Fic
Title: Borealis 2/71: Second Wave
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R just in case, for robosmex
Characters/Pairing: Prowl, Wheeljack, Hound/Mirage/Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: plug-n-play threesome
Summary: Out at the far edge of another galaxy, Prowl, through a quirk in spacetime, hears Prime's message. He joins Wheeljack et al and they head for Earth. PTSD = broken. Introversion =/= broken.
About 6000 words.
BOREALIS: Second Wave
For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.
-- Carl Sagan
2008 - March
--aiting.
What was that? Prowl cocked his head, then altered the attitude of his little interceptor, hoping for a better signal. After exactly 31 astroseconds, the message repeated. It was on a newer Autobot frequency, using a tricky encryption sequence, but Prowl made short work of that. As had been intended.
With the Allspark gone we cannot return life to our planet. And fate has yielded its reward; a new world to call home. We live among its people now, hiding in plain sight, but watching over them in secret. Waiting, protecting. I have witnessed their capacity for courage, and though we are worlds apart - like us, there’s more to them than meets the eye. I am Optimus Prime, and I send this message to any surviving Autobots taking refuge among the stars. We are here. We are waiting.
It had been Prime! After so long. Prowl felt as though his spark would expand out of his chest with relief, even though the message itself wasn’t entirely the best of news. He should relay this to Sentinel immediately, yet he hesitated, enjoying a few moments of solitary knowledge.
Chiding himself for the indulgence, he turned the interceptor back the way he’d come. This trail had grown cold anyway. It was time to head back to Sentinel’s destroyer, the ship they’d called home for more vorns than Prowl cared to count.
Sentinel was predictably unimpressed. “That’s it? To the Pit with the Allspark, to the Pit with Megatron, and now we’re all supposed to retire to some organic-smeared planet out in the aft-end of some other galaxy? Peh.”
Prowl said nothing. The galaxy in question being roughly circular, it didn’t technically have an aft-end; and being closer to the Hub conferred nothing but a brighter night sky and a heavier radiation load. But Sentinel wouldn’t appreciate having that pointed out. It was best to let him vent his irritation in any case.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“Request permission to deliver a data-packet to Prime.” A few orns had passed, and they’d had an unusually successful foray in the Scalesi system. They had wiped out an entire platoon of deserter ‘Cons. None had escaped. Sentinel was feeling generous, distributing supplies of the local fuels and lubricants to all the officers and crew. Prowl had waited until a groon before Sentinel’s scheduled recharge to enact his plan.
Sentinel leaned back in his chair. None of the rest of the bridge mechs were paying any attention. “Wanting to leave us, Prowl? I’m surprised. You’re the best tactician I have, send someone else if you think it’s necessary.”
“It is a great distance,” Prowl said. “I have the best chance of making it in the face of unforeseen difficulties, and will not be distracted on the way. Any transmitted message via the same wormhole his came through could be intercepted. Prime should know of our progress. It may affect his decision to abandon Cybertron.”
“That’s true enough.” Sentinel sat up, gazing at him intently. Prowl remained calm and still, at parade rest. “Yeah. Maybe I have a personal message for our glorious leader, too. Not sure the rest of these slaggers could be trusted with that.” His optics narrowed. “I’m not altering course for this, Prowl. Understand?”
Prowl nodded, having anticipated that contingency. “If you drop me off at the Penta Sigma lunar base, I can find passage back to that wormhole.” It was a busy station for this part of the galaxy, even the scattered Autobots stopped there at intervals to leave messages for one another and relax at the local equivalent of Maccadam’s. Even if there were no Autobots, Prowl had accumulated a small store of unusual gems. He could pay one of the numerous alien traders if he had to. It would cost Sentinel nothing but his best tactician.
“Huh. All right.” Sentinel made a face at his console and it spat a tiny data chip at him. He flicked it to Prowl who caught it and cached it automatically with a minimum of motion. Sentinel knew Prowl wouldn’t try to read it. “If you can work your way around Prime I want your aft back here when you’re done playing courier. Clear?”
“Yes, Sentinel.”
On Penta Sigma, a quartex later, Prowl didn’t watch as Grimlock piloted the interceptor up out of the moon’s gravity well. He walked briskly toward the Pocket-D bar, claws unclenching for the first time in what seemed like vorns. He was free.
Scanning the room as he entered, he didn’t pause in the doorway, making for the info banks along the portside wall. There were Autobot signatures here, but caution had been ingrained so forcibly he couldn’t bring himself to approach them right away. He keyed into the data system, knowing he would have no personal messages but searching anyway, as well as skimming the local news and shipping records.
The familiar warmth of another mech approached and leaned against the side of the terminal Prowl was using. “Pardon me,” the mech said in a relaxed sort of drawl. Prowl’s optics flicked sideways. The mech was rather smaller than himself, geared for rough terrain, with some interesting onboard equipment. No heavy artillery. A scout. “My friends and I were wondering if you’d care to join us.”
Prowl disengaged his search and faced him. The mech smiled. “Been a while since we’ve seen another Autobot and a new face is kind of a relief. Drinks are on us, come on.” Prowl nodded and followed him to a table along the back wall. A large mech so heavily modified the forging was unrecognizable and a small guerrilla-class infiltrator bot greeted them. Prowl refrained from staring at the latter, he hadn’t known there were any of that forging still operational.
“This is Wheeljack and Arcee,” the mech said, resuming his seat and inviting Prowl to take the empty one next to him. “And I’m Hound.”
Punching his order into the table’s serviette, Prowl nearly hit the wrong selection. “Wheeljack!” The other three Autobots laughed. An open, uncomplicated sound of simple humor that made Prowl’s claws tremble on the menu.
“My reputation precedes me again, eh?” the big mech chuckled. “Ah well. What brings you out here, if you can tell me?”
“My apologies,” Prowl said, recovering his composure after a sip of the plain energon the table provided. “My designation is Prowl. Have you received Prime’s latest message?”
The three exchanged glances. “Which one?” Wheeljack asked, leaning forward and resting an arm on the table.
“The one about the loss of the Allspark,” Prowl said quietly. “And the planet they found it on.”
“What?!” all three said. Prowl chirped them the entirety of the message. Including the embedded coordinates from Prime, and the coordinates of the wormhole through which he had gotten the signal.
Wheeljack sat back with a heavy clunk against the wall. “That…changes things.” The other two stared at their drinks, processing. After two breems of thoughtful silence, Hound abruptly arched his back and tipped his head up.
“Cut it out, Mir,” he said, grinning nevertheless. “No-one’s watching, you can de-cloak.” Prowl gaped as a slender blue mech faded into visibility behind Hound, hands caressing Hound’s chest unabashedly. Their open affection continued as the newcomer - or had he been there all the time? - took the seat on Hound’s other side, trailing a hand across Hound’s shoulders and down his arm to briefly squeeze his hand on the table. “Prowl, this is Mirage, our resident spy. Oh, sorry - recon officer.”
Mirage bowed, using an ancient politeness only Prowl’s extensive studies allowed him to recognize. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Prowl merely nodded, still flummoxed. No one in Sentinel’s battalion dared show that kind of unreserved trust. Interface was discharged like any other duty, efficiently and perfunctorily, and according to schedule.
Hound was evidently relaying Prime’s message to Mirage, for the recon bot’s face fell. “Oh no. But that means…” Mirage bowed his head and Hound embraced him.
“I’m sorry,” Prowl said, not understanding Mirage’s distress specifically, though the loss of the Allspark was dire enough for anyone. He regarded Wheeljack. “I wish to join Prime on the new planet. If you’re headed that direction, or if you can get me nearer the wormhole, I’d be grateful for a ride.”
“Yeah,” Wheeljack said heavily. “Yeah. Sure. Looks like we don’t have anything better to do. Unless you guys have ideas?” Hound, though clearly concerned for his friend, was keenly interested. Arcee looked speculative. “All right. Soon as Cliffjumper comes back we can get off this rock.”
Walking along the gantry toward Wheeljack’s ship, Prowl wasn’t fooled by its pitted and corroded exterior. The ship looked like it was cobbled together from four or five different vessels, but there were numerous carbonized blast marks to attest to its hardiness.
Prowl veered to one side rather than board, however, beckoning to Wheeljack. Before I enter your ship, there are things I must dispose of, Prowl told him.
