A/N: Okay, I've managed to get caught up and hopefully back on schedule. This chapter references "Prime Target." For those who are curious, DeCordova was renamed the DeCordova Sculpture Park in 1989, which would be four years after this fic was set. Joor=1.2 hours. Orn=roughly a day. Decaorn=ten days.
Chapter 7: A Lover Loves
Jazz bounced up to Prime's office door and hit the buzzer. An entire decaorn of relative peace had passed, save one Decepticon interruption, but he understood that made little difference as it concerned his commander. It was a joor after the official end of the shift, yet Jazz knew Optimus would still be there reading Prowl's latest tactical analysis, reviewing Hound's pending promotion, or perhaps digesting Ultra Magnus' transmission about the underground movement on Cybertron. On one hand, he hated to interrupt. On the other hand, he considered it part of his job to make sure Prime and Prowl didn't work themselves into the ground. Besides, all orn he'd been pondering Prowl's revelations about their second date, taken on the sly after a mission in the Caribbean, and decided Optimus might need his help.
"Enter." The door swooshed open.
Jazz stepped inside, his optics taking relief in the white walls. An oversized Autobot insignia had been painted on the back wall behind Optimus' desk. The whole affair was tradition for the Prime's office, and given the uniform orange-gold hue of the rest of the ship, a welcome change. "Workin' yerself silly, sir?" he asked lightly, noticing the empty Challenges box and the full Conquered box. The datapads waiting to be taken out were stacked in a leaning, precarious pile.
"Probably." Optimus turned to his Teletraan terminal, logging himself out. "I suppose I'd best stop for now." He glanced back to Jazz. "What can I do for you, my friend?"
"Let me meddle." Jazz gave him a disarming grin and hopped onto the edge of his desk. "Prowl said . . ." He paused, cringing, and realized this was not going to be as easy as he'd hoped. He could school himself to act cool in almost any situation, but this particular topic broke through his control. His voice dropped low. "He said he told ya about the rape." The final word came out as more of a growl. Even after millions of stellar cycles, Jazz still fantasized about all the different ways he could torture Sentinel for hurting Prowl. His favorite was attaching live wires to the slagger's prong.
Optimus grew extremely still, and an audible creaking sound filled the air as his cables tightened. "Yes."
Jazz felt a sympathetic burn in his tank at the sight of Optimus' rage. "He didn't say much else except that it made ya angry." Prowl had, in fact, said much more, including that Optimus seemed unwilling to touch him now, but Jazz decided to leave it at that and see what Optimus was willing to discuss.
"Angry?" Prime pushed to his feet, his chair skidding backwards. "I'd say 'furious' is a better description." He paced the length of his office, snapped around, and paced back.
Jazz watched, remembering that Prowl had said Optimus had paced when he'd told him. "That's only natural. If I had one wish, it would be for a time machine." He let the implications of that hang in the air between them, but he couldn't stop himself from clenching his hands on the desk's edge. "I know it had to be a horrible shock for ya to learn about."
"I had no idea what to say." Prime paced the deck plates with heavy footsteps. "I mean, what do you say to something like that? Do you say 'I'm sorry'? It hardly seems enough! Do you offer comfort? How? What kind?" He growled, his powerful engine revving. "Mostly I want to beat Sentinel to death, but he's already dead. I feel helpless! I want to do something, but there's nothing to do."
"I was there, and I still couldn't do enough." Jazz shuddered, the memory of breaking into Sentinel's quarters and finding Prowl so hurt making his tank churn. It was an image that would never stop haunting him. "Well, there is somethin' ya can do: take twice as good care of him now."
Prime nodded. "I can do that." He stopped by his desk, pressing his fists into the top and heaving a sigh out his vents. "I just . . ."
Jazz waited, hoping Prime would bring up all the necessary issues on his own. Sometimes the better part of meddling was seeing what others were willing to discuss with little or no prompting.
"I'm afraid now that I'll hurt him," Optimus murmured.
"Hurt him how?" Jazz asked, disturbed. "Physically? With interfacing?"
