Look ma! I ficced!
Title: From Within
Week: 1
Prompt: "Surprising Origin"
Verse: G1 (?)
Rating: PG-13
Words: N/A
Warnings: Deaths and implications of violence.
Summary: His life was both a lie but also true.
Notes: For the Prowl x Jazz Anniversary challenge @ prowlxjazz. Happy Anniversary to all in the pxj community, here's to many more to come.
Back in Cybertron the late shift was his favorite time of the cycle, the one time he could actually be himself. When fate brought him and his comrades so far away from their home, night time became his favorite time of the solar cycle in the planet known as Earth.
Only then he could disable those damned optics he so loathed and become whom he really was if only for a few brief hours. It was a time that allowed him to remember who he truly was and not lose himself completely to the character he played before others.
Now, as rain poured down and thunder crackled in the skies above the city, he drove quietly over the wet pavement, feeling each drop of water as it slid down along his plating, each brush of cold wind; the tender caress of the vapor coming from the warmer buildings and sewers. At night, when he was alone and no one was there to question him, he could again be blind.
No one knew…how could they? They had no idea the mech they thought they knew and respected was in fact a mech that never existed to begin with. Only Ratchet could tell something was different about him but couldn’t quite say what or why, and couldn’t begin to even ponder the how. After all, his existence shouldn’t be possible by all accounts, or at least, it is what they would have believed.
He drove through the streets in the rain, enjoying every second of the sensory bouquet that this world in particular offered to the likes of him. The smells, the sounds, the sensations were all delightful and equally soothing or stimulating.
He indulged in his driving, his so called late night patrol for another hour before he returned to the Ark to play his role once more. It was dark and only a few mechs were up and about working their late shifts while the rest of the crew recharged or relaxed. He headed for his quarters and by resting his palm on the keys he brushed the correct keys to input the code. It was such an economical movement, yet not even the ever observant Red Alert or the more skilled Jazz had ever been able to catch the code combination just by watching him press the keys.
His quarters were dark as he usually liked them but it was, by no means, empty. He could feel the warmth emanating from a body that had claimed his berth sometime after he left. A flicker of his door panels could tell him the shape as his optics were offline the very second he crossed his door’s threshold.
The fact Jazz could never catch the keys he pressed for the input didn’t mean that Jazz didn’t have the code -he chose to trust the saboteur with the access code. The mech smiled to himself, not bothering to wake up the friend that recharged on his berth. Trust was something he so very rarely gave to anyone, for someone with a secret as deep as his own, trust was the easiest way to lower his guard and allow someone else to discover his secrets.
But Jazz had wormed his way into his life and earned a modicum of his trust. Enough to guarantee their friendship to bud enough that they could share a berth to recharge on and know they would wake with their selves intact.
He didn’t question why Jazz had invited himself to use his berth -He knew Jazz would often surrender his room to friends that needed a place big enough to spend the night. Other times he would vacate them on his own to avoid catching wind of whatever his noisier neighbors were up to.
The mech headed straight for the wash rack in his quarters, one of the privileges that his station had afforded him and one he appreciated most. The lights were turned on automatically as he stepped through, but it made no difference to the blinded mech.
He washed the dirt that the cold rain left on his plating while his mind wandered to the past, reliving the knowledge that by no means he should be here in this planet. Long ago he existed in a world much different than his fellow comrades had been created and raised in.
He could not remember how he got there. He only remembered an explosion in the middle of a battlefield that threw him back into something that had delivered him battered and injured into a Cybertron much different to his own. When he next came to he found, much to his displeasure, that he was sighted once more.
A pair of mechs greeted him with cheerful smiles and pride glowing in their optics, so pleased with themselves with having saved what they probably assumed was an assaulted mech and having restored his sight; a fact for which he definitely did not feel any gratitude about.
They had introduced themselves, and had called him ‘fellow praxian’, that alone was enough to clue him he was not in his home world anymore. If he’d known the quote back then he would definitely have said through gritted dentals that he was not in Kansas anymore.
