Duty Bound - Part 8 (1 of 3) Reconciliation
Transformers (G1) Verse
Characters: ProwlxOptimus, et. al
Rating: M
Warnings: Angst, Moody Bots, insinuations of mechxmech relationships
Disclaimer: I do not own anything Transformer, except in miniature, plastic form.
A/N: Yes, it is finally the beginning of the end. Only one loooong chapter left, which has been diced into more bite-sized parts.
(Optimus' POV)
He's avoiding me.
There is no other reasonable explanation for why my Second has become scarce at all, but our most critical staff meetings. Ratchet did inform both myself and the rest of the command staff in no uncertain terms that Prowl was only to be on light duty until the CMO pronounced him soundly whole—both in frame and processor. That was well over a week ago.
Since then the stoic tactician has become a specter amongst my mechs, haunting his quarters or office, but never venturing into the more public spaces if it can be helped. Logically, I realize that the sudden show of concern and attention for the quiet black and white from just about everyone on board the Ark is probably a bit overwhelming to him. But they can't help it. It took a full week of repairs orchestrated by Ratchet and performed by himself, Wheeljack, Perceptor, First Aid and Red Alert to physically put Prowl back to rights. I had no idea of the true state that he was in and it was terribly unnerving during that time.
The only glimpse that I caught of my Second besides hanging limply over Jazz's shoulder plates as he beat a swift exit with his team from the battlefield was an all too brief glance as I attempted to see him while the tactician was under Ratchet's care. For a moment, I just stood there staring unseeingly at his still form laid out upon the medical berth—numerous tubes and cords attached grotesquely at various junctures and ports. And of course, his beautiful sensor panels noticeably absent from his appearance.
My reaction must have been quite strong because I was barred from entering the medical bay unless I was "purging energon out of every orifice," as decreed by my less-than-hospitable-feeling CMO. The boxy red and white medic's shortness of patience and increased temper did not bode well for Prowl's state.
As much as it pained me to do so, I had to turn away and put my concern and fear for my tactician in a tightly sealed box in the back of my processors. I wanted so badly to be there with him, holding his servo and keeping a vigil by his side. I wanted to be there when he awakened if only to reveal to my amazing Second the depths of which my spark pulsed for him. Instead, my time was split between burying myself in the backlog of work that had accumulated due to Prowl's unexpected absence and sinking into the dark abyss that was beginning to consume me entirely.
Days of hearing nothing from the medical staff wore on me horribly. I imagine that this experience has aged my spark more than the vast majority of events that I have experienced up until this point in my lifespan. The only solace that I could draw from at the time was that nothing was said—there was no word of them losing Prowl. Then I made the mistake of being debriefed by my third-in-command in an attempt to take my mind off of the current state of things. Learning the details from his team's incursion into the enemy's base and subsequent retrieval of the Autobot's Chief Tactical Officer at that moment was probably one of the worst things that I could have done.
From what Jazz described to me with the utmost care (atypical behavior when it came to any report concerning his team) was that the Decepticons had not only physically tortured my SIC, but they had also resorted to attempting to hack into his memory core. When they failed to do so superficially through an interfaced connection, someone (more than likely Soundwave) removed plating from his helm and a few other key access points to physically bridge and break through his processors' encryptions.
Given his continued unconscious state, we had to wait until both Ratchet defragged Prowl's CPU and Red Alert subsequently had some time to check the state of his firewalls, as well as review his memory logs. Only then will we know the extent of the damage that had been done and any subsequent security risks.
I am still waiting to hear from Ratchet about those results—there were a lot of unintelligible sectors with data corrupted beyond recovery. The mystery is whether it was the Decepticons or Prowl who ruined the information. I would not have put it past him to pull something from Jazz's playbook in order to avoid compromising Autobot security. Times like this make me grateful that I denied the request to have system-wide shutdown sequences installed in my higher ranking officers. As much as it pains me to face the truth, I am almost certain that had Prowl had the option he would have taken it for all of our sakes.
Light momentarily floods my office before it is blocked by a frame. For a moment my tired processors see what I have wanted to see and my spark gives a little leap before the figure before me dissolves into someone else.
"Jazz."
