Part 39
The autobot Ark, their space ship long crashed into earth, lay aft over helm, sunk deep in the desert where it had first come to rest. The front doors no longer closed properly and everything lay upside down, but that seemed to fit the new world. After a little retrofitting, the display panels and desks and consoles all faced the right way, but the bottom thrusters and landing gear would always face up at the sky.
It provided a clumsy if convenient cover for the snipers on the early shift.
One pede braced on the edge of the Ark, Bluestreak trained his stare to the distant horizon. His optics were no better than any other autobot, but something about his programming took what he had and sharpened it to a fine edge. Contrasts between shadow and burning desert sun, the yellow sand and the pale ochre mesa, didn't blur or waver in mirage. Holding his rifle at rest, he scanned the area assigned to him, alert to the slightest movement.
"—although I don't think that it's all that bad in theory," Bluestreak was saying, "I really feel sick about the cross-faction slag—it's like no one remembers what happened until I walk into the mess hall, and I'm like a walking memorial."
On the other side of the Ark, Smokescreen sat on the edge of ship, quietly listening with his datapad in hand.
"I hear ya."
Smokescreen surveyed his own grid of land, but part of his cortex instead busied itself with running the odds on Soundwave's defection. He would have asked the third and only other Praxian on the ship for his input, but Prowl was more likely to scold and assign him a dozen shifts of mopping medbay for the gambling and another dozen for shirking on duty. Instead he listened to his friend talk a bluestreak, living up to his namesake.
"It's not like I'm complaining," the youngest Praxian said, his voice edging into a whine. "I haven't filed any complaints, have I? And I don't go dropping flames on the ones writing that—don't even get me going on that Deceptively Yours pile of sluicings—but there are mechs leaving death threats and trying to find out who's who and that is a mess I don't have the sanity to spare to deal with."
"Yup."
Smokescreen pulled a pack of cards from his subspace and flipped them through his fingers, idly practicing his dealing from beneath the desk.
"Not like I don't get it," Bluestreak continued. "Some of the 'cons are shiny, I get it. But they're cons. I can't count the mechs grayed out anymore, and—and—and the things that they're doing in those stories! Some of it's downright depraved!"
Smokescreen didn't comment on the glitched subject change.
"'Thought you didn't read any of those," Smokescreen chuckled.
"I mean, I've read some things," Bluestreak said. "I like the ones from way before the war, and some of the romance ones with original characters. But some of the bad ones slip through the filters, and First Aid tells me about some of the others. Poor Fireflight and Jazz are in so many, and so's Powerglide although I have no idea why, and I don't know what kind of morphobots everyone else is fighting, but I've never seen one use its tentacles like that."
Smokescreen chuckled a little louder, enough to draw a huff from Bluestreak.
"Don't laugh," Bluestreak grumbled. "It's creepy."
"Ain't laughing at you," Smokescreen said, sending along a mollifying ping of apology. "Just thinking that if morphobots fought like that, everyone would keep one in the berth—"
Bluestreak shuddered. "Not funny. Even Mech-Superior used morphobots in some of his stories."
The wind blew across the top of the Ark, bringing bits of sand that stung against their joints. Smokescreen scratched at the sand that caught in the stray flecks of oil at his knees. He would have to spend extra time in the wash racks to get it all out.
"Mech-Superior...that was Soundwave's handle, wasn't it?"
Bluestreak didn't answer. He glared out over the desert, his optics compensating for the heat waves distorting the field.
Long minutes passed. The shift changed, and they watched Hound and Beachcomber drive in from the northwest, verified Air Raid flying out toward the east. Their own shift overlapped so that no sector was left unguarded.
"I don't know why he's still writing with it," Bluestreak finally said.
"Huh?" Smokescreen looked up from his cards for a moment.
Bluestreak hadn't moved, one pede up on the raised edge.
"Soundwave," Bluestreak muttered. "He's still writing under that name. He..."
Bluestreak's voice faded, and Smokescreen didn't push for more. When Bluestreak stopped talking, those were the bad moments. It was also the reason that Spec Ops had never drawn Bluestreak into their unit. He was easily the best marksman on the base and often rode with them when they needed to guarantee a single shot, but...something had broken in the bot when the Decepticons had burned Praxus around him.
