He didn't know when he had been taken from the apartment, and he couldn't recall anything past seeing his Caretaker, his Guardian, lying haphazardly on the floor from where he had tumbled from the chair after he had given up the will to live. But as Prowl onlined fully for the first time in days, he knew one thing for certain.

The mech staring down at him was one scary glitch-spawn.

And then he spoke.

"Easy, kiddo. You crashed pretty hard; we thought we'd lost two instead of one. Processor ache?" Scary Face had a surprisingly gentle regard towards him, but he had seen him from afar at the Academy, teaching two courses. He was not a very easy mech to be around, and he was rumored to have the worst temper since Terratron in a foul mood. For that matter, this former Senator was rumored to have even won arguments against the Lord Protectorate.

Prowl nodded carefully, not wanting to joggle an already-sore head.

"You know what happened, son?"

"He died. He didn't want to live. He took his life."

Sadness crossed the stern face, and the stately, and still scary, mech nodded. "Yes. Yes he did."

"But why?"

That was when his processor tried to crash again, but . . . something was prohibiting the crash. No. Someone. They weren't in his mind, but they were . . . no. Hacked?

He looked down at his wrist port, which he was proud of having for his Youngling frame, seeing the line running from his wrist to the former Senator's. The chartreuse mech nodded once, slowly. "I've been a medic for many long years, kiddo. I'm not about to lose a Youngling. Your processors are balancing on a knife's edge right now, and they will be like that for a while. But I want you to understand something: I'm here for you."

"You could leave me just as quickly."

That gave the mech pause, and at least he did Prowl the dignity of processing and thinking that accusation over before replying, "No, actually, I couldn't. I have too many responsibilities, and too many things to enjoy on Cybertron. I may be close to being considered 'old,' but I don't want to die just yet. I have too many ties to the living, kiddo." Smiling, he rested his hand on the Youngling's shoulder. "And now I have one more. You."

Prowl couldn't hold it back any longer. "Why are you being so nice to me? You're the Devil Medic who has no Spark and goes out of his way to scare Sparklings!" A dark hope in the back of his head wished that he would be rejected because of his words. If his Caretaker didn't find him to be worth staying around for, surely all mechs would feel the same way!

He was startled when the mech threw his head back and laughed, then seemed to catch on to his thought processes. The mech leaned closer, and curled his hand around the small helm, stroking his thumb against the light, expensive metal. "Oh, Youngling. I'm so sorry." He seemed to form his answer, though, and then he gave it. "I was a medic in the last war, as you know. I hate war. But I had to survive, I had to live, and my patients had to live as well. I was angry at the war, and I'm still angry at the war. Even though a war may have a clear victor, the war never really ends for those who were in it."

He paused again, trying to find the right words for his young charge. "I think that by being angry and grouchy at patients, taking out my anger at the war on them verbally because they were stupid enough to get injured . . . it made them mad at me, and they wanted to stay mad at me longer, so they lived. I'm an angry mech sometime, I'm grouchy a lot of the time now because I don't like the pacifist idiots that I'm forced to deal with at the Academy and in the Senate . . ." Realizing he was rambling, the mech rubbed at his face with his free hand. "But I'm not going to traumatize a mechling who has seen death so close to home."

"But you'll leave me. You don't want me."

Blinking blue optics at the child, he sighed, and said, "I have raised several Sparklings to adulthood before, and mentored many others. I'm tired of raising children, little one. But you're not a typical child." He had left his hand upon the small helm, and he tapped it gently with one multi-hinged and strong finger. "Your Caretaker had wanted a child who could think the way that he did. You're a strong thinker, boy, and while you were out, I've been speaking with those who know you."

"Nobody wants me." Prowl looked up at the ceiling, then frowned. This wasn't the ceiling of the medical ward he was brought to.

"I think you're wrong on that. I want you. And I want to finish raising you."

"Will you force me to be a tactician?"

Chuckling once with a gentle caress of the poor child's helm, Ratchet murmured, "Never in a thousand lifetimes. You get to be whatever you want to be. Your mind is suited for tactics, it's true, however, it's also perfectly suited for being a medical researcher or a commander, and that's just for starters. Your future isn't fixed, nor is your profession. You choose your own path."