I understand. C’mon. Wheeljack led him down a ramp to the moon’s rocky surface, out and over the lip of a nearby crater. Hound and Arcee watched them with some concern.
“Will he be all right?” Arcee wondered. “I don’t trust that Prowl.”
Hound shrugged and continued on inside. “Wheeljack’s no pushover. And Mir’s out there.”
“Oh.”
In the crater, Prowl removed two small but insidious weapons from caches in his legs and threw them on the ground.
“Hm.” Wheeljack stooped to retrieve one of them; a CPU bore. “Nasty.” Small tools slid from the big mech’s fingertips and deftly removed the device’s minute power core. Caching the core, he tossed the remains back down beside the other weapon; a spark-virus bomb. That one he left quite alone.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Prowl began tearing off the outermost - and heaviest - layer of his armor. Wheeljack watched him in surprise for an astrosecond, then helped with the shoulder and dorsal pieces. Prowl had a look to him Wheeljack recognized. The air of a mech whose servos were stained with death to the shoulder - and was sick of it.
Almost a full metric lighter, Prowl stared at his heavy-duty claws then gazed with admiration at Wheeljack’s sturdy but facile, six-fingered hands. Nothing to be done about that right now.
Wheeljack slagged the pile with his shoulder cannon when they were through. Satisfied, Prowl followed him back to the ship.
Inside as well as outside, esthetics bowed to function. Wheeljack chirped him a basic schematic and Prowl ran a claw along a remarkably well-shielded power conduit. “Nice,” he said, impressed.
The last member of their party, a red mech named Cliffjumper, finally rejoined them, laughing the whole way up the gantry. “You guys missed it! It was classic!” he whooped, gesturing wildly with his arms. “They were doing a live version of ‘The Pirates of Penstirachtatoriafelexis’ only, get this, they had squishies playing all the parts! I thought I was gonna bust a processor!”
“Oh my,” said Mirage.
“Squishies?” asked Prowl.
“He means organic life forms,” Arcee explained. “All right, gear-head, shift it. We’re dusting off.”
“Already?” Cliffjumper made his way forward to the bridge, stopping short as he spotted Prowl. “Another stray, ‘Jack?”
“Yep.” Wheeljack waved a hand by way of introductions. “Prowl. Cliffjumper. Strap in, everyone.”
Prowl took an empty seat at the rear of the small bridge. The ship’s engines wound up with a palpable thrum, the eccentric modulations transmitted by the hull catching Prowl’s attention immediately. There was something off about them - not enough to make one’s CPU skip a cycle, but noticeable.
“Heh, don’t worry,” Wheeljack said. “They’re supposed to sound like that.”
Cliffjumper laughed and leaned around his seat to grin at Prowl. “Praise Primus and pass the high-grade!”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Hey, everybody, about the new guy, Wheeljack transmitted from the bridge, opening a circle of tight-beamed communication among Hound, Mirage, Arcee and Cliffjumper. I know he’s giving some of you the surges, and that’s totally understandable. He’s a dangerous mech, no doubt about it. But I think he’s a good guy, all right? He’s just gonna be kind of jumpy for a while, so don’t make a lot of sudden moves or approach him from behind if you can help it. Or at least try to make some kind of noise. You don’t want to surprise him, trust me. Hound and Mirage replied with simple affirmatives.
Cliffjumper spun the plasma welder he was repairing a conduit with in his fingertips. Bah! What’s the matter, Wheeljack? Don’t you think I can take him? Huh?
Wheeljack shook his head, tapping his fingers on his forehelm. Cliffjumper, you definitely can’t take him. Got me? I mean it. Leave the poor mech alone until he can get his CPU balanced out again.
Aww, come on, ‘Jack. I’m tougher than I look, you know.
Arcee bounced her fist off the top of Cliffjumper’s head. Don’t you dare try anything, you little glitch. I don’t care if he cores you, but we just finished patching this hulk up again. A hull breach, even the total loss of ship’s atmosphere, wasn’t really a dire problem, but their vocoders only worked in air or other less-dense fluids and relying on radio or subspace transmission all the time was tedious. They lost all the harmonics their complicated voices conveyed. Arcee felt the brief, sudden clenching of her spark, reminded of Bumblebee. They could make more air, thanks to one of Wheeljack’s less volatile inventions, but it took quartexes. Besides, energon - especially high-grade - evaporated dismayingly quickly in vacuum. She kicked Cliffjumper’s shoulder for good measure and headed aft to run a routine systems check on the engines.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
With six bots on board, it was simplest to divide their time into three watches. Cliffjumper with Arcee, Hound and Mirage, and Wheeljack appointed himself Prowl’s watch partner. One third of each orn on duty, one third off and one third for recharge, although usually no-one but Mirage needed it for that long. Hound liked to tease him about being high-maintenance.
It took them two CPU-dulling, uneventful quartexes to reach the wormhole. Going through it, Prowl at last understood the odd engine modulations. He’d never been through an easier transition - if the noise in normal space was a little peculiar, it was entirely worth it for the remarkable smoothness and safety in warp. Wheeljack’s reputation as a genius, however mad, was well deserved.
This still left another six quartexes in normal space to reach the new planet. Since Wheeljack could manage the bridge alone - and liked to do so, as it gave him unhindered time to contemplate his current projects - Prowl often went up to the observation bubble to indulge in solitude and quiet, bathed in starlight. He could sit and blissfully think of nothing, or review his orn’s performance, both of his meager shipboard duties and in his interactions with the other bots. He knew that all his reflexes were honed too sharp, and most of his interpersonal algorithms too cold and harsh. He needed to re-adapt to “normal” Autobot society. Or as normal as they could be, after so many millennia of war, and the loss of their homeworld.
Silent observation, he had decided, was still his best tool. Quiet obedience had been the most efficient way to deal with Sentinel, and Grimlock for that matter. Prowl calculated that same strategy could do no great harm here. Long ago he had joked and laughed and been kind, he hoped he could be so again.
Prowl froze the moment the observation bubble door opened. Halting the automatic transformation of both of his forearms into plasma weapons, he forced the guns back into his body. He hadn’t expected anyone to be in here at this groon.
Two pairs of optics glowed at him in the dark. Hound and Mirage transmitted an invitation in tandem. The simple Join us? from Hound intermeshed with Mirage’s more formal glyph somehow forming a singular and alluring palimpsest. With undertones suggesting it wasn’t healthy to keep to himself so much.
I don’t want to intrude, he sent back, unwontedly hesitant. He had not, in truth, interfaced with anyone since the voyage began, and Sentinel thought trines were a sign of decadent weakness and a waste of time.
Absurd, they said, and held out their arms. Prowl moved across the room slowly, not knowing what to do with this odd reluctance. Was he afraid of hurting them? Perhaps that was it. He didn’t look at his claws enveloping their hands, instead watching their faces as they drew him down between them onto the low bench that ran around the perimeter of the bubble. There was nothing in their expressions but open desire and interest in a new participant. And a touch of pity. Of the two, Mirage was more overclocked at the moment, his core temperature higher than usual for a bot his size. Prowl tried to remember what it was like to be among true Autobots.
Had he actually thought that? What did he mean by ‘true’? Behind him, Mirage insinuated delicate hands into Prowl’s infrastructure, having to go deep to find the more sensitive power conduits. Hound settled himself between Prowl’s legs, bumping chests gently. As he leaned in with mouth open, Mirage tight-beamed an explanation.
I should warn you, Hound is a nibbler. He has chemoreceptors in the dorsal plate of his mouth and he likes to taste people. He won’t hurt you, though. It’s just a little strange to most bots.
Curiosity overtook the upper levels of Prowl’s thought lattices, even as his body responded to the interesting things Mirage was doing. He kept his optics on Hound as he ran his lip components slowly over the top edges of Prowl’s chest armor, internal fans whirring somewhere in Hound’s neck. Even this fleeting, delicate contact sent sharp impulses through Prowl’s CPU.
With the old, heavy armor torn away, he felt young and exposed, buoyant, exquisitely sensitive; only shocked out of this perception now and then by the clumsiness of his claws. Had he really thought he would have to feign proper responses? He balled his claws tightly, his body writhing, rising to meet each caress. Hound and Mirage hummed in pleased, fervid counterpoint. Prowl felt the hot tips of cables tapping and sliding over his armor, seeking his well-hidden torso data-ports.