Prime shook his head. "Not specifically that, although yes. I'm very concerned now about how to approach our first interfacing."
"Technically, it'll be the second time," Jazz reminded him, forcing himself to relax and smile. He put one hand behind him on the desk and leaned back. "I asked him if ya harmed him in any way the first time, and he said no."
Optimus paused, glancing at him. "Ah . . . good." He straightened at those words. "I'm glad to hear that. Prowl has said much the same, but I feared he was sparing my feelings." He hesitated again, holding up his hands and turning them as though inspecting them. "In general, I suddenly find myself overly aware of what I'm doing with my hands. How I'm touching him. Wondering if I'm making him uncomfortable."
"This is Prowl we're talkin' about." Jazz snorted. "If he's uncomfortable, he'll tell ya."
Prime returned to his desk chair, sinking into it with an air of defeat. "I guess you're right."
Jazz sat up straight and crossed his arms. "Don't be like that. What yer doin' now will only draw attention to the past. He's made the choice to move forward, so don't ya be the one to focus on somethin' he's healed up. He's the same mech now that ya took on that first date. Don't treat him any differently. If ya kissed him then, kiss him now. If ya held him then, hold him now."
"You seem so sure." Optimus watched him with open concern and curiosity.
"I was with him through the whole healin' process." Jazz frowned. "I'm not him, so I can never be one hundred percent sure, but I have some idea of what he wants. We've talked about it a lot, and I can tell ya he doesn't want to be treated like he's broken. He doesn't want 'bots tiptoein' around him on the subject."
Prime relaxed, slumping back into his chair. "I'll keep that in mind, then."
Jazz grinned. Meddler: 3. Oblivious 'bots: 0. Maybe Prime and Prowl would succeed in their relationship just yet.
oOoOo
Prowl glanced around DeCordova's sculpture garden and had to smile. For their fourth date, he'd stepped up and taken the reins, choosing the location, time, activities, and arranging the details and transport. He could only feel glad that Skyfire loved to fly so much, and conversely hated to be grounded, that he jumped at any request to take his fellow Autobots places. One human-approved flight plan and several joors later, Prowl and Optimus were now enjoying the DeCordova and Dana Museum and Park.
Optimus held out his hand to Prowl. "It's fascinating," he said, gesturing with his other hand to an abstract, black, metal sculpture as tall as he was. "I suspect the entire park will be gorgeous."
Prowl took Prime's hand gratefully, glad for the affectionate gesture. Optimus had touched him very little since the night he'd told him about the rape. "Several famous artists are displayed here." He glanced around the woods, noting the blanket of snow covering the grass and the pines and the stray, fat snowflakes drifting through the air. Fortunately, Prime and he were impervious to the cold at these comparatively mild temperatures, which meant they could enjoy the scene comfortably.
"It's always interesting to see the artwork of other cultures," Prime said as they wandered through the trees to the next sculpture, which looked much like an oversized mech's hand. "It says a great deal about the species and their beliefs and values, and it's often beautiful."
Prowl smiled, glad his bet had paid off. Optimus had always been an art connoisseur, so Prowl had hoped he'd like the park. He listened to Prime's commentary on the sculptures as they walked, but he was preoccupied with how well their dates were going, despite Prime's refusal to touch him. There had been a bit of a transition from friends to dating, an awkwardness that popped up in moments, but also a contrasting comfort or relaxation that made the dates themselves easier for Prowl.
Optimus released his mask as they went further into the trees and grinned at him. "Remind me to thank them for letting us in after hours."
"It was kind of them." Prowl had requested to tour the park right after its official closing so that they wouldn't disturb or distract the human patrons.
"And convenient, since I would like some privacy." Prime pulled him over to an embankment where they could sit sheltered under the trees above. "Would you like to sit and just watch the snow?" He eased down, careful not to plop down and shake the snow out of the tree limbs.
"Certainly." Prowl had a surge of hope that Prime might actually put his arm around him.
Prime gazed up at him and opened his arms. "Sit with me?"
