A bodyguard? Smokey? "Are you out of your processor?" Cliffjumper demanded. "Why in the Pit would you want my brother as a bodyguard?"
"I don't need a bodyguard!" The organic huffed. His pale skin seemed to be turning nearly as red as Cliffjumper's paintjob. His tiny hands formed into fists at his sides. He was about as frightening as a scraplet. "What in Primus' name gives you the right to make such a hire in my Tower?"
"The hiring of additional staff has always been the purview of the Seneschal, Master." Prowl said. "The very fact that not one but two individuals made their way to the Tower-"
"Invitation," Cliffjumper interjected, but no one seemed to pay him any mind.
"-Is clear evidence that the hire of someone outside our household will likely prove necessary. Future visitors may not prove quite so benign." Despite his tiny size, Prowl seemed to be taller than anyone in the room at that moment. "The smooth running of this Tower is my right as well as my duty." He said firmly. And I don't want to hear another word against it, his posture seemed to say. If it wasn't a matter of his brother's freedom on the line, Cliffjumper would have snickered.
"Still don't need a bodyguard," the organic muttered. He continued to frown fiercely, but his skin seemed to be returning to its proper pale shade. Prowl said nothing, but his silence was eloquent in and of itself. For all that the organic seemed to be the 'Master' here it was obvious who was running the show.
"Smokey would make a horrible bodyguard," Cliffjumper told Prowl. "He's not all that great in a fight; prefers to cut and run rather than stand and fight. He's easily distracted and he tends to trust his luck rather than any kind of plan." Cliffjumper folded his arms and glared Jazz and Prowl down. "Smokey's a trader. You want him to cut deals, he's your bot. But guarding someone? That's way out of his expertise. And I don't know about you, but to me that don't sound like any kind of deal at all."
Jazz shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "Thems the breaks," he said. "He sold himself to us, and we don't really need a trader. A few cycles of hard labor and training oughta toughen him up."
"And if it doesn't?" Cliffjumper demanded.
"What would you suggest?" Prowl inquired mildly.
Into the pit, I guess. Sorry, 'Bee. Guess you'll have to kick Smokey's aft without me. Cliffjumper jabbed at his chest plate with his thumb. "Me. Let him go, and I'll stay in his place."