Prowl was grateful the room was soundproof because he wailed ecstasy each time he overloaded. He burned so much harder. One of the pamphlets had mentioned overloads could be harder and hotter during carrying but he had not believed it. The pamphlet had been right; Prowl burned hot and overloaded hard with very little simulation. Jazz played with his swollen nozzles as he rest, spike still buried in the gravid Praxian’s sloppy valve. When he pulled out, a rush of transfluids and lubricants follow; Prowl’s gestational tank was too full to take another drop.

“They all had ties to the Institute,” Prowl murmured, still staring upside down at the mood board.

“That’s what we were thinkin’,” Jazz replied. “Sexy and clever. What a package. The factor they tore down was build on part of the ole sanitarium grounds.”

“Why does this concern IIA?” Prowl asked.

“‘Cause some good mechanisms got turned into monsters ‘n the last connection we got is the old Institute.”

“The old institute is gone,” Prowl said. “Long gone. Who or what is there to chase?”

“Is it really gone, or just rebranded?” Jazz asked.

“You are investigating the New Institute,” Prowl gasped.

“Mhm,” Jazz confirmed. “Their leadership, at least. They caught a habit o’ changin’ their designations. So we need to see if the ole guard are still kickin’ round.”

“I understand.”