Prowl didn't need to be asked twice. He had missed those strong arms holding him close. He smiled at Prime and walked over to sit down, but as soon as he got close enough, Prime swept him into an embrace, pulling him onto his lap. Prowl had to chuckle at that, but he hardly complained. He leaned his head against Prime's shoulder and relaxed. Optimus stroked his back in long caresses, tracing the contours of his canopy.
"Thank you for holding me again." Prowl put his hand on Prime's chest. "I promise it doesn't bother me. In fact, I missed it."
Optimus hugged him tightly. "I was just . . . concerned." He smiled. "You are free to touch me at any time, though."
"True." Prowl stared at his hand against Prime's red plating, an odd surge of inexplicable worry rushing through him at the thought of initiating touch. Still, surely he was safe with Prime. He pressed closer, rubbing their chasses together in the process.
And that's when Prowl felt it: a strange pulse from his spark, then a pleasant burning sensation right where their chests touched. He glanced down, but nothing physically was showing on the outside. He'd heard myths and romantic tales all his life about sparks calling to each other and sensing their mates. He never thought the nonsense was real, though.
Maybe it was just his imagination.
"Wonderful choice for a date," Prime murmured, brushing his lips over Prowl's helm. "Reminds me of an organic rendering of the now-lost Omeli Park in Iacon."
Prowl lifted his face and smiled. "Thank you. I'd hoped you would like it."
Prime transferred his kiss to Prowl's lips. "More important than that is just getting some quality time alone with you. No 'Cons, no work, no interruptions."
"Indeed." Prowl felt his smile widen and gloried in the happiness that made the smile possible. "I really don't care where we go just as long as we enjoy our time together."
Optimus was gazing at him with something akin to joy, and he leaned down and captured Prowl's lips. Prowl returned the kiss, needing and wanting it after Optimus' hesitation to touch him. Prime's lips were soft against his, and after pressing a chaste kiss upon him, he slipped his glossa into Prowl's mouth. Their glossae met and caressed each other, and Optimus drew him into a tighter embrace. Prowl moaned, unable to stop himself as both his body and spark reacted.
Optimus moaned as well and pulled back. "You really do need to be cherished." He captured his lips again, and Prowl opened his mouth, inviting him back in.
Oh, how much he wanted Prime to do the cherishing. He wished he could open up his entire being to Prime, right there, and be made love to again. He wanted to feel that slow, gentle heat inside him again, around him, encompassing him. He wanted Prime to value him, respect him, love him, cherish him, and hold him dear. He wanted to be 'dearest Prowl' to Optimus.
He translated that need into their kiss, wrapping his arms around Prime's neck and meeting his glossa in a passionate caress. Prime helped him to shift to face him, hugging him tightly with one arm and cupping his helm with his other hand.
Optimus broke the kiss. "I want to love you," he whispered, his lips brushing against Prowl's as he talked. "I want you to love me, too."
Prowl nodded, unable to even speak. That was worth fighting for despite his wounds running deep and causing him fear. But he knew that his entire spark screamed out for that love, for that need to try. To fight and win.
oOoOo
Prowl awakened the following morning with a disturbing thought:
It was too good to be true.
"Primus," he muttered, irritated with himself as he pushed out of his berth and headed to his private washrack. He wasn't one to parade around his officer's perks, but he did like having easy, private access to his own shower. He turned on the hot water, stepped into the jets, and leaned his forehead against the cool, coated-steel wall, trying to tame his processor.
It rebelled.
Images from the past confronted him: Blackslide, the first 'bot his creators' hired matchmaker brought to him. Lightwing, the second one. Darkshaft, the third. Blarebumper, the final one. And, of course, Sentinel. Each one had presented to him a mask of seeming perfection. Blackslide had been unfailingly gracious on the first two dates, then on the third revealed he was only after a piece of aft. Lightwing had seemed to have much in common with Prowl, and Prowl had become infatuated with him. However, on the twelfth date, Lightwing had announced he had fallen for someone else, a someone whom he'd already been on one date with. Prowl had stood up in the middle of the restaurant, dumped him, and left before their energon confections had arrived.