"Why did he go? Couldn't he see what you see?" Prowl blurted, feeling a crash hovering around his mind again . . . and just as soon as he had noticed it, it was gone, swept away with a deft mental hand, giving him the time and the ability to grieve as any normal mech. "Wasn't I enough to want him to live?"

This time, the crash almost reached him, but . . .

:Prowl, Prowl, hush, now. Easy, little one. Your processor can't take many more crashes right now. Easy, now.: The voice of the medic was all around his mind, and he felt the mech holding his mind together, keep the crash at bay. It was as if he was being physically enfolded by him, the larger frame shielding him from the explosions of pain and anguish. He clung to the presence, clung to the circle of peace and stability in his mind, feeling the soothing fingers stroking his brow before the medic's own forehead rested against it, murmuring reassuring words both aloud and across the link.

Prowl finally keened his loss, crying and beating the chest of the large mech in anger, grief, desperation. He raged, knowing that this medic, this Caretaker, this mech who was in his processors, was able to shield him from the crashes that would have otherwise come from the intensity of his emotions, comforting and holding him body and mind, keeping the pieces from flying apart.

.o.

Some time later, Ratchet closed the door to the spare room in his apartment softly, turning and walking into the lounging area, shoving fists onto hips and glaring at the mech sprawled over the main couch and perusing through a datapad. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The red mech didn't bother looking up, because he didn't need to know whose apartment he had entered without permission.

"I know, I know; I shouldn't be hiding from my assistants in your apartment again."

Silence.

"Especially since the last incident."

More silence, longer this time.

"How is the boy?"

Finally, Ratchet was provoked to answer. "I don't see why it's any concern of yours, Prime." He spat the title out, stalking over to his energon dispenser, making sure to be thoroughly rude and not offer the leader a cube. "You only helped to bring that mech back to life, even though you knew it was a bad idea! This is on your head. Had you paid attention to the mech, you would have seen that his mind was deteriorating! Primus above, I've told you several times that you should look to your Second!"

Spinning to his feet, the Prime glared down at the medic. "You may be a senator, but I will not tolerate impertinence from you, Youngling!"

"There is a child in the next room over whose parent suicided! My job is to take care of the living, Sentinel! It is not my job to play nice! If I have to be an utter bastard in order to keep someone alive, slag you, I will! Get out of my home! I have a Youngling to raise!"

"That decision has yet to be made if you will be given full Caretaker responsibilities over the boy!"

"Who else will?" hissed Ratchet, slamming the cube down on the counter hard enough to crack the crystal container. "Who else can? His processors crash with the slightest imbalance! They're more complex than what a normal Caretaker can handle, because he has to have a hardline reboot in order to come back to himself! And may I remind you that that process is medic-only programming!"

Bristling, armor trembling with anger, the old leader snarled, "You are overstepping your boundaries, Senator Ratchet."

"You're intruding on my private property without permission, and without announcing yourself." He crossed arms over his chest, drawing himself to his full height and pointing one accusing finger at Sentinel Prime. "Do not forget that I had reached the status of your Chief Medical Officer before the war ended."

They stared at each other for a long moment, glares icy and promising no holding back.

A small noise interrupted the showdown, and the lithe little black and white form darted back behind the door. Ratchet sighed and glared at the Prime, then turned to follow the Youngling back into the room with a soft call. "Prowl?"

"I know him." Prowl was sitting on the desk, legs curled up by his chest, arms holding his legs, sensor wings drooped to rest on the surface of the desk.

"Most people know of Sentinel," Ratchet replied, moving to sit on the chair so that he could look up marginally at the Youngling.

"No. I know him. And I don't like him."

Well, that makes two of us right now. Venting air, Ratchet pulled out a small cube of enriched energon, spiced and sweetened to tempt Prowl into drinking it. He didn't hand it to him, setting it down beside him instead. He didn't want to manipulate or pressure him at all right now. But he was grateful when Prowl picked it up, peeled the seal off, and sipped at it before blinking and making a face of shock. "This isn't normal energon."