“No,” Prowl moaned weakly, shivering. “Not …cables. Too much…”
The cables withdrew from him, though Hound and Mirage connected to each other. Easy, it’s all right. Outer three thought-shells enough? Keep all your deeper firewalls up, Prowl, it’s all right.
Yes, Prowl returned. He could keep everything that needed burying deeper than that easily. His ports irised open.
Aah, he had forgotten how vivid cables made everything. His assigned interface partner in the battalion, Swoop, though certainly a decent mech, hadn’t been keen on anything but the purely physical, and that had been fine. But now he could feel the pleasure Hound and Mirage were taking in exploring his body in their different ways, and knew they felt exactly how very much he was enjoying it. His claws being useless for tender caresses, his pleasure through the cables was all he could give them.
Shivering between them, so quickly on the buildup to overload, Prowl tried to slow his climb, extend the delicious suspense. But, Let go, Hound told him, and Mirage did something beneath his spark chamber, and Prowl’s body arched in a parabolic curve between them as blue static discharged across him like a miniature ion storm. The last thing he heard was Hound and Mirage laughing gently as they followed him down.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
How can you bear to touch me? I am a monster. There was no venom in the words, no heat. He recognized himself to be in the post-overload calm, with half his auxiliary systems still resetting themselves. Mirage was already deep in recharge, curled up against his left side, and Prowl was grateful to have to bear the scrutiny of only one other mech.
How d’you reckon? Hound murmured.
I shouldn’t tell them anything, Prowl thought. None of them were free from the cruelties of the war, but there was no need to add to another’s burden of sorrow and vileness.
I have done terrible things.
Most of us have.
That was probably true, and Prowl did not want to belittle the experiences of others. But if the actions of Sentinel’s battalion had become the norm, Prowl would despair. They would have become no better than the Decepticons. Careless, he allowed the thought to transmit through the single cable he still had linked to Hound.
Hound bolted upright, gripping Prowl’s forearms. “Sentinel’s battalion?! Oh slag, Prowl! How’d you escape? …Or…I mean, uh?”
Prowl nodded. “‘Escape’ is the proper term.” He briefly explained his actions. “Nothing I told Sentinel was a lie, but I omitted certain personal details. Should I encounter him again, he would no doubt feel it within his rights to terminate me as a deserter.”
“I bet Prime would have something to say about that.”
“Perhaps.”
Hound settled back against Prowl’s chest. It was a strangely comforting gesture. Have you ever killed an Autobot?
I have failed to prevent it.
Prowl.
No, he lied. Despairingly, easily. But if my worst cruelties were of omission, they were nevertheless cruelties.
Never mind the “buts”. Anything else you have or haven’t done? Let Prime sort it out. That’s what he’s for, isn’t he? Hound’s optics brightened. Just think, we’re going to Prime! Have you ever met him?
No. I did see him once, before the war.
Is he as big as everyone remembers?
He is big. The Lord Protector was bigger.
Oh. Yeah.
Prowl smiled ruefully, glad of the diversion. Prime seemed more approachable. I suppose that’s obvious in retrospect. Even from across the Iacon Central Plaza I felt that I could have gone right up to him and talked with him about anything. As you indicated, he was built that way.
Why did you leave the battalion? It was a simple question on the surface, but Prowl respected Hound’s canniness in asking it. Prowl rubbed his cheek flange slowly over the top of Hound’s helm, giving the question proper thought.
My spark is corrupted, not solely by the war, but by how we were fighting it. Effective as Sentinel’s methods are, it becomes too easy a slide into how the Decepticons live. Loveless and cruel, strength the only measure of worth. I’m old enough to remember that I was something other, something more than a tactician, before. I needed to stop before I lost my old self completely. He would always be grateful to Wheeljack for taking him in on little more than his faction sigil.
Your spark isn’t corrupted. Who told you that? Things lit up across Hound’s chest and shoulders, cheek spars and temporal plates. Prowl felt only the barest whisper of the scan, but recognized - at least peripherally - the keenness and subtlety of Hound’s senses. Not even the legendary First Lieutenant Jazz could track Mirage when he was fully cloaked, but Hound could. Your spark is… Hound pressed closer, his hands moving on Prowl’s chest. Unnecessary but pleasant, and a mischievous expression fleeted across Hound’s face. Your spark is compact but bright. Silver-white, piercing. Grieving. Hound moved closer still, lip components brushing against Prowl’s face. Wheeljack told us when you first came aboard that you were wounded in spark. But not corrupted.
Prowl stared at him. Hound wasn’t a medical bot, but there was no denying the accuracy of his scans. His best hope had been that his spark would heal itself given time away from the battalion. But if it was more a matter of programming, retuning - that was easier, or at least less frightening. Thank you, he said. Hound smiled, snuggling down against him and slipping into recharge.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
They rolled off the recharge berths as usual, but Wheeljack paused in the bay’s entry, looking back at Prowl. Mind joining me up front for a bit? he tight-beamed. Prowl returned acquiescence and followed him up the long central corridor to the bridge.
“How’re you doing, kiddo?” Wheeljack asked, leaning back in the pilot’s chair, watching Prowl closely without seeming to stare.
Prowl cocked his head. It was a curious question. Nothing untoward had happened, so perhaps it was a sort of medical query. Surely Wheeljack didn’t want a detailed report of all his mechanical functions.
“You seem to be getting along all right, yes?” Wheeljack prompted gently.
Ah, so it was a social question. “Yes. Arcee and Cliffjumper don’t trust me entirely, but that’s as it should be.”
“Don’t let it bother you. Hound and Mirage like you a lot. And so do I.”
“Hound and Mirage are very kind,” Prowl said. “As are you, for allowing me passage. I’m grateful.”
Wheeljack waved this away. “Nah, I’m just a regular mech. Seriously, before the war, I was a mechanic down on the docks on the north shore of the Rust Sea.”
“I thought you were the Head of the Engineering Department at Iacon Polytech.” Prowl took the navigator’s seat, running a quick scan and astrogation check. Wheeljack laughed.
“Where’d you hear that slag?”
Stopping himself from reciting the exact galactic date and planet where he’d picked up that particular rumor, Prowl gave a simpler answer. “Just hearsay, but it seemed reasonable, given the broad spectrum of your reputation and the well-documented accounts of your innovative brilliance.”
“That’s crazy.” Wheeljack shook his head, optics twinkling. “Sure I download every engineering and mechanical file I can get my CPU around, but I’m mostly self-taught. Never had much patience for all that high-flying university stuff. How about you? What were you, before?”
Prowl had been thinking about that very thing a good deal lately. It led to the consideration that there might be an after. Choices about a new kind of life, beyond survival. He would have to work on that.
“You don’t have to tell me, all right?” Wheeljack said. “I don’t expect you to tell me a lot of things. I’m used to people who’re in Black Ops. I’ve been in Black Ops myself, back when there were enough of us to specialize like that.”
“No, I…I was just thinking. It’s been a long time.” Prowl looked at the stars on the forward screens, the illusion of their flight. “Originally, long, long before the war, I was a ship’s AI.” Prowl had expected more of a reaction, but Wheeljack merely refocused his optics in surprise. “Strange. I haven’t told anyone that in eons. No one alive now knows…except you.”
“What kind of ship?” Wheeljack asked, more than professionally interested.
“One of the Lord Protector’s personal cruisers, when the Lord Protector indeed protected and served his people. I was damaged in a skirmish with the Penstirachtatoriafelexians and decommissioned. The Lord Protector liked to have the latest equipment and I had been part of an older model. My memory core and processor net were salvaged and put into a mech body where I was ensparked. Because I showed an aptitude for a certain kind of logical thinking, I was programmed as a Counselor of Law. I lived in Praxus then, until the war.”
“Huh,” said Wheeljack. “So on you the door-wings make more sense than they usually do. When’s the last time you had a flight-mode?”
Prowl’s optical shutters flickered rapidly. He looked out at the stars again. “Not since I was part of the Fission Blade.”
“You don’t miss it?”
