When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Prowl
Title: When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Prowl
Word Count: 1065
Summary: Prequel to Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread. How and why Prowl was sentenced to base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E.
Rating: T
“I am sorry, but that is not our best option. You must send Battalion Sigma around the west flank, and have them lie in wait. Send Battalion Delta down the center, and Battalion Omega to the east. Once they attack, Battalion Sigma must move in, around the side and back, and attack.” Black and white doorwings flicked, and golden optics blinked. “The three forces will divide the enemy troops, and they will be easily picked off.”
Hard blue optics stared at the black and white Praxian. “Prowl. I’m head tactician here. You'll listen to what I say, do what I say, and you don't question it,” Dropbox said in a low growl. Prowl frowned.
“I understand, sir, but I must protest. What you are proposing will result in the deactivation of over seventy six percent of our troops. My plan has a predicted success rate of ninety four point four five percent and a predicted possible mortality rate of only thirteen point nine nine percent.”
“I don't care what numbers that fancy battle computer of yours kicks out. I am head tactician. You are the junior tactician. We follow my plans. Not yours.”
Prowl's doorwings stiffened. “Of course, sir,” he rumbled, armor flaring, then flattening in anger.
Dropbox issued the command, telling all three battalions to attack outright. Prowl flinched as the plan was transmitted, and the confirmations came in from the battalion, then section leaders.
The mechs moved forward. Many fell. Prowl watched, furious, as all his predictions started on their way to becoming facts, rather than a simple calculations.
Circulating a long draft of air through his vents, Prowl made a decision. Slag command, slag the consequences. Mechs were dying, and he could do something about it.
::Failsafe, take your team down around the east side. Take cover there and wait for my signal,:: Prowl snarled into his comm link. Dropbox jumped from where he had been sitting at the monitors watching the battle and made for Prowl. ::Dancepast, round up what's your team and what's left of Darkstar's.:: The black and white tactician moved back, toward the door of the command center. ::Flashfire, you're in command of Sprint's team.:: Once in the hall, the Praxian transformed and raced off, hurrying from the building and toward the battlefield, listening to the battle chatter and shouting commands over Dropbox the whole while.
Once the sound of explosions and lasers filled his audios, he transformed. He was atop a half-collapsed building, able to observe the entirety of the battlefield.
::Knockback, take your team through the center. Dancepast and Flashfire, your teams will cover his. Silverwind, take your fliers on a bombing run. Go around back, take out their artillery units. And Dropbox, all due respect, shut the slag up,:: Prowl said as soon as he knelt down on the ashy roof.
There was no hesitation from the fighters. They jumped to follow Prowl's orders, eager to have some form of direction. Dropbox had commanded the attack, then given only vague and very sparse orders since. The troops were familiar with Prowl. They knew he was very strict, but they also knew he was competent. They trusted him.
Prowl directed the rest of the destruction of the Decepticon forces from his ashy roof. Once he had determined that the remaining enemy troops were either in full retreat or lying deactivated on Cybertron's war-torn surface, he descended from the building and joined the surviving troops. There were fewer than he would have hoped, but more than there would have been had he not overridden Dropbox.
But consequences came, despite the lives he had saved. After the battle, he was taken to the brig, and his charge, a tiny gray Praxian by the name of Bluestreak was brought to him. He cuddled the little frame to his chassis, smiling gently down at the recharging youngling. Then he frowned.
Usually, the punishment for disobeying a superior officer as drastically as he had was immediate termination. He had thought it a worthwhile sacrifice, to give his spark to save those he could. But at the time, he had not considered his little charge. Bluestreak had already lost his city, his creators, siblings, and friends. What would happen if the tenuous Caretaker-Charge bond between them was broken?
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Three cycles later he, with Bluestreak in his arms, was transported to Iacon to be put on trial. They stood him in front of Sentinel Prime and what was left of the council. Prowl didn't bow his helm. He kept his doorwings stiff and upright. He stated what had been ordered of him, what he knew, and what he had done. Thoughts of his little gray charge flitted through the back of his processor the whole time.
Then one of the council members asked him if he would repeat his actions. A tiny, grim smirk tugged at Prowl's lips.
“I regret nothing. What I did, I did knowing the consequences. I deliberately disobeyed my senior officer. I saved what Autobot lives I could. Whatever happens to me today, I have no regrets. I never will. I do know that what I did could be considered treason, and that the punishment for such is termination. However, I am the caretaker of one of the surviving younglings from Praxus. For that reason, and that reason only, I beg that you do not sentence me to death. Lock me away if you will, but please do not give Bluestreak anything more to mourn.”
Sentinel and the council members exchanged glances. The Prime vented and rebooted his optics. “Very well. Autobot Prowl. You did save many lives, and breaking the bond between yourself and the youngling would be detrimental to his already damaged mental state... I will not sentence you to deactivation. Instead, I am sending you to an outpost in space. Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. It is a two orn journey. You will leave next orn.”
“Yes, sir,” Prowl said, lifting his helm defiantly. “I understand, sir.”
With that, Prowl was led from the room, helm held high, face blank.
Three orns later, a chattering gray youngling in his arms, he walked into the base known officially as Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. However, about a groon after Prowl's arrival and subsequent rise to Base Commander, another mech would arrive, and rename the base “the Pit.”
