#prowl is in the middle of a custody battle

[compaculaaa]

For the Shattered Glass version of this AU (since people have mentioned it already), what's the ninja fam like?

JUST AS TOXIC!!!!!

[hellyesalex]

In my AU before getting divorced and entering the second most unhinged custody battle known to history (the first one was Prowl and Tarantulas in the middle of the war, THERE IS A PATTERN HERE, PROWL), detective and ballistic expert Prowl and second lieutenant Barricade were partners who conjunxed the moment they were able, both being young bots who got some autonomy and because of the Codexa's Laws were able to rent an habsuite and had two sparklings, Bluestreak and Smokescreen.

Unfortunately the INCIDENT (Barricade's demotion after being indicted and prosecuted for corruption and use of extorsion using his position as office, which was discovered, investigated and reported by Prowl) made both LOATHE each other and made Barricade become the most divorced mech after Sentinel Prime.

One day I'll post the informative text abt this AU and the fanfics I have of it, i legit love it like my firstborn son.

[anon-e-miss]

I really want an au where Prowl and Jazz meet while Prowl is in the middle of a divorce and custody battle with Trantulus

Ya want Prowl just with Springer or with another bitty in the oven? Or Springer, another bitty and one in the oven?

I'm open to suggestions

[the-penny-dreadfuls]

Donna Sue Davis was considered “the darling of the neighborhood”. That, in fact, is what everyone called her. The happy baby was adored by those living in Sioux City, Iowa and was especially beloved to her family. It was hard not to love Donna Sue. With her blonde curly lochs and sparkling blue eyes, she looked every bit of a living Kader baby doll. At twenty-one months, Donna Sue was the youngest of James and Mary Davis’ three children. They lived together on the first floor a neat, white duplex on Isabella Street. It was considered the ideal place to raise a family. Carefree children would run up and down the streets under their mothers’ watchful eyes. Summertime had always been considered a favorite season due to its jovial nature, but the summer of 1955 would change the neighborhood forever.

On the night of July 10th, 1955 Mary Davis tucked Donna Sue into bed. She placed some favorite toys - a teddy bear, a doll, and a red purse - inside the crib just in case the baby woke and needed comfort. Donna Sue was never far from her mother, though, as the crib was set at foot of her parents’ bed. After kissing her daughter goodnight, Mary opened the bedroom window in hopes of catching a breeze amidst the sweltering temperatures. Then, she goes to the living room to sit with her husband while she reads the paper.

Just after 9:30 PM George Berger, the Davis’ neighbor, notices a man cut through the hedges at the Davis house. It was dark, and too difficult to see exactly what the man was doing, but he seemed to be walking along the South side of the house. For a few short minutes the man disappears. Berger is about to brush off the incident when the man reappears. He walks across the yard in a hunched over position, now carrying a bundle in his hands. Berger is not the only neighbor to see him. Mr. and Mrs. Fjeldos, the couple living behind the Davis family, is alerted by the loud barking of their dog. Mrs. Fjeldos turns on their back yard light to see what all of the ruckus is about. The light reveals a strange man creeping down their alley way. Quickly, she alerts her husband, who goes after the man with a flashlight. The stranger tries to hide behind some bushes, but does not manage to escape. Mr. Fjeldos passes the flashlight off to his wife while he runs back inside to alert the police. Before the police can arrive, the man jolts through the alley, with Mr. Fjeldos right on his heels, and runs a block before he once again disappears into some bushes. He is never seen again.

A worn out Fjeldos returned to his home. He was standing outside, still waiting for the police to arrive, when a crowd of curious neighbors began to gather. Fjeldos was in the middle of telling them what had just happened when he was interrupted by a shrill scream. “My baby is gone!”

At 9:40 PM Mary Davis returned to her bedroom to check on Donna Sue. All she found was an empty crib. She and James search through the room just in case Donna Sue managed to climb out, but the baby was nowhere to be seen. What they did discover was the screen to the bedroom window was completely removed. James bolted downstairs to report the kidnapping.

Several other neighbors reported seeing a white male skulking around the neighborhood that night, but none were able to give a clear description of the suspect. He was believed to be in his 30’s, of average height, and wearing a white shirt with khacki pants. A man fitting this description was was seen by a Sioux citizen as he was driving near a motel. He passes a man in a white shirt and khaki pants standing by a black Charlovet van beside the road. In his arms was a baby. The scene was rather unusually considering it was past 10 PM, but the man drove on without giving it a second thought. He was not aware of the significance of that moment until he learned about the kidnapping. He was, however, able to remember the car had a Nebraska license plate.

