Warnings: Violence, gore, swearing, and further attempts at suicide.
Disclaimer: Sometimes writing fanfictions is as close I'll ever come to owning Transformers. Maybe it's time I considered creating some original characters.
Rating: M
Summary: Not everyone approves of Prowl's rash decision, and they're not going to stay quiet about it, either.
Author's Note: You guys are so amazing. I was overjoyed when I saw that so many people had taken a liking to this story. I have to admit, I was really scared about readers' reactions, given that this is the first time I've ever attempted a story of such a dark caliber. For those of you who gave me enthusiastic and well-meaning responses, thank you. It's a real encouragement to hear that my efforts aren't in vain. Unfortunately, updates won't be routine, but I will never abandon this story. I'll see it through from start to finish, no doubt about it, so rest assured that there's plenty to come. A round of shout-outs to Casting Moonlight, Transfan, TsuMei, Birdiebot, Shizuka Taiyou, and NineCrow for your lovely and constructive feedback.
I'd like to bring to your attention an interesting tidbit: at the beginning of each chapter I intend to include famous quotes about roads. Right now I have about, oh, I don't know, eight quotes, but if anyone stumbles across or thinks of good ones, I'd love to hear 'em. They're part of the fuel for this story. Poetry, quotes from a book, TV or video game expressions—it's all fair game. Thanks in advance for the help, if any of you are so inclined.
Heads up: While all of the characters here are firmly G1, a few of their designs were tweaked. Ironhide sports a black exterior, while Ratchet retains yellow armor. That's all of the changes I can think of…for now. The only reason I made these adjustments was because I prefer the two of them with their Movieverse coloring rather than their traditional red and red-white appearances. So sue me.
Chapter Two: Difference of Opinion
"So many roads. So many detours. So many choices. So many mistakes."
‒ Sarah Jessica Parker
Grunting, the yellow medic shied away from a sudden and increasing pressure on his shoulder plating. Hands insistently clutched at the rotator discs and shook, creating a mechanical series of clanks as the gears beneath his armor protested loudly.
For Ratchet, rest came once in a blue moon. Due to his constantly required presence in medbay, the spitfire medic rarely managed to appreciate a deep and uninterrupted recharge. Of course, he never held his apprentices to such rigorous standards and made a habit of shooing First Aid and Swoop in the direction of their quarters whenever he caught them yawning.
This week alone had been rather trying, however, so when he did finally manage to capture some much-needed downtime, being shaken awake by an intruder wasn't met with much appreciation.
The medic lashed out to ensnare the trespasser's wrist in a viselike grasp. Optics cycled online, configurations lit up along his sensor grid, and within the span of an astrosecond Ratchet found his gaze focusing on Bluestreak.
Aborted whirs signaled that his systems were cycling down out of the impulse-driven retaliation. Under his quelling look, Bluestreak went absolutely still. Unfortunately, the uncharacteristic pause was instantly swept away in a tidal wave of chatter:
"Thank Primus you onlined—not that you wouldn't have onlined, of course, because that's just plain stupid—but if you hadn't, I would've had to get First Aid and 'Jack to make sure you didn't glitch up while you slept, because, y'know, mechs getting on in age tend to have more maintenance-related malfunctions. Ironhide always complains about his joints and hinges locking up and making him stiff. That must really slagging suck, but you being a medic and all, I'm sure you could easily whip up a remedy for age-related glitches such as fluid backup and—"
"Bluestreak," Ratchet growled, the word interlaced with his growing impatience. Curtly he unclenched his fingers around the gray Autobot's arm and began to steadily prop his chassis off the berth. "What are you doing awake? I know for fact your sorry afterburner wasn't on the roster for the graveyard shift." Consulting his internal chronometer deemed the hour to be exceedingly late. Great. More precious recharge wasted. It only annoyed him more that Bluestreak dared suggest that he had the Cybertronian equivalent of constipation.
Unflattering as Bluestreak's query was, it only justified in Ratchet's mind that the medic had every right to be foul-tempered. In the sixteenth of a second another indignant thought made itself at home in his processor: "How did you even get the access code to my room?"
Momentarily Bluestreak teetered on the verge of speech, uncertain as to which question he should answer first. Given the medic's scorching look, Bluestreak wisely concluded that he had three seconds to live if he didn't offer some sort of explanation.
