Chapter Nine
Beneath the heavy leaf cover, Flamestrike peered across the white sands.
"Feline and avian must work in sync; neither must be the dominant force controlling your actions," the great black jackal had said.
"But, I was told to never let my 'instincts' dominate me. I am to rely on them as a second set of senses, not as my main computing function."
"That is logic speaking, plain and simple," he continued, his tail swinging in an idle arc beneath the crisp, white loincloth. "Logic dictates that in order to be in control of your surroundings, then you must have full control of yourself. In that, your Prowl believes more deeply than in his god, the metalloid Primus. Truthfully, it binds him, restricts him to one viewpoint. There is a world out there, broader, more brilliant, than the stark black and white of logic."
"You insist on giving me the qualities of organics," she said, curling her tail about her sand-golden haunches.
He turned, ears canted slightly to the sides. "We are all the products of outsiders. I am the Guardian; that was the role bestowed upon me by the Universe. Man bequeathed me a form and a function that, to this day, I perform without question. Your form was bequeathed to you in order to survive; you still perform your intended function, but you must make allowances. You are no longer a 'car'; you are, for all intents and purposes, an 'animal'. And for as long as you wear this form, that is who you are."
Quietly, Flamestrike had sat, letting the warm desert oasis breeze play through her real feathered crest. She was a Cybertronian, first and foremost; if Anubis was to be believed, she was an animal second. An animal Cybertronian. "Form dictates function," she had said at last.
"Do not believe the truth to be a death knell to your soul," the Guardian admonished gently. "It may turn out to be your greatest asset."
Beneath the broad leaves, Flamestrike gazed across the sands, towards the pyramids beyond. In the distance, an eagle cried. Through far-seeing emerald eyes, the gryphoness watched as a great grey eagle alighted the tallest pyramid … and met her gaze despite the distance.
---------------
Summer was slowly turning into the coolness of fall when the package arrived a day earlier than she expected it to. Perhaps the company, having seen the delivery address, decided that prompt service would be in their best interests. Whatever the reason, it gave Flamestrike an extra day to inspect the contents before she could present it properly.
She had told no one of her intentions, not even Solarflare. For while the femme had her confidence, she also had Flamestrike's permission to be candid. And that candidness might deter Flamestrike from going through with what her common sense was already trying to prevent. No, it was going to be a mission – a personal mission, but she would approach it like any other Decepticon hideaway.
And if you leave a little battered and bruised, well, no mission is without its scars, she reminded herself, giving the last onyx piece a final inspection before tucking it back into the box.
It would have been silly to ignore the stories. More than once, Flare had related some tale about Prowl and his "fangirls". In more serious tones, and with sidelong glances at her friend, she spoke of the hearts Prowl had broken – unintentionally. He didn't need anyone, Flare said softly, before reminding herself with a nervous flick of her crest to whom she was conversing; with surprising alacrity, she switched subjects.
In the week following her discharge from Ratchet's medbay, the one thing on Flamestrike's mind were the broken chess pieces, their well-loved little bodies smashed to disrepair. She didn't want Prowl to think that she was trying to replace what had obviously been something of importance to him; rather, she hoped he would take it for the thank-you gift it was meant to be. A pale comparison, if you will.
If the City treasurer noticed the huge drop in her account, well, it wasn't his place to mention. It cost more than the five-hundred dollars listed for the human-sized set to craft one in Transformer proportions. Especially if that set was sculpted to resemble figures from an ancient human religion on their African continent.
Flame wasn't quite sure what drew her to the Egyptian set, but she let instinct guide her hand to log in her City credit numbers after some intense dealing with the company. On the whole, it seemed rather natural to hold the hawk-headed king in her hands, to gaze at the lion-headed queen.
The next day Flamestrike took herself and her package to Prowl's office for their usual meeting. Jiggling the box gently against her breast-plates, Flame punched the codes on his door and admitted herself when the pneumatic hissing came to a rest. The tactician was seated at his table grid, setting up for the day's planning attempts. Two neat rows of Autobot and Decepticon markers were out of their boxes and perched on the table's edge, easy at hand.
"Flamestrike, good. I want to review the formation from the other day. I have been turning the problem for quite some time, and I believe if we set up an observation post on the coast …" The white and black tactician looked up as she came in and set the box down in the middle of the planning grid. His brilliant blue optics took in the plain brown cardboard container, its four sides offering no clue as to the contents. "What is this?"
Within, Flame's ventilators accepted the large intake of air as she tried to cool her heating system. With practiced ease, she slid into her normal position opposite Prowl. "I have something for you," she said at last, acutely aware of how her vocalizer shaped the words.
