Blood Ties - Nomenclature (Part 1 of 2)
“Papa! Papa Prow’! Up!”
“You know, there was a time when I feared you would never speak.”
“Up! Up, plee!”
Prowl crouched down eye-to-eye with Stormhunter. “Stormy, say ‘Uncle Prowl’ for me.”
“Unc’ Prow’.”
“Close enough.”
He settled her on his hip and returned to scrubbing dishes. Over the past half a year, he had learned to do a surprising number of chores one-handed.
Stormy happily curled her fingers and toes in his clothing, as usual. She reached out to pop a few escaping bubbles and giggled.
“You have a father, Stormhunter,” said Prowl. “I will love you and care for you as long as I am able, but I don’t deserve that name. It is disrespectful to your real papa.”
She looked up, troubled by his solemn tone. Then she patted his cheek with soapy fingers.
“I appreciate your concern.”
“Love ya,” she said.
And there went all his resolve to correct her - for now. “I love you, too.”
When he had finished the dishes and set her down again, she occupied herself with a stack of blocks in the living room while he finished getting ready for the day. He could hear her babbling in the other room as he put on his uniform. It eased his mind a little. In spite of his worries, Stormy had turned into a regular chatterbox.
Her vocabulary was expanding daily, both in the common language and traditional avian. She was also an uncanny mimic. Some of her words and phrases were spoken with a slight drawl that Prowl was willing to bet was her father’s. Others had Jazz’s Polyhexian accent or Prowl’s own careful diction. She could laugh like Jazz, too - a talent that never failed to amuse the coyote. Sometimes they would set each other off while playing and it would sound as though Jazz had been doubled.
It wouldn’t have been unusual for him to be there, but Jazz was already on shift. Even though Prowl was perfectly capable of getting himself and Stormhunter up and fed and dressed in the mornings he would never refuse an extra set of eyes. There were times when Stormy was too fearless for her own good.
He headed back to the living room and found Stormy cooing at one of her babydolls in a falsetto that made his heart twist a bit. It was a near perfect imitation of Tempest’s voice.
“Are you ready, baby girl?”
“Where?”
“I am going to work and you are going to the nursery.”
“See Jazz?”
“Mister Jazz,” Prowl sighed. “You’ll probably see him. He has to work today.”
In Prowl and Stormhunter’s Epic Battle of the Names, relatives were referred to as such and everyone else was a mister or miss. Well, that’s what Prowl strived for. Jazz didn’t care for formality and objected to the “mister” bit in front of his name. At least until Prowl asked if he’d prefer “miss” instead.
Naming himself “Uncle Prowl” had been Jazz’s suggestion, since Prowl was uncomfortable having her call him “father” when she already had a father. (“‘Second-cousin-once-removed-on-my-mother’s-side Prowl’ is a bit of a mouthful, ya know,” Jazz had smirked just before he was cuffed on the head.)
Stormy took a simpler approach - Prowl was “Papa” or “Papa Prowl” in spite of all his efforts to the contrary and anyone else might be “mister” or “aunt” or any arbitrary mix depending on her whim. Jazz just seemed to confuse her. She dropped the honorific so much that Prowl suspected Jazz was secretly encouraging her to do so. When she wasn’t being rudely informal, she alternated between calling him “mister” and “uncle.” Prowl secretly hoped she’d start using feminine honorifics, if only because it would encourage Jazz to correct her.
But in spite of that battle, Stormhunter was a remarkably well-behaved toddler. When he called her, she headed for him but then turned back to grab her doll and supervised while he packed it in her bag. Once sure her toy was safe, she curled against his chest and chattered brightly about whatever struck her fancy as they headed out the door.
ooo
Talking with Stormy after breakfast quickly became the highlight of his day. Second Tactician Prowl of Praxus’ 42nd precinct had too many projects to plan, too many people to talk to, too much paperwork to wade through, and not enough time to do any of it. Whether his foundling called him “papa” or “uncle” was the least of his problems.
But Stormy’s presence had had at least one positive effect on his life, at least according to those who accused him of being a workaholic - when Prowl’s shift was over, he finished up the report he was almost ready to submit and then left his desk. The path from his office to the nursery was through a maze of twisting corridors that united a compound of municipal buildings. He nodded politely to the people he encountered on his way even though his mind was already on collecting Stormy and reaching the sanctuary of their home.