There was no doubt that Bluestreak could have handled any mission they took him on, and that he would have excelled as a combat sniper. But the bot talked and moved like a sack of loose circuits, and no one wanted to the war to grind him up any further. What came back might not have been Bluestreak anymore.
There were more injuries than gunshots and acid burns, and no one liked putting the wounded on the front lines.
"Did you read it?" Bluestreak asked.
"Read what?"
"S.O.S." Bluestreak grimaced. "Counting down to him and Prowl dying."
Smokescreen shrugged. "I think everyone was checking it. Damn 'Cons almost got Prowl. Even command was watching it."
Smokescreen didn't tell Bluestreak about the flinch Jazz gave with every update. Or how Ratchet had prepared his triage by Soundwave's author notes. Or how Inferno had vanished into Red Alert's office, coming out long hours later with tired optics and confessing in a whisper that he'd calmed their security officer from a panic attack more than once.
If Soundwave hadn't maintained that fic, Smokescreen didn't think that command would have pulled through as well as they had.
Bluestreak nodded once.
"Is it true?" he asked. "What they said?"
"Gonna have to narrow that one down," Smokescreen said.
Bluestreak turned away from the sand, glancing at him over his shoulder. "That Soundwave kept Prowl alive. That Soundwave protected him."
Yes, Smokescreen thought. Because he has a stupid crush on Jazz that's gone both ways now. And everyone knows it. Jazz is too stupid about love to hide it, and Soundwave never tried to hide it, and Prowl's doing his best to pretend it's just another variable to calculate.
"Took a bomb for him," Smokescreen said simply.
Bluestreak considered that. It made no sense. A 'Con sacrificing himself for an Autobot. For a Praxian. For Prowl.
"I didn't realize you were reading his updates," Smokescreen said.
"Like you said, everyone was." Bluestreak turned back to the desert and his duty again. "But...I guess that explains some of the comments."
Smokescreen waited, but Bluestreak didn't elaborate. Curious, Smokescreen brought up the fic that Soundwave had written while he kept Prowl alive with his own energon. It wasn't much of a fic, just a repeated cry for help, and Smokescreen hadn't even thought to check the comments.
His optics reset.
There were hundreds. For every update.
Pacifist-Punch: If you can see this, Ratchet says try to slow your chronos to frequency o.1≡ congruence. Old medbot's trick to buy you time.
Hippie-Mech: A con saving a bot. I didn't really think I'd live to see this miracle. Please survive this. We need you both more than ever.
Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: Damn, mechs. Damn.
Oasis: I hope no one questions your defection now.
Lube'nSlide: fuckin defecticon only time i'll stp questioning is to write good job on his tombstone
Honey-Bot: o.o
Perceptive Perspicacity: I will not depress anyone by reciting the odds of survival. I willmerely remind bots that we've pulled through worse than this.
Merbot: :(
Goldbug: You both gotta live, you jus gotta
Cusswords: can we get any verification on what's going on like do we know that the con really tried to save prowl i mean i know i've seen everyone saying that now and that the rumors are that the con did the fighting but i haven't seen the security feeds and the twins haven't said anything except they saw him get up and swing first but that was right before the explosion and there hasn't been anything since
notIronHide: fuck you two making everyone worry this bad, your strongr than this
incognito: please continue to update please continue to update
HotStuff: oh Primus i can't i can't
They all echoed each other's worries and anxieties, often missing updates, responding to each other, updating each other in a way that completely broke with security protocols. And yet there were few details, and the command officers hadn't isolated the story or censored it. It had published, and updated, in a place where even the Decepticons could see it.
He scrolled down to the end and saw why. The fic ended without mention of their rescue, with none of the comments referencing that Soundwave and Prowl had been saved in time. And even if the rest of the Autobots knew that Prowl had survived, only a handful of bots and Spec-Ops knew about Soundwave. The 'cons would think that the pair had died.
He was about to close out the fic when he spotted one last comment left near the end.
Tone: please Primus let them live
Only because he was one of the first bots Jazz had collected for Spec-Ops. Only because he had known Jazz before his promotion as a bot willing to gamble. Only because he had seen Jazz so shattered as they waited for Ratchet to work a miracle.
And only because Jazz had taught him to be utterly, ruthlessly thorough.
He sent a ping to Ironhide with a message to check the last comment on the fic. He didn't have long to wait. Only a few klicks later, the comment vanished, and his comm line crackled on.
