Chapter Text
The department is a quiet sort of flurry of noise. The rustling of papers and the tac-tic-tacs of keyboards, the soft clicks of polycarbonate mugs. The first time someone’s elbow had knocked a ceramic mug off a desk, Prowl had updated the protocol and rules manuals of the human Autobot employees.
Considering the immediate and immense-- 76% --reduction in the statistical likelihood of seeing a preventable injury given any scenario from a clumsy office moment-- 98% most likely scenario --to any form of explosive force causing debris and shrapnel to go flying (he’s not willing to speculate on the exact numbers for this one, despite his TacNet teasing his thoughts with the promise of a hard answer. It’s enough to know that with present intel gathered, the likelihood is exceedingly unlikely), it was worth the processor-dulling helm-ache to draft, implement, and enforce the protocol.
The incendiary-disaster scenario becomes slightly more probable to account for when Wheeljack finally makes it back to Earth from his most recent jaunt into the Unknown, but that was then and Prowl’s only worried about current statistics, the things he can actually react to and plan around and do something about.
Blue optics scan the spacious room, taking in the orderly rows of identical desks with matching equipment at each station, yet each one individualized somehow, whether by the exact tilt they turned their file trays at, or the addition of small momentos, subtle things that offered no real hinderance to the cleaning of each space, but brought a bit of their personalities into each little station.
Something that hadn’t been present in the first several months of the department opening, because Prowl had agreed with Red Alert’s points on how allowing such diversity of adornments would encourage the likelihood of something smuggling its way onto base that wasn’t supposed to be there. He was a little less certain but willing to believe possible, the claims that humans were easily distractible species, and such baubles would only distract from their productivity and goals. Jazz had been one of the few officers to speak up on thinking otherwise when the issue got taken up the ladder in a frankly confusing flurry of drama, and in the end, Prowl had decided to cede to the advice of a mech he considered most well-versed in social politics.
And most particularly, morale.
Prowl might not understand why anyone would be more comfortable with pieces of their personal life on display, data freely there for the taking, but he could understand the effect mood both individually and as a community mattered towards the probabilities of success.
And he wanted this department to be very successful, considering they were largely the ones responsible for ensuring that everyone on base had what they needed. With exceedingly few exceptions-- 6.3% discrepancy; 17% accounting for undocumented imports and Autobot-sourced deliveries --every single order for supplies, went through this room at some point or another. Fuel requests, documentation for every squad’s fuel-use log as well as budgeting forms for rationing those very supplies; medical supplies for humans and mechs alike, raw materials and the receipts for them. Crucial information. Vital not only to the Autobot cause as an inevitability of warfare’s requirements, but to their direct relations with the alien species that not only populated nearly the entire planet, but had the means to be a threat if so provoked.
While warmer relations had developed as friendships and battle-formed partnerships were forged, it hadn’t been that way when they’d first crash-landed on Earth. Discovering they weren’t the first Cybertronians to land and make contact wasn’t so surprising-- but that it was Decepticon forces was just pure bad luck, according to Jazz.
Prowl didn’t believe in luck, but he did thing in the unexpected. One could not plan for what one didn’t know, and some things were just simply out of any ability to feasibly ken.
He doesn’t like being surprised.
Removing his wrist jack from the terminal welded securely to the wall-- far less chance of organics being squished by falling furniture --Prowl casts an analytical glance over the office space again. Familiar behavioral patterns and expressions of focused content meet his optics, and he allows a moment of satisfaction. The reward of dedicated, honest work; the real cog of the machine of war, finely tuned and orchestrated beneath his command, safe behind his own desk and the ranks beyond.
He’s… Satisfied, he thinks-- 87% certain --with the equilibrium that’s been created over the last two years, because it’s been just a little less than that since they ever had to scramble for supplies that went missing, got misplaced.
With little exception, Prowl knows exactly where their assets are on base and off-world at any given point in time, and all he has to do is access this closely guarded terminal to take in the electronic version of the reports the humans prefer to manage by paper trail.
“Can’t hack a notebook unless you have the thing in hand,” had been commonly said when queries of upgrading the office equipment and protocols were proposed. The real deciding factor however, had been the compatibility of this analog method with other branches of the human government.