Having been deeply infatuated Lightwing and then burned, Prowl had refused to date again for a stellar cycle, rejecting every 'bot the matchmaker suggested, but he finally caved in to his creators' badgering. Next had been Darkshaft, who had been sweet and kind for eight consecutive dates, the absolute soul of gallantry, then abruptly yelled at Prowl on the ninth one for not popping cords. As for Blarebumper, she had professed to hate the matchmaking process as much as Prowl, and they'd shared four wonderful dates in which they'd ridiculed the whole process together. She'd claimed to make her own way, keep her own counsel, and think for herself, but by the fifth date she began worrying about what her friends and co-workers thought of their match and bending to their pressure to find a richer 'bot.
As the 'bots' masks had fallen away, Prowl had dumped each and every one. He'd wondered if being genuine and honest on the first date were secretly illegal in some rule book he hadn't discovered yet. But then there was Sentinel: the perfect picture of charm, nobility, responsibility, and honor . . . on the surface. Prowl had fallen into that trap all too well since Sentinel had maintained the act for a good while, definitely until after they'd interfaced.
But what about Optimus? Would he be like all the others? Change when he was sure he'd gotten what he wanted?
With a growl of frustration, Prowl turned off the shower and stepped over to the air dryers. The roar filled the tiny room, but the sound could never drown out his thoughts. Part of him resisted the fear, saying that Optimus' behavior with Elita proved he was different. The other part reminded him that he never had, and never could have, seen them behind closed doors.
Expelling a sigh out his vents, Prowl wandered back into his cabin proper, preparing to head to the rec room for his morning energon. Before he even reached the door, however, the intercom buzzed.
"Jazz," Prowl murmured to himself, realizing his friend would want to know how their date went. He triggered the door open, admitting Jazz into the room.
"Good mornin'." Jazz grinned at him and handed over an energon cube.
"Morning," Prowl replied noncommittally. He accepted the cube and trailed Jazz over to the sitting area. When Jazz plopped into one of the chairs, Prowl took the couch.
Jazz took a long sip from his own cube, then smiled at him again. "So? How'd it go?"
"Very well." That much was certainly true. Prowl frowned into his own cube, unsure which bothersome question to ask first: the one about masks or the one about his spark. He settled for the later one. "I had the strangest sensation in my spark, though."
Jazz's hand froze halfway to his mouth. "Ya did?"
"It was almost a burning sensation, plus a hard pulse." Prowl felt a moment's embarrassment to have to admit to such things and ask such questions, but the simple fact was he'd never had this experience with Sentinel. "It happened while Optimus was holding me and while we kissed."
Jazz nodded. "Yer chests were pressed together?"
"Yes." Prowl noted that Jazz seemed patently unsurprised. At least that meant it was normal.
"The pulse's a test. Yer spark's thinkin' Prime's might be compatible, and it's sending out a wave-type signal, almost like a ping." Jazz grinned. "That's a good sign. Even better that ya got the burning feelin'. Means yer spark's liking the return signal."
Prowl stared at him, flummoxed. His creators and the matchmaker had never said a word about this. "I thought that was just a legend. Just romantic idealism, cheap-credit romance novelpads, and sentimental holovids!"
Jazz laughed. "Nah, nah. It's real. Ya do know spark compatibility is an issue in bonding, right?"
"Sure. But there's a medical test." Prowl shrugged. "I already know my spark's frequency is compatible with Prime's. I'm one of the two possible donors for him in our crew."
"Really? I didn't realize that." Jazz hmm'ed in fascination, then drank the rest of his energon in one gulp. "Well, yer spark doesn't care if there's a medical test or not. It does it itself." He thunked his empty cube on Prowl's end table. "And it sounds to me like it likes what it's seein'."
Prowl sat in silence for a moment, remembering his creators' dry recitation about the medical test and how Prowl couldn't keep rejecting suitors or he'd run out of compatible 'bots. He tried to reconcile that with the idealistic, romantic concept of his spark reaching out metaphysically to another's, singing out a song to see if the other could and would answer. "Primus, that's bizarre."
