Chapter 3
Lie or truth
Author's notes: I appreciate your support very much. I hope this fic will fulfill your expectations.
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An idea was all we had left. An idea was all we kept fighting for, the one thing that made us go on. But the strategy failed. I wonder what would Optimus would think? What would he say if he could see how mistaken we were?
Would he be… disappointed?
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Prowl onlined slowly, his tired optics searching for the usual darkness. However, things were not clear; the place was not the same. The scenery had changed and also his position.
His weight was not being supported by his exhausted arms anymore. He was laying on one of his sides, and his doors were resting on another surface that supported them as well as easing some of the pain.
He felt relieved for a moment, but he quickly rejected the feeling. He had lowered his guard before and he was living the result of such mistake. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of relaxing or feeling safe; something forbidden on the battlefield, even more within the enemy's hands.
Laboriously he managed to move his hand, the same hand that now showed the marks of torture. The hand seemed practically destroyed but he could still move it. As he could, he surveyed the damage as he rested it on the floor. The fluid of his own life ran before his optics. His internal circuitry was exposed; he could even see some of his most basic connections through that tangle of cables that were his, some still active, others completely amputated, probably because of the weight of the shackles he had to stand.
Impacted by what his optics were seeing, he continued scanning the rest of his battered body. His arm was in a similar shape to his hand, traces of torture on what was left of his armor.
Prowl bowed his glance, taking in every part of that fatigued body. His chest was also battered, his Autobot insignia gone. Only the old scars remained, surpassed by the damaged metal and the spattered energon that adorned the figure of the warrior. He stopped his travel of agony, everything felt so empty.
Nothing mattered anymore. He could or could not be replaced; it made no difference. But the absence of his insignia was painful. An inexistent space now, except for the corroded wound he had instead.
Why can't I just die? he asked himself, aware that such words would never leave his processor. He was nothing more than a marked mech, damaged, forgotten… Why am I not allowed…?
There was no forgiveness for those who didn't deserve it. Many lives had depended on him and he had failed. The sparks of his fallen comrades rested on his hands. He was receiving a punishment he deserved, he had to accept it with honour.
Then why was it so hard to forget, to accept his destiny?
Confusion was increasing in his processor, his circuits trying to compute concepts he wasn't able to understand. What was the objective of such torture? Would his sacrifice be worthy of something? Perhaps he had finally forgotten the real reason of the war. Perhaps he had abandoned faith…
Unable to stand it anymore, he did the one thing he never imagined he would do, but it was too late to give any importance to pride; his soul was marked and he couldn't change that. As the scenes that anticipated his ending played themselves inside his mind –enemy hands tearing out the core that guarded his spark - tears escaped from his blue optics.
He was unable to contain himself anymore.
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Flashback.
Mirage observed the word exchange discreetly and tried not to call attention. He was not a mech that intervened in matters that didn't concern him; prudence was part of his aristocratic personality.
Prowl had left the room angry, something very rare because the tactician never allowed such feeling to take over him, but apparently the problem was worse than it seemed.
Prowl walked beside Mirage, ignoring him. He still had a lot of work to do before the cycle ended.
Jazz approached Mirage, staring at the same scene. "I know he doesn't understand what's happening, but not everything can be predicted with logic or mathematic calculations. You and I are a living proof of that."
"Is there any chance to get back?" Mirage asked, staring at his superior officer.
"Take care of him. He'll need all the help he can find," was all that Jazz said.
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Nothing in life is certain, except that there is no way to predict the future. Although, it can be prevented.
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"Sometimes you think you know somebody and suddenly you realize it was not true," someone whispered at his back.
Prowl tensed, terror taking over his spark as he heard that familiar voice, a voice with a refined touch that very few could have in that apocalyptical world.
"It can't be…" he said with a paranoia that would have made Red Alert proud.
"We all have some surprises inside," the other one said, getting closer to Prowl. A delicate hand travelled over the wounded mech's body. But, unlike the treatment he had received previously, this one seemed kind.