He woke up to find out he was in Praxus, which typically produced the mechs with his make’s characteristics -but where he came from it was Kalis which produced his make not Praxus. The mechs were both black with several splashes of white, both decorated with chevrons and wing panels just like his own; the only differences were one bore golden accents and chevron while the other bore red.
He thought at first they were perhaps twins, only to find later on they were a bonded pair, eagerly attempting to become progenitors. Believing him damaged and in need of some place and time to recover they allowed him to stay with them, giving him a temporary name and filling him in about where he was and how life was lived in this place. It would turn out to be the key of their demise.
When they carelessly mentioned the name they wished to give to their creation, whenever they could produce what they called a ‘spark’, he knew for sure that he had landed just where he suspected: a mirror universe.
The mechs that had tended and cared for him, that gave him back the sight he did not desire were meant to create the mech that would be called Prowl in this universe; his counterpart.
The very off cycle the golden accented praxian uttered the desired name for their creation, they were ruthlessly murdered. All traces of their existence were erased, their wealth appropriated and their carcasses melted and forgotten. Only then he was able to reclaim the name that belonged to him and him alone.
“Prowl?” The sleepy slur of his friend’s voice caressed his frame with its low vibration.
“I’m here. Go back to recharge, Jazz.” Prowl murmured loud enough to be heard as he turned off the cleanser spray. “I’m just washing the rain off.”
“Alright…” Jazz turned back to recharge on his side after confirming his friend and fellow officer was back.
Prowl picked a long roll of absorbent material to dry himself with, not wishing to disturb Jazz’s sleep with the air drying system. He onlined his optics again and frowned minutely at the bright sapphire blue that shone through the glass. A long time ago, before he took his own optics out, they were a bright shade of red, not unlike the chevron that now adorned his helm -a chevron that was not red back then but golden.
He had changed quite a bit from what he used to look like before in the place he came from. The differences were subtle but plenty, and by now the mech he was now was different, for the most part, from the mech he had been before.
He was an Autobot still, even if the values they held were much different than those of the Autboots of his universe of origin; he had adopted the values of the Prime he served here, believing that fate brought him here for a reason. For all his façade as the cold and logic mech that did not believe in fate and that which was intangible, Prowl was a devout mech of the only force he considered a constant all through the multiple universes in existence: justice.
But even if here he served what humans so easily called ‘the good guys’ that didn’t mean he was no longer the ruthless assassin that ended the life of his counterpart before it could even begin. Behind that mech that was claimed to be a workaholic, a number cruncher, or an emotionless jerk without spark -and it was still an art form to repress his desire to correct Spark to Ember-Prowl was, behind the scenes, a very skilled close range combatant and sharp shooter, and a passionate mech of the things that mattered to him.
But no one would know that. No one would even begin to imagine their Second in Command was more than the perfect example of Autobot principles and goodness. They had no idea of the deep disdain and contempt he held for humans and despite the kind smiles he would bestow to the likes of Chip Chase or the patience with which he would explain things to the ever curious Spike, his ember burned with disgust.
But no one would know that. He made sure no one could suspect anything about him or his true origin. No one could imagine that he was but a mirror image of a mech that didn’t even have a chance to exist. He’d kept himself solitary, keeping everyone at arm’s length and allowing only a handful close enough.
He’d had no lovers or close friends until Jazz, and even then…he’d only allowed Jazz close due to the mech’s own troubled past, finding a kindred ember -no, spark that could understand the need to reinvent himself for a higher purpose.
Perhaps someday he would allow Jazz to see all that he was, all that he used to be. Perhaps someday Jazz’s spark would meet his ember, and maybe, just maybe, he would find out the answer to a question that has accompanied him for millennia: could embers and sparks merge?
But for now, as he headed to the large berth and laid down with his back to his closest friend’s he contented with recharging to live another day, living a life that was both a lie and true at the same time.