He reached the nursery and leaned over the half-door to scan the cluttered, colorful room for his cub. One of the workers took pity on him and approached with a smile.
“Has Jazz stolen her out from under my nose again?” Prowl asked. It wouldn’t be unusual.
She laughed. “I wouldn’t doubt it, but let me check.”
Prowl absently calculated where Jazz and Stormy were likely to be while she consulted a data pad.
“Actually -” Prowl looked up sharply at her odd tone. She was frowning at the pad. “- it says she was checked out by . . . your cousin?”
ooo
Planning Room Number 1138 was a scene of quiet chaos.
Arcee, a no-nonsense pronghorn transformer who oversaw the childcare center, was looming over an unlucky nursery worker in the corner. Red Alert the hare was so wound up with nervous tension that he became a caricature of his species as he reviewed the security vids. Smokescreen shuffled through the data pads on the desk and muttered to himself.
Under normal circumstances, Prowl would be micromanaging - a soft warning to Arcee to back off, a calming hand on Red’s shoulder, a stack of organized notes for Smokey. It was what had endeared him to his superiors and allowed for his quick rise through the rankings, but at the moment he couldn’t be bothered to care. The nursery worker deserved berating for allowing an unauthorized adult to check Stormy out. Red Alert should be frantic; he had a lot of vid files to look over so he could track Stormy’s progress out of the buildings. Smokescreen could deal with his notes while Prowl was busy looking over his own.
“S-sirs!” said Red Alert. When Prowl and Smokescreen had taken their places to look over his shoulders at the phalanx of screens, he continued. “She came in here -” He pointed to one of the screens. Prowl recognized Slipstream and couldn’t help a quiet growl. Red flinched. “She - she approached the front desk -” Another screen. “And then went down to the nursery. Stormhunter was signed out at - at 16:23. They left through the south entrance.” They tracked their progress through the videos until they were beyond the range of Red’s cameras.
“H-here’s the last know coordinates.” Red Alert handed Smokey a data pad.
“Have you contacted the trackers?” Smokescreen asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Prowl. “Twelve minutes ago.”
“Then where -”
The opening door interrupted him. To Prowl’s surprise, Jazz strode in at the heels of an unfamiliar man. Smokey smiled tightly at the stranger as he greeted him.
“Good to see you, Hound. We’ll be needing your help.”
Hound jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “My team is staging up and collecting the scent samples now, sir. I came to get our starting point.” He had a quiet demeanor and a friendly face with sad brown eyes that reminded Prowl too much of Stormy. He took a sudden, irrational liking to the tracker.
Smokey beckoned Hound over and began going over the details of Red’s data pad. Jazz stepped up and bumped his shoulder against Prowl’s.
“I don’t recall requesting an undercover agent,” Prowl murmured as he turned back his notes.
“Yeah, and ya didn’t tell me about all this.” He glared with one yellow-green eye. “Which we will talk about later.”
“Jazz -”
“Later.”
“Jazz, here.” Prowl handed him the copy he’d made of his notes.
“Thanks,” Jazz grunted.
He was thumbing through them when Hound and Smokescreen approached.
“Hound said you’d volunteered to help his team, Jazz,” said Smokescreen.
“Yeah,” Jazz said. “It’s been two years since my last tracking training.”
Smokescreen nodded and handed him another data pad. “We’ve already signed off on it. They’re staging up at the south entrance.”
Jazz nodded back and followed Hound to the door. Smokescreen cleared his throat meaningfully when Prowl moved to follow. He wheeled to fix his superior with a steely glare.
Smokescreen sighed. “Be safe.”
Prowl nodded and turned on his heel.
As laidback as Hound seemed, he was a man on a mission. He led them through the halls at a brisk pace, taking shortcuts Prowl doubted most people knew about. The rest of his team met them in a narrow hallway behind the kitchens. He made the introductions without slowing.
“Prowl, Jazz, this is Creosote -” He nodded to a stocky woman with bristly gray hair. “- and Westerly.” He indicated a man who, if his bright golden eyes and pale skin were any indication, was most likely an avian of some sort.