Thanks, kid, Ironhide said. Missed it. And let yer boss know he owes us both a drink. I should'a turned that over to Red Alert and watched the fireworks.
You tell him, Smokescreen said. And leave me out of it. I'd rather take on the armada alone than rile up my boss.
The next skirmish flew in on the heels of the last one—a day later, without more than a moment's warning, the Decepticon armada came out of the sun, diving down across the desert so fast that the sonic shockwave took long seconds to blast the sand behind them. Missiles streaked toward the Ark, plumes of smoke readjusting in the eddies of scorching updrafts, aimed unerringly at the snipers perched along the steel edge of the downed ship.
Each missile was shot out of the sky, either by the Ark's defenses or the two snipers. The concussive shock pulsed through the air and sent sand and dust billowing by in thick, obscuring clouds. A moment later, a dozen jets flew in close, banking hard to either side as they began to take fire.
Autobot frontliners poured out of the Ark, marking targets and joining the dogfighting that had become second nature. Within moments, the sky lit up with laser fire.
The Autobot Skydive found the fight running...strangely. He'd managed to isolate Nightflight, a smaller Decepticon jet of white and dark blue, forcing him out of formation and away from the battle. The young autobot felt a surge of satisfaction that he could maneuver his enemy, but as they put more and more miles behind them, Skydive began to worry that this was an elaborate ambush.
In front of him, Nightflight whipped around in the air, transforming and flying backward with the momentum of his flight. Skydive transformed to match, and they hovered, facing each other.
Long seconds passed. Skydive lifted his arm, ready to launch missiles, but Nightflight didn't move to attack. Skydive hesitated, frustrated with his own sense of fairplay.
"Well?" Skydive demanded, yelling over the wind. "Are we fighting or are you surrendering?"
Nightflight looked over his shoulder—Skydive tightened on his trigger but didn't pull. Then Nightflight tapped at his external access, visibly turning off any communication with Decepticon command.
"You..." Nightflight nervously tapped his fingertips against his palms. "You're Seal-Dive, right?"
Skydive froze. His optics widened impossibly.
"...I...ah...I..."
He couldn't vent. He couldn't move. His whole frame flooded with coolant that stung his armor.
"How—I...how...?
Nightflight grimaced, somehow fidgeting in the air.
"I got it from—I mean, there was a datapad and—Acid Storm had a datapad, I mean—there were some stories from the sur-net and we kind of guessed a couple names and..."
"Oh Primus..." Skydive felt his whole frame overheat despite the second round of coolant. Why didn't Nightflight just shoot him down? Skydive wouldn't move—just put a round through his spark and bury him where he landed. "Don't...please don't..."
"No, no, it's not—" Nightflight cut himself off, hands up as if trying to wrangle his idea in the air and put it into words. "Look, I'm CheapRide, okay?"
Skydive couldn't process that at first. A whole third round of coolant emptied his tanks and evaporated in the desert heat before he understood what Nightflight was saying. Too blindsided to think about the fight anymore, he searched the sur-net and found a handful of short stories under CheapRide's name.
Jet SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Starscream : Nightflight :: "Bite the Sky" ::
by: CheapRide
Summary: Starscream enforces discipline in midair.
Jet SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Thundercracker : Nightflight :: "Crash" ::
by: CheapRide
Summary: Thundercracker puts his heel down.
Cross-Faction SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Aerialbots : Nightflight :: "Love Dents" ::
by: CheapRide
Summary: The Aerialbots bring down an enemy.
Skydive's jaw clicked shut.
"Oh."
Nightflight's inability to look him in the optic now made sense. As did his interest in anything Seal-Dive had written.
Jet SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Aerialbots : Aerialbots :: "Hanger Danger" ::
by: Seal-Dive
Summary: After the fight, the real aerial acrobatics begin in the hanger.
Cross-Faction SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Aerialbots:Spasma :: "Rehabilitation" ::
by: Seal-Dive
Summary: Trapped on a desert island with no fuel for flight, a lone 'con stands no chance against five elite warriors.
Cross-Faction SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Morphobots:Aerialbots:Nightstick:Whisper:Lambo Twins:Powerglide :: "Front Lines" ::
by: Seal-Dive
Summary: Have glossa, will travel.
And those were the handful Skydive had been confident enough to post, hiding behind one of the more pornographic pseudonyms on the whole surnet.