"Hey, Prime."
I lack both the energy and the desire for any banter or surface-level pleasantries. Not responding seems to confirm something for my Third as he nods with a hum of affirmation. With an expression more grim than he usually allows to grace his countenance, Jazz completely steps into my office and still he says nothing. Merely contemplates the shelving along the walls and the various items upon them as if he has never stepped foot in here before.
With a casual glance my way he reaches behind himself and suddenly the room is flooded with overhead incandescent lighting. Blinking away the light spots from my optics I frown at the black and white, belatedly realizing that the gesture is lost on him with my battle mask still in place. Still, I get the vaguest impression that he somehow knows.
"Prime. You can't keep this up."
Straightening in the metal frame of my chair, I do my best to exude my presence as the Commanding Officer of the Autobot Army.
"What exactly are you refer…"
"Don't man. Just don't."
I wilt at the penetrating look being wielded at my person like a sword—all sharp-edged and cutting straight to my core.
"He's still online. He's still with us."
As he moves closer and all, but looms in my space I can't help, but wonder how he's pulling the feat off. I'm fairly certain that my desk is wider than he can comfortably lean across. And I am stalling.
Looking for somewhere else to focus my attention, I stare blankly at my own two servos and notice a minute tremor going through them. The tremor stops. Then starts again. Stops. Starts. I have no control over my basic functions. It's as though I am watching someone else's hands shake uncontrollably. The distance is almost the same between my processor and spark at the moment.
Slowly, a pair of deep, black servos close over mine, gripping tightly. Daring to raise my gaze, my optics lock with Jazz's exposed ones—over-brimming as they are with emotion. The well of understanding and empathy reflected back from their brilliant sapphire depths nearly undoes me as I sit. I forget sometimes that Jazz, my loyal friend and comrade, is much older than he appears. Older than myself for certain, and perhaps even Ironhide. He has seen and known far more than I can ever hope to and for that trusted insight I can be no less than grateful.
Still, his pain and mine are the same in many ways. The mech that we both care for a great deal has been through untold horrors and we were powerless to stop the chain of events that lead us here. Even now we have no way of knowing if any of the bot that I love still remains in that tattered shell returned to us from the pits. Seeming to somehow know where my processor has drifted, Jazz squeezes my larger servos again.
"He's strong, Prime. You know this. And as stubborn as they come to boot. He wouldn't have survived what he has just to give up in the end. You have to trust him to come back."
The physical being of my spirit bounces around painfully in my chest, still seeing that broken form over Jazz's shoulder.
A firm pulse unexpectedly washes over my spark, freezing my frame as words that I cannot hear and yet understand sooth me. It's the Matrix. It...has to be. I've 'heard' its song before, but never like this. Never when the turmoil I feel has nothing to do with anything, except for my own selfishness. And yet its voice continues to speak and I am left with a feeling of deep peace that settles into every bolt of my frame. My confidence in not only Prowl, but those who have worked so diligently to put him to rights is slowly bolstered and restored. Strangely enough, it's logic that drives the positive response from within me. A thing that my Second would truly appreciate.
"If only he would let us help..."
A soft shake of Jazz's helm stops that line of thought in its tracks. "That won't work, yet. Just like you can't force someone to change if they don't choose it, you can't force them to get help if they don't ask for it."
Sighing, the saboteur releases my warmed servos and gracefully rises from his half-seated position on my desk. Rubbing his chin plate he seems to mull over something. Perhaps it's some additional bit of wisdom. Half-turning from his contemplation of my closed door he gifts me with a few parting thoughts.
"If you really want to help Prowl, you just need to wait, Prime. Wait and be ready when he is. In the end, the mech is going to follow his spark."
My stunned silence is enough confirmation to my Third that his hidden message is received well enough. With a slight tip of his helm the light glass of his visor slides into place and Jazz makes his exit.
I was once told by Alpha Trion himself that my patience was one of my strongest virtues and would help me as Prime. I can't say that I ever imagined it to be tested like this. How long can I wait and continue this separation from my spark?
A/N: Poor Prime. I truly have been quite cruel to him lately. Hopefully there is some redemption in the future. Please R&R and let me know what you think!