Week: 1
Prompt: "Surprising Origin"
Verse: G1 (?)
Rating: PG-13
Words: N/A
Warnings: Deaths and implications of violence.
Summary: His life was both a lie but also true.
Notes: For the Prowl x Jazz Anniversary challenge @ prowlxjazz. Happy Anniversary to all in the pxj community, here's to many more to come.
Back in Cybertron the late shift was his favorite time of the cycle, the one time he could actually be himself. When fate brought him and his comrades so far away from their home, night time became his favorite time of the solar cycle in the planet known as Earth.
Only then he could disable those damned optics he so loathed and become whom he really was if only for a few brief hours. It was a time that allowed him to remember who he truly was and not lose himself completely to the character he played before others.
Now, as rain poured down and thunder crackled in the skies above the city, he drove quietly over the wet pavement, feeling each drop of water as it slid down along his plating, each brush of cold wind; the tender caress of the vapor coming from the warmer buildings and sewers. At night, when he was alone and no one was there to question him, he could again be blind.
No one knew…how could they? They had no idea the mech they thought they knew and respected was in fact a mech that never existed to begin with. Only Ratchet could tell something was different about him but couldn’t quite say what or why, and couldn’t begin to even ponder the how. After all, his existence shouldn’t be possible by all accounts, or at least, it is what they would have believed.
He drove through the streets in the rain, enjoying every second of the sensory bouquet that this world in particular offered to the likes of him. The smells, the sounds, the sensations were all delightful and equally soothing or stimulating.
He indulged in his driving, his so called late night patrol for another hour before he returned to the Ark to play his role once more. It was dark and only a few mechs were up and about working their late shifts while the rest of the crew recharged or relaxed. He headed for his quarters and by resting his palm on the keys he brushed the correct keys to input the code. It was such an economical movement, yet not even the ever observant Red Alert or the more skilled Jazz had ever been able to catch the code combination just by watching him press the keys.
His quarters were dark as he usually liked them but it was, by no means, empty. He could feel the warmth emanating from a body that had claimed his berth sometime after he left. A flicker of his door panels could tell him the shape as his optics were offline the very second he crossed his door’s threshold.
The fact Jazz could never catch the keys he pressed for the input didn’t mean that Jazz didn’t have the code -he chose to trust the saboteur with the access code. The mech smiled to himself, not bothering to wake up the friend that recharged on his berth. Trust was something he so very rarely gave to anyone, for someone with a secret as deep as his own, trust was the easiest way to lower his guard and allow someone else to discover his secrets.
But Jazz had wormed his way into his life and earned a modicum of his trust. Enough to guarantee their friendship to bud enough that they could share a berth to recharge on and know they would wake with their selves intact.
He didn’t question why Jazz had invited himself to use his berth -He knew Jazz would often surrender his room to friends that needed a place big enough to spend the night. Other times he would vacate them on his own to avoid catching wind of whatever his noisier neighbors were up to.
The mech headed straight for the wash rack in his quarters, one of the privileges that his station had afforded him and one he appreciated most. The lights were turned on automatically as he stepped through, but it made no difference to the blinded mech.
He washed the dirt that the cold rain left on his plating while his mind wandered to the past, reliving the knowledge that by no means he should be here in this planet. Long ago he existed in a world much different than his fellow comrades had been created and raised in.
He could not remember how he got there. He only remembered an explosion in the middle of a battlefield that threw him back into something that had delivered him battered and injured into a Cybertron much different to his own. When he next came to he found, much to his displeasure, that he was sighted once more.
A pair of mechs greeted him with cheerful smiles and pride glowing in their optics, so pleased with themselves with having saved what they probably assumed was an assaulted mech and having restored his sight; a fact for which he definitely did not feel any gratitude about.
They had introduced themselves, and had called him ‘fellow praxian’, that alone was enough to clue him he was not in his home world anymore. If he’d known the quote back then he would definitely have said through gritted dentals that he was not in Kansas anymore.