Jazz snickered. "The logical, pragmatic Prowl caught in the thrall of -"
"Jazz." Prowl cut off what was sure to be a highly overdramatic sentence or downright hyperbole. He ignored Jazz's chuckling as his processor combed over his past, trying to imagine that any such pull had existed between his creators. He tried equally unsuccessfully to imagine a bonding between Optimus and himself. Love was for other mechs only, right?
He frowned. It had always seemed to him that he'd been caught between other mechs' masks and their inappropriate or unrealistic expectations. Or that he was trapped between those who wanted him too much and tried to possess him and those who he loved but who didn't love him as much. In a familial way, even his own creators fell into the second categories, and Prowl's experience at the hands of both his family and his lovers had left him with only one conclusion: his feelings were meaningless.
Prowl set aside his own empty cube, trying to draw himself out of his thoughts, but the memories pursued him anyway.
-o- He wasn't wanted. The guard stepped out of his booth, nodding to them. "Designations?" His creator smiled, his doorwings, so like Prowl's own, perking upward as he straightened his posture. "Stingray. And this is Prowl. We have an appointment with the headmaster." The guard pulled a datapad from subspace, checked it, and then nodded again. "I'll inform him you're on your way." He stepped back into his booth, and moments later the energy bars faded. With his view suddenly unobstructed, Prowl stared in horror at the grey monolith, which lacked any color or personality save the red Autobot symbol over its front doors. The campus spread around the ten-story building on all sides, with smaller grey buildings punctuating the dull, steel 'lawn.' He began to tremble, wanting nothing more than to beg his creator not to leave him here. He was only ten vorns old, after all. He'd never heard of a sparkling so young going to the academy. But then again, all his creators seemed to care about was his test scores. They wanted, and expected, perfection. Nothing else seemed to matter. "Come on," his creator whispered, pulling his hand from Prowl's death grip and placing a palm in between his doorwings, propelling him forward. "We already discussed this, remember? It's the best thing for you. You will have an edge on all the other sparklings and should reach a vaulted position among the Enforcers." And he "Don't be that way," his creator said, apparently noticing the tears as they headed up the walkway. "You know no normal school can provide you the education and upgrades you need." Prowl didn't reply. He knew he was smarter than other sparklings his age and that the programming specialist had said he needed better upgrades than his school could provide. That, however, did not equate in his mind being abandoned. His creator continued speaking. "And when you graduate, you'll have opportunities that will ensure you a prosperous life." Again, Prowl didn't reply. He couldn't even imagine graduating or being an adult. He focused instead on the sounds rolling through the courtyard: an unseen mech barking numbers, a whistle, and rifle fire, which bounced off the building's cold, steel walls. "And if you give it some effort, I'm sure you'll make friends in no time." His genitor's smile became strained. Prowl turned his stare to his feet, knowing how dissatisfied his creators were in his quiet, introverted nature. They wanted someone bold, social, an inherently programmed leader, shaker, and doer. They climbed the stairs and entered the academy, and as the doors swooshed shut behind them, all the outside noise was silenced. They stood in the quiet hallway for a moment as his creator read the electronic office directory. The hallway was dark and bland, nothing but a grey strip with doors. Murmuring voices and the occasional beep of an incoming call were the only sounds. "All right," his genitor said. "This way." He took his hand again and strode down the hallway. "Now wipe your face. You need to be gracious and polite when we meet the headmaster." Prowl was terrified, but he scrubbed the tears off his face with the back of his free hand. No one cared how he felt.
Young Prowl stared through the bars of the military school's energy fence, the crimson glow creating an illusion of color for the distant grey building. His younger creator stood by him, holding his hand and squeezing it gently, but it offered no comfort. He knew why he was really here:
-o-
Prowl shook himself out of his memories. Jazz was watching him closely, his lips pulled into a concerned frown.
"How do you know that someone will continue to care how you feel?" Prowl asked abruptly, bluntly. "Dating is conquest. People put on their best faces. But when people relax and the mask comes off . . . when the conquest is over and the prize won . . . they sometimes become someone else. And bonding itself. I've heard it changes mechs. It's like the official nature of it clicks off something in their processors, and all the habits and patterns they learned from their creators take over. And then the next thing you know, your bondmate is less attentive and you stop treating each other as special. Then the fights start."