"It's not high grade either. It's just spiced and sweetened."

"A treat?"

"No, there's nutrients you need in there, too. The spices are there to mask some pretty unpleasant tastes; not all nutrition has to taste like chalk."

"Oh." His look of momentary appreciation drifted into a frown again. "Is that mech still outside?"

"Yeah. He won't go away."

"Primus-forsaken spawn of the Smelter," Prowl growled, sounding eerily like his Caretaker before the mech's mind had degenerated. He set the cube down gently, and stood on his feet. With a fresh cycle of air through his vents and a visible effort to bring sensor wings up to a normal position, the mechling looked up at Ratchet defiantly.

"I don't want to hear those words in this home . . ." Ratchet warned as the Youngling walked towards the door. "I will take solvent to your mouth."

He didn't get an acknowledgement as the boy rounded the doorframe and glared at Sentinel, who stared down at him, but not coldly. Prowl waited. He wasn't going to say the first word. Crossing arms over his chest, looking for all the world like a miniature Enforcer staring down someone caught doing something illegal. Finally, Sentinel spoke. "I'm sorry about—"

"You don't deserve to say his name," the Youngling hissed, staring him down. "Furthermore. I don't want to see you. Ever. You drove him into killing himself."

"Now, you can't know that," Sentinel said, his voice taking on a patronizing tone.

Snorting, the little black and white asked, "Did you live with him? Did you see him working at home? I don't want to ever see you again. Get out. Ratchet doesn't want you here. I don't want you here. Leave. There's the door." He pointed to his left without looking, sensor wings stiff with emotion.

Sentinel Prime had never been treated like this in his life by anyone other than certain grouchy Senators and the officers that had been part of his command. He took one step closer to the mechling. "I don't care if you don't like me. I am Prime."

"Only until Falimus Prime's Matrix of Leadership states its next bearer as Terratron finds his replacement. Then you will merely be the mentor while he takes on the leadership of my generation."

"You little—!"

The door to the apartment opened, revealing the silver and rather spiky Lord Protectorate with his tired violet optics. He blinked at the showdown, vented air, and called in, "Ratchet, you want me to let this little one ream Prime out as thoroughly as his sire could? Or should I just take Sentinel back to his mate and let her take care of it?"

Whirling and glaring at his brother in shock that he wasn't going to automatically side with him, Sentinel opened his mouth to snarl something, which Ratchet cut off with his legendary timing. "Bring him back to Beta-Two; there's nothing that can be fixed here right now."

"Mm." Terratron walked in with his distinctive limp to crouch at the Youngling's optic-level. With a sigh, he rested a hand on the slim, young shoulder. For a long moment, there was only the meeting of blue and violet optics, watching each other and reading one another like open books. With a nod, the old mech murmured, "Strong Spark you have, little fighter."

"I don't fight."

"Yet. But it never hurts to know how."

"I don't want to fight."

One optic ridge quirked up in clear cynical disbelief.

Huffing and looking to one side, Prowl muttered, "I just run away; they aren't as fast as I am."

Terratron smiled and turned the small chin back to face him. "Someday, you won't be the fastest. When you want to learn, tell Ratchet and he will find me. I don't tutor anyone anymore since very few have the discipline to learn what I know, and I feel that you will only settle for the best teacher."

"You're rewarding him for—"

"Brother, please. Let the boy mourn, and let him deal with grief in his own way." Standing with the creak of old joints, Terratron took the Prime's elbow gently and guided him towards the door. "You both lost someone dear to your Sparks last week; stop asking him for more he can give to satisfy your own grief. He will apologize for his behavior when he's ready, which will more than likely happen after you apologize for being intrusive. Sorry for this, Ratchet." With that, he had Sentinel outside of the door, and he closed it with his free hand.

Prowl frowned at the interaction and at the door for a long moment before he began rubbing at the side of his helm. A larger hand cupped around his shoulder and gently ushered him to the mesh couch, settling him down before handing him the barely-sipped cube again.