"Oh?" Prowl cocked his head to the side in an uncanny imitation, folding his hands before him on the table.
As casually as she could, Flamestrike pushed the box towards him, her optics sweeping over the grid layout in an effort to school her thoughts into some semblance of coherency. Across from her, Prowl took the box and began to unpack the layers of cotton that swathed each piece, setting the bubble wrap aside. From under studious ridges, Flamestrike watched as his own brow band jumped in an unusual show of surprise. The tactician's mouth dropped slowly, and he turned the first piece – the white marble queen, Hathor – over in his long-fingered hands. One by one, the onyx and marble pieces found their way to the tabletop, followed at last by the large cedar board.
Prowl looked up, his optics slightly wide. "Flamestrike … this is magnificent. But, I must ask – why?"
She shifted slightly. "Because of what Sludge did to your first set. I know I can't replace what was obviously a precious set, but I figured you'd like to keep your skills up to par."
There was silence, a quiet that stretched for nanoclicks. You're warrior enough to handle rejection, she reminded herself, trying to ease the unconscious clenching of her dental plates.
Just as she was about to concede defeat and the loss of a few hundred credits, Prowl began to clear the faction markers from the table, sweeping them up in a careless gesture and dumping them into a box he had next to his foot on the floor. "All right, agent," he said, setting up the new board, giving her the marble queen Hathor and the king – a tall, pointed-ear piece in the form of the jackal-headed god, Anubis. With an ease born of long hours, Prowl had everything set up and he leaned over the table, looking across to her expectantly. "Your move."
Surprised, Flamestrike hitched herself further forward, flicking her tail over her thighs and settling her wings against her trilythium spine. For all that Prowl did not hold back, they sallied back and forth for over an hour, neither giving much ground to their opponent. At last, Prowl's long fingers slipped over the form of Hathor and replaced her with Sekhmet: "Checkmate."
Across the table, Flamestrike gave in to a sparkling's pout, put out by her loss, but not too sore about it. She had thought she'd taken the upper hand well into the half-hour, but Prowl, with his vast knowledge and battle computer, managed to out-wit her at the last moment, taking control with an ease that was almost supernatural. Once she conceded defeat, Prowl scooped up the pieces and began to rearrange them into their starting positions, when he stopped, his optic sensors flicking with what seemed unease behind that beautiful blue glass.
"I believe that was the best game I have seen you play, Flamestrike," he said at last. "One would wonder if you were trying to seduce me with your skill."
Spinal column stiffening, Flamestrike's tail fell from her lap and atop her head, tiny flamelets of embarrassment flickered. Prowl continued, his vocalizer steady if his hands were not – fumbling slightly while replacing a sphinx pawn: "I'm sure you've heard the stories by now from Solarflare, if not the other femmes. But, here is the truth: I do not find myself in need of a partner of that sort – mech or femme."
It was a rather arrogant statement, if taken by itself. But Flamestrike, trained in noticing the flaws in a structure, observed a slight tic by the tactician's right optic as he spoke. Shaking off her sparkling shyness, she straightened her shoulder plates, flicking her tail back over her thighs. "I thought I was your partner, Prowl. If not, why am I still here? Why do you need me at all if this is the case?"
"You misunderstood …" the tactician replied, floundering for the first time in their short acquaintance.
Slowly, Flamestrike stood up. "I don't know how to seduce anyone. But, how can I stand here, day after day, and not be in awe of you, Prowl?" She looked down at the abandoned game, then back at the wide-optic'd grey face of the tactician. "You've taught me so much, and for that, I thank you. I hope I have made you proud."
Those blue optics dropped to the table and slowly, Prowl shook his head. "What do you want of me, Flamestrike?"
"One night, one minute – if that is all you can spare," she said at last, surprising herself with the confidence and audacity with which she spoke.
Prowl did not meet her gaze; instead, he stood up and walked past her towards the door. Without a word, he left, leaving the brown and flame-colored femme alone, with only chess pieces to see her tears.
Transforming, Prowl set his wheels to the road, crossing the great bridge with its gouts of white-water foaming and crashing over the huge turbines that helped to power the City. He drove to clear his befuddled cortex, not to run away as he was certain it would be labeled. How many times had he had human females and femmes throw themselves at his feet, begging him to be with them? The former was impossible, if not improbable – the latter, well, for the longest time, he had existed on his own. Vons upon vons, Prowl had worked for others – and with them – but never to the extent where he had grown emotionally attached to a certain individual in that way.
Ah, but you lie, his logical side told him sternly.