~*~
If Sam Witwicky clicks his pen against his teeth one more time, you are going to lose it. Or, well, not really-- in the confines of your head you might, but you’ve learned very well how to keep your screaming over-sensitive emotions at bay.
Because it’s not actually a problem that the guy is sitting there, intently focused on whatever document he’s reviewing, slowly tapping his pen against his grimacing teeth as his other hand props his chin up. He pauses now and then to occasionally move the mouse and click, and his eyes keep on scanning the screen.
Which you can see, because your own glossy black monitor is offline and his desk is right behind yours. A comfortable distance away, it’s still a major bummer that there’s only cubical office walls put up around every four desk stations, barring the separate department in its own room behind your offices, which handles all the phone-calls.
You like working here. It’s quiet, studious, easy work.
Well, maybe not easy-- it takes focus and concentration and occasionally a good deal of savvy know-how, because nothing about this seemingly ordinary job was actually very normal.
The first time a requisition slip for uranium came across your desk, you’d had to verify like eight times it was, indeed, meant to pass through your humble little routing department. Since then you’ve gotten quite used to seeing nearly anything under the sun, from lotions and hand soaps and reams of paper for human staff needs, to the munitions that stocked the armory bay and weapons of every mech on base.
It’d taken you two weeks to feel like you had the hang of the job, and another few months to really feel comfortable in it. Knew who to go to for what, who to ask to help you with what problems and how to fix most of the troubleshooting yourself. Then, the department had had the shuffle of a lifetime with rotating staff and petty squabbles, a pizza-party-gone-wrong, and afterwards…
…utter peace.
How, you’re not quite certain. What you do know is that ever since some kind of agreement was settled on, things have been easy sailing since. You show up, you do your work, you amuse yourself with the certain level of uncanniness and absurdity of it all, and sometimes you even get a glimpse at who you’re doing all this work for.
Well, mostly, anyways. You’re also doing it for y’know the rest of the planet and all, at least personally, and also for yourself. The sign-on bonus for taking this remote position on what most people considered a terribly dreary, bland terrain of expansive desert, was definitely a perk.
Unfortunately, even the best of gigs came with drawbacks, and there were still the little daily life annoyances to deal with.
Like migraines. That lovely, wonderful feeling of will-eroding sensation that creeps up the back of your neck like icy fingers gouged into your skull, until your whole head is ringing with pain. Eventually, it licks down your shoulders and arms and sings along every nerve ending in your achy body, until your state of being becomes a whole lot of suck.
Fortunately, you avoid them most the time. You’ve made a lot of life decisions that have helped removed unneeded stress from your life, and even though you are arguably working in a very stressful job… You’re thriving, here. While what you’re doing is world-changing in its own humble way, the actual actions are as simple as spell-checking a document and ensuring all needed assets have been attached to submitted forms, and routing things where they need to go. You’re just one little blip in a much, much bigger machine, one that chugs along at least in this part of the engine with serene stability.
Unfortunately, your body doesn’t always care that things are actually really fine and dandy and there’s no reason to enact nuclear armageddon upon your nervous system. Your therapist had cited plenty of causes, but none of that helped much on truly stopping the condition.
You could manage it, with great effort.
But it never went away entirely.
And sometimes, like today, it’s not a fun, or easy, day at work. It’s all you can do to resist the urge to close your eyes and bow your head down, maybe stuff earplugs in your ears to cancel out the noise of the room. It’s too much sensorial experience; you can hear everything. Someone chewing on a snack a few cubbie-groups over. The disarmingly quiet clicks of a Cybertronian’s pede-steps a much, much further distance away at the entrance of the room. Probably the department’s pretty overseer, the quiet one who you only ever saw in passing. He didn’t have a great reputation, however, and that among other things kept you content admiring from afar and never once entertaining the idea of approaching him for conversation.
You liked your nice, simple job with a straightforward purpose. Show up, do your work, go home-- did it count as working from home if the base was technically your home? Or should you just count your room inside it to be your little house in an underground city? --and maybe read a book or draw before going to bed.
Unfortunately, you have about three hours left on the clock that was far too slowly ticking down, your pain meds aren’t putting a dent or even a flimsy gauze of gentling on the sharp pain throbbing through your skull, and you’re so tired.