Jazz stood and slipped onto the couch beside him, settling on his haunches and pulling Prowl into a sideways hug. "What ya described can happen. Sometimes mechs'll change like that. The danger of that happenin' is greater, I think, with 'bots that didn't date long before bondin'. Didn't know each other for long."
"I suppose." Prowl knew that had been an issue with some couples he'd known. He rested his head on his friend's shoulder. It had taken vorns for Prowl to be comfortable enough to let Jazz hug him, to let anyone touch him. But slowly, with time, he had adjusted.
Jazz stroked his arm in a comforting fashion. "And Optimus and ya have known each other for millions of stellar cycles. Ya both have seen each other at yer best and worst, and you've been friends all this time. I don't think he's gonna change on ya."
"But sometimes they date for stellar cycles, and it still turns out that way," Prowl pointed out.
"Yeah." Jazz squeezed him. "But what yer sayin' is also highly deterministic. Some mechs aren't wearin' masks, and some mechs can overcome the bad examples of their creators. Or, in some cases, they have good role models. If yer dedicated, ya can overcome anythin'. There's no reason to damn yerself to some set behavior or fate. Might take work, but ya have free will. And, besides, ya need to just have faith that if ya love each other, ya will work together to deal with any problems that come up. Remember: a lover loves."
Prowl considered the cold nature of his own creators' relationship and knew he didn't want to be that way with Optimus. That he would make sure he wasn't. "I suppose you're right."
"I'm always right."
Prowl chuckled and lifted his head. "Insufferable glitch."
Jazz was smiling at him. "Nah. Just honest."
Returning the smile, Prowl thanked Primus for Jazz's friendship and steeled himself to keep moving forward, even if he had to defeat all his fears one at a time.
oOoOo
Prowl stood with Ratchet at the Ark's entrance, visually accounting for the returning mechs while Ratchet scanned them for injuries. He didn't like the strange few orns they'd been having. First, Tracks and Bumblebee had gone missing, then when search teams had been deployed, Inferno had radioed Prime about a trap. When he added in the missing Soviet experimental jet, Prowl found that his battle computer gave him disturbing probabilities. And now, to top it off, Jazz, Grapple, Inferno, Beachcomber, and Blaster were all missing.
"Think it's the 'Cons?" Ratchet asked quietly after the twins checked in safely.
Prowl stared across the flat desert stretching away from him. The heat rippled up from the packed sand in water mirages, and the sun evoked a blinding glare. "It is possible, of course. However, no unusual Decepticon activity has been reported, and Megatron hasn't radioed to gloat or make demands. It is equally possible we are looking at something else altogether." He noted a dust cloud on the horizon and hoped that meant their final team, Bluestreak and Brawn, were reporting in.
"Worried about Jazz?" Ratchet asked, his usual bluster still set aside in respect for everyone's concerns.
Prowl glanced at him. "I'm sure Jazz can handle whatever has occurred." Which was true, but it didn't make Prowl any less worried. Anything or anyone who could capture Jazz was a force to be reckoned with, unless Jazz had been distracted by some bit of Earth culture. His obsession with local culture was his only downfall.
"Admitting it won't kill you," Ratchet groused, quirking an optic ridge at him.
"I'm worried," Prowl said easily and bluntly.
Ratchet paused, frowning. "Somehow hearing you say that didn't have the effect I imagined."
Prowl had to smile. He knew quite well the crew relied on him to be levelheaded and calm despite the situation, and he distracted Ratchet with checking over Bluestreak and Brawn once they arrived.
Once everyone was accounted for, Prowl headed to the control room, joining Prime, Ironhide, Warpath, Hoist, Windcharger, and Mirage.
"Our fellow Autobots are missing," Prime was saying, "and we don't have a clue as to where they are."
Warpath stepped forward. "I say we go out and - bang! - nail some Decepticon hide."
Prime voiced the thoughts Prowl had been carrying all orn. "We have no proof that the Decepticons are behind this."