Night, cool and comforting, with the scent of late-summer flowers floating through the air, covered the cruiser as he traveled at the proper speed for the highway. With a low rumble of his engine, Prowl was forced to admit that he had been caught by his own logic. In the early days of the war, he had been tempted and caught by a femme who had capitalized on her victim's relative youth and passion. Against the better judgment of the older Prowl, his younger self let his heart lead him down a path that had almost led to his termination. While he did not hold the femme's Decepticon allegiance against others of her mental gender and form, it was an experience he did not care to repeat. Even if it meant swearing off of tactile contact … forever.
Several yards ahead, there was a wide dirt shoulder; Prowl signaled his intent to pull over and swung in that direction, turning about so that his headlights faced the road. There, he idled in body, but not in mind.
So many females of either species, he sighed, flashing his lights as a warning to a driver whose passenger was leaning a little too far out the window. Did they know how their amorous advances were working against them? For each blubbering fool, each prostrating and sensual female who came before him, he retreated further and further until he was certain no more of those emotions remained.
And then she came along. Prowl sighed, almost in contempt at the use of the literary cliché. Logical, strong, independent, Flamestrike's skill had impressed him from the beginning – and before that. Her dossier did not idle in his tray; he had taken it directly to Prime, almost insisting that the Autobot commander bring her to Earth. And when she was here, neither skill nor talent was exaggerated. For every successful mission, his estimation grew – to the point where he had taken her to his side, to use her knowledge in tandem with his strategies to formulate some of the best frontal attacks and infiltration missions in all his long years.
But, the question remained …
Obviously, Flamestrike felt differently about their working relationship. Battlefield love was strenuous for both parties; more often than not, such devotion did not survive the end of the war. Domesticity and routine paled in comparison to the non-stop action; reliance stumbled and slipped to the point of resentment. Mirage and Solarflare were not the only couples in Autobot City; true, they seemed to be the most prominent because of their ranks, but they were certainly not alone. Oddly enough, for his dismissal of battlefield love, logic told him that they would be one of the few who made it.
Mirage.
If there was one mech in the City who could keep information to himself – and from his bondmate if it was required – it was Mirage. And though Prowl was loathe to admit it, he needed the Ligier's advice.
"Mirage."
"This had better be good," came the reply, several seconds late, low and sardonic. "Flare's been strung for days, and you just interrupted my attempt to unwind her …"
"Send her my apologies, but I am in need of your counsel."
Along the tight link, there was a ripple of barely-controlled surprise. Quickly, Mirage gathered himself. "I see," he said slowly, the pause between his communication evidence that he was relaying the cruiser's words to his mate. "We're on the northwest face of Lookout Mountain. Let me know when you're nearby."
Well, what did you say about battlefield love? his logical side commented wryly. With another sigh that rattled his suspension, Prowl eased off the shoulder, pausing to check on-coming traffic before turning his lights onto the highway.
At this time of the evening, there was a decrease in commuter activity, but enough to keep his inner policeman occupied, tallying violations and filing them away for when he was able to access the Chattanooga police computers.
Despite the load on his cortex, Prowl had not driven far from the City, and was able to drive up to the mountain within an hour. Respectfully, he sent a tight, pulsed signal to the Ligier spy and received the echo not a moment later. Transforming, the white and black cruiser ascended the mountain, familiarity with the landscape allowing his feet to find the correct paths while his cortex still wandered down alien trails. Edging around a particularly thin corner, Prowl found Mirage and Solarflare perched near the ledge, the Ligier cradling his grey bondmate in his arms as they sat, looking up at the sparkling stars.
Mirage heard him first, but it was Solarflare's body language that confirmed their acknowledgement of his arrival. In one graceful, lithe motion, Solarflare stood up, her broad wings flicking out, then slicking to her spine; Mirage's hand trailed from hers, and she leaned down to kiss him before letting go. With a questioning glance behind her, the grey avian femme merely bounced off the ledge, transforming and winging away with huge sweeping motions of her black pinions, the dull roar of her boosters echoing. Perhaps he did not tell her as much as I suspected, Prowl thought, walking over to the white and blue spy, who was still staring off into the night.
"Have a seat," Mirage said with a graceful gesture, a relic from his elite days. Glancing about at the rocky ground, Prowl scuffed a patch clean and took up residence at the spy's right. When Mirage turned to face the cruiser, there was a soft set to his light blue facial planes, stained silver in the moonlight. Then, as smoothly as he transformed from robot to Ligier, Mirage's expression slid to his business mien. "What can I do for you, Prowl?"
With his blood-red chevron riding low over his brow ridge, Prowl folded his hands on his knees, looking out and over the ledge, beyond to the gleaming City. "I need your advice on a personal matter."
