In Control
by K. Stonham
first released 4th April 2008

Prowl was not surprised when Sideswipe gracelessly and rebelliously muttered "Control freak," on his way out of Prowl's office. He didn't call the red twin on the remark and assign him additional punishment for denigration of an officer's reputation. Sideswipe was, for once, being only strictly accurate with his use of human terminology.

Jazz entered the office on the heels of the Lamborghini's departure, with an expressively raised optic ridge which indicated that he'd heard the comment and was surprised Prowl wasn't seeking retaliation for it. Prowl suppressed irritation; he wasn't petty the way Jazz seemed to be expecting him to be.

"Ain't a very nice thing to say," Jazz observed into the silence.

Jazz pushed.

"Nice doesn't concern me," Prowl replied.

"Ain't that the truth," Jazz replied, which was also an accurate statement so Prowl let it pass. The saboteur pulled a datapad out of subspace and handed it over. "Mirage's report on his last mission," he explained as Prowl accepted it. "Couldn't find that the 'Cons were up to anything in particular. Maybe they're takin' a vacation."

"Wouldn't that be lovely," Prowl said quietly, allowing just a hint of a daydream to surface: no Decepticon attacks, just managing the Ark crew members, dealing with human dignitaries, and striving to rebuild the Ark and return to Cybertron.... He pushed the thought away, as well as its accompanying observation that sans tactical input, he would be performing the same job Ultra Magnus had been performing so long and so well for the Autobots back on Cybertron. If it wasn't for Prowl's battle computer, it might well have been Magnus on the Ark instead.

Jazz was still waiting needlessly in Prowl's office. "Did you require something?" Prowl asked.

Jazz just looked at him a moment longer, then shook his head. "Nothin' you'd be able to provide," he answered, and turned to leave.

Prowl was left alone.

Again.

His thoughts wandered while he worked, supply lists and rations, conversions of various human currencies, procurements of materials from sundry locations for diverse purposes, rotations of shifts and downtime, double-checking everything, always.

If he'd been more careful, if he'd checked to make sure they were with him instead of blindly bounding into the museum....

He'd have been dead.

But at least he'd have been dead with them.

He'd found out later that Grapple had designed the museum's blast doors to protect the treasures within. They'd certainly worked well enough the day the Decepticons had razed Praxus, and the memory of that was what had led him to recommend to Optimus Prime that the team of Grapple and Hoist be added to the Ark's roster, no matter his personal feelings. It wasn't, after all, Grapple's fault. His structure had worked precisely as he'd designed it to.

Ash and outlines had been all that had been left of his family, his home. There weren't even the burning crystal towers in the distance that Mirage sometimes hauntingly spoke of when he was well and truly overenergized. No, there had been nothing left of Praxus but silence.

No one had expected the attack, so a response, rescuers, were slow to come. He'd probably spent too long alone the way Bluestreak had, Prowl acknowledged much later when he first met the gunner, but they each dealt with it their own way. Bluestreak reached outward for someone to help him; Prowl retreated in, knowing no one would. Of the remaining Praxans, Smokescreen was arguably the most normal. But then, he'd been off-world at the time of the attack.

Eventually Prowl had been picked up by a passing Autobot patrol. He'd been wandering in the ashes, looking for anyone, anything. He'd been starved by then, running on vapors. Another day, another hour, and there might not have been a survivor.

He knew, even then, that there was no way he could have controlled what had happened. All he could do, he knew as he sipped at the tasteless energon the Autobots gave him, was make sure it never happened again.

He was intelligent and rose quickly through the Autobot ranks, quiet and precise. Eventually he ended up as Optimus Prime's right-hand mech, which had been his target position all along. There, he could do something. He could keep people safe. All he had to do was be perfect and not screw up.

It was surprisingly easy. Somewhere in the gray shadows of Praxus, he found, all the pain had been burned out of him. All the passion, all the pleasure... gone. All that was left was a simple logic. No more hurt. Just function.

Optimus never asked. Few did. Those who needed to know also didn't ask. Jazz, though... Jazz pushed. Asked when he shouldn't. Kept repeating the questions and the accusations, not letting up. He didn't do it for his own amusement, like Sideswipe would have, or to vent frustration as Sunstreaker would have, but simply because he could. Because he walked at right angles to the rules, treating them and this war like some game that others played. Jazz was uncontrollable, and had no self-control. It made Prime's left-hand mech dangerous, to himself, to others, and to the Autobot cause.

One night on darkened Cybertron, in a private sparring session that had gone on so long they'd lost all their witnesses to their own recharge cycles, Prowl had figured out the way to teach Jazz control.

Jazz was exquisitely responsive, and he liked being hurt. He liked Prowl being the one hurting him, too, smelting together his pleasure and his pain. He kept coming back, learning the rules over and over again each time they slipped his mind and he screwed up. He reacted the way Prowl couldn't; that, too, was something that Prowl had lost, or had stolen from him, or perhaps never had to begin with. In some ways, though, Prowl thought, controlling exactly how the reckless, irresponsible saboteur responded was even better.

And just once in a while Prowl realized that there was a crack running through the cool logic that ruled him. It whispered warmth to him and bled heat and said that he liked teaching the saboteur to obey his rules. He quickly suppressed the feeling of breathlessness that threatened to shatter him. He didn't need it. It wouldn't win this war.

It wouldn't keep him safe.

Author's Note: If you think you're reading Nagasaki and Hiroshima in here, you are. This is pretty much Prowl's side of the story to Jazz's "The Thin Line."