Prowl felt his memory core grinding a little. These were very old datasets he was prodding. “I suppose perhaps at first it was too painful, not to be a cruiser. I wanted that or nothing. Then, over the vorns, ground vehicles became habit.”
“Maybe on this ‘Earth’ you could be a jet again. If you wanted.”
“Maybe.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
He programmed himself to hold perfectly still for ten astroseconds upon emerging from recharge, no matter how high his battle systems charged up, no matter how strange the position he found himself in. And things were getting strange indeed. Sometimes he was on top of Wheeljack, sometimes beneath Arcee, though most often he was simply between Hound and Mirage. Once, he onlined to Cliffjumper’s pistol beneath his chin. There was no aggression to the mech’s posture. No more than usual, anyway. He was merely sitting, relaxed, on Prowl’s chest, pistol held loose but steady.
Prowl forced the guns back into his arms and the missiles into his shoulders.
“CLIFFJUMPER!!!”
Cliffjumper giggled and somersaulted off him, scampering out of the recharge bay. Prowl sat up, shaking, and widened his optics at the floor. Wheeljack’s bellow had actually rattled the deckplates.
You were right, Wheeljack, Cliffjumper conceded, laughing as he led the inventor a merry chase about the ship. He could’ve totally slagged me!
Yeah? But he didn’t.
Nope. The struggle was scary to watch, though. I’m glad he’s on our side!
As Cliffjumper ran by, a hand shot out of a side corridor, snagging him by an antenna.
“If he had shot you,” Hound said, reeling the squawking mech in, “how do you think that would have made him feel?”
“Well it wouldn’t have done me any good either!”
Hound glared at him.
As curious as Cliffjumper was to see Hound angry for once, he knew he was pushing it and scuffed his feet unhappily. “You’re right,” he said, and ran back to the recharge bay to apologize. Wheeljack came up behind Hound and put an arm around his shoulders.
“Thanks, kiddo. Saves me the trouble of beating some sense into him.”
“Arcee will probably do that later,” Hound said, grinning. He stretched mightily and went to meet Mirage for a quick snuggle before heading in to recharge.
Still on the berth, Prowl had curled up, forcing his CPU to churn through several iterations of an unsolvable equation to keep his emotional algorithms from a meltdown. He disengaged his battle systems, calming himself further. When Cliffjumper burst in he was uncurling from his protoform-like ball.
“Aw, Prowl, I’m sorry!” Cliffjumper climbed up and hugged Prowl’s nearest forearm. The one with the butylpotassium pellet gun, but Cliffjumper made himself ignore that.
“No,” Prowl said. “It was a good test. Thank you.”
Cliffjumper looked at him like he’d skipped more than a cycle or three.
“I think I passed, don’t you?”
Cliffjumper laughed. “Well, I’m still alive and we don’t have a hull breach, so I’d say so!”
“Very well. Wheeljack and I are on duty now, so Hound and Mirage should be heading in here for recharge, and you and Arcee are off duty. Hm. And Arcee is asking me where you are.”
“Oh, slag.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
The most ineffective government agency is inherently the one most interested in concealing its performance from the public.
--Jimmy Carter
2008 - September
“Now,” Simmons said, scrolling down his notes. “There’s still the matter of NB…Ironhide’s near miss in Tulsa last week.” He and Sam were the only humans seated at the long conference table set up on a mezzanine in the human-scaled corner of the main hangar. Jazz sat on the floor next to the table, but the rest of the Autobots simply stood nearby, with Bumblebee peering over the edge of the mezzanine floor and Optimus trying not to loom over them. “According to the accident report…”
Prime’s head went up.
Simmons halted in mid-word. Optimus-watching was hard not to do - even after more than a year of twice-monthly meetings. (The liaison meetings had been weekly at first, but the Cybertronians found that interval frustratingly short.) Prime’s attitude of intent listening was clear and Simmons felt the first flush of adrenaline.
“Incoming?” he asked.
“Indeed,” Prime said, an unmistakable grin lighting his face. “They are four days out.”
“Good guys I take it?” Simmons stilled his hands with an effort. Four days out meant they weren’t even near the solar system yet.
“The very best, Mr. Simmons.” Prime relayed the message he’d received to the other four Autobots.
“Wheeljack!” Ratchet exclaimed, laughing in delight. “So he hasn’t blown himself up after all.”
“Wheeljack and Arcee!” Bumblebee crowed, performing a noisy high-four with Jazz. “Arcee’s alive!” Sam didn’t giggle, he assured himself. It was a very mature chuckle of happiness at his friends’ joy.
Simmons scribbled on his PDA. “Anyone else?”
Prime gave him a considering look, which Simmons returned with raised eyebrows. The Autobots lived in the US at the government’s sufferance, but the government did not want them moving in with anyone else on Earth, either. Simmons was well aware of the balance. “Four more,” Prime said, finally. “Cliffjumper. Hound and Mirage-”
“I’ve heard of those two,” Jazz said.
“As have I,” Ratchet agreed.
Prime nodded. “And Prowl.”
Ironhide stiffened but said nothing.
“Six friendlies,” Simmons said, annotating. “So. Tulsa.” Simmons leaned back in his chair and eyed Ironhide.
“The guy was tailgating,” Ironhide grumped.
“So you pulled out your cannons and threatened to blow him and his SUV to Kingdom Come.”
Prime pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ironhide…”
“Great story to tell his grandkids,” Sam offered helpfully. “If the guy lives that long, tailgating Topkicks.” Ratchet snickered and kicked Ironhide in the leg.
“All right, girls,” Simmons said. “Breach of Security Protocol number 412. You know the forms, Mr. Trigger-happy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ironhide said, glaring at one of the printers down in Glen’s nest, which began spitting out densely-texted sheets. “In triplicate.”
Simmons was never sure if he loved or hated that the Autobots could out-bureaucrat the bureaucracy. “Want to do my paperwork, too?” he asked hopefully.
“Ha!” said Ironhide.
“Bet you Goldilocks over there does Wicketty’s.”
“Witwicky. Only the stupid, tedious ones,” Bee agreed. “Sam has enough homework to do already. He should be concentrating on his studies.” Bee tapped his fingers in an odd rhythm on the mezzanine floor. “Wheeljack!” he said, bouncing on his toes. “Wheeljack’s coming!”
Prime laughed. Bumblebee and Ratchet had given him messages to include with the reply he was already sending.
“We’re going to have to expand the med-lab,” Ratchet sighed.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Wheeljack set them down with a bump in front of the Autobots’ base. Prime, Jazz, Bumblebee and Ratchet came out to greet them, with Ironhide remotely present via Jazz’s carrier wave. Even before the ramp had quite touched the earth, Wheeljack sprinted down it, overtaking Cliffjumper, and catapulted himself at Ratchet.
Bee and Arcee embraced warmly while Ratchet and Wheeljack were still tumbling about. Arcee saluted and clasped arms with Prime, or, rather, she grasped his wrist and he engulfed her entire arm. She was the smallest Autobot Sam and Mikaela had yet seen.
“That’s…that’s a girl robot,” Sam whispered to Mikaela, wide-eyed.
“And she can totally kick your ass,” Mikaela said, smirking.
“Prime, this is Cliffjumper,” Arcee said, not ignoring the humans but not knowing yet how to respond to them either.
Cliffjumper’s salute was a little sloppy, but his enthusiasm made up for it. He and Bumblebee grinned at each other and revved their engines, much as young human males might flex their biceps.
“And our quiet friend over there playing stevedore is Prowl.” Arcee’s tone was troubled, harmonics indicating she was of two minds about him, her uncertainty leavened with pity.
Prowl carried one of Wheeljack’s crates of equipment down the ramp. He didn’t know anyone here. He would continue to unload the ship so the others could enjoy their celebration.
Welcome, Prowl, came a warm transmission from Prime. I surmise you have a message for me from Sentinel?
Yes, sir. Prowl replied. Prime knew who he was. Prime knew who he was!
Good. You can leave those crates just inside the hangar - this is a secure area. Inherent in Prime’s secondary harmonics was an open invitation to join the rest of them in comparing Ratchet’s grog with Wheeljack’s moon-grade, but that Prowl could continue what he was doing if that made him more comfortable.
Prowl set the crate down in the indicated spot and returned to the ship for the next one, rather more bounce in his stride than usual.
