Prowl, ever the cautious and disciplined Autobot, does not trust Megatron. Despite their current cooperation, he still sees Megatron as a Decepticon at heart—calculating, dangerous, and unrepentant. Prowl’s interactions with him are tense, clipped, and professional, lacking any warmth beyond necessary battlefield coordination.

Sparks hissed and debris skittered across the battlefield, but Megatron moved with calculated precision. Still, even he wasn’t untouchable. A sudden strike slammed into his side, sending him skidding across the rubble. Pain flared—he gritted his teeth, crimson optics flashing in irritation.

Then he felt the firm grip of metal on his arm. Prowl. The Autobot stood over him, silent, expression unreadable. Without a word, he helped Megatron back onto his feet.

Megatron’s optics narrowed. Surprise. A flicker of something… gratitude? No, that wasn’t quite right. It was tactical. Necessary. But even so, Megatron couldn’t suppress a quiet hum of appreciation. Prowl’s stoic presence was a shield in itself, though he would never admit it out loud.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension. Megatron knew he should say something, acknowledge the gesture—but what would Prowl do if he did? Better to remain silent. Let the Autobot think he was merely fulfilling duty. Megatron, however, would remember this.