“Drumbolt and Mercury will rendezvous at the south entrance,” said Creosote.
“Good,” Hound nodded, then, “Right, I almost forgot . . .” He rummaged around the various pockets of his coat and pulled out two silvery charms. “They’ve got locators as well as communicators,” he said as he handed one to Prowl and one to Jazz. “Follow my lead and stay close,” he added when they reached the door.
They nodded in tandem. While Prowl technically outranked Hound, he was also out of his element and smart enough to know it.
Jazz clipped his charm to his ear and Prowl hung his on his collar as the others transformed. Creosote, in the form of a javelina, immediately put her nose to the ground. Westerly shot for the clouds in his osprey beast form and buffeted them all with the wind from his wings. Prowl was surprised to see that Hound’s nickname was more literal than he had thought. The tracker’s beast form was a long-eared dog with slate-blue speckles and spots. He politely sniffed both of them when they transformed.
“Everyone hear me okay?” Hound asked.
The chorus of affirmations in Prowl’s head was disconcerting. He rarely used communicator charms. Jazz seemed unfazed by it, meandering around with his nose to the ground like Hound and the sow.
“We are here, as well,” said a pair of unfamiliar voices, making Prowl twitch.
A horse and rider pair rounded the corner. Both were in full uniform - black shirt and slacks for the man in human form and black-and-white caparisons for the stallion in natural form.
“Good,” said Hound, wagging his tail. “We wouldn’t get very far without an escort this time of day, I reckon.”
“I think I’ve got it,” said Creosote.
Jazz and Hound hurried over to sniff of the same spot.
“Yeah,” said Jazz tightly. “That’s Stormy.”
They cast about until Hound picked up the trail. Or at least that’s what Prowl assumed they were doing. As far as he could tell, the dog had picked a random direction and the others fell in place behind him. They trotted down the narrow side street, cut down an alley and headed for a busy thoroughfare. The white tip of Hound’s tail was waving jauntily.
Prowl was certain that they’d lose the scent or get trampled (or both) but Drumbolt and Mercury edged in front of Hound. The general populace was in a hurry to get home, but the horse towered over those in beast form and his partner sat tall on his back. The crowd parted around them like water in a stream eddying around a rock.
Praxus was a city of marble and steel. Its skyscrapers and parks brought to mind its sister city of Vos. Just as Vos was a city of winged raptors, Praxus was founded by their groundbound kin. Especially here in the older districts of the city, the buildings were elegant and the streets were broad. Some of the newer cities might prefer automobiles, but in Praxus everyone traveled by foot or public train. It was inconvenient at times, but for the moment Prowl could only count his blessings and hope that Slipstream hadn’t boarded a train.
He followed the trackers, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. His eyes were nearly as sharp as the osprey’s but he felt rather useless on the ground in a pack of scent trackers. He fell back and let his natural black and white coloring serve as a sort of rearguard escort.
The trackers were oblivious to the throng around them and intent of the scent trail. It led them in a meandering path deeper into a part of town Prowl doubted Slipstream would visit often. Though certainly not the roughest side of town, his cousin would be much more comfortable in her nice, clean flat than on the dirty streets her path went. When it led them to the front of a grimy hostel, Prowl was sure there’d been a mistake.
Or he was until Slipstream bowled Jazz over. To the trackers’ credit, she seemed more surprised to see them than they were to see her. She was in her beast form - not natural form, thankfully, otherwise Jazz would have had some rather serious injuries after being kicked and stepped on. As it was, he popped up again with a snarl and lunged for her throat. She kicked him over and wheeled to block Hound’s leap. She was slowed by a satchel hanging against her chest, its weight obviously pulling her off balance, but she was still fast enough to slam her head into Hound’s chest and knock him sprawling. The rider - either Drumbolt or Mercury, Prowl wasn’t sure which was which - shouted something, but his mount squealed and twisted away when she swiped with her talons. The sow narrowly avoided Stream’s deadly kick.
“Stop!” Prowl shouted.
Jazz checked and Hound hesitated. Slipstream’s head snapped up, crest flaring, and she glared around at them. She rocked from side to side with her back to the wall, scanning the little half-circle of trackers. The satchel squirmed. Jazz stretched out his neck to smell of it but he jerked away from her talons. She wrapped her arms around the satchel and spread her feathers as if to hide it. Creosote nosed Hound to his feet.