A massive search carried out all of Sioux City. Everyone was desperate to help. Despite the tireless work of the police officers and many volunteers, little Donna Sue was not returned home. That afternoon a farmer by the name of Ernest Oehlerking was heading to Sioux City when a bright pink garment lying in the ditch caught his eye. Oehlerking stopped his tractor and got out to investigate. It was a pair of small pajama bottoms with a pair of rubber pants. Immediately, Oehlerking cancels his trip and hurries back home to alert the authorities. It would be his wife that would find Donna Sue. During the late afternoon of July 11th, 1955 Ernest’s wife, Genevieve, set out with Florence, her sister-in-law, set in their cars to search the area of William Oehlerking’s farm. With their daughters in tow, the drove along the road while keeping a sharp eye for another possible clue to the baby’s disappearance. The temperature that day blazed up to 96 degrees, but the women were determined to help a fellow mother, who was braving a nightmare miles away.

The quiet concentration is broken when one of the girls screams. Through sobs, she frantically tells the other passengers that she saw the baby’s body on the edge of a cornfield. They pull over to investigate. The girl was right; there, lying amongst broken corn stalks, was Donna Sue’s battered body. It takes only a glance for the Oehlerkings to know little Donna Sue had not died peacefully. Her body and face was littered with bruises, many of which are centered near her eyes. The pink pajama top that her mother had put on just the night before was wound tightly around her neck. The autopsy report would later reveal more grim and horrific details. In addition to the beating, the one-year-old suffered from a broken jaw. There were multiple cigarette burns on her buttocks, and she had been raped. The final cause of death was ruled as blunt force trauma. Investigators believed that the murderer threw Donna Sue out of his car as he drove away. The impact from the body broke several cornstalks. By the time she was found, Donna Sue had been dead nearly twelve hours when she was found.

Quickly, Genevieve and the children drove home to call the police. Florence remained in the cornfield, waiting, beside Donna Sue. She tore up a paper sack that she found nearby, and used it to cover up the baby in attempt to salvage her some dignity.

Once the case became a homicide the FBI became involved. Six federal agents were brought into investigate. J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI director at that time, made a public comment that, although simple, perfectly summarized the feelings of those in Sioux City. “Get him!”

Days after Donna Sue’s body being recovered, investigators interviewed several men that fit the description of the man who was seen prowling around the Davis’ neighborhood. One of these men were Otto Wennekamp, a thirty-year-old, who sometimes worked as a farm hand. He was taken in for questioning on July 13th after he attempted to trade in his car for a rental. An employee at the car rental business noticed that there were cigarette burns on the dashboard of Wennekamp’s car, and promptly contacted the police. Wennekamp was interviewed by FBI agents, but was ruled out as a suspect by his air tight alibi.

Because the case had become incredibly well known to the public, investigators received an overflow of tips. There were also confessions. A drifter appeared at the police department and began to tell officers how he killed Donna Sue. While his confession was disturbing, a further investigation proved that the drifter was in another state where he was working at carnival. He later recanted his confession.

A break in the case occurred six months later on December 10th, 1955. Thirty-two-year-old Virgil Vance was arrested for intoxication and disorderly conduct in Reno, Nevada. While in custody Vance, an Iowan native, told police that he had raped and murdered a little girl during the previous summer after stealing a car. The confession shared some strikingly similar details to what happened to Donna Sue. The FBI met with him, but just as it was with the drifter Vance changed his story. He was officially cleared as a suspect on December 20th.

After the summer of 1956 leads lessened and the case went cold. James and Mary Davis would not live to see justice for their baby girl. James passed away in 1996 at the age of seventy-nine. Mary passed away after a long battle of illness on February 13th, 2006. She was eighty seven-years-old. As of September 2018th the murder of Donna Sue Davis remains unsolved.

Photos from the Sioux City Journal

[anon-e-miss]

A Matter of Convenience 3

Prowl fuelled at sunrise. It was not a matter of pleasure or comfort but of necessity. He had been unable to recharge. Images of his brothers, the knowledge of his inadequacy had haunted his dark-cycle. Energon alone would not sustain him forever. Sooner, rather than later his systems would succumb to exhaustion, but not yet. They would have landed in Praxus, joors ago. Would they call him, beg him to come get him? Would Barricade even allow them to make the call?

When he discovered that the mechlings' trusts were tied up with more conditions and red tape than he could ever have imagined, would he return them? That might have been Prowl's best hope to regain custody. Barricade would have no access to the brothers' inheritance, and the eldest brother knew from seeing both the wills of his progenitor and his progenitor's second Conjunx Endura that what of progenitor's estate that remained after his widower's death had all gone to Smokescreen and Bluestreak. The high life Barricade had come used to loving was done. He could not touch their funds, not even on the auspices of housing the mechlings. Crosscut had been an excellent lawyer, there was no wiggle room in his will.