"So..." Nightflight coughed to clear his intake and glanced sideways at him. "Do you...um...do you really like biting tail fins?"
Skydive swallowed nervously. "Are you serious?"
Nightflight shrugged his shoulder, laughing humorlessly once. "It's hard to find anyone else into it."
Skydive stared at him for a long, long moment.
His missile launcher slowly lowered.
"Yes," he said simply. "It is."
Jazz no longer knew what to do with himself.
Duty, at least, gave him some focus. Jazz, Third in Command of the Autobot faction and head of their Special Operations unit, worked at a blistering pace. He rooted Flipside's datapads and narrowed in on his first Decepticon spy—Sideways, taking energon in the mess hall. Then Triton, buried in bureaucratic work in Prowl's lower offices And Doubledealer, just leaving the Ark to hand carry a message to forward scouts.
He sent his mechs in pairs to bring them back, listening in as Bumblebee and Mirage, then Bluestreak and Smokescreen brought in the first two. Several minutes later, Hound came in with Sunstreak dragging Doubledealer along the floor, leaving oil with tiny flames at the edges as the spy's frame sparked.
"He gave you trouble?" Jazz asked.
Hound shook his helm. "Not really. He drove into the battle and right into Sunny. I didn't even have to touch him."
Sunstreak dropped the mech's pedes and took a step back, rotating a stiff shoulder.
"Can I head back out, sir?" Sunstreak asked. "Fight's going on without me."
"As you were," Jazz said, dismissing him back to the fight. To his own mech, he gave orders to begin interrogations and force downloads via Ratchet.
And then, again, Jazz no longer knew what to do with himself.
He checked in on the battle. It was already winding down, the armada scattering to the four winds with autobots shooing them off. A handful of jets kept on the 'con's tails, keeping up the chase simply to harry them out of the desert. No casualties again, just a few scorchmarks and prisoners that had slipped away. Barely a skirmish.
Leaning against his desk, he tapped the datapad in front of him, then shoved the pad aside and dragged his fingertips along his helm. He wasn't used to this kind of anxiety—short term fights and explosions, some quiet stealthing through a base and then loud, fiery escapes, that was his familiar territory. But this long, drawn out waiting for Prowl to heal, waiting for Soundwave to fully wake up, and nothing to distract him for very long...
He pulled the datapad close again, bringing up Prowl's file. Then Soundwave's. A warning popped up for both.
MEDICAL DATA: CLASSIFIED. OPTIMAL VIEWING ONLY.
Jazz vented and entered his own password.
MEDICAL DATA: CLASSIFIED. OPTIMAL VIEWING ONLY.
Narrowing his optics, he spent a moment creating a digital backdoor and bypassing Ratchet's security.
A large warning popped up over his datapad's whole screen and a message typed up in front of him.
MEDICAL DATA: CLASSIFIED. ONE MORE TIME AND I TELL RED ALERT.
Jazz stared at the screen, then huffed and shoved it off the desk. Ratchet himself was keeping an optic on his files. And Jazz would risk many things, but not Red Alert's righteous anger.
His communication line came on.
As your physician, Ratchet grumbled, I strongly suggest that you go talk this out before your servos shake you apart.
Melt in slag, Jazz snarled. I ain't talking to him about this.
Because?
Jazz pushed his hands to his faceplate, covering his optics, and he groaned.
I can't talk about this! No one could talk about this!
Ratchet sighed out in exasperation. Jazz—
It's stupid! What am I gonna say? Sorry, Prime, can't keep my helm on straight over two shiny bots. Just promote Mirage over me an' let me go riding into the sunset so I self-combust in embarrassment.
Jazz—
I ain't even got a chance to talk to Soundwave and ain't that the kicker, that I wanna hear that damn boombox's creepy voice?
I told you, he took the brunt of the blast, he can't—
What the hell is my life anyway? 'No fraternizing' is a rule for a reason! I can't believe Red Alert ain't got my aft in a vise as it is.
Ratchet chuckled. Interrogation isn't usually fraternizing—who knew Soundwave would take death threats as flirting?
But that's just it, mech! Soundwave? Prowl? I stayed the hell away from anything that wanted to pop my seals, and within hours of giving it up, I'm suddenly playing this game on hard mode! It ain't fair!
