His shout of 'slag it all!' echoed through the soundproofed office, as did the datapad he hurled across the room to smash into the wall, leaving behind a shallow dent and a mar in the orange paint that covered the entirety of the room. It was just another irritant that he had learned to live with, but that could set him off if he was already in a bad mood. Currently, there was no need for any added annoyance as the entirety of his command seemed Pit bent on causing a deactivation – either his own or that of the first mecha that he came across that annoyed him.

He knew the reason for his out of character behavior, but there was nothing he could do to remedy the issue as he had been stripped of the ability to leave the base without an escort of several heavily-armed mechs. It was patently ridiculous since he had bested most of them in battle before his frame change. Of course, most of his comrades did not know him as that mech, but even the few who did, did not voice their objections to the order. It was beyond frustrating as it left him feeling far too confined and liable to try and take some mech's helm off at the hips with a dozen other lethal wounds. Ratchet should, at the least, know better than to try and confine him, especially since he had been the one to 'convert' him from the Decepticons.

Perhaps he could take the time out of his orn to go down to the shooting range and vent some of his frustration before his claws came out and the next mech he came in contact with deactivated. However, he glanced at his desk and the piles of datapads waiting on his glyph, he would have to take care of all of what was there along with anything that piled up while he was gone. With a huff, he turned from the stacks and left his office, somehow managing to slam an automatic sliding door behind him. That ability would forever be attributed to unknown forces by those who witnessed the phenomenon, and it could stay there as far as they were concerned since that only happened when the mech should be avoided as entirely as possible.

The walk down to the shooting range was just long enough for his ire to rise even further, but slowly calmed as soon as he had pulled his fully customized rifle from the Spec Ops compartment in his subspace – one that no one was able to recognize as such and would never think to check. Sending codes to lock the firing range against any other users, he stepped up to the firing spot and began his check of his weapon as he always did. As it checked out in top condition, he allowed a feral grin to grace his facial plating as he laid out the ammunition feed carefully before connecting it to his rifle and chambering an incendiary round. The explosions would be satisfying after so long denying his main function as a sniper in favor of what the Autobots required of him as a tactician.

He settled himself on the floor slowly and comfortably behind the gun, careful of his positioning so that he would not have to move too much to align himself and the rifle the way he wished. Sighting down the barrel, he lost himself in the repetitive motions of firing precisely at the center of the targets for a long moment, reacquainting himself with the feel of his gun. A short databurst of code began the scenario of moving targets set to increase difficulty as he finished the different levels. It was the most challenging thing he had faced in orns and slowly relaxed the tension from his cables as he continued through the levels.

It was most of an orn later before he deemed himself relaxed enough to return to his normal routine. However, when he stepped out of the firing range, he was tempted to step right back in and begin shooting again. Ratchet was waiting for him with arms crossed and foot tapping impatiently, as if he had been there for much longer than he thought he needed to be. That did not bode well for his continued functioning.

"Are you done now?"

"For the time being," he answered, settling his rifle more securely in his subspace in a bid to make as little contact with the medic's optics as possible. They seemed to always coax him into baring all of his problems to the mech, which he deemed a weakness as he was supposed to be the one that everyone relied on. The medic always seemed to help him decompress more fully, but it undermined his authority with the rest of the mecha in the army – something that he could not afford to allow happen since it would translate to how quickly his orders were carried out and could lead to deactivations if he was not careful.

"Then it's to the med bay with you," the red and white mech stated, the glare he directed at the black and white not having the effect he had intended since the other refused to look up long enough for it to make contact with his currently violet optics. That was enough for him to be disquieted as the mech had not been so unsettled as to have that happen since his early orns with the Autobots when they had habitually turned bright red at his easily stirred anger.

"Yes, Ratchet."

"And don't you get smart with me," he grumbled as they walked through the hallways toward his med bay there on the base.

"Yes, Ratchet," the tactician retorted cheekily, a sly grin crossing his lips that was hurriedly wiped from his expression as they encountered a clearly inebriated Huffer that was singing off-key while staggering down the halls in the direction of his quarters. That was not a sight that was seen every orn, for sure. There was probably a party happening in the rec room that had been organized while Prowl had locked himself in the firing range since most of the mecha took any chance they could get to aggravate him with their actions. Perhaps it would be easier to pull the problems that he was encountering out of the mech, but he found that to be highly unlikely as the only mech that he seemed to open up around to any great degree kept himself locked in the Security Center just as much as the tactician occupied his office. He should just recommend that the two of them be put in the same room during all duty-shifts so that it would leave them all less wary around the two mecha. For some reason, the two most anti-social mechs in the Autobot army had become the best of friends despite the background of the one he was trailing. A loosening shrug and shake of his helm later, he gave up that line of thought and focused on the one that was more important – keeping the doorwinger from exploding in anger and frustration like he was liable to do if pushed too far at that time.