Barricade would not want to pay for the mechlings' care out of his own diminished funds. The mech had held no real job since bonding to Sideways. Those get rich scams he had run which had allowed him to call himself an entrepreneur had never paid a single credit. He had a small inheritance from Flash, but nothing that would allow him to live in comfort, not in less he wanted to work.

It was a beacon of hope but it did not burn bright in the disgraced Enforcer. He was not a mech who leaned towards optimism, not in the slightest. Barricade could do considerable harm to his brothers, before he gave up on stealing their inheritance. Bluestreak had blossomed, so had Smokescreen but it would be easy for both to fall back into self-destructive behaviours. If Barricade raised a servo to Bluestreak, Smokescreen would not hold back, and the eldest brother did not believer their step-progenitor was capable of restraint.

He needed to protect them. He had failed to protect them already but Prowl could not leave them to Barricade's mercy. There was only one thing the Praxian could think to do but to relocate back to Praxus. It would cost a fortune, a fortune Prowl did not have but he had survived on little, and his savings were not non-existent. All he really needed was the cost of a flight, or several tanks worth of fuel.

For the remainder of the light-cycle Prowl calculated costs, and researched his options. It became clear almost immediately that driving was out of the question. Whatever route he took, he would have to cross through the territory of the Crystal City, and that would require an expensive visa that was onerous to get at all. Fuel costs in the area were high, the demand on his frame would be higher still. Even if he chose to skip the motels and recharge in his alt-mode, outside, it was still absolutely cost and time prohibitive. That only left a flight. While not at all cheap, a standby ticket was not outside his limits, and if he was able to avoid Enforcer patrols Prowl would be able to avoid the cost of booking a motel while he looked for more permanent housing.

Avoiding those patrols would not be too difficult, the former Enforcer had driven them himself. Transiency was illegal in Praxus. Those too poor to house themselves, or suffering from addictions or mental illness were housed in Institutes, or workhouses, and they paid the cost of their living through what amounted to forced labour. The lucky poor were those who lived in the colourfully painted ghetto. Tourists found the facades charming, but they were only that, facades, and the interiors of those too small homes were anything but charming.

There was a knock at the door, startling Prowl from his calculations. He had no friends, so of course he was not expecting visitors. Cheap as it was, the motel was not so cheap as to have no security, and when the Praxian turned on the monitor, he found that his guests were a pair of Enforcers. Why? These were not mechanisms from his former precinct, and they were not metaforensics, or Prowl would have seen them at one of the many conferences or planning sessions he had attended in the vorns. So what did they want with him? His brothers were safe, his spark was certain of this, so why?

“Prowl of Praxus?” The femme asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “How can I help you.”

“It’s been reported that your minor brothers failed to arrive in Praxus...” She explained. Prowl did not let her finish.

“What are you talking about?” The Praxian demanded. His doorwings shot up on his back, and his helm spun. “They’re flight was scheduled to land this time yester-cycle. How are you only coming to speak to me now?”

“They were only reported missing a joor ago,” The mech of the pair explained.

“A joor ago?” Prowl asked. “That mech only reported it a joor ago? I helped them check their bags, and saw them through security. Have you checked the Hub? They could be anyware! They have been gone over the dark-cycle!”

“We’ll be headed to the Hub next,” the femme Enforcer said. Her tone, and stance suggested she was trying to placate him. Prowl resisted the urge to scream.

“Check my room, and get out and look for them,” he ordered, voice low. “They could have been taken! By anyone! Do you know the rate of sparkling trafficking? Hubs are the epicentre of that epidemic.”

He was not surprised when the Enforcers did exactly as he had said. They stepped passed Prowl when he moved to the side, and into the small room. The femme walked immediately to the washracks as the mech checked under the berths, and in the closet. It took the two only a klik to confirm what the Praxian was speaking the truth. His brothers were not here. Prowl knew they would asked for surveillance footage from the front desk, and he did not care, he knew the footage would support what he said. His plating flared as he watched them finish their search.

“We’ll be in touch,” the femme said. “We have resource at work, looking for your brothers.”

“I have seen how well those resources are used,” Prowl replied, coldly. “You will have to forgive me if I do not have the most faith.”

The femme gave him an odd look, but did not linger. Been snippy with Enforcers was not a crime in Iacon, though that did not make it the wisest thing. Thankfully, these Enforcers were more concerned with their investigation than an agitated family member, and the Enforcers left Prowl less than a bream after they had arrived. He could not stop himself from panicking. Could Barricade have lied? Could he be playing a con, a scam? Or had Smokescreen run off with Bluestreak? Prowl took a slow invented and tried him comms. Smokescreen’s were off, and a nanoklik later he found the same was true of Bluestreak’s.