Table of Contents here
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R just in case, for robosmex
Characters/Pairing: Prowl, Wheeljack, Hound/Mirage/Prowl, ensemble
Warnings: plug-n-play threesome
Summary: Out at the far edge of another galaxy, Prowl, through a quirk in spacetime, hears Prime's message. He joins Wheeljack et al and they head for Earth. PTSD = broken. Introversion =/= broken.
About 6000 words.
BOREALIS: Second Wave
For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.
-- Carl Sagan
2008 - March
--aiting.
What was that? Prowl cocked his head, then altered the attitude of his little interceptor, hoping for a better signal. After exactly 31 astroseconds, the message repeated. It was on a newer Autobot frequency, using a tricky encryption sequence, but Prowl made short work of that. As had been intended.
With the Allspark gone we cannot return life to our planet. And fate has yielded its reward; a new world to call home. We live among its people now, hiding in plain sight, but watching over them in secret. Waiting, protecting. I have witnessed their capacity for courage, and though we are worlds apart - like us, there’s more to them than meets the eye. I am Optimus Prime, and I send this message to any surviving Autobots taking refuge among the stars. We are here. We are waiting.
It had been Prime! After so long. Prowl felt as though his spark would expand out of his chest with relief, even though the message itself wasn’t entirely the best of news. He should relay this to Sentinel immediately, yet he hesitated, enjoying a few moments of solitary knowledge.
Chiding himself for the indulgence, he turned the interceptor back the way he’d come. This trail had grown cold anyway. It was time to head back to Sentinel’s destroyer, the ship they’d called home for more vorns than Prowl cared to count.
Sentinel was predictably unimpressed. “That’s it? To the Pit with the Allspark, to the Pit with Megatron, and now we’re all supposed to retire to some organic-smeared planet out in the aft-end of some other galaxy? Peh.”
Prowl said nothing. The galaxy in question being roughly circular, it didn’t technically have an aft-end; and being closer to the Hub conferred nothing but a brighter night sky and a heavier radiation load. But Sentinel wouldn’t appreciate having that pointed out. It was best to let him vent his irritation in any case.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“Request permission to deliver a data-packet to Prime.” A few orns had passed, and they’d had an unusually successful foray in the Scalesi system. They had wiped out an entire platoon of deserter ‘Cons. None had escaped. Sentinel was feeling generous, distributing supplies of the local fuels and lubricants to all the officers and crew. Prowl had waited until a groon before Sentinel’s scheduled recharge to enact his plan.
Sentinel leaned back in his chair. None of the rest of the bridge mechs were paying any attention. “Wanting to leave us, Prowl? I’m surprised. You’re the best tactician I have, send someone else if you think it’s necessary.”
“It is a great distance,” Prowl said. “I have the best chance of making it in the face of unforeseen difficulties, and will not be distracted on the way. Any transmitted message via the same wormhole his came through could be intercepted. Prime should know of our progress. It may affect his decision to abandon Cybertron.”
“That’s true enough.” Sentinel sat up, gazing at him intently. Prowl remained calm and still, at parade rest. “Yeah. Maybe I have a personal message for our glorious leader, too. Not sure the rest of these slaggers could be trusted with that.” His optics narrowed. “I’m not altering course for this, Prowl. Understand?”
Prowl nodded, having anticipated that contingency. “If you drop me off at the Penta Sigma lunar base, I can find passage back to that wormhole.” It was a busy station for this part of the galaxy, even the scattered Autobots stopped there at intervals to leave messages for one another and relax at the local equivalent of Maccadam’s. Even if there were no Autobots, Prowl had accumulated a small store of unusual gems. He could pay one of the numerous alien traders if he had to. It would cost Sentinel nothing but his best tactician.
“Huh. All right.” Sentinel made a face at his console and it spat a tiny data chip at him. He flicked it to Prowl who caught it and cached it automatically with a minimum of motion. Sentinel knew Prowl wouldn’t try to read it. “If you can work your way around Prime I want your aft back here when you’re done playing courier. Clear?”
“Yes, Sentinel.”
On Penta Sigma, a quartex later, Prowl didn’t watch as Grimlock piloted the interceptor up out of the moon’s gravity well. He walked briskly toward the Pocket-D bar, claws unclenching for the first time in what seemed like vorns. He was free.
Scanning the room as he entered, he didn’t pause in the doorway, making for the info banks along the portside wall. There were Autobot signatures here, but caution had been ingrained so forcibly he couldn’t bring himself to approach them right away. He keyed into the data system, knowing he would have no personal messages but searching anyway, as well as skimming the local news and shipping records.
The familiar warmth of another mech approached and leaned against the side of the terminal Prowl was using. “Pardon me,” the mech said in a relaxed sort of drawl. Prowl’s optics flicked sideways. The mech was rather smaller than himself, geared for rough terrain, with some interesting onboard equipment. No heavy artillery. A scout. “My friends and I were wondering if you’d care to join us.”
Prowl disengaged his search and faced him. The mech smiled. “Been a while since we’ve seen another Autobot and a new face is kind of a relief. Drinks are on us, come on.” Prowl nodded and followed him to a table along the back wall. A large mech so heavily modified the forging was unrecognizable and a small guerrilla-class infiltrator bot greeted them. Prowl refrained from staring at the latter, he hadn’t known there were any of that forging still operational.
“This is Wheeljack and Arcee,” the mech said, resuming his seat and inviting Prowl to take the empty one next to him. “And I’m Hound.”
Punching his order into the table’s serviette, Prowl nearly hit the wrong selection. “Wheeljack!” The other three Autobots laughed. An open, uncomplicated sound of simple humor that made Prowl’s claws tremble on the menu.
“My reputation precedes me again, eh?” the big mech chuckled. “Ah well. What brings you out here, if you can tell me?”
“My apologies,” Prowl said, recovering his composure after a sip of the plain energon the table provided. “My designation is Prowl. Have you received Prime’s latest message?”
The three exchanged glances. “Which one?” Wheeljack asked, leaning forward and resting an arm on the table.
“The one about the loss of the Allspark,” Prowl said quietly. “And the planet they found it on.”
“What?!” all three said. Prowl chirped them the entirety of the message. Including the embedded coordinates from Prime, and the coordinates of the wormhole through which he had gotten the signal.
Wheeljack sat back with a heavy clunk against the wall. “That…changes things.” The other two stared at their drinks, processing. After two breems of thoughtful silence, Hound abruptly arched his back and tipped his head up.
“Cut it out, Mir,” he said, grinning nevertheless. “No-one’s watching, you can de-cloak.” Prowl gaped as a slender blue mech faded into visibility behind Hound, hands caressing Hound’s chest unabashedly. Their open affection continued as the newcomer - or had he been there all the time? - took the seat on Hound’s other side, trailing a hand across Hound’s shoulders and down his arm to briefly squeeze his hand on the table. “Prowl, this is Mirage, our resident spy. Oh, sorry - recon officer.”
Mirage bowed, using an ancient politeness only Prowl’s extensive studies allowed him to recognize. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Prowl merely nodded, still flummoxed. No one in Sentinel’s battalion dared show that kind of unreserved trust. Interface was discharged like any other duty, efficiently and perfunctorily, and according to schedule.
Hound was evidently relaying Prime’s message to Mirage, for the recon bot’s face fell. “Oh no. But that means…” Mirage bowed his head and Hound embraced him.
“I’m sorry,” Prowl said, not understanding Mirage’s distress specifically, though the loss of the Allspark was dire enough for anyone. He regarded Wheeljack. “I wish to join Prime on the new planet. If you’re headed that direction, or if you can get me nearer the wormhole, I’d be grateful for a ride.”
“Yeah,” Wheeljack said heavily. “Yeah. Sure. Looks like we don’t have anything better to do. Unless you guys have ideas?” Hound, though clearly concerned for his friend, was keenly interested. Arcee looked speculative. “All right. Soon as Cliffjumper comes back we can get off this rock.”
Walking along the gantry toward Wheeljack’s ship, Prowl wasn’t fooled by its pitted and corroded exterior. The ship looked like it was cobbled together from four or five different vessels, but there were numerous carbonized blast marks to attest to its hardiness.
Prowl veered to one side rather than board, however, beckoning to Wheeljack. Before I enter your ship, there are things I must dispose of, Prowl told him.