There were many reasons why Prowl had settled on the spy, other than for his own trials in love. Mirage did not blurt out phrases such as "You, Prowl? You need my advice?" as some others would. Rather, the Ligier nodded thoughtfully. "Let's have it."
The spy listened intently, never interrupting throughout the whole recital. Though his vocalizer was tight in the beginning, Mirage's non-judgmental facial set was enough to get Prowl to loosen up and reveal the majority of his apprehensions – just not the most important road block.
After Prowl was through, Mirage was quiet; indeed, he looked at his own slim black hands for a few nanoclicks. "The old me would take her up on her offer without a second's pause, and to leave before the sun rises," he said at last. "But this is my advice to you: accept her proposal. If it's one night or one round, Flamestrike is prudent enough to keep her lip components shut. She is also warrior enough to stick to her assignments and not let what happened get in the way." He paused to collect his thoughts and Prowl nodded, turning the Ligier's words over, sensing the truth and merit. "Do you know what was different about Flare?" Mirage asked in a moment of introspection.
"I believe so," Prowl answered when he realized Mirage wished a response.
The spy rocked back on his hands, crossing his legs at the ankle joints. "She never wanted my money, my prestige; she didn't care who I had been. She saw the mech behind the façade … and she listened. You are starting to see what I did, Prowl. You're seeing a partner, a femme who isn't swayed by your good looks, who wants prostrate herself before you or send her undergarments first-class."
"Or nude photos," the cruiser admitted wryly.
Mirage grinned. "That, too. So," he continued, the smile slipping from his facial planes as he grew serious, "my advice to you is not to make the same mistake I did. That is, if you feel the same way?"
Do I? Prowl thought, breaking optic-contact with the Ligier for a brief moment. Humans had among them those who claimed they could read the future in the stars, that these distant suns spoke to them.
Taking the cruiser's silence for the indecision it was, Mirage continued, "If anything, apologize to her for the seduction comment. And count yourself lucky Ratchet and First Aid didn't equip her with taloned hands."
Logic swirled around with emotion, each a wave pounding against the shell that was his cortex. "Thank you, Mirage. I appreciate your time."
"Of course," the Ligier said as Prowl stood up, brushing bits of mountain rock from his shin guards. In the distance, a black shadow wheeled, bringing with it the low roar of twin boosters. Solarflare was making her return. Into the darkness Prowl walked, leaving them alone; he traversed the steep slopes and small paths until he reached the parking lot. There, he transformed and drove away, so many thoughts and possibilities vying for his immediate attention that he almost ran over a raccoon. With a squeal of tires and the bleat of a startled animal, Prowl righted himself and forced his concentration to the road ahead.
Do you feel the same way, Prowl? he asked himself as he made the turn into the City and flashed his access code to the sentry on duty. Rolling to a stop on the parade grounds, he lifted himself from carmode and trekked into the City, hands behind his back, lost in thought and indecision.
Flamestrike had fallen under the spell that had captured so many hearts and broken them so quickly. Prowl had never made himself out to be such a magnet for affection and attention, but it was there, and there was no denying the power he had over females. But, you have to understand that it took a long time to get to this point, he told himself, riding the elevator back to his office in a vain hope of finding her there. And Mirage, for all his odd ways, hit the nail on the head. You found someone who understands you, shares the same pattern of thought. It was only natural for her to assume that you would somehow feel the same.
After all this time, can you reciprocate? Can you put aside the vons?
Though he would later attribute it to a City ventilator in need of repair, at that moment, a dry, knowing laugh echoed around in his head. Glancing ceiling-ward, Prowl located the source and made a mental note to approach Grapple in the morning.
A quick inspection of his office revealed no brown and flame-colored gryphonic femme perched at the planning table. Indeed, everything was as he had left it – the chess set three-quarters assembled, the light of the grid still balefully green.
Well, she could not be with Solarflare, for the grey comm officer was otherwise occupied. Acting on a whim, if not a dash of logic, Prowl turned around and headed for the soldiers' quarters. As he walked and rode through the levels, the longer he had to spin his problem into some semblance of coherency – and truth.
And it was due to his cluttered cortex that he was mildly surprised to find that Flamestrike was in residence when he rang her buzzer. She stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open, crest slick against her helm. In that moment, Prowl threw logic out the window and asked, "May I still take you up on your offer?" She might have replied, but he could not recall what that might have been, for there was a distinct sound in the back of his cortex that jingled exactly like the breaking of glass.
Quietly, Flamestrike stepped back from the doorway and he followed, letting the hiss of the doors close on his old life.