Still, the tactician didn't move. He knew that Soundwave could create fake realities, he could play with his mind as he had done every time he had had the opportunity, slowly destroying his spirit. Prowl wouldn't be able to stand it again. Not in this way.
"I beg you, stop doing this," he thought, preparing to battle the new attack he was facing, the mockery, the arrogance that stepped on his existence, proving to him again and again how useless he was now. Prowl offlined his optics, contracting his body as much as he could, waiting for the blow that never came.
Still at his back, Mirage was watching him.
"I'm sorry I took so long, but numbers were not on my side," he whispered.
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Flashback.
The group had departed following the brutal battle of Tiger Pax. Many fell that day, others were left behind. As they could, the survivors continued fighting, regrouping within the ruins.
Prowl analyzed the situation with frustration; too many things against him to even find an adequate percentage to act.
"We don't have time, Prowl," Ultra Magnus said, urging him to continue the attack.
"Our troops are exhausted, our casualties considerable. My recommended course of action is not to continue," the tactician replied.
"I know, but if we stay here we'll die anyway. We must return to a safe place or all this will be pointless."
"Then we will need a good distraction to attract the enemy."
"Fine, that is your job. Any suggestions?"
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It had been his decision…
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Prowl continued waiting. The answer never came, neither did the blow or the mockery; only the gentile words of an ally.
"What happened?" Mirage asked.
Prowl tried to believe he was not living another lie. He knew he wasn't dead. That would have been too good to be true. He had already accepted the idea that death was out of his reach; he was destined to stay in the pathetic state he was in, a half-living example for those who dared to challenge the Decepticons.
"Don't move," the friendly voice spoke again. It wasn't an order, but a petition.
Why don't you just end this game? You won, I admit it… You were stronger than me… He wanted to say the words, but he couldn't. The only option he had left was to resign, to accept he was at his enemy's mercy.
"This will hurt, but I need to do it in order to put your doors back in their place. I'm not an expert, but as you know, there are some skills we all should know about," Mirage continued; his attempts to engage in conversation were refreshing.
Finally, Prowl could see the form of his companion when he positioned himself in front of the damaged tactician.
"Trust me. Just this once. I know it's hard to believe, but I will help you," Mirage continued.
If it was really him, he had to understand the status of his superior officer. Mirage had been trained for that kind of situation, as well as his unit. It was part of what he was, what he lived every cycle.
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Flashback.
Mirage stared at the message on the screen. It had been almost a vorn since their miraculous escape, since Prowl had been captured. Despite that loss, the unit had managed to continue, surviving the battles, waiting for the return of the tactician. Many brave Autobots died during those days, but the ones still functioning knew that there was something left to fight for. There was no way they would waste the sacrifice of so many comrades and friends.
"Sir," Mirage said, calling the attention of his commander. "We have received a message."
Optimus Prime was calling his troops to join him on a new planet they would call home.
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Mirage continued repairing Prowl, at least enough so he could walk by himself. Recovering his mental stability would be a challenge, but first things first, and there was still a lot of work to do on Prowl's battered body.
"Prepare yourself," Mirage said, grabbing the tactician's door. "This is the only way. Try not to scream."
One single movement was enough to put the dislocated door back in its place. The pain was excruciating, but Prowl didn't scream. That was nothing compared with the suffering he had experienced at the sadistic hands of Soundwave. Nothing could equal that.
Prowl had decided to trust in that illusion that Mirage was, giving it the benefit of the doubt. It was that, or die, because if he'd lost all his reasons to believe, his unbreakable faith would be no more.
"T…th… thank… you," he muttered, as his body was able to feel again.
Mirage smiled. Perhaps there was still hope for salvation.
To be continued.
Author's notes: Sometimes psychological torture is worse than physical, the wounds left are far too profound.
thanks to iratepirate for be a my Beta reader and Taipan for translate this fic.
Your reviews are highly appreciated.