Physically strong, but so mentally wrung out from the endurance needed to field an entire’s day worth of dodged social interactions and minimal work effort, you’re doing your best. Fortunately your best has always been enough, and you’re determined to keep it that way, even if this is your third migraine this week alone. You’re genuinely not sure what’s tripped your body’s trigger this time, but it’s not helping you focus any as you re-read the report on your desk for the fifth time, certain that you’ve missed something but not knowing what.
--oh. The answer stares you in the face as you slowly flip through the pages, each turn feeling like a gargantuan task. And all the while, dreading another click of that stupid metal pen to those pearly white teeth behind you.
It helps if you actually sign off on it, doesn’t it?
Exasperated at yourself, all you do is let out a silent sigh. Unwilling to draw the attention of anyone and distract them, unwilling to reveal your own weakness when you’re not entirely sure how it’d be received. You’d be treated differently, possibly doubted, and in any case you didn’t want to invite speculation people were prone to cast on things that just weren’t their business. It’s not that you felt like any of your coworkers were inclined to think such things, but you had an unfortunate wealth of life experience that told you that statistics were stacked against you somewhere. People got… funny, with acknowledging or seeing chronic symptoms.
There. Signed and finished, you ruffle through the paper to check everything is in the correct order, before slotting it back into its envelope, and dropping it on your completed file tray. You’ll have to hand-deliver it to routing at the end of your shift, but that’s fine because the walk there is short, the chances of anyone stopping you for a social greeting are low, and you can walk the long way around the office space at large to avoid getting waylaid by any friendly faces you’d normally be delighted to see.
Today, though, you just want to clock out and slip out unnoticed, and find your blessed bed.
Click. Click-click-click.
The sudden little taping noise shouldn’t bother you. It shouldn’t. Cripes, the stapler noise from another cubical nearby is arguably louder and harsher on your sensitized eardrums than that soft, plastic click against enamel.
--click-click-click--
You want to scream and throw something, maybe flip the work desk with how tense your muscles get as you clench your eyes and breathe deep, knowing that the only one this is bothering is you, and even if you do choose to ask Witwicky to stop the stim he falls into when focused, you should do so politely. Like a mature, reasonable adult, not an emotionally tantruming toddler who can’t even articulate why she’s feeling so miserable.
Swallowing the pained keen in your throat is just as easy and just as practiced, and you resign yourself to the rest of the bleary work-day with another self-regulating breath.
As long as you get the work you have to get done today, no one’s going to notice overmuch if you don’t have quite as much pep in your work flow as usual. In the grand scheme of things, it all balances out, and you’re still useful here.
~*~
When a paper-thin sheet of a slim, sleek electronic screen is placed on your desk by a bemused looking clerk you’ve actually never met personally before, you think at first something’s either gone wrong with one of the shipments you’re responsible for tracking the progress of, or that there’s been a mistake. The green blocking on their uniform coat tells you that they’re from the administrative team, not a department you’ve ever had to deal with often except for the occasional favors exchanged. Mostly, swapping pizza flavors at office parties, because despite literally being the most organized supply-chain program, your department is apparently incapable of ordering the correct pizzas.
“Uh, what’s this for?” you wonder, mystified, because you almost exclusively deal with literal paperwork. What few electronic orders come through are handled by your trusty work-issued computer and the scanner neatly situated to the right of it. “Sorry, I’ve never got one of these before.”
Their expression brightens, clearly eager to talk about it, and you’re glad you have the luck of a helpfully talkative messenger.
“Oh! It’s a flimsy, like, uh-- a dumbed down version of a datapad. The big guys use these to write memos and stuff. I dunno what this one says, but Prowl asked me to bring it to you. He’d have done it himself, but he’s busy with meetings today.”
You swear your heart stops beating as the pressure in your hurting head is momentarily swamped by potent dread, and a non-zero level of shock.
Prowl? Isn’t-- That’s the department head, isn’t it? Like, the head above the head, because even your supervisor answered to the stately Cybertronian.
Surely not. There’s no reason to single you out for a message unless something was terribly wrong-- which was way more likely to get handled by Sara on the desk next to you, because she was a true wizard of the office --or you had done something terribly wrong.