He woke up to find out he was in Praxus, which typically produced the mechs with his make’s characteristics -but where he came from it was Kalis which produced his make not Praxus. The mechs were both black with several splashes of white, both decorated with chevrons and wing panels just like his own; the only differences were one bore golden accents and chevron while the other bore red.
He thought at first they were perhaps twins, only to find later on they were a bonded pair, eagerly attempting to become progenitors. Believing him damaged and in need of some place and time to recover they allowed him to stay with them, giving him a temporary name and filling him in about where he was and how life was lived in this place. It would turn out to be the key of their demise.
When they carelessly mentioned the name they wished to give to their creation, whenever they could produce what they called a ‘spark’, he knew for sure that he had landed just where he suspected: a mirror universe.
The mechs that had tended and cared for him, that gave him back the sight he did not desire were meant to create the mech that would be called Prowl in this universe; his counterpart.
The very off cycle the golden accented praxian uttered the desired name for their creation, they were ruthlessly murdered. All traces of their existence were erased, their wealth appropriated and their carcasses melted and forgotten. Only then he was able to reclaim the name that belonged to him and him alone.
“Prowl?” The sleepy slur of his friend’s voice caressed his frame with its low vibration.
“I’m here. Go back to recharge, Jazz.” Prowl murmured loud enough to be heard as he turned off the cleanser spray. “I’m just washing the rain off.”
“Alright…” Jazz turned back to recharge on his side after confirming his friend and fellow officer was back.
Prowl picked a long roll of absorbent material to dry himself with, not wishing to disturb Jazz’s sleep with the air drying system. He onlined his optics again and frowned minutely at the bright sapphire blue that shone through the glass. A long time ago, before he took his own optics out, they were a bright shade of red, not unlike the chevron that now adorned his helm -a chevron that was not red back then but golden.
He had changed quite a bit from what he used to look like before in the place he came from. The differences were subtle but plenty, and by now the mech he was now was different, for the most part, from the mech he had been before.
He was an Autobot still, even if the values they held were much different than those of the Autboots of his universe of origin; he had adopted the values of the Prime he served here, believing that fate brought him here for a reason. For all his façade as the cold and logic mech that did not believe in fate and that which was intangible, Prowl was a devout mech of the only force he considered a constant all through the multiple universes in existence: justice.
But even if here he served what humans so easily called ‘the good guys’ that didn’t mean he was no longer the ruthless assassin that ended the life of his counterpart before it could even begin. Behind that mech that was claimed to be a workaholic, a number cruncher, or an emotionless jerk without spark -and it was still an art form to repress his desire to correct Spark to Ember-Prowl was, behind the scenes, a very skilled close range combatant and sharp shooter, and a passionate mech of the things that mattered to him.
But no one would know that. No one would even begin to imagine their Second in Command was more than the perfect example of Autobot principles and goodness. They had no idea of the deep disdain and contempt he held for humans and despite the kind smiles he would bestow to the likes of Chip Chase or the patience with which he would explain things to the ever curious Spike, his ember burned with disgust.
But no one would know that. He made sure no one could suspect anything about him or his true origin. No one could imagine that he was but a mirror image of a mech that didn’t even have a chance to exist. He’d kept himself solitary, keeping everyone at arm’s length and allowing only a handful close enough.
He’d had no lovers or close friends until Jazz, and even then…he’d only allowed Jazz close due to the mech’s own troubled past, finding a kindred ember -no, spark that could understand the need to reinvent himself for a higher purpose.
Perhaps someday he would allow Jazz to see all that he was, all that he used to be. Perhaps someday Jazz’s spark would meet his ember, and maybe, just maybe, he would find out the answer to a question that has accompanied him for millennia: could embers and sparks merge?
But for now, as he headed to the large berth and laid down with his back to his closest friend’s he contented with recharging to live another day, living a life that was both a lie and true at the same time.