I understand. C’mon. Wheeljack led him down a ramp to the moon’s rocky surface, out and over the lip of a nearby crater. Hound and Arcee watched them with some concern.
“Will he be all right?” Arcee wondered. “I don’t trust that Prowl.”
Hound shrugged and continued on inside. “Wheeljack’s no pushover. And Mir’s out there.”
“Oh.”
In the crater, Prowl removed two small but insidious weapons from caches in his legs and threw them on the ground.
“Hm.” Wheeljack stooped to retrieve one of them; a CPU bore. “Nasty.” Small tools slid from the big mech’s fingertips and deftly removed the device’s minute power core. Caching the core, he tossed the remains back down beside the other weapon; a spark-virus bomb. That one he left quite alone.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Prowl began tearing off the outermost - and heaviest - layer of his armor. Wheeljack watched him in surprise for an astrosecond, then helped with the shoulder and dorsal pieces. Prowl had a look to him Wheeljack recognized. The air of a mech whose servos were stained with death to the shoulder - and was sick of it.
Almost a full metric lighter, Prowl stared at his heavy-duty claws then gazed with admiration at Wheeljack’s sturdy but facile, six-fingered hands. Nothing to be done about that right now.
Wheeljack slagged the pile with his shoulder cannon when they were through. Satisfied, Prowl followed him back to the ship.
Inside as well as outside, esthetics bowed to function. Wheeljack chirped him a basic schematic and Prowl ran a claw along a remarkably well-shielded power conduit. “Nice,” he said, impressed.
The last member of their party, a red mech named Cliffjumper, finally rejoined them, laughing the whole way up the gantry. “You guys missed it! It was classic!” he whooped, gesturing wildly with his arms. “They were doing a live version of ‘The Pirates of Penstirachtatoriafelexis’ only, get this, they had squishies playing all the parts! I thought I was gonna bust a processor!”
“Oh my,” said Mirage.
“Squishies?” asked Prowl.
“He means organic life forms,” Arcee explained. “All right, gear-head, shift it. We’re dusting off.”
“Already?” Cliffjumper made his way forward to the bridge, stopping short as he spotted Prowl. “Another stray, ‘Jack?”
“Yep.” Wheeljack waved a hand by way of introductions. “Prowl. Cliffjumper. Strap in, everyone.”
Prowl took an empty seat at the rear of the small bridge. The ship’s engines wound up with a palpable thrum, the eccentric modulations transmitted by the hull catching Prowl’s attention immediately. There was something off about them - not enough to make one’s CPU skip a cycle, but noticeable.
“Heh, don’t worry,” Wheeljack said. “They’re supposed to sound like that.”
Cliffjumper laughed and leaned around his seat to grin at Prowl. “Praise Primus and pass the high-grade!”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Hey, everybody, about the new guy, Wheeljack transmitted from the bridge, opening a circle of tight-beamed communication among Hound, Mirage, Arcee and Cliffjumper. I know he’s giving some of you the surges, and that’s totally understandable. He’s a dangerous mech, no doubt about it. But I think he’s a good guy, all right? He’s just gonna be kind of jumpy for a while, so don’t make a lot of sudden moves or approach him from behind if you can help it. Or at least try to make some kind of noise. You don’t want to surprise him, trust me. Hound and Mirage replied with simple affirmatives.
Cliffjumper spun the plasma welder he was repairing a conduit with in his fingertips. Bah! What’s the matter, Wheeljack? Don’t you think I can take him? Huh?
Wheeljack shook his head, tapping his fingers on his forehelm. Cliffjumper, you definitely can’t take him. Got me? I mean it. Leave the poor mech alone until he can get his CPU balanced out again.
Aww, come on, ‘Jack. I’m tougher than I look, you know.
Arcee bounced her fist off the top of Cliffjumper’s head. Don’t you dare try anything, you little glitch. I don’t care if he cores you, but we just finished patching this hulk up again. A hull breach, even the total loss of ship’s atmosphere, wasn’t really a dire problem, but their vocoders only worked in air or other less-dense fluids and relying on radio or subspace transmission all the time was tedious. They lost all the harmonics their complicated voices conveyed. Arcee felt the brief, sudden clenching of her spark, reminded of Bumblebee. They could make more air, thanks to one of Wheeljack’s less volatile inventions, but it took quartexes. Besides, energon - especially high-grade - evaporated dismayingly quickly in vacuum. She kicked Cliffjumper’s shoulder for good measure and headed aft to run a routine systems check on the engines.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
With six bots on board, it was simplest to divide their time into three watches. Cliffjumper with Arcee, Hound and Mirage, and Wheeljack appointed himself Prowl’s watch partner. One third of each orn on duty, one third off and one third for recharge, although usually no-one but Mirage needed it for that long. Hound liked to tease him about being high-maintenance.
It took them two CPU-dulling, uneventful quartexes to reach the wormhole. Going through it, Prowl at last understood the odd engine modulations. He’d never been through an easier transition - if the noise in normal space was a little peculiar, it was entirely worth it for the remarkable smoothness and safety in warp. Wheeljack’s reputation as a genius, however mad, was well deserved.
This still left another six quartexes in normal space to reach the new planet. Since Wheeljack could manage the bridge alone - and liked to do so, as it gave him unhindered time to contemplate his current projects - Prowl often went up to the observation bubble to indulge in solitude and quiet, bathed in starlight. He could sit and blissfully think of nothing, or review his orn’s performance, both of his meager shipboard duties and in his interactions with the other bots. He knew that all his reflexes were honed too sharp, and most of his interpersonal algorithms too cold and harsh. He needed to re-adapt to “normal” Autobot society. Or as normal as they could be, after so many millennia of war, and the loss of their homeworld.
Silent observation, he had decided, was still his best tool. Quiet obedience had been the most efficient way to deal with Sentinel, and Grimlock for that matter. Prowl calculated that same strategy could do no great harm here. Long ago he had joked and laughed and been kind, he hoped he could be so again.
Prowl froze the moment the observation bubble door opened. Halting the automatic transformation of both of his forearms into plasma weapons, he forced the guns back into his body. He hadn’t expected anyone to be in here at this groon.
Two pairs of optics glowed at him in the dark. Hound and Mirage transmitted an invitation in tandem. The simple Join us? from Hound intermeshed with Mirage’s more formal glyph somehow forming a singular and alluring palimpsest. With undertones suggesting it wasn’t healthy to keep to himself so much.
I don’t want to intrude, he sent back, unwontedly hesitant. He had not, in truth, interfaced with anyone since the voyage began, and Sentinel thought trines were a sign of decadent weakness and a waste of time.
Absurd, they said, and held out their arms. Prowl moved across the room slowly, not knowing what to do with this odd reluctance. Was he afraid of hurting them? Perhaps that was it. He didn’t look at his claws enveloping their hands, instead watching their faces as they drew him down between them onto the low bench that ran around the perimeter of the bubble. There was nothing in their expressions but open desire and interest in a new participant. And a touch of pity. Of the two, Mirage was more overclocked at the moment, his core temperature higher than usual for a bot his size. Prowl tried to remember what it was like to be among true Autobots.
Had he actually thought that? What did he mean by ‘true’? Behind him, Mirage insinuated delicate hands into Prowl’s infrastructure, having to go deep to find the more sensitive power conduits. Hound settled himself between Prowl’s legs, bumping chests gently. As he leaned in with mouth open, Mirage tight-beamed an explanation.
I should warn you, Hound is a nibbler. He has chemoreceptors in the dorsal plate of his mouth and he likes to taste people. He won’t hurt you, though. It’s just a little strange to most bots.
Curiosity overtook the upper levels of Prowl’s thought lattices, even as his body responded to the interesting things Mirage was doing. He kept his optics on Hound as he ran his lip components slowly over the top edges of Prowl’s chest armor, internal fans whirring somewhere in Hound’s neck. Even this fleeting, delicate contact sent sharp impulses through Prowl’s CPU.
With the old, heavy armor torn away, he felt young and exposed, buoyant, exquisitely sensitive; only shocked out of this perception now and then by the clumsiness of his claws. Had he really thought he would have to feign proper responses? He balled his claws tightly, his body writhing, rising to meet each caress. Hound and Mirage hummed in pleased, fervid counterpoint. Prowl felt the hot tips of cables tapping and sliding over his armor, seeking his well-hidden torso data-ports.