Some part of you wonders if you managed to fuck up today, somehow, after all. Except your migraine hadn’t kicked in until just after lunch, and that meant the work you’d dropped off before said break was probably flawless, or nearly so.
I fucked up, didn’t I?
“Uh… thanks. How do I, uh, read it?” you ask, picking the cool, glossy device up. It’s nearly borderless, just a thin, blue-tinted screen with little to it than that. You can’t see any kind of jack or port, or any buttons at all adorning its sleek surface.
“Oh, just tap the corner with a finger, and it’ll light up,” they instruct. “You good? I gotta get back to my desk,” they ask, kind eyes watching as you hesitantly touch the first corner.
Nothing happens.
Well, I had a one-outta-three shot at getting it right the first go. My odds can only improve from here.
It flickers to life like a lightning bug, a soft glow that pulses out until it fills the whole device with luminescent cyan. A bit harsh on your sensitized eyes just now, but far easier than the white-blue of your normal devices.
“Uh… Nah, got it, thanks!” you chirp, nodding them farewell as the guy hurries off after a smile and an encouraging wave, though you can see lingering questions.
He hesitates just a moment too long before leaving, eyes glancing to the tablet you have in-hand. The ‘flimsy.’
You have no inclination to share office gossip, however, and he has to leave empty-handed of any clues as to what’s written on the screen.
Unfortunately, so are you.
{Enter credentials}
“Uh…” Okay, you weren’t expecting that. Metaphorically cock-blocked from information by the lovely protocol and pragmatism of security. Apparently, there was a reason more than polite abstinence that had prevented your messenger from knowing what this thing said.
With no further prompt on the screen, you hesitate, then give the hazy cyan text a poke with a fingertip.
To your cautious delight, the screen flickers and changes, offering up a simple two row box. A login screen.
Your gaze lifts to your offline computer, then back to the pad. What are the odds that Mr.Smarty-pants used my normal login info? It wouldn’t overmuch surprise you to know he had access to passwords. They were a cybernetic species, after all, and from what you had gathered in your time on base, lived and breathed electric currents like you savored the very air you breathed. Instinctive. Known, by way of intuition and a base-coded symbiotic partnership with the very environment you’d evolved to live in.
With familiar response, a keyboard appears when you touch the username bar, and you quickly type in your ID. It still gives you a little quirk of a smile whenever you have to type it in, because you literally pulled the funniest number tag.
{User: TerranD69}
The headache hurts, but that doesn’t stop you from smiling a little as you exit the edit box, then tap the password field.
…and freeze, because it had never once occurred to you that maybe, just maybe your personally chosen password would be seen by other eyes. Directly known to be connected to you, and you might have chosen a password too unique to forget and too out-there for even your closest co-worker to guess.
Really hoping that boss-man didn’t actually have to connect this data to the device manually, if this even works at all, you punch in the code.
{Pass: SexyRobots404}
Exiting the text field, you gulp. Then, because what the heck else are you gonna do and why stall the inevitable, you click the little twinkly-like star icon below both boxes that intuition would suggest is the submit button.
The screen blinks out with a line of white pixels, flickers in a way that stabs your poor eyeballs, and then boom. You’re looking at a deep blue screen with pretty cyan text in the prettiest font that takes you about half a second to realize isn’t typed.
This looks hand-written. The letters are similar, uniform, but the tiniest deviances of geometry stand out like little neon lights to your discerning eye. You might have flunked out of every level of Algebra for the better part of your entire schooling life, but when it came to visual math based on angles and shapes and form?
Oh, man.
You excelled there, big surprise, and you’ve always been detail-focused. And right now, you’re fixating on the realization that somehow, Prowl drafted a hand-written note to deliver to you, and the personal touch feels somehow otherworldy to your non-spectacular little office desk space.
Click. Click-click. Click. Click. Click-click-click--
Dammit Witwicky. You flinch at the sound without meaning to, and disguise it as simply shrugging your shoulders with a sit-down stretch as you sigh, and lean back in your seat. Now that you’ve wasted precious seconds oogling the pretty handwritting on this alien device instead of actually reading what the neat script says, you start reading from the top.
And just about drop the thing on your lap as the blood in your veins go cold, and forget the ‘fear of God,’ this mech has put the ‘fear of failure’ in you as your heart starts hammering, and you feel your skin go clammy-cold.