“Slipstream,” said Drumbolt - Mercury - whatever his name was, “you are wanted by the city of Praxus for the abduction of a minor. Transform and surrender yourself.”
Stream wasn’t convinced. She hissed at him, then feinted at Hound and jumped over Creosote. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she was streaking away.
Prowl wheeled and shot after her. He might not have been much of a tracker, but he could run. He quickly outpaced the others and snapped at Stream’s tail. There were muted voices in his head, Westerly talking to the others, but he wasn’t addressed directly and so ignored them.
Slipstream was fast but she was also desperate. She zigzagged, cut corners and turned without any obvious plan. Prowl was aware of the others falling farther and farther behind, but he occupied himself with figuring out how to catch her without hurting Stormy. He considered using his much larger natural form to physically gab her, but transforming would only encourage her to do the same and he dared not risk the subsequent exhaustion. If she turned around and fought him, he would be at a disadvantage, too. She was larger and stronger than he, and obviously less concerned for Stormy’s safety.
She drifted left towards the dark mouth of an alley but swerved away again when Hound lunged out of it barking and snarling like pitspawn. Prowl yanked out a mouthful of feathers from the end of her tail, but that little pain didn’t slow her much. She pulled ahead of him again, aiming for another alley. A pitch black form detached itself from the shadows and drove her away again. Prowl trilled a thanks to Jazz as he passed. He could hear hoofbeats clattering down another side street. Sure enough, the horse charged directly into Slipstream’s path. She ducked into an alley with Prowl nipping at her heels.
It was narrow, damp, and dark. Slimy moss was creeping up the moldering bricks. Prowl tried not to think about the oily puddles he ran through. He focused only on Slipstream and the dead-end of the alley littered with trash. He fell back a little when she slowed and turned, her tail painting a streak of red on a crumbling wall. She was panting and wild-eyed. Her head jerked back and forth, searching for an escape that wasn’t there.
Prowl heard the click-a-tick of claws on stone as the canines approached. He risked a glance back to see the horse and rider at the mouth of the alley, ready to block her if she somehow managed to get past all three of them. Westerly swept down onto the parapet of a building and half-folded his wings, poised to leap at any moment.
“Sure you don’t want to surrender?” the rider called.
Slipstream ignored him. She straightened and held herself tall with a flared crest and glared at Prowl. It went against all of his instincts to ignore that dominant posture, to flare his own crest and crouch down with a threatening growl. He would not submit; he would challenge and fight if need be, taboo or not. She faltered in surprise and that was all it took.
Stream fell to her knees when Hound slammed into her hip and a spotty cub tumbled out of her satchel. She grabbed at Stormhunter, paying no heed to Hound half draped over her back and Jazz closing his jaws on her neck. Stormy twisted and sank her small, sharp teeth into Stream’s outstretched hand. The raptor responded furiously, but Prowl was already moving. He caught her snout before she could touch the cub. She thrashed, kicking and shrieking, but he hung on grimly, even when he heard Jazz yelp in pain. He didn’t even see Creosote, only felt her stiff fur brush against his leg, but Slipstream went very still when tusks parted the feathers on her throat. He gave her a rough shake for good measure before he let her go and turned away.
Stormy was huddled against the far wall. A trill bubbled up in Prowl’s throat and she answered with a sobbing yowl. She scrambled towards him and flung herself in a heap at his feet. He crouched down and wrapped him arms around her, hiding her trembling form in the tent of his feathers. She huddled against his chest with her nose buried in his neck. Little puppy cries were muffled in his feathers. The thrumming of her heart was practically a vibration against his chest. He continued to croon and trill until she calmed.
When Prowl looked up again, Jazz was sitting with his back to him. His fur was streaked with mud and blood and bristling in a sharp ridge down his spine. The others had all vanished. Prowl spared a moment to be horrified that he’d tuned out his surroundings so thoroughly, but then Stormy leaned against him with a little sigh. Jazz cocked an ear backwards but didn’t turn. Prowl transformed, gathered up his cub, and put a hand on his friend’s withers.
“Thank you.”
>>> Part II