“No,” Prowl moaned weakly, shivering. “Not …cables. Too much…”
The cables withdrew from him, though Hound and Mirage connected to each other. Easy, it’s all right. Outer three thought-shells enough? Keep all your deeper firewalls up, Prowl, it’s all right.
Yes, Prowl returned. He could keep everything that needed burying deeper than that easily. His ports irised open.
Aah, he had forgotten how vivid cables made everything. His assigned interface partner in the battalion, Swoop, though certainly a decent mech, hadn’t been keen on anything but the purely physical, and that had been fine. But now he could feel the pleasure Hound and Mirage were taking in exploring his body in their different ways, and knew they felt exactly how very much he was enjoying it. His claws being useless for tender caresses, his pleasure through the cables was all he could give them.
Shivering between them, so quickly on the buildup to overload, Prowl tried to slow his climb, extend the delicious suspense. But, Let go, Hound told him, and Mirage did something beneath his spark chamber, and Prowl’s body arched in a parabolic curve between them as blue static discharged across him like a miniature ion storm. The last thing he heard was Hound and Mirage laughing gently as they followed him down.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
How can you bear to touch me? I am a monster. There was no venom in the words, no heat. He recognized himself to be in the post-overload calm, with half his auxiliary systems still resetting themselves. Mirage was already deep in recharge, curled up against his left side, and Prowl was grateful to have to bear the scrutiny of only one other mech.
How d’you reckon? Hound murmured.
I shouldn’t tell them anything, Prowl thought. None of them were free from the cruelties of the war, but there was no need to add to another’s burden of sorrow and vileness.
I have done terrible things.
Most of us have.
That was probably true, and Prowl did not want to belittle the experiences of others. But if the actions of Sentinel’s battalion had become the norm, Prowl would despair. They would have become no better than the Decepticons. Careless, he allowed the thought to transmit through the single cable he still had linked to Hound.
Hound bolted upright, gripping Prowl’s forearms. “Sentinel’s battalion?! Oh slag, Prowl! How’d you escape? …Or…I mean, uh?”
Prowl nodded. “‘Escape’ is the proper term.” He briefly explained his actions. “Nothing I told Sentinel was a lie, but I omitted certain personal details. Should I encounter him again, he would no doubt feel it within his rights to terminate me as a deserter.”
“I bet Prime would have something to say about that.”
“Perhaps.”
Hound settled back against Prowl’s chest. It was a strangely comforting gesture. Have you ever killed an Autobot?
I have failed to prevent it.
Prowl.
No, he lied. Despairingly, easily. But if my worst cruelties were of omission, they were nevertheless cruelties.
Never mind the “buts”. Anything else you have or haven’t done? Let Prime sort it out. That’s what he’s for, isn’t he? Hound’s optics brightened. Just think, we’re going to Prime! Have you ever met him?
No. I did see him once, before the war.
Is he as big as everyone remembers?
He is big. The Lord Protector was bigger.
Oh. Yeah.
Prowl smiled ruefully, glad of the diversion. Prime seemed more approachable. I suppose that’s obvious in retrospect. Even from across the Iacon Central Plaza I felt that I could have gone right up to him and talked with him about anything. As you indicated, he was built that way.
Why did you leave the battalion? It was a simple question on the surface, but Prowl respected Hound’s canniness in asking it. Prowl rubbed his cheek flange slowly over the top of Hound’s helm, giving the question proper thought.
My spark is corrupted, not solely by the war, but by how we were fighting it. Effective as Sentinel’s methods are, it becomes too easy a slide into how the Decepticons live. Loveless and cruel, strength the only measure of worth. I’m old enough to remember that I was something other, something more than a tactician, before. I needed to stop before I lost my old self completely. He would always be grateful to Wheeljack for taking him in on little more than his faction sigil.
Your spark isn’t corrupted. Who told you that? Things lit up across Hound’s chest and shoulders, cheek spars and temporal plates. Prowl felt only the barest whisper of the scan, but recognized - at least peripherally - the keenness and subtlety of Hound’s senses. Not even the legendary First Lieutenant Jazz could track Mirage when he was fully cloaked, but Hound could. Your spark is… Hound pressed closer, his hands moving on Prowl’s chest. Unnecessary but pleasant, and a mischievous expression fleeted across Hound’s face. Your spark is compact but bright. Silver-white, piercing. Grieving. Hound moved closer still, lip components brushing against Prowl’s face. Wheeljack told us when you first came aboard that you were wounded in spark. But not corrupted.
Prowl stared at him. Hound wasn’t a medical bot, but there was no denying the accuracy of his scans. His best hope had been that his spark would heal itself given time away from the battalion. But if it was more a matter of programming, retuning - that was easier, or at least less frightening. Thank you, he said. Hound smiled, snuggling down against him and slipping into recharge.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
They rolled off the recharge berths as usual, but Wheeljack paused in the bay’s entry, looking back at Prowl. Mind joining me up front for a bit? he tight-beamed. Prowl returned acquiescence and followed him up the long central corridor to the bridge.
“How’re you doing, kiddo?” Wheeljack asked, leaning back in the pilot’s chair, watching Prowl closely without seeming to stare.
Prowl cocked his head. It was a curious question. Nothing untoward had happened, so perhaps it was a sort of medical query. Surely Wheeljack didn’t want a detailed report of all his mechanical functions.
“You seem to be getting along all right, yes?” Wheeljack prompted gently.
Ah, so it was a social question. “Yes. Arcee and Cliffjumper don’t trust me entirely, but that’s as it should be.”
“Don’t let it bother you. Hound and Mirage like you a lot. And so do I.”
“Hound and Mirage are very kind,” Prowl said. “As are you, for allowing me passage. I’m grateful.”
Wheeljack waved this away. “Nah, I’m just a regular mech. Seriously, before the war, I was a mechanic down on the docks on the north shore of the Rust Sea.”
“I thought you were the Head of the Engineering Department at Iacon Polytech.” Prowl took the navigator’s seat, running a quick scan and astrogation check. Wheeljack laughed.
“Where’d you hear that slag?”
Stopping himself from reciting the exact galactic date and planet where he’d picked up that particular rumor, Prowl gave a simpler answer. “Just hearsay, but it seemed reasonable, given the broad spectrum of your reputation and the well-documented accounts of your innovative brilliance.”
“That’s crazy.” Wheeljack shook his head, optics twinkling. “Sure I download every engineering and mechanical file I can get my CPU around, but I’m mostly self-taught. Never had much patience for all that high-flying university stuff. How about you? What were you, before?”
Prowl had been thinking about that very thing a good deal lately. It led to the consideration that there might be an after. Choices about a new kind of life, beyond survival. He would have to work on that.
“You don’t have to tell me, all right?” Wheeljack said. “I don’t expect you to tell me a lot of things. I’m used to people who’re in Black Ops. I’ve been in Black Ops myself, back when there were enough of us to specialize like that.”
“No, I…I was just thinking. It’s been a long time.” Prowl looked at the stars on the forward screens, the illusion of their flight. “Originally, long, long before the war, I was a ship’s AI.” Prowl had expected more of a reaction, but Wheeljack merely refocused his optics in surprise. “Strange. I haven’t told anyone that in eons. No one alive now knows…except you.”
“What kind of ship?” Wheeljack asked, more than professionally interested.
“One of the Lord Protector’s personal cruisers, when the Lord Protector indeed protected and served his people. I was damaged in a skirmish with the Penstirachtatoriafelexians and decommissioned. The Lord Protector liked to have the latest equipment and I had been part of an older model. My memory core and processor net were salvaged and put into a mech body where I was ensparked. Because I showed an aptitude for a certain kind of logical thinking, I was programmed as a Counselor of Law. I lived in Praxus then, until the war.”
“Huh,” said Wheeljack. “So on you the door-wings make more sense than they usually do. When’s the last time you had a flight-mode?”
Prowl’s optical shutters flickered rapidly. He looked out at the stars again. “Not since I was part of the Fission Blade.”
“You don’t miss it?”