Yup—that's life, Ratchet agreed.
That's slag is what it is! And I can't keep this up no more! I'm overclocked and burning through Flipside's data—
—caught three spies in an afternoon— Ratchet added, although Jazz ran right over him.
—and I can't distract myself no more—I finished all my forms, doc! That ain't normal! I never finish all the damn paperwork an' I'm about to climb the walls if I don't get a mission right now, I mean right now, but that means I'll be off base when Soundwave comes online...but then Prowl's gonna be hurt and...
Ratchet didn't reply.
I can do a lot of things upside down and backward, Jazz mumbled. But this...this feels upside down and backward already.
Ratchet still didn't reply. And held silent for so long that Jazz began to fidget. He waited another moment, then ventured a call.
...I made you hang up outta sheer irritation, huh?
The low, patient laugh that came back wasn't Ratchet's. Jazz froze, his spark twisting up inside.
No, Optimus said. But he did send me an audio file.
Jazz felt like he would melt through the chair straight to the center of the earth.
Bossbot, I ain't...I mean—
Jazz—
Ain't no thing, really, I'm just venting out loud here, ain't nothing to get the Jazzmeister worked up—
Optimus' voice carried the reassurance that so easily led mechs on the battlefield. The calm, steady tone settled over Jazz, who didn't stop wanting to fall apart but at least felt a little less ridiculous for it.
This is clearly bothering you. Come to my office.
Jazz inwardly quailed. You...you got lots of stuff to do, Prime.
Even if I didn't need my Third in Command thinking straight, I wouldn't leave my friend to deal with this alone. You're used to fighting, but this is one terrain I think you could use some help with.
Jazz still hesitated.
Optimus added, I'll kick Ironhide out.
With a long suffering vent, Jazz came to his pedes and began the long walk.
Diagnostic run 37%.
Temperature set to 54.5 δ scale.
Internal servos clocking quarter pace.
Prowl floated in a semi-conscious haze as his self-repair nudged wires and receivers into place, repaired scorchmarks, defragmented a crashed sector of cortex. The major damage had been fixed—tanks replaced, armor plating refitted and sealed, ventilation core soldered, and his right arm and pede rebuilt—but Ratchet kept Prowl's cortex secure in looped defrag cycles. Prowl stood both within and without himself, watching his frame heal and aware of the medbay around him.
No longer in the main medbay, he had been moved to a side room normally retained for Spec Ops and officers. There was little to see—white walls, medical screens, dim lighting, all designed to ease the strain on his mending optics. Nothing to look at here, except for his roommate.
Apparently everyone believed in Soundwave's goodwill now because the former Decepticon had been set in the berth beside Prowl, unrestrained.
With some effort, Prowl could turn ever so slightly, just enough to glance aside and study Soundwave. Ratchet had not seen fit to repair him with a mask in place, and Soundwave's frame lifted almost imperceptibly with each vent. Something clicked and whirred—Soundwave's repair functions were also working hard.
Prowl narrowed his optics. He could just see one of the dents in Soundwave's arm straightened out. The small dents in his fingers were even more visible, almost rippling as his armor smoothed.
It was Soundwave's original armor, Prowl realized. Soundwave had not only taken the brunt of the blast, but he'd come through with more of himself than Prowl had.
Prowl stared back at the ceiling. He wondered what Jazz was doing. Or what was happening outside. The distant thud of ordinance and the roar of jet engines was muted this deep in the Ark, but the fact that a battle was happening at all made him wish that someone would send him an update, talk to him, anything—
"Query."
Prowl closed his optics tight.
No, Primus. That was not what he meant.
"Prowl, awake?"
"Yes. Prowl awake," he grumbled with a long-suffering vent.
"Prowl, aware of fighting outside?" Soundwave coughed to clear his intake. "Soundwave, not suffering from auditory hallucination?"
"No, there is a battle ongoing directly overhead. And one yesterday. You must have missed it."
Soundwave considered that.
"Ark...secure?"
Prowl glanced at him. Soundwave's optics were online, glowing a deep amber in the dim light, but his fingertips curled to try to hold the berth's flat frame.
"Of course," Prowl said with more confidence than he felt. "You should know that."
"Decacycles have passed since last update on Autobot security," Soundwave said. "Those updates also questionable at best. Therefore...Autobot victory not assured."