"He's been . . . gone . . . a week?"

"Yes. It's been that hard for me to bring your processors back online."

"Am I still in Praxus?"

Wincing, Ratchet shook his head. "No, kiddo, you're in Iacon. The apartment in Praxus and all worldly belongings and funds were willed directly to you."

"Will you ever be mean to me?"

The former CMO reached over and brushed his hand over the white helm. "Only if you need the kick in the aft, which won't like you'll need that often. Finish your Energon."

Obligingly, Prowl did so, his optics focused somewhere outside of time. He shuddered at the final grainy mouthful, but sealed the cube and set it aside. "Where will I continue my schooling?"

"Where you want to go; you have a lot of funds to your name right now. And despite what that aft-headed charity case says, there will be no contest to my adopting you . . . if that's what you would like."

Prowl didn't respond to that for a long moment. He was still staring with unfocused optics. "Terratron . . ."

"Good mech, but a hard mech. He's been a warrior all his life, and doesn't always understand what it's like to be a civilian. He's in charge of Prime's Guard, the Militia, and the Enforcer Chiefs all answer to him."

"While you answer to Prime as a Senator and part of the Medical Division."

"Yes."

"Should I learn to fight?"

Terratron hadn't taken on an apprentice since the death of his final fledged apprentice in the final days of the war. It had been almost a full generation since that point, and he had usually never taken anyone still in their Youngling frame. This was an opportunity of a lifetime, but . . . "There is no shame if you do not wish to learn how to fight."

"Perhaps my words weren't the best choice . . . Ratchet, should I learn to defend myself?"

Primus save him from this child. Ratchet's optics smiled, even when the rest of his face was stoic. Prowl was a special one, no doubt, and it was a pity that the old Tactician didn't have the foresight to see what this boy would be like. "What do you feel is the wisest choice to make?"

Ratchet could almost see the thoughts running through the boy's head for a long moment, which was followed by a sharp nod. "It would be a prudent choice. I'm in a new city, I don't know how to defend myself or if I will be bullied at my new Academy, and it would mean that I will have a new hobby." Young optics met old, and the boy added, "What does Terratron teach?"

"Ancient styles," Ratchet said softly, seeing the little optics light up in anticipation. "Ones that mechs haven't openly practiced in generations. Traditionally, the Lord Protectorate will know several styles. I've tried asking Terra which ones he knows, but that's something that he won't tell anyone. I've heard that he won't teach anyone more than one style, though, and they're usually sworn to secrecy about what they're learning."

That caused the mechling to frown and look directly into Ratchet's optics again. "You . . . don't mind me having secrets?"

Chuckling, Ratchet stood. "You're a Youngling. Of course you'll have secrets. But for now, you need recharge. It's been a long day for you."

"I . . . I don't want to recharge in that room. And I want to learn from Terratron."

The medic very wisely went along with the statement, encouraging Prowl to use more freedom in expressing his wants and needs. "Very well, I will let him know. I think your acceptance of his offer will make that old mech a very happy Spark. Let me show you where the dimmers are for the lights. If I have to get up for some sort of emergency tonight, or at any time if you are sleeping, I will have a close friend come and stay with you."

"Who will they be?"

"Neighbors, musicians. They have a Youngling around your age. Femme is Techni, mech is Blues, and their child is Jazz. They're pretty outgoing, since they are a family of performers, so they might get some getting used to."

"But . . . musicians are intuitive, too, right?"

Ratchet grinned and nodded. "They are. The worst that they'll do is have you describe something as you saw it to understand a new perspective, possibly for writing a song. But they will know what not to ask you about unless you wish to speak to someone else about it."

Nodding, Prowl saw Ratchet rest his hand on a panel, then dim the lights in the lounging room, but turning up the decorational crystals just enough to let them dimly outline any edges. "Recharge well, Prowl. I'll see you in the morning."

Prowl nodded, eyes darting from one crystal to the next as he carefully lay down, feeling comforted by them. He relaxed his sensor wings, feeling the humming of the lit crystals harmonize. Their song soothed his aching processor into a deep recharge.

.o.