Report to my office at 18:30
I have noticed a recurring 8-13% drop in your work
productivity. This established pattern is unacceptable.
Come prepared to discuss solutions, or hand in your
formal resignation.
Agenda:
discussion of work ethic,
scheduling correctional training
-Prowl
That was it. No title, no fancy header or pronouncement of his rank and titles, and really, why would he need to? You knew who he was, even though you’ve never so much as shared a single word between you two. You’ve seen him, though you’re not sure if he’s ever actually seen you. Maybe in passing, but certainly you didn’t stand out to him amidst the dozens of other people who worked on base. You were just one of many forgettable faces to a species that has outlived your entire known genetic history.
Your hands feel cold, where they grip the cool screen like its a venemous fish you’re wary of being pricked by. At least this one doesn’t thrash in your hands or threaten to flip itself into your face with sharp, stinging barbs, but it might as well be, the way its making your heart pound.
The fear and dread that grips you is nearly a physical thing, but that’s okay because this isn’t your first time being called in to discuss a problem by an employer. It is most certainly the scariest, though, because apparently, the rumors were right. There’s not an ounce of forgiveness, compassion, or understanding in these cold words.
Come prepared to discuss solutions, or hand in your formal resignation.
This dude literally just told you to either show up willing to dance to his tune, or give up and quit now, because you aren’t even worth his time to bother with if you can’t bring something to the table. And apparently, despite your self-motivational pep talks, your best isn’t enough, after all.
The real question, though, is what do you want to do about it?
~*~
Its disturbing how quiet the humans can be. Less so when they’re being more typical-- noisy jewelry that clacks or tinkles like the most delicate of chimes, hard-soled heels that give pleasant little clicks against the metal ground. The scuff of rubber soles or the rustle of their layered, colorful clothing. The dress code brings some semblance of order to it all, but they still find ways to personalize things. A necklace here, a bracelet or pair of pretty jewels dripping off tiny, vulnerable audials.
Prowl can’t fathom what drives them to puncture their own bodies with pretty baubles, but he can’t deny there is an aesthetic appeal. Just not enough to make him think it practical.
What if it catches on something?
And yet despite his TacNet and his own personal opinion leading him to suspect that the odds are statistically high-- he’s yet to hear of any injuries in the offices caused by a snagged ‘earring.’
The human he’s called into his office, however, is not typical. She does not make noise like the others do-- no laughs or boisterous words, no hard-soled shoes or a lazy stride that causes scuffs in her little steps. Her clothes are modest, simple; a uniform shirt and a swishy skirt in matching color of the bright scarlet of the office department Prowl manages. Her shows are soft-soled, and the way she moves causes little sound, barely even the shuffle of her abundant fabrics.
She comes tip-toeing in despite chin held high and nerves plainly visible on a face he’s-- 85% --certain she thinks is composed to blank neutrality. It might have been, were he not so adept at reading faces like an open book, taking in every twitch of her muscles and the way perspiration has gathered on the edges of her hairline. Pulled back into an orderly bun, not a single strand is out of place as she comes to what he interprets as an uncertain halt, several paces inside the room. The little alien looks absurdly tiny, dainty even, standing in the middle of the floor of his already small office, and the door slides shut behind her with a quiet hiss of metal-on-metal.
She flinches, muscles jerking like the human wants to glance back behind herself to confirm what her audials no doubt had already informed her of, and halts the gesture. She’s nervous (76%). Ill-at-ease. Possibly a good sign. It increased the odds that this was going to be a productive meeting, because prowl was determined to figure out why one of his best processors was periodically falling into only mediocre performance. He paid close attention to the patterns of numbers that physical actions were summarized down into. How many files completed and of what sort; were they submitted within standard processing times? Held up due to outlying factors?
Hers usually weren’t, until they were, and he had no answers for the discrepancy. Irresponsible distraction seemed likely-- 75% --based on the way other humans had performed, except the nature of their turns of productivity were usually longer or more concentrated bursts, rather than this inconsistent dip.
Prowl needed more data to understand the issue, what needed correction in order to inch those desirable statistics up ever-higher, and if he had to replace someone to do it, he would.