"Worried?" Prowl asked.
"...likelihood of Megatron's forces pushing into Autobot base—"
"—at 2.5%," Prowl said. Firmly.
Silence. Another thud of distant bomb.
"...2.7, previous assessment," Soundwave muttered. "Decepticon spies, clearly deficient."
Prowl would have agreed except that the similar estimation raised another question.
"So if there is an overwhelming percentage that their forces will fail, why are they attacking the Ark? That will result in losses for themselves without any chance of victory."
"Many Decepticon casualties?" Soundwave asked.
"...I have not been updated."
Prowl would have found that admission difficult before. Now that they had been in each other's cortex, there was no longer any defensiveness, just a low level of aggravation.
"But," Prowl added, "I do not detect any casualties in the rest of the medical bay, and I believe I have heard two distinct battles so far."
"Logical extrapolation—surface wounds only, light skirmishes."
"And no prisoners," Prowl added. "So...why?"
"Megatron."
"Of course Megatron," Prowl huffed. "Naturally Decepticon high command is the reason for why the Decepticon forces do anything."
"Clarification—fear of Megatron's anger."
Prowl frowned. "Continue."
"Decepticons fear Megatron. Likelihood of Megatron injuring nearby Decepticons, 54%. Without Starscream, 98%."
Prowl's frown deepened. "His own troops?"
A hollow sound of understanding came from Soundwave.
"Prowl confusion, borne from having Optimus as commanding officer. Different leadership style. Optimus altmode, personnel carrier. Conducive to gathering troops while shielding them. Megatron altmode, large firearm. Conducive to firing, not to good aim."
"...when you put it that way, it does make sense." Prowl glanced sidelong at him. "Does he cause many casualties?"
"Yes, but often repairable. Few deaths."
"From a point blank shot?" Prowl asked, lifting his helm slightly. "From Megatron?"
"Decepticons, often possessed of thick armor."
"Ah. Right." Prowl settled back again. "Warbuilds."
The sounds of the battle faded to nothing. There were no more explosions, no more far-away jet turbines roaring overhead. Just the quiet hum of medical equipment, the steady pulse of one of their chronos keeping a constant rhythm. Their vents running slightly out of sequence.
"Prowl...query."
Soundwave's hesitation made Prowl instantly cautious.
"...yes?"
"Autobot definition of warbuild?"
Prowl narrowed his optics. "Is this some kind of existential exercise? What is a mech? I warn you, I have little patience for unquantifiable philosophy."
"Negative. Prowl, Jazz, all autobots often refer to mechs as either civilian or warbuild. Nomenclature often used by Decepticons as well. Soundwave, uncertain if terms mean the same to either faction."
Prowl shifted on his berth. It was a question he had never considered. A warbuild was a warbuild and a civilian was a civilian, and everyone knew what that meant. But it was an honest question, and sincerely asked, and he found himself curious to any differences as well.
"Warbuilds, commonly built by the previous functionalist government for military use," Prowl started. "Often possessed of thick armors, high caliber ammunition, and other destructive armaments."
"Continue."
Prowl's frown deepened. "Warbuilds, also used as slaves in the coliseum as pit-fighters, or in dangerous demolitions and construction work. After rebellion, took the city of Kaon and Helex, which became the source of war atrocities."
Soundwave stiffened but didn't reply.
"Warbuilds, aggressive, combative, eager to use the skills and strength they were programmed for. Warbuilds are—"
Prowl broke off, but the thought lay bare, and it would have been cowardice not to say what was often muttered in the halls of civilians.
"Warbuilds are killers."
For long cycles, they both lay still, processing what had been said. Prowl entered another light defrag loop and came out again, venting with less pain in his singed valves. Prowl expected defensiveness. Scorn. Especially as the silence dragged.
"Term, mostly similar," Soundwave said finally. "If used with less spite."
"You think that way about yourselves?" Prowl asked, surprised.
"Atrocities cannot be ignored, but are put out of mind," Soundwave said. "All other terminology, viewed positively. Warbuilds, strong, capable, dangerous."
All terms that Prowl might have used with Jazz. Prowl shook his helm once. No, he would not give up anything of Jazz to Soundwave's definition. Jazz was purely—
He stopped himself.
"Please define 'civilian' within Decepticon terminology." His politeness was a veneer over his demand.
Soundwave began immediately, already thinking of it.