Word Count: 1065
Summary: Prequel to Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread. How and why Prowl was sentenced to base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E.
Rating: T
“I am sorry, but that is not our best option. You must send Battalion Sigma around the west flank, and have them lie in wait. Send Battalion Delta down the center, and Battalion Omega to the east. Once they attack, Battalion Sigma must move in, around the side and back, and attack.” Black and white doorwings flicked, and golden optics blinked. “The three forces will divide the enemy troops, and they will be easily picked off.”
Hard blue optics stared at the black and white Praxian. “Prowl. I’m head tactician here. You'll listen to what I say, do what I say, and you don't question it,” Dropbox said in a low growl. Prowl frowned.
“I understand, sir, but I must protest. What you are proposing will result in the deactivation of over seventy six percent of our troops. My plan has a predicted success rate of ninety four point four five percent and a predicted possible mortality rate of only thirteen point nine nine percent.”
“I don't care what numbers that fancy battle computer of yours kicks out. I am head tactician. You are the junior tactician. We follow my plans. Not yours.”
Prowl's doorwings stiffened. “Of course, sir,” he rumbled, armor flaring, then flattening in anger.
Dropbox issued the command, telling all three battalions to attack outright. Prowl flinched as the plan was transmitted, and the confirmations came in from the battalion, then section leaders.
The mechs moved forward. Many fell. Prowl watched, furious, as all his predictions started on their way to becoming facts, rather than a simple calculations.
Circulating a long draft of air through his vents, Prowl made a decision. Slag command, slag the consequences. Mechs were dying, and he could do something about it.
::Failsafe, take your team down around the east side. Take cover there and wait for my signal,:: Prowl snarled into his comm link. Dropbox jumped from where he had been sitting at the monitors watching the battle and made for Prowl. ::Dancepast, round up what's your team and what's left of Darkstar's.:: The black and white tactician moved back, toward the door of the command center. ::Flashfire, you're in command of Sprint's team.:: Once in the hall, the Praxian transformed and raced off, hurrying from the building and toward the battlefield, listening to the battle chatter and shouting commands over Dropbox the whole while.
Once the sound of explosions and lasers filled his audios, he transformed. He was atop a half-collapsed building, able to observe the entirety of the battlefield.
::Knockback, take your team through the center. Dancepast and Flashfire, your teams will cover his. Silverwind, take your fliers on a bombing run. Go around back, take out their artillery units. And Dropbox, all due respect, shut the slag up,:: Prowl said as soon as he knelt down on the ashy roof.
There was no hesitation from the fighters. They jumped to follow Prowl's orders, eager to have some form of direction. Dropbox had commanded the attack, then given only vague and very sparse orders since. The troops were familiar with Prowl. They knew he was very strict, but they also knew he was competent. They trusted him.
Prowl directed the rest of the destruction of the Decepticon forces from his ashy roof. Once he had determined that the remaining enemy troops were either in full retreat or lying deactivated on Cybertron's war-torn surface, he descended from the building and joined the surviving troops. There were fewer than he would have hoped, but more than there would have been had he not overridden Dropbox.
But consequences came, despite the lives he had saved. After the battle, he was taken to the brig, and his charge, a tiny gray Praxian by the name of Bluestreak was brought to him. He cuddled the little frame to his chassis, smiling gently down at the recharging youngling. Then he frowned.
Usually, the punishment for disobeying a superior officer as drastically as he had was immediate termination. He had thought it a worthwhile sacrifice, to give his spark to save those he could. But at the time, he had not considered his little charge. Bluestreak had already lost his city, his creators, siblings, and friends. What would happen if the tenuous Caretaker-Charge bond between them was broken?
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Three cycles later he, with Bluestreak in his arms, was transported to Iacon to be put on trial. They stood him in front of Sentinel Prime and what was left of the council. Prowl didn't bow his helm. He kept his doorwings stiff and upright. He stated what had been ordered of him, what he knew, and what he had done. Thoughts of his little gray charge flitted through the back of his processor the whole time.
Then one of the council members asked him if he would repeat his actions. A tiny, grim smirk tugged at Prowl's lips.
“I regret nothing. What I did, I did knowing the consequences. I deliberately disobeyed my senior officer. I saved what Autobot lives I could. Whatever happens to me today, I have no regrets. I never will. I do know that what I did could be considered treason, and that the punishment for such is termination. However, I am the caretaker of one of the surviving younglings from Praxus. For that reason, and that reason only, I beg that you do not sentence me to death. Lock me away if you will, but please do not give Bluestreak anything more to mourn.”
Sentinel and the council members exchanged glances. The Prime vented and rebooted his optics. “Very well. Autobot Prowl. You did save many lives, and breaking the bond between yourself and the youngling would be detrimental to his already damaged mental state... I will not sentence you to deactivation. Instead, I am sending you to an outpost in space. Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. It is a two orn journey. You will leave next orn.”
“Yes, sir,” Prowl said, lifting his helm defiantly. “I understand, sir.”
With that, Prowl was led from the room, helm held high, face blank.
Three orns later, a chattering gray youngling in his arms, he walked into the base known officially as Moon Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E. However, about a groon after Prowl's arrival and subsequent rise to Base Commander, another mech would arrive, and rename the base “the Pit.”