Title: Fear
Rating: T
'verse: AU, G1
Genre: Drama
Characters: Prowl, mentions of Jazz and OC's
Warnings: Death, pissed-off Prowl, mentions of torture
Summary: Prowl gives a lesson about fear.
Disclaimer: TF doesn't belong to me.
AN: This is part of a two-shot with silberstreif on how pissed-off our favorite oreos would be if the other was in danger.
No one expected anything when the SIC of the army went to their base. Sure, the discipline was upped and the corridors scrubbed, as well as mechs went on time for their shifts. The mech had optics and an aura that could chill you to your very core.
So it was a surprise when they all got called into the training room. As the mechs chatted quietly to themselves, no one noticed the entrance of a mech, as calculating optics surveyed them all. The mech made no sound, only patiently waited for them realize his presence. And when he finally got it, he paused for exactly two breems, the needed time for tension to start building.
Then, without unnecessary pleasantries, the Second in Command of the Autobot forces started speaking in a low smooth voice, that got echoed all over the huge room.
"Can someone tell me what happened exactly one meta-cycle, five orns and eight joors ago?"
The nature of his question obviously startled them as a room filled with mechs stared dumbly at their SIC, who still waited patiently for an answer. Then, a mech slowly raised a hand. Ice optics immediately sought him out.
"Um, there was a battle, sir?" He got no confirmation so he kept speaking, "That battle near Rust Sea, where we lost?"
Something in their leader's exterior changed, but it was so minuscule, that no one could be certain.
"What is your designation, soldier?" For a moment, the addressed mech forgot how to speak. The Praxian's optics were zeroed on him and him only. And he already felt like suffocating from under that intense gaze.
"Drumbox, sir." He tried to put some force behind the name and hide the intimidating effect this mech had on them.
"You are correct, Drumbox." Prowl's gaze swept over them, "And we lost 67 mechs in total, 24 of which are held captive by the Decepticons. Most likely outcome is that they are being tortured as we are having this conversation."
If the room was quiet before, it was dead silent now as every set of optics and visor stared at their SIC. Drumbox started to doubt that this was a normal meeting.
"Can anyone tell me what went wrong?" Prowl held perfectly still, hands behind his back in a wide stance and with spread wings. It couldn't be possible, but the mech's voice was even colder.
When no one dared to answer, Prowl repeated his question again, and this time for the very first time they felt an emotion in it, as the Praxian pressed his words into a demand.
"Can someone tell me why we lost that orn?"
Drumbox saw movement next to him – his friend, Windchase – raise a hand and answer.
"Sir, with all due respect, isn't that your job?" Drumbox resisted the urge to slap him, his friend was more mouthed than nessaserly.
Prowl's optics shifted on Windchase but the mech held his ground against the SIC. "I did not give you permission to speak."
"Um, well, I thought- " Windachse started mumbling before Prowl spoke again and this time the emotion was stronger.
"No, you did not think. Just like you did not think during your last battle." Prowl looked them all over, "None of you did."
Mechs started shifting uneasily. Was he trying to blame them for the loss of the battle? Surely the SIC knew better than that, Drumbox frowned.
"Tell me," Prowl started again, one wing twitched, "What did your brother in arms failed to do just now?"
Prowl was again speaking in riddles. The mechs looked at each other, trying to figure out what was demanded of them. Someone from the back finally dared to answer.
"He… answered without permission?"
It was then that Drumbox realized the answer, "He failed an order." And couldn't stop the tremor when Prowl looked at him again. Primus, how did others sand to be in his presence for long?
"My word," Prowl's voice boomed, "My will. Disobeyed by this division."
Drumbox heard more mutters around him. "He's exaggerating." Windchase whispered to him. But no, the SIC was not. From the way he stood and his detached features, safe for the few stray emotions and he could only associate with rage and fury, their officer was most certainly not exaggerating.
When the silence stretched again, Prowl resumed speaking. "During that battle, were my orders followed?"
But this time no one was brave enough to answer.
"You may speak." Came the command and a chores "Yes." Echoed in the big room.
It was then that Prowl frowned, truly frowned. His optics nearly whitened as darkness fell on his face. His wings rose higher and the muscle cable in his arms tensed.
"No, you did not." And this was an accusation.
"But…" Drumbox decided to go with it, they were all going to be punished anyway. It was then that he realized that only the mechs that participated in the battle were there, "We always follow your orders, sir. What did we do wrong?" This was better, easier than the mech's riddles.
This time, when the optics landed on him one more time, Drumbox was prepared. Still, that did not spare him from the chill sweeping down his spinal strut.
