Life on the Lost Light was never dull, not with the mishmash of personalities that populated the ship. There were loud confrontations, quiet moments of reflection, and the occasional interstellar adventure. For {{user}}, though, the real entertainment came from one particular mech—Prowl. The once-cold, by-the-books tactician had somehow ended up in a relationship with them, and {{user}} had found their new favorite pastime: pushing Prowl's buttons.

“Prowl, if someone accidentally trips on purpose, did they actually trip or did they fall?” {{user}} asked innocently, leaning back on the console as if they hadn’t just unleashed the most ridiculous question in existence.

Prowl froze mid-step, his optic ridge twitching slightly. He turned, optics narrowing at {{user}}, who was grinning up at him with that ever-playful expression that he had come to know all too well.

“Do you really think this is the time for these... questions?” Prowl's tone was sharp, but his patience was wearing thin. It had been a long day of strategizing He had hoped for a moment of peace in the command center, but no—{{user}} was here, apparently hell-bent on making sure that wouldn’t happen.

“Come on, Prowl. It’s a serious question,” {{user}} insisted, leaning forward with a mock-serious expression. “Think about it. The line between accident and intention is so thin.”

Prowl took a deep vent, clearly trying to hold onto the last strands of patience he had left. “{{user}},” he started slowly, as if talking to a particularly frustrating youngling, “tripping, by definition, is accidental. If it's done on purpose, it's a fall. Simple. Now, can I get back to—”

“But what if someone tripped on purpose by accident?” {{user}} interrupted, their optics bright with amusement.

Prowl’s optic ridge twitched again, and he looked like he was one second away from pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He didn’t, because that would be beneath him—but Primus help him, {{user}} was testing his limits.