Fidgeting before the yellow Autobot's berth, the sniper wrung his digits together almost painfully and jabbered, "Well, uh, a few weeks ago Sunny and Sides promised to teach me how to hack security locks if I helped them settle a debt with Smokescreen that involved a bet and some high-grade from—"
The medic planted a servo firmly over the gray mech's mouthplates, indicating Bluestreak had said too much. What a shocker. It was on orns like this Ratchet was sincerely grateful that Cybertronians didn't have breathing commitments. Otherwise, he might have lived in perpetual fear of Bluestreak talking himself into a coma. Primus, the kid never shut up.
Exhaling heavily to dispel some of the stress gathered in his CPU, the medic snapped, "Tell those two hellions that while those skills are valuable, they are to be practiced on Decepticon security, not my personal quarters. Now"—settling along the edge of his berth, Ratchet watched Bluestreak carefully—"what is so important that it couldn't wake until tomorrow?"
The moment those words ghosted past his lips, Ratchet realized something was wrong. First and foremost, Bluestreak's inflection was off. Normally the social sniper spoke at a constant, even pace—ceaseless, but even. Now his speech was bordering mach speeds, a record for him considering that his nuance could have shamed even Blurr. Scanners hardwired into his neural coding were pumping out streams of data on the mech's statistics. His spark resonance was off kilter, his electromagnetic field sporadic and fluxing too wildly to be normal: a telltale symptom of stress.
Hissing out a short curse, the medic nudged Bluestreak aside and agilely leapt to his pedes. He didn't even give the sniper a chance to respond. The last vestiges of sleep were now long forgotten. "What happened?"
At once the gray Praxian's audials heightened in a petrified trill. "It's P-Prowl! I—I don't know what was happening, but I stopped by his office to deliver a report from Arcee! It was a summary on that mission to Kaon yester—"
"Damn it, Blue, this is no time for your obsessive-compulsive prattle!" Already the lithe medic had crossed the threshold of his quarters, rapidly keying in the password for his lock before the door slid open. Without warning Ratchet stepped into the faintly-illuminated hallway and glowered at Bluestreak. Cautiously the younger 'bot bounded after Ratchet, puffed out a quick breath, and swerved left. Pursuing their conversation, Ratchet ground out, "Give me an answer in less than ten words."
"I'm sorry!" Because Ratchet's strides were driven by apprehension, Bluestreak was required to double his pace to keep up with the bright yellow medic. "Like I said, I went to give him the reports and found his door locked. So I…So I overrode the encryption files and…" Fear shadowed the normally cheerful face.
That Bluestreak, of all mechs, was speechless caused Ratchet's spark beat all the faster. Briefly he consulted his public communications channel and was bombarded by an onslaught of airwaves. Messages relayed too quickly, or signals so shocked that the emotional overload jammed the frequency. Either way, there was no hope in gleaning anything intelligible from the traffic jam.
Instead Ratchet swung his line of sight back to his companion and fixed the young sniper with a piercing look. "Of all the times to be at a loss for words and you had to pick now?" he snarled.
Before the doorwinger could formulate another long-winded monologue, their restless pedes carried them to a large corridor crowded with Autobots. Tension permeated the vicinity, accompanied by panicked whispers and heightened screams. Bodily Ratchet shoved Tracks and Hound aside, sparing a nanoklik to register surprise at their dumbstruck appearances. The eternally-haughty Tracks didn't even balk at the rough treatment.
Perhaps that uncharacteristic behavior could be attributed to the nightmarish scene unfolding before his optics.
Jet-black armor at the edge of his periphery sensors identified Ironhide as the mech hunched against the wall. Ruefully the weapons specialist rubbed at his mandible, jaw clenched and sapphire Energon magnificently contrasting against his ebony paint. Statistical data rimmed along his HUD informed Ratchet that the veteran was incapacitated.
At the heart of this crude ring were Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, the two twins wrestling in vain against the writhing shape beneath their combined weight. Bucking wildly, at the frontliners' mercy, was Prowl. Fluids coursing through Ratchet's piping froze. Every feral thrash of Prowl's limbs caused fresh Energon to slicken the metallic floor. Puddles—no, pools—of the life-giving fuel coated the hallway.
It was a grisly masterpiece only the brushstrokes of Unicron could ever hope to paint.
Heavy hands clamped down on his arm and jolted Ratchet out of his trance-like state.
"Bluestreak found Prowl on the floor surrounded by his own Energon," informed Bumblebee in a voice nothing short of terrorized. The vibrant yellow minibot jerked toward Silverbolt and Air Raid, both of whom backtracked down the hallway at Bumblebee's unspoken request. "Blue said that he had taken glass from a broken datapad and was about to…to slit his own throat with it."