"Then tell me, when exactly did I give the order to retreat?"
That question made the muttering even louder, until Dropbox resumed his conversation with what probably was the second most powerful mech in the Autobot history.
"But… we were losing, mechs were dying by the klick! If we had proceeded – "
"Answer the question, soldier." Prowls voice was ruthless.
Dropbox tried to answer, replayed events in his mind, but couldn't find- couldn't remember! – the order for retreat.
"I don't…we…"
"I never gave that order." Prowl said, "By retreating, all of you disobeyed a direct order from your superior. Had you stayed, an opening would have presented itself exactly 16 breems and approximately 43 klicks later."
"But- !" Someone else tried to intervene.
"Had you stayed, we wouldn't have lost 43 mechs."
"Sir, the situation-!"
"Was mine to evaluate!" Prowl finally snapped, "Had you stayed, 24 more won't be in captivity right now, getting tortured because of your disobedience."
"Wait- " Drumbox tried desperately.
"Had you stayed," Was that truly their SIC? "Senior Agent Jazz, Head of Special Operations wouldn't be part of those 24 POW Autobots."
This time, the chaos from klicks ago had died at the mention of that name, and when Prowl spoke, his words left echoes once more.
"Had you all followed my orders." This was their crime, "And it is now that I realize that I am also partly to blame for this."
Prowl was graced with confused looks, Drumbox sharing one.
"It is because of fear that a mech reacts so illogically." Hope started to burn in their sparks. "It is because you fear the enemy, the Decepticons, more than you fear the punishment for disobeying orders from your superiors."
Wait, what? The hope suddenly froze as worry started to creep in.
"I am here to remedy that. I will make sure none of this happens ever again."
It was then that horror finally spread all over Drumbox. The SIC was making them choose – death by the enemy, or something much worse by the Autobots if they disobeyed. But this made no sense. They were-
"We're Autobots!" Someone shouted and Drumbox's head snapped towards the mech, "This isn't our way. We have laws-"
Something too fast for them to follow happened. The speaking mech got shot and was on the ground, frame already graying. That move alone nearly made him draw his own weapon out, but all thoughts of rebellion stopped when he saw it was their officer who had fired.
"I am the law of this army." Prowl's voice boomed. "Breaking that law will not be tolerated."
"W-we won't make that mistake again, sir! We guarantee you that!" Drumbox said desperately, trying to ignore his dead comrade.
"The Prime will hear of this!" Someone shouted right after him. "Surely he won't allow it!"
Fear gripped his spark. Will this mech also suffer under Prowl's blaster for his blatant words? But the SIC seemed to prefer to answer instead of deactivate.
Prowl cocked his head to the side, "The Prime knows. Do not think Optimus is soft-sparked. He doesn't agree but knows it's necessarily. Because he, just like me, is following protocols that handle rebellious mecha. Only, the handling is up to me."
Drumbox instinctively looked around for an exit. The doors were all closed and he had the distinct feeling that they were locked. But Prowl was here alone, surely no match for them… But the room was filled with security cameras. So that would mean the officers of this base were very aware of what Prowl was doing here.
Suddenly, the doors opened as unknown mecha entered. From what Drombox could recognize, they seemed to be Ops agents. He couldn't stop the tremor of his frame, knowing and denying at the same time, what was about to come.
What really surprised him though, was the fact that the SIC made his way towards him.
"Wait…" He started, feeling completely exposed under that intense gaze, "We learned our lesson –"
"No, you did not." Prowl cut him off as he loomed, "But don't worry, you will once I'm done with all of you."
"That's…not fair." Was the only pitiable response Drumbox could figure out. Then something happened that the soldier never believed possible.
Prowl smiled. A cruel, mirthless smile that just seemed wrong. "Fair? Is it fair that TIC Jazz, who happens to be my bond mate is being tortured this very moment?"
Drumbox just gaped at him. Bondmate… that was ludicrous! They were so rare, almost considered a myth. Who would bond in the middle of a war…?
"Is it fair, that even with all the blocks in place I still feel his agony?" Prowl shook his head, smile disappearing as if it was never there. "No, it is not. But I will make sure it never happens again, starting with this base."
With that, the SIC turned and started to leave. Drumbox tried to follow him, to speak to him again; was this Prowl's justice? Making them suffer the same way as his mate? It seemed fair….and yet it did not. But strong arms gripped his shoulders and he turned to see an Ops agent holding him in place. With a sickening feeling, he knew it would be a couple of very long orns.