"Civilian, common builds of thin polymetals. Fragile, lightweight frames. Built by functionalist authorities for data manipulation, minimal exertion. Business and scientific endeavors not needing heavy frames."
Prowl tilted his helm. True enough. "Continue."
"Civilians, weak and helpless in comparison. Easily destroyed, fearful of termination and, as such, spiteful toward warbuilds. Encouraged the separation of civilians and warbuilds in all facets of Cybertronian society."
The pause that followed was a test. Would Prowl respond to that? But Prowl let it go, more interested in hearing the rest of it than rehashing old accusations.
"At onset of war, civilians relied on law enforcement bots and entrenchment of functionalist regimentation for defense. Would not defend themselves until forced to do so. Civilians..."
Soundwave paused again. It was different having to say the thought while next to a civilian in charge of his life or death. But Prowl had been scrupulously honest.
"Civilians...cowards."
Prowl was not surprised by the final supposition. The accusation was logical, and an insult he'd often heard hurled at himself during prisoner interrogations.
"Civilians...were indeed slow to develop armaments for our own self-defense," Prowl said. "Law enforcement personnel suffered heavy casualties at the initial onset of the war. Police forces are poor substitutes for soldiers."
Soundwave's harsher vent said what he thought of that.
"Civilians...were a step removed from destructive processes," Prowl said. "And engaged in creative endeavors. Establishing social routines, building databases and products for consumption, engaging in the meticulous processes of the sciences. Fighting would have...did...destroy all that."
Soundwave processed. It was nothing more than he'd read before, having stayed current with the editorials and propaganda from both sides as the war built up, until sides had become entrenched and such propaganda useless. But the tone was different. Reading Prowl's thoughts was different than listening to them.
"Civilian processes, delicate. Civilians, fragile in comparison."
Prowl considered that and found that he agreed. And understood what Soundwave meant by appreciating a term the other found derisive.
"You said before that Jazz has a warbuild nature."
Surprised that Prowl would address the elephant in the room, Soundwave turned his helm to face him. His golden optics lit his faceplate like candles.
"Affirmative."
"Though he may fit your criteria, Jazz is also a civilian," Prowl said. "Fragile."
Soundwave frowned. Then, upon reflection, gave a soft look of understanding. The disastrous first interrogation. His difficulties with car culture. A gross misunderstanding of the Prime's nature. His fumbling attempts through his writing to understand them and adjusting via commentary. Jazz's disgust at his skillful kills.
"This...does account for many percentage points of discrepancy regarding Jazz."
There was a soft whirr, barely audible in the silence of the darkened room, as he ran the numbers.
"Soundwave...now 2.2% out of tune."
Prowl huffed. "Doubtful."
"Prowl, run calculation," Soundwave all but demanded, his indignation audible.
This time Prowl hesitated, loathe to reveal his weaknesses. But the demand lingered between them for long minutes, and the question didn't fade as Prowl allowed the silence to drag on. If anything, the demand only grew louder.
"I cannot at this time," Prowl finally admitted through gritted denta. "I am in looped defrag cycles. Ratchet has disabled my longer calculation cycles until healed."
Soundwave considered that.
"Prowl's crash, worse than initially thought."
Prowl didn't clarify that this was because he crashed more often and that Ratchet was being careful with the delicate nature of his cortex. Which only made Prowl consider that, even with extra armor and firearms, he was still a civilian. Fragile. So wrapped up in his annoyance, he almost missed Soundwave's murmur.
"Prowl's calculations, superior. Will corroborate my own."
Soundwave lay his helm back on the berth, seemingly satisfied by his conclusion. He didn't notice Prowl's wide-opticked stare, the surprise that Soundwave would accept Prowl's calculations as equal to his own with such confidence.
Prowl felt something shudder in his cortex, and he quickly lay still again, compartmentalizing his surprise. He didn't need this awkward turn of events to push him into another crash.
But he lay there considering everything that had happened, everything that Soundwave had said and done since the interrogation. And he found himself thinking from a new position, one no less radical for how slight the change was.
Warbuilds were destructive. Civilians were fragile.
He considered it, not allowing his normal calculations to interfere. If Jazz had seen his logic tree at that moment, he would have been proud of how un-anchored by math and percentages it was. And of how it began to expand into a new branch of possibilities.
Tbc...