:Oh, would you just look at the little scraplet? Oh, he's so exhausted that he's clicking, Ratchet. What a sweet Spark, so tender.:

:I know. I was expecting something to come out of my chewing out Sentinel, but you know how that bastard can get. I didn't want to leave him at all for the next several days, but this meeting shouldn't take up more than a few joors.:

:Musicians have sharp audios, old friend.:

:Too sharp, it seems. Thank you for helping me tonight. There's a note for Prowl on the top datapad in that stack. He's a quiet one, so I figure that reading will suit him while he continues to subconsciously process that his Caretaker is gone.:

Techni nodded to the instructions, then asked, :Can I introduce Jazz to him?:

:Probably not a good idea right away. He'll need some time to adjust to Iacon, but if you want to take him out for a tour, I trust you to do that. He may need the distraction. And if he crashes, let me know. If he crashes in public, well, claim that he's new to his Youngling frame and hasn't gotten used to how much energon he needs to process to anyone around you, and carry him home. A crash is in no way fatal for him. I'll meet you here so that he can reboot in a semi-familiar setting.:

The femme nodded again, seeing Ratchet to the door and then turning to look at the blanket-draped and clicking Youngling lying facedown on the couch. She hadn't seen a Youngling frame that expensive since the last show she and her Bonded had done for some rich fop's estate. They could even afford golden optics for the frame, which was absurd for a Youngling to have.

Shaking her head, Techni pulled out a datapad and settled on the free couch, staring at the crystals around her. She began to compose a song, but wasn't so involved that she wasn't aware of her surroundings. Just as the cycles clicked down to "day," she heard young systems booting up almost-silently, and two pinpricks of blue focused with eerie intensity upon her frame. She didn't pause her movements of composing until she heard him move, and then she looked up at him as if shocked. "Oh. Good morning, Prowl. I'm Techni."

"Ratchet had to go?" he asked, not greeting her.

"Yes. He said that there was a note left for you on that datapad." She pointed to the stack on the floor by his head.

Blinking down at them, he pulled it up and activated it, reading the handwriting easily. "Oh. Oh!"

"Hm?" she asked curiously, tilting her head to one side as the boy sat up and pulled the datapads up onto his lap. She gasped in envy at seeing sensory wings. "Oh, wow."

It was Prowl's turn to look at Techni with curiosity and some little bit of shock. "What is it?"

"You have sensory-wings! I've never had the system for being able to handle those, but I've heard that you can hear more with them."

"It can get annoying," was the droll reply, almost-adult in nature. "But they are useful, I suppose."

"You suppose?" Techni grinned and activated the sound of her composition. "Tell me what you hear."

He listened carefully to the young song, focusing all of his listening and sensors on the sounds, but he couldn't focus completely through the short piece. And yet . . . "Have you ever heard how crystals hum?"

The femme shook her head, smiling. "No. I wish I could, though."

"Well, the sound of these crystals are interfering with the composition, but . . . it can be incorporated." He moved closer to her, leaving the datapads on the wrinkled blanket, then focused on the crystals again before looking at the program on her datapad. "Um . . ."

She started a new composition for him, then handed him the datapad. His hand hovered over the screen for a moment before he looked up at the crystals again, then accessed his memory of the night before, of the harmonics. He pulled his cord out, filtered the audio from his memory, and then downloaded it directly onto the composition, unplugging and then hitting the button to play the sounds.

Techni's optics shuttered and she stilled, her back straight, her head cocked just enough to one side that she was able to capture more sound, and her hands fisted. She smiled brightly, looking down at the Youngling with a grin. "Thank you. You don't know how amazing that gift is to me."

"You can use it, if you want," he said shyly, handing the datapad back to her. "It would work with what you're working on. The mood should fit."

"How about one better? I can teach you how those harmonics work, and how to compose a song purely around those notes. And then, if Ratchet isn't back by the time we're done, I can show you Iacon?"

"Will your Bondmate and your Jazz be with us?"

"If you want them to. Jazz is boisterous, though."

"Boisterous as in . . . ?"

