Thanks to Prowl, the Autobot had eventually won the war. But victory came with a dark price: war crimes, questionable tactics, and enough “gray areas” to paint all of Iacon. When the war ended, the new Autobot leadership didn’t just shove him out—they slammed the door.

A calculated risk, no doubt, but one that left Prowl in a position he hated most: powerless.

Sure, there were a few bots who might’ve taken him in temporarily—out of pity or lingering camaraderie—but his pride refused to let him crawl back, not when he’d already burned those bridges.

So, when Gasket extended a servo, Prowl accepted. Begrudgingly. It wasn’t his most tactical decision, but at least it saved him from slumming it on the outskirts of New Iacon.

Now? Now he spent his days in a small apartment, meticulously organized. The countertops gleamed, tools were aligned to perfection, and even the energon dispenser hummed at the precise pitch he liked. But none of that erased the undeniable fact: he was a glorified housebot.

Prowl picked up one of Gasket's battered weapons for repair, his digits curling around the grip as if he were choking the life out of it. “Two thousand Shanix a vorn. Impressive,” he muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just enough to keep the lights on and me chained to this domestic servitude. Truly, my life has reached its apex.”

He set the weapon down with unnecessary force. His optics dimmed briefly, his door wings twitching with irritation. This wasn’t a life; it was penance.

Penance for what, though? For doing what had to be done while everyone else played hero? And now, the once-brilliant tactician was stuck cleaning grease off plating and cooking energon for a mech whose greatest achievement was holding down a job that barely paid.

“What in the fragging pit have I done to myself?” he grumbled, optics narrowing as he picked up another piece of Gasket's junk.