“Are you capable of hearing me comfortably from this distance?” he asks, his office not exactly designed with humans in mind. He rarely had a need to talk to any except at their stations, and he didn’t make a habit of bringing in outsiders to his place of sanctuary. As this was the first time he was dealing with a matter quite like this, unwilling to delegate it to his human subordinate who was already fully scheduled with a heavy work-load this month, he’d decided privacy would be more productive. If the organic decided to tender her resignation-- 23% likelihood, judging by nervous state; could be fearing repercussions or disciplinary response for breach of contract --then there would be less drama stirred, and it could be a quite, politely handled matter. There was no reason to drag it out.
If she didn’t want to bring her best to the table, Prowl had no interest in wasting his time and effort.
Fortunately, resignation doesn’t seem to be what the organic has in mind as she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, then meets his optics dead-on.
“Sir, I have come prepared for either of your outlined options,” she announces in a flat, controlled voice he can still hear the nervous waver in. A higher pitched keen that struggles to stay restrained in her fragilely composed vox’s output. The odds of this being a productive meeting increase substantially, and he steeples his fingers as he silently listens. “If I’m unable to perform to-- to your standards,” she says, her voice faltering for a moment as his HUD pings a note of temperature shifts in her body, the heat raising in her tiny face, “then I will tender my resignation. I do, however, wish to-- I wanna explain why I’m-- I’m sorry,” she stammers, composure fracturing apart under the weight of his steady gaze as Prowl watches with indifferent interest.
Not the insubordinance I worried about. Is this misdirection to cultivate a sympathetic response? Or refreshing genuinity?
He waits.
When he says nothing further, the human seems to gulp and steady herself, fidgeting where she stands as her eyes start to drift from his, until they seem to settle on a point on his forehead, barely three degrees off from meeting his gaze.
“I-- I uh, I get migraines,” she says with a pinched expression, before her gaze drops, and then she yanks it back up, shoulders stiff. “It does affect my ability to work, but I didn’t realize I was performing that… Poorly.”
Migraines.
Prowl’s only passingly familiar with the term, and a short search through his wideband provides a colorful array of information to inform the concept.
“If I request the dates for your most recent migraine episodes, are you able to provide that information?” he questions. It’d help to verify if the numbers matched up.
Her face pales.
“Uh… N-no? Well-- Actually, I mean, yes, but it’d take me a bit, I’d have to compile it digging through chat logs and--”
“Do so,” Prowl decides, cutting off the excessive rambling. “I expect it submitted at the start of tomorrow’s shift.” Considering how much time was left in the day, there oguht to be plenty of time for--
“Oh,” she responds, faintly, like he’s tasked her with a terrible ordeal. “Okay, I can do that.”
Your tone of voice indicates you think you cannot.
Prowl studies her expression from over his desk, considering. Distraught. Lacking confidence but trying to present it. Reassurance would be beneficial.
Especially seeing as this individual seemed keen on keeping her current employment, it was in Prowl’s interests to cultivate her calm focus.
“If that is not enough time for you to complete the task, then say so,” he outlines bluntly. “I am unfamiliar with the condition you’ve claimed except in brief summary. I will follow up with your supervisor to verify the medical handicap.”
And decide if it’s worth keeping you. He wants it to be; while his department saw high numbers for productivity and accuracy, there were still obvious grades of quality even within that cultivated standard. Being one of three of his best processors barring recent discrepances, Prowl’s loathe to disturb a well oiled system by replacing a part that might not need replacement.
If possible, however, his words only seem to upset the organic more, because her face goes utterly blank after a momentary flinch.
“Uh, Sir…”
“Prowl,” he directs.
She seems to startle for a moment, before clearing her throat.
“P-Prowl, um… My supervisor-- Doesn’t know,” she admits, a hand darting up to sweep from the corner of an eye and back behind an ear, most probably a nervous tic as Prowl’s optics narrow. “I’ve, um… I just have to work through it, but I can have my doctor verify. It’s on my medical record,” she explains.
Prowl’s not terribly impressed.
“And why haven’t you informed your supervisor of your ailment?” he presses.
She seems reluctant to answer.
“I…” the human swallows, her hand flashing through the same nervous tic again, before she seems to catch herself, glancing at it and wringing the edge of her sleeve betwixt fingers instead. “I-- Didn’t want to,” she states haltingly. When no further information comes, Prowl lifts his chin from steepled fingers, letting her see his frown.