"He asks a lot of questions and gets into people's space. Constantly. I love the Youngling with my entire Spark, but he's a handful, and your polar opposite."

"Which means we could be great friends or bitter enemies."

"Exactly."

"Then I think I'd better wait until I'm feeling more at home here."

"Wise move, scraplet." She grinned and touched his hand. "Go get yourself some energon, though, and then we can start."

He was up like a shot to the dispenser, and the femme smiled at his thin back. Ratchet knew what a gift this little one was, and he was wise to raise him. He'd be a tough and disciplined Caretaker, but already, it was clear that the boy would flourish under the different parenting style than old Detrious' way of raising a Sparkling.

And this child would challenge that Senator like no other Youngling he'd raised.

.o.

Walking into his apartment late in the afternoon, Ratchet saw Prowl and Techni hovering over a single datapad, each taking turns poking at the screen and adjusting something until finally Prowl glared up at her and said, "No, it sounds better like this."

"But that's not proper harmonics!"

"It's supposed to be a dissonant note to offset the otherwise-comforting sound!"

"Why would you do that?"

"Because it's how life is!"

That got the femme to shut up and blink. She raised her optic ridges, then looked down at the composition again. "And how is life, Prowl?"

"Dissonant when you feel that you're finally at a point of comfort."

"Mm. I see what you're doing with this composition. It's how you feel right now."

He stared at her for a long moment, then looked down at the piece they had been working on, then down at his hands. "It is."

She stroked his back, between sensor wings and careful not to touch either of them. "It's all right, Prowl. That's what this was about, too. Expressing yourself. Music can make you feel like you're a Seeker, flying above a city, or that you're a simple worker cleaning the streets on a bad day. But it's also therapy. It's also about healing at nobody's pace but your own."

"So this is all right?"

"Absolutely. This is a wonderful piece for a first attempt at composing."

"Techni!" a young voice yelled, and a white-black-blue-red streak darted between Ratchet's legs as a small Youngling ran up to the startled duo on the couch. "Ma, Blues won' let me go ta the festival!"

And instantly, Techni shifted from compassionate teacher to firm Caretaker. "And you think that you will be able to go if you come and talk with me? Blues and I agreed that you're not going after that prank you pulled at Academy last week."

"But—"

"Are you going to whine like a Sparkling to me? Or are you going to start to prove that you want your adult frame and want to act like an adult?" She looked down at her striped son, giving him a long look.

"Sorry, Ma."

"And where are your manners?"

Wincing, the little mech turned to Ratchet. "I'm sorry f'r intrudin', Senator Ratchet." He looked to the startled and wide-opticked Youngling on the couch, but paused with mouth open to introduce himself.

Prowl stared at Jazz. Something seemed to click when the other Youngling had entered the room. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't comfortable, either. It was a different feeling, something he didn't understand. Both Younglings were oblivious to their Caretakers watching them, frowning. The orphaned mechling stared into the blue optics of the musical mechling, then recognizing that the feeling was originating from his Spark. But that made no sense whatsoever.

On the other hand, Jazz had heard all the love stories. He knew all the tales of "love at first sight." He knew what his Bondmate Caretakers had told him about how they had seen each other and known. The poor street-performer and the rich Academy honors musical composition student meeting at a music festival. He knew that's what this feeling was supposed to be.

And he was not going to let it happen to him.

"'Sup. I'm Jazz."

"Prowl," came the reply. "I'm from Praxus."

"Uh-huh. It ain' as cool as Iacon."

"You ever been?"

"Yeah. It's boring, nothing happens, an' all the mechs there 're obsessed with nothing."

Neither Caretaker was fast enough to catch Prowl streaking across the room without a sound to attack Jazz, who wasn't prepared for the taller Youngling to aim a punch directly at his optics, catching the side of his head and tumbling with him to the ground, clawing and screaming. "You're wrong! You're wrong! Puaxus is beautiful! Only a mech with optics welded shut couldn't understand!"