Prowl felt his memory core grinding a little. These were very old datasets he was prodding. “I suppose perhaps at first it was too painful, not to be a cruiser. I wanted that or nothing. Then, over the vorns, ground vehicles became habit.”
“Maybe on this ‘Earth’ you could be a jet again. If you wanted.”
“Maybe.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
He programmed himself to hold perfectly still for ten astroseconds upon emerging from recharge, no matter how high his battle systems charged up, no matter how strange the position he found himself in. And things were getting strange indeed. Sometimes he was on top of Wheeljack, sometimes beneath Arcee, though most often he was simply between Hound and Mirage. Once, he onlined to Cliffjumper’s pistol beneath his chin. There was no aggression to the mech’s posture. No more than usual, anyway. He was merely sitting, relaxed, on Prowl’s chest, pistol held loose but steady.
Prowl forced the guns back into his arms and the missiles into his shoulders.
“CLIFFJUMPER!!!”
Cliffjumper giggled and somersaulted off him, scampering out of the recharge bay. Prowl sat up, shaking, and widened his optics at the floor. Wheeljack’s bellow had actually rattled the deckplates.
You were right, Wheeljack, Cliffjumper conceded, laughing as he led the inventor a merry chase about the ship. He could’ve totally slagged me!
Yeah? But he didn’t.
Nope. The struggle was scary to watch, though. I’m glad he’s on our side!
As Cliffjumper ran by, a hand shot out of a side corridor, snagging him by an antenna.
“If he had shot you,” Hound said, reeling the squawking mech in, “how do you think that would have made him feel?”
“Well it wouldn’t have done me any good either!”
Hound glared at him.
As curious as Cliffjumper was to see Hound angry for once, he knew he was pushing it and scuffed his feet unhappily. “You’re right,” he said, and ran back to the recharge bay to apologize. Wheeljack came up behind Hound and put an arm around his shoulders.
“Thanks, kiddo. Saves me the trouble of beating some sense into him.”
“Arcee will probably do that later,” Hound said, grinning. He stretched mightily and went to meet Mirage for a quick snuggle before heading in to recharge.
Still on the berth, Prowl had curled up, forcing his CPU to churn through several iterations of an unsolvable equation to keep his emotional algorithms from a meltdown. He disengaged his battle systems, calming himself further. When Cliffjumper burst in he was uncurling from his protoform-like ball.
“Aw, Prowl, I’m sorry!” Cliffjumper climbed up and hugged Prowl’s nearest forearm. The one with the butylpotassium pellet gun, but Cliffjumper made himself ignore that.
“No,” Prowl said. “It was a good test. Thank you.”
Cliffjumper looked at him like he’d skipped more than a cycle or three.
“I think I passed, don’t you?”
Cliffjumper laughed. “Well, I’m still alive and we don’t have a hull breach, so I’d say so!”
“Very well. Wheeljack and I are on duty now, so Hound and Mirage should be heading in here for recharge, and you and Arcee are off duty. Hm. And Arcee is asking me where you are.”
“Oh, slag.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
The most ineffective government agency is inherently the one most interested in concealing its performance from the public.
--Jimmy Carter
2008 - September
“Now,” Simmons said, scrolling down his notes. “There’s still the matter of NB…Ironhide’s near miss in Tulsa last week.” He and Sam were the only humans seated at the long conference table set up on a mezzanine in the human-scaled corner of the main hangar. Jazz sat on the floor next to the table, but the rest of the Autobots simply stood nearby, with Bumblebee peering over the edge of the mezzanine floor and Optimus trying not to loom over them. “According to the accident report…”
Prime’s head went up.
Simmons halted in mid-word. Optimus-watching was hard not to do - even after more than a year of twice-monthly meetings. (The liaison meetings had been weekly at first, but the Cybertronians found that interval frustratingly short.) Prime’s attitude of intent listening was clear and Simmons felt the first flush of adrenaline.
“Incoming?” he asked.
“Indeed,” Prime said, an unmistakable grin lighting his face. “They are four days out.”
“Good guys I take it?” Simmons stilled his hands with an effort. Four days out meant they weren’t even near the solar system yet.
“The very best, Mr. Simmons.” Prime relayed the message he’d received to the other four Autobots.
“Wheeljack!” Ratchet exclaimed, laughing in delight. “So he hasn’t blown himself up after all.”
“Wheeljack and Arcee!” Bumblebee crowed, performing a noisy high-four with Jazz. “Arcee’s alive!” Sam didn’t giggle, he assured himself. It was a very mature chuckle of happiness at his friends’ joy.
Simmons scribbled on his PDA. “Anyone else?”
Prime gave him a considering look, which Simmons returned with raised eyebrows. The Autobots lived in the US at the government’s sufferance, but the government did not want them moving in with anyone else on Earth, either. Simmons was well aware of the balance. “Four more,” Prime said, finally. “Cliffjumper. Hound and Mirage-”
“I’ve heard of those two,” Jazz said.
“As have I,” Ratchet agreed.
Prime nodded. “And Prowl.”
Ironhide stiffened but said nothing.
“Six friendlies,” Simmons said, annotating. “So. Tulsa.” Simmons leaned back in his chair and eyed Ironhide.
“The guy was tailgating,” Ironhide grumped.
“So you pulled out your cannons and threatened to blow him and his SUV to Kingdom Come.”
Prime pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ironhide…”
“Great story to tell his grandkids,” Sam offered helpfully. “If the guy lives that long, tailgating Topkicks.” Ratchet snickered and kicked Ironhide in the leg.
“All right, girls,” Simmons said. “Breach of Security Protocol number 412. You know the forms, Mr. Trigger-happy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ironhide said, glaring at one of the printers down in Glen’s nest, which began spitting out densely-texted sheets. “In triplicate.”
Simmons was never sure if he loved or hated that the Autobots could out-bureaucrat the bureaucracy. “Want to do my paperwork, too?” he asked hopefully.
“Ha!” said Ironhide.
“Bet you Goldilocks over there does Wicketty’s.”
“Witwicky. Only the stupid, tedious ones,” Bee agreed. “Sam has enough homework to do already. He should be concentrating on his studies.” Bee tapped his fingers in an odd rhythm on the mezzanine floor. “Wheeljack!” he said, bouncing on his toes. “Wheeljack’s coming!”
Prime laughed. Bumblebee and Ratchet had given him messages to include with the reply he was already sending.
“We’re going to have to expand the med-lab,” Ratchet sighed.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Wheeljack set them down with a bump in front of the Autobots’ base. Prime, Jazz, Bumblebee and Ratchet came out to greet them, with Ironhide remotely present via Jazz’s carrier wave. Even before the ramp had quite touched the earth, Wheeljack sprinted down it, overtaking Cliffjumper, and catapulted himself at Ratchet.
Bee and Arcee embraced warmly while Ratchet and Wheeljack were still tumbling about. Arcee saluted and clasped arms with Prime, or, rather, she grasped his wrist and he engulfed her entire arm. She was the smallest Autobot Sam and Mikaela had yet seen.
“That’s…that’s a girl robot,” Sam whispered to Mikaela, wide-eyed.
“And she can totally kick your ass,” Mikaela said, smirking.
“Prime, this is Cliffjumper,” Arcee said, not ignoring the humans but not knowing yet how to respond to them either.
Cliffjumper’s salute was a little sloppy, but his enthusiasm made up for it. He and Bumblebee grinned at each other and revved their engines, much as young human males might flex their biceps.
“And our quiet friend over there playing stevedore is Prowl.” Arcee’s tone was troubled, harmonics indicating she was of two minds about him, her uncertainty leavened with pity.
Prowl carried one of Wheeljack’s crates of equipment down the ramp. He didn’t know anyone here. He would continue to unload the ship so the others could enjoy their celebration.
Welcome, Prowl, came a warm transmission from Prime. I surmise you have a message for me from Sentinel?
Yes, sir. Prowl replied. Prime knew who he was. Prime knew who he was!
Good. You can leave those crates just inside the hangar - this is a secure area. Inherent in Prime’s secondary harmonics was an open invitation to join the rest of them in comparing Ratchet’s grog with Wheeljack’s moon-grade, but that Prowl could continue what he was doing if that made him more comfortable.
Prowl set the crate down in the indicated spot and returned to the ship for the next one, rather more bounce in his stride than usual.
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