“If it is a condition that affects your capability to function, then it’s a matter that should be discussed with your superiors,” he lectures with more patience than he feels, because Primus, he’s tired of this. Teaching what should be basic, common sense to subordinates.
“Am I-- Am I going to be fired?” she asks, worrying her sleeve as she tries to meet his gaze, but can’t quite seem to hold it as Prowl’s frown deepens.
“Not unless you give me a reason to,” he states. It’s the simple truth.
If possible, her face pales further.
“Oh. S-so, uh, can you tell me what quota I need to, um, be reaching to meet your expectations? Thirteen percent is, uh, a lot.”
It is.
“We’ll go over the exact numbers at the end of this meeting. First, I’d like you to tell me more about how this condition affects your work. What can be done to accomodate?”
Because if buying a box of polycarbonate coffee mugs had restored office morale, Prowl’s certain he can secure the productivity of a favored asset with a willingness to account for an unexpected variable.
~*~
You’re so nervous you want to cry, but that would probably look really bad in front of this mech of cold, calculating eyes and serene stillness. His presence is like a force of nature that swamps the room, his bright and high-polished paint immaculate and pristine, drawing your gaze and attention like a beacon. The stonewall gray of his office’s walls and furniture only makes his stark white, blacks, and accents of vivid red stand out all the more.
Unfortunately, it’s also making your head scream bloody murder as you do your best to pay cognizant attention to him, because Prowl’s face kinda swims all blurry-like in your vision now and then, and having to tip your head to look up at him is hurting your neck.
“There’s, um, not really anything I can do about it. I’ve got medicine and I keep a careful schedule outside of work that helps, but when they happen, I kinda just… Have to deal with it.”
Please oh merciful alien overlord, let that be enough to convince you I’m fine. I can handle this. Please don’t fire me fuck fuck fuck--
“You have coping mechanisms outside of work that function to alleviate obstructive symptoms?” he questions immediately, making you despair of ever leaving the room.
“Y-yeah, mostly I just make sure the room is dark and quiet. Sleep helps, but that’s not, ah, really productive at work,” you explain nervously, giving a laugh like it’s funny except it’s not, it’s really not. “Honestly, I don’t get them that often, I’ll do better to…” to, what, exactly? Pretend you’re okay when you’re not? Pretty much. “...improve my performance.”
Please don’t fire me please don’t fire me please don’t--
He seems to regard you for a moment, before that pristine helmet of his tilts just a little bit, like you’re being sized up. It’s a downright predatory gesture, one of cool, calculating intent that has your heart fluttering all nervously again.
“Your migraines induce symptoms of audial and optical sensitivity?” he surmises.
“Y-yeah, sound really hurts.”
“That would explain your gait.”
You blink.
“My what?”
The metal titan you’re being interrogated by gestures at you with a hand.
“You walk quietly. More quietly than most,” he observes.
“Oh, uh… Always have.”
“Have you always suffered from this condition?”
And your spine is rigid again at the unwelcomed topic you’d much rather avoid. Just thinking about it makes your mouth feel like you’re coughing up bile.
“Once I got into highschool, yeah.” Remembering he’s not exactly from around here, you add, “That was about fifteen, twenty years ago. Fiffteen if you wanna count from it becoming a real problem, but it started before that.”
“I see. Then will relocating your office station provide reduction of sensory triggers? I can have an office set up for you by the end of the week.”
Your mind goes blank for all of five seconds as you’re pretty sure you gape and goggle up at him, but your face hurts too much to really tell you what expressions your making.
“I-- Uh, I don’t need an office,” you stammer, alarmed at the thought. You have no idea what kind of office politics that would stir, if a lowly position like yourself was given the luxury of her own private work space. “Really, it’s fine, I can just--”
“The repeated drop in your efficiency would suggest otherwise,” he states icily, causing your throat to close as you go stiff again. “I will make the arrangements. When are you available for additional training? While I am inclined to believe that your problem stems from data processing obstruction,” what a way to explain a migraine, buddy, you ain’t wrong, “I do not see how additional supervision for a period of time as we make adjustments will be remiss.”