Prowl forced down his fear, and forced himself to think. Smokescreen had not put up nearly enough of a fight. His cooperation had been a trick. Where the eldest brother had thought the youngling had been willing to hope, and to wait for Prowl to improve the situation, the opposite was obviously the case. Rather than fly back to Praxus, the youngling had taken their sparkling brother and disappeared. Where could they have gone? Primus, they had been gone over the dark-cycle. Something could have happened to them, someone could have taken them. He could not wait for the Enforcers to find them, had no faith that they would. And only a couple of nanokliks after the Enforcers had left, Prowl ran from his motel room and into the streets.

Fear may have flooded his every circuit, but it did not cloud his processor. He forced himself to think, and to focus. Smokescreen and Bluestreak had a few favourites places... The park. The raceway. The shopping district. The Artisan district. Prowl had taken them to the park, but not for a long time. It had been so much Smokescreen’s responsibility to see to it that the their younger brother was entertained. Obsessed with providing for them, struggling to make a place for himself in the Enforcers, Prowl had worked fiendish joors, and even on his ‘cycles off, he had still spend at least a good portion of this time working. This explained why he could not immediately guess where they would have gone.

There was an unexpected ping through his comms, and Prowl’s spark surged with hope, only to deflate quickly. It was not Smokescreen’s ID, and it was not one he recognized. If someone had taken them... Prowl had to credits to pay a ransom. Before he could crash there, in the middle of the street, the Praxian forced himself to calm. If this was a kidnapper, the only thing he could do to save his brothers was to keep his helm.

- “Prowl,” he said as he accepted the stranger’s requested.

- “Hiya, ya don’t know me, the designation’s Jazz,” the mental voice was accented, to Prowl’s audials, but the same could be said for his. “Y’re brothers spent the dark-cycle at my place. They’re friends with my creations... Smokescreen gave me a bit o’ the run down on what’s goin’ on, I thought ya’d better come ‘n get’em.”

“Where...” Prowl was unable to complete his question as he was struck in the side, and off his peds.

The comm went dead as he raised his servos to defend himself. Someone pulled him upright, and held him up as another punched him hard in the midsection, and chassis. He struggled against the arms restraining him, but pain and exhaustion had slowed his reflexes. Even as his best, these were formidable odds to face. Still, the former Enforcer did not give up. His tactical systems roared into pull power and he felt nothing of the beating  he was facing. Prowl went limp, as a plan formed in his battle computer. As he did, the servos holding him loosened, and he struck out.

Vision distorted by the first blow to his helm, Prowl relied on his other sensors to find his target. The colours just about blurred together, before it cleared. Seekers, again. He curled up, let them think he was helpless, and then struck out with a well aimed ped. He landed a kick just above one attacker’s knee and the mech fell with a scream. There was no way the Praxian was going to win. He just needed to survive long enough for someone to come across the fight. Mechs like these would not want witnesses. Another attacker was on him the very next instant. Breathing into the former Enforcer’s audials, as he held Prowl’s head up by his chevron, the large mech grabbed the Praxian’s right doorwing and wrenched it down, dislocating it with a horrifying pop.

“Darkwing was right,” the mech said. “You got some fight, Praxian. Time to beg for forgiveness. You messed with business you don’t understand.”

“Let’m go,” a new voice ordered, from somewhere behind them. It was not knew though. It sounded like that comm...

“Mind your own business, groundpounder,” the Seeker holding Prowl sneered. “Before you get hurt.

“Says the scrap with his servos full,” Jazz, the mech had called himself, replied. “Meanwhile I got a blaster trained on yer stupid helm. Turn ‘round, slowly. Lower the Praxian to the ground, gently. I see ya jerkin’ him ‘round I might just shoot ya outta spite.”

The mech obeyed. Prowl managed to summon enough energy and concentration to put an arm in front of himself, guarded his helm as he fell to the ground.His attacker fled, heavy pedsteps, the sound of a transformation sequence and then thrusters roaring as the Seeker flew to safety. It was a struggled but Prowl was able to raise his helm and look over his shoulder. His other attackers had already fled. Maybe when this mech first game upon them? This mech was at his side a nanoklik later, Prowl let his helm droop.

“Y’re a wreck, ain’t ya?” Jazz said. “Don’t worry, got  help on the way.”

“Your are Jazz,” Prowl hissed through clenched denta.

“I am,” the mech replied, and he knelt in front of Prowl. It was not intentional but as the injured mech collapsed, he collapsed into the stranger’s arms. Sirens screeched in the distance. “Don’t worry, Prowl. Help’s comin’.”