Ratchet and Techni looked to each other from the rolling Younglings on the ground, and both spared a grin at seeing the subdued mechling showing life before putting on Serious Caretaker Faces and pulling their Younglings apart with ease. Thankfully, Jazz hadn't gone after delicate sensor wings. Or had he? Ratchet looked Prowl over for damage, seeing scratches from clawed fingertips, but nothing serious. There were the telltale signs that there should have been some damage to sensory wings, but it looked like Prowl had kept them out of reach.

"Well, this looks like it went well," Blues said from the door, his deep voice wry. "I'd say that ya just had your aft handed ta ya, Jazz-mech."

"He started it!"

"Physically, yes, but ya provoked it, son." Blues, a stately silver mech walked into the room at Ratchet's nod, expressive optics trained on his boy. "If ya tried to negotiate with Techni in an adult fashion, we were considerin' lettin' ya go ta the festival. Instead, ya came in here in a tizzy, without permission from Senator Ratchet, got inta a fight with his adopted Younglin', an' acted like a Sparkling. Apologize, an' then ya're comin' home."

"But I'm damaged!"

"Nuthin' a few nanites won' fix overnight. Apologize."

Grumbling under his breath, Jazz faced Prowl and Ratchet. "'M sorry for bargin' in, Ratchet, an' f'r provokin' ya, Prowl."

"Will it happen again?"

"No." Yes.

"Mm-hm." Blues looked to Techni, who looked skyward for patience with their son. "Ratchet, I have just a little more to teach Prowl before the lesson is over. With your permission?"

"Of course. Blues, perhaps tomorrow or the day after, would you and your family like to come with myself and Prowl on a day trip?"

"Your annual trip?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely, an' it'd be an honor. Been forever since I've gone." He pushed his son out the door, leaving his Bondmate in the room with the Senator and the orphan.

Ratchet sighed and leaned down to look at Prowl, who was staring at the floor. "I shouldn't've attacked him."

"Actually," Techni said, "and Ratchet, stop looking at me like that, I think that it's a lesson that Jazz has needed. He's used to saying things and getting away with it because of myself and Blues. We're well-known musicians with a romantic and wonderful story that everyone idolizes, and he gets a lot of grace when he doesn't deserve it. He has to learn not to run his mouth and expect no repercussions."

:Techni, ask Prowl what he was feeling when he saw Jazz. Our son is weeping right now . . .:

Frowning suddenly at her mate's Spark-sent words, she moved to crouch before the mechling. "But tell me how this went from your perspective."

And when he was through, Ratchet was staring and Techni was holding a shaking and keening Youngling on her lap, soothing him with a song. The mechling was upset over Praxus being decried, but confused over Jazz and what had happened. :My love, when have Younglings ever known their Mate at such a tender age?: Blues asked.

She thought about it, helping Prowl's shaky hands hold an energon cube up to his mouth, watching how Ratchet crouched to rest a hand on the white helm, watching him slowly calm down again. :None of the "highborn" couples have any records of this happening to Younglings, but for the more common mech, there's been an influx of them in the last several centuries. Two Guards, for example, and two common workers. You've heard of Ironhide and Chromia, of course.:

:Who hasn't? Those two 're practically one Spark. Who're the others?:

:The other couple that I've seen and talked with are absolute sweetSparks. Orion and Ariel. They're fresh into adult frames, and I believe that they're set to Bond soon, if they haven't already. Orion's a dockworker, and Ariel oversees the drones in receiving for the same company, dealing with the paperwork and handling requests.:

They fell silent for a moment, Blues watching through his mate's optics how Prowl was bundled up into Ratchet's arms, settling and curling close to the medic's warm Spark. Within moments, he was in recharge. Ratchet didn't put him down, though, taking as much comfort in holding a Youngling as the Youngling had taken in being held. :So. What are we to do?:

Techni grinned. :Keep them around each other and work through differences as they come up. Jazz knows that his Spark and Prowl's are mates. But I'm going to talk with a few people, see if he can be apprenticed to someone who's resisted their mate for a while under the context of learning a secondary trade.:

:Mm. I'll educate Prowl on what he needs to know about this. He does have an apprenticeship lined up.:

:Ah, so that's what his reaction to your note was about.:

:Yes. It's a secret for now, but it does mean that your son will have to watch what he says, or he'll find himself sporting more than a few scratches.:

Grinning, Techni nodded and stood, pulling out a secondary datapad and transferring Prowl's composition onto it, leaving it with the stack he hadn't even looked at all day. She left the Caretaker with his new charge with a smile and a wave, walking into her apartment across the hall, catching her son as he ran, keening, into her arms. "Oh, love."