“Um… Any day, I guess. My only schedule is the one you already know,” you say with a shrug. “My time is yours.”
And something about that seems to please him, because you feel the softest shift in the air around you, like a pleasant bloom of sunshine, despite the fact those icy eyes don’t shift the tinniest bit in temperature. They regard you with aloof indifference, merely measuring your words against whatever his fathomless, alien mind is thinking.
“Very well. We’ll begin tomorrow after your shift.”
“Where do I go…?”
“You won’t. I will send someone to you. Perform your work tasks as normal; they’ll be observing. Advising, when necessary.”
More than a little nervous on wondering who that nosy work buddy will be, you nod.
“Yes, Sir. I-I mean Prowl, Sir. Uh--”
“I have emailed you the files I want you to go over,” he cuts in over your nervous stammer. “Remarks on the discrepancies I have observed and the desired level of productivity I need you to meet. If you encounter any further obstacles preventing that,” he says, freezing the breath in your lungs as his optics narrow fractionally, his steepled fingers touching his chin lightly again, “Then I expect you to report directly to your supervisor. If you need quiet space to work, then request it. If you need a screen filter to dim the brightness of your monitor, request it. Am I understood?”
You stare at him, feeling… the tinniest bit dumbfounded.
This dude found out I get headaches and offers me an office and screen protectors. Am I-- Am I dreaming?
It’s finally starting to sink in that he’s not chomping at the bit to fire your ass. He’s just perfectly willing to make it exceedingly clear he’d be willing to. But he’s offering ways to avoid that.
Emboldened, wary yet hopeful, you dare to perk up a bit as you offer a tentative smile.
“Yes, S-- P-Prowl,” you correct, feeling your face flush. That’s going to take some getting used to. His authoritative, commanding demeanour isn’t helping untangle your tongue from the polite address. “Thank you. I’ll, um… Any more questions for me?”
He seems to regard you a moment, before he blinks, and you feel like some of the intensity eases off. The atmosphere feels just a tiny bit lighter, and you dare to hope that maybe this guy isn’t quite as much of an asshole as his mannerisms would suggest.
He hasn’t ripped into me like they said he would. He’s just… Really blunt.
“That is all. If you’ve no further questions, you are dismissed.”
“Oh, I have like a thousand questions,” you admit on a spurt of whim, because the euphoria of realising you’re not just keeping your job but it might get even better, because maybe you won’t have to ever deal with Sam Witwicky’s pen clicking or Clara Stark’s humming ever again. “But none of them are really relevant to work, so, no. Thank you, S-- Prowl.” Fuck. Why can’t I just say his name! Augh!
You’re already mid-wave and about to go, when his voice halts you in your tracks.
“You have questions of a personal nature?” he queries.
You glance back at him, not having expected him to take a cheeky farewell as a conversation continuation. Someone else, sure, but this guy?
“O-oh, uh… I mean, I’m curious, so yeah,” you admit, a little more at ease with the lack of actual upbraiding. He’s done exactly what the little ‘flimsy’ said would happen-- discussion of your work, and solutions to improve it. I might get even more work done even on days I don’t have migraines, if no one’s able to distract me.
He seems to consider a moment.
“Ask.”
You blink.
“What--? Oh, uh…. What do you want me to ask about--?” Oh shit. Social jumpscare error 404: what the fuck do I do now?!
“Whatever you want to ask. I am curious what data you are after.”
You give a nervous laugh.
“I mean… Everything’s interesting,” you admit, gesturing at him. “I’m talking to someone who’s from not just a different culture from me, but a whole different planet. I uh, I’m not really up for a for-fun conversation though, sorry. My head hurts. If we’re done with business, I’d really like to just go and rest,” you admit, metaphorically shooting yourself in the foot because you feel like you just wasted an amazing opportunity. He’d left the table wide-open for you to place any cards down.
Why do you turn into a police car? What’s the difference between Energon and the Hi-grade I keep hearing about? How tall are you? Can you really lift a whole building up? Is Cybertron like Earth with rotating seasons, or does it stay the same all year-round? Does Cybertron have years?
“...Of course. Dismissed,” he states, and his gaze drops back down to his desk as Prowl immediately lifts a tablet up, and the door behind you hisses open.
Nothing left to keep you here, you flee.