"Alert Hoist and First Aid at once. Have them begin preparing medbay. Go!" he spat at the scout when Bumblebee seemed reluctant to abandon the pandemonium. Only for a fraction did he hesitate; then, Bumblebee offered a hasty nod and departed.
Rising from epicenter was another mournful howl, followed by a vexed shout. During the brief transaction between himself and the scout, Prowl had managed to dislodge Sideswipe. A remarkable feat, given that the twins were better hand-to-hand fighters than the tactician. A frenzied scramble ensued in which the shuddering and sobbing Praxian blindly grabbed at Sideswipe's short single-edged sword fastened at his waist. Sensing the attempt mere kliks before Prowl could grab the hilt, Sideswipe rolled toward the other mech, crushing him beneath his frame.
"Do not harm Prowl!" ordered Ratchet tightly. Of their own accord his servos dipped into a subspace pocket and withdrew a hypodermic needle. Emerald green serum swished inside the glass compartment. "He only has intentions in wounding himself!"
"Oh, yeah?" groaned Ironhide. "Tell that to my jaw! He dislocated it!"
Ignoring the black mech's complaints, the CMO realigned his gaze with the scuffle taking place. Again Sunstreaker had sidled up to his brother's side and pinned Prowl to the floor by his doorwings. Touching the over-sensitized panels only resulted in the tactician screeching.
Squarely meeting his officer optic-to-optic, Sunstreaker panted, "Stop!"
"Please," Sideswipe begged. Vibrations rattled along his torso as Prowl only offered another desperate volley of punches and kicks. Regretfully but firmly the Energon-smeared soldier drew an arm back. Whirs and clicks reverberated from his arm as it reconfigured into a pile driver. "Don't make me do it, Prowl!"
Only a guttural wail answered him. The psychotic break was lending its own deviant strength to Prowl, offering him an outlet. An escape route. A break for freedom. Fingers wandered over Sunstreaker's broad chest while his knee tensed. In a ricochet motion Prowl rammed the unforgiving metal into the golden twin's pelvic region. Recoiling from the blow, Sunstreaker was partially flung backward, forced to stumble. Sense of equilibrium already distorted, it didn't help when the berserker slid into a congealed pool of Prowl's Energon. Amidst the deafening thunder from Sunstreaker's fall, Prowl stole in a jab to Sideswipe's optics. It was an underhanded move meant to stun the red mech. As expected, it played its part well: as Sideswipe's grip slackened, his Praxian opponent unsheathed the tempered blade, kicked his adversary away with a polished blow, and staggered upright.
Onlookers could only begin to hopelessly call out his designation. Undeterred and unfeeling to his comrades' outcries, Prowl waved the quicksilver sword outward and clenched the grip. Teasingly the refined edge hovered over his spark chamber, caressing the external nodes. A prelude to true catharsis shrouded the tactician, an ethereal buzz to the high he was experiencing. Cliché as his posture was, it felt so right to be about to plunge the sword through his spark.
Just as several faceless Autobots surged forward to stop him, Prowl's hold tightened, and he thrust.
Something curious happened. The dagger-like weapon only managed to sink its malicious tip into the outermost circuitry. Prowl remained frozen in the incomplete coup de grâce, stalled for a klik of time before the tactician's icy blue lenses spiraled wide in shock. Not a single 'bot stirred when the black-and-white mech's optics rolled back into his helm, legs giving away beneath him as the bleeding tactician crumpled to the floor.
The sword clattered to the ground beside him.
Breathing hard and looming over Prowl's unconscious form was Ratchet. Held between the medic's dexterous fingers was an empty syringe, a bead of emerald sedative rolling off the needle.
Author's Note: For those of you who might have quirked an eyebrow and scoffed, "There's no way everyone would just stand around and watch!" allow me to explain.
Watching someone attempt to commit suicide is traumatizing. Twice I've found myself in two similar scenarios in which I watched a family member attempt to end his life. I speak from firsthand experience when I say that the experience can paralyze you. Individuals react differently in this ituation. I, personally, was so numbed by my emotions that I couldn't move until an order was barked at me to dial 911. Make no mistake that their reactions were believable; until you've been there—which I pray none of you will ever be, bystander or instigator—you cannot fathom how easy it is to just stand and watch.
On a much happier note, I love Bluestreak. He's just so damn adorable. And I think I have a thing for cranky medics, because Ratchet is hot. I'm running my theory against various other medics, such as Gregory House from House, and Yellowfang from Warriors. I idolize them.
Go figure.