Teletraan interrupted them by displaying Cosmos on the main viewscreen. "Alert: Cosmos is broadcasting on the emergency frequency."
Prowl found himself unconsciously stepping forward with the others, concerned by what Cosmos may have found.
"Optimus, I have spotted something most disturbing." The Sky Spy's video feed showed nothing more than Cosmos flying in some indistinct patch of sky. "Relaying video pick up to headquarters."
Teletraan switched to Cosmos' feed, revealing a horrifying scene of their companions undergoing various forms of torture. Beachcomber was being forced to repeatedly dodge spikes; Bumblebee was dodging oversized blades. Grapple was being forced to keep a huge boulder aloft, and Tracks was being repeatedly shot at by some form of laser weapon. Cosmos swept back over them before Prowl could see what was happening to Jazz, Inferno, and Blaster, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The images were horrifying enough already.
Prime was staring at Beachcomber. "He'll be fine as long as he keeps his motor hopping. But Grapple's already beginning to fade." His fists clenched. "What kind of monster would build such devices? And for what purpose?"
Good question, Prowl thought, his tanks churning. Decepticon torture devices and methods were much straighter forward, often involving slicing off limbs with laser blades or slowly dipping mechs into smelting pits. That meant a human had to be the cause of all this.
"Cosmos, send Teletraan 1 your exact coordinates," Prime ordered, clearly enraged.
"Right away, Prime." But the video feed of Cosmos descended into static. The transmission of a human male replaced the picture.
"Greetings, Optimus Prime," the man said, his accent tagging him as being from Great Britain. "Forgive the interruption, but you see your friends can't wait for your arrival."
"Who are you?" Optimus growled. "And what do you want?"
"Chumley is the name, and hunting's my game." Chumley seemed to find their conversation nothing more than a discussion over tea despite the dire situation. "I'm offering you a sporting chance to rescue your companions."
Prime leaned toward Teletraan's camera transmitter. "Torture isn't sport, but I accept your challenge."
"Oh, good show Mr. Prime! Directions will be forthcoming. I can't wait to begin!" Chumley laughed, clearly pleased.
Prime's engine revved low. "Fine. Then let's begin now." He grabbed the feedback lever and jerked it down, sending a massive charge back over Chumley's frequency.
Prowl watched the show of temper quietly, realizing that news of torture or rape were definitely triggers for the otherwise calm Prime. And rightfully so.
Optimus wasn't the only angry one. Warpath turned to Prime as soon as Teletraan's screen went blank. "Let's get in there and - Wham! Bang! - kick some tail!"
"No, Warpath, I'm going in there myself." Prime glanced around at them all. "If he wants one-to-one battle, he's going to get it."
Prowl barely suppressed his vocalizer, but Ironhide had no such qualms.
"Ya got ta be kiddin', Prime!" Ironhide held up both hands. "That's gotta be just what this Chumley human wants."
"I'm not risking any more of you." Optimus turned to Windcharger. "Get me a jet pack and meet me at the entrance." He swept out off the command deck, and Prowl followed him instantly.
"I understand your reasoning," he said, nearly having to jog to keep up with Prime. "But I have to say this worries me." And that is an understatement. He frowned, terrified Prime would be hurt by the madman. "I realize he's only a human, but he's somehow managed to capture seven of us. And specifically he's captured Jazz."
Prime stopped at the Ark's entrance and clasped Prowl's shoulder. "I realize that. I will be careful." He paused as Windcharger arrived with the jet pack. "You just keep everyone here safe, Prowl."
"Yes, sir." Prowl watched Optimus transform and Windcharger attach the jet pack to him. He didn't like it at all. He couldn't shake the feeling something terrible would happen to Prime.
And, he realized abruptly, he could no longer imagine a life without Prime's love and laughter in it.
Postscript: I really appreciate the feedback and reviews, so thank you to the following: Shizuka Taiyou, Kaeda Akira, OrianPrime92, renegadewriter8, bluebimbomushi, BitterSweetDrug, sphinx01, Phoenix13, Sear, Yami-Yugi3, Thornwitch, and Sslaxx. Much love to you all!