"I don' wanna know who my Bonded is!"

"I know, love, I know."

"It ain' fair! It just ain' fair! I wanted ta be an adult! I wanted ta be surprised when I was an adult!"

"I know you did! And I was hoping it would be like my and Blue's meeting."

"But now I've screwed it up!"

Smiling, she pressed her forehead to her Youngling's. "No, Jazz-mech, my sweetSpark, I don't think you have."

"But he'll hate me!"

"Can I hate your father?"

"N-no."

"Prowl won't hate you. He won't like you all the time, but he won't hate you."

"But why do I have ta know my Sparkmate? I ain' even in my adult frame!"

Sighing, settling on the couch beside Blues and sandwiching their Youngling between their harmonized Sparks, she whispered, "Because maybe Primus wants you to be friends with Prowl for a long time before you're able to Bond with him. Maybe there's a bigger plan for you two, and maybe you both have to have a lot of experience before you're ready to Bond. Being friends first is always a good idea."

"But you an' Blues didn' even know each other."

"True. But you're not the first Younglings to know your Bondmate years before you can Bond. And Ironhide, for example, really didn't like knowing that Chromia, who is just like him, was going to be his Bonded when they were training as Junior Guards together."

"He . . . he didn't?"

"They fought like two turbo-foxes over the last glitch-mouse. Which is not what I wanna see between you an' Prowl," Blues answered, his voice kind but with a firm note. "He's just lost his Caretaker, an' had ta leave Praxus, his home. He didn' even know he was in Iacon 'til yesterday evenin'."

"But . . . why?"

"Prowl has some problems with his processors, and sometimes, he crashes pretty hard. He's not able to reboot himself. It took Ratchet a full week to try to get him to reboot and not crash again." Techni stroked the black helm of the Youngling, smiling. "His emotions are raw, and his Spark is hurting. If you can be a friend to him, not now, but maybe later, maybe you can help him make Iacon his home, for a while."

"He's gonna leave? No! I won' let 'im!"

Jazz frowned as his Caretakers laughed at his words, and Blues said, "Ya can't keep a mech anywhere he don' wanna be, Jazz. But ya can encourage 'im. Dat kiddo's Spark is still in Praxus, an' it could be there his whole life. His frame is Praxian, his mindset is Praxian."

"But he'll go back there soon?"

"Not soon. Maybe when he's an adult, which is a while away."

"Oh."

"Now. It's time that a certain Youngling needs to get himself some recharge."

And when Jazz had left for his room, the Bondmates looked at one another and sighed. They hadn't expected to be handling this sort of thing with their son for at least three more centuries. But they would be helping him as much as they could through it. And Ratchet, bless his Spark, was with them on it.

.o.

Author's Note: Welcome to the Mnemonic Arc. And I guess you know what I'll be covering from here on out: the memories and instances of the past between the Autobots and some Decepticons. It looks like it's going to be a long haul, and I'm personally very happy that I'll be able to write this out. This story has really taken on a life of its own! Thank you for your reviews and watches, and if I haven't gotten to your review before this posted . . . that's all right . . . I haven't replied to any reviews from the last chapter yet. It's been a busy few days. As always, I continue to hope that I don't disappoint!

Song: "Timshel" by Mumford And Sons. Because the opening verses REALLY fit.

Oh! And I'll be in California for Botcon 2011! If anyone is going to it, come find me! I'll be wearing a Jazz-inspired dress for most of the weekend . . . it's PRETTY. This is the link to see the pictures and the preview of what I'll be wearing, just remove the spaces:

Sinead . deviantart . com /art/ Jazz-Tribute-Dress-FINISHED-209218157