Starcrossed 44: Hard Choices
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Jazz waited in line for his ornly ration, barely a quarter cube of thin, low grade energon that was laced with enough chemicals to give those drinking it the impression that they were more fueled than they were, helping to stave off theft. Those chemicals would rot the systems of anyone who lived off the stuff for too long, and every drop that Jazz consumed was run through every filter he had installed before it ever hit his tanks.
"Desta," the overseer rumbled when it was his turn and Jazz walked up, cube in hand. The ration was dispensed and Jazz gave the mech a suggestive wink before walking away, sipping as he went. He'd long ago become numb to the taste and no longer grimaced every time he drank, but refueling was never pleasant in the Neutral refugee camp.
Mecha from all over the planet were here, one of the smaller camps on the outskirts of what had once been Simfur. Jazz was here for observation and intel, on an assignment that was set to last another several vorns. His next checkpoint was in two vorns, he would have contact from Iacon, send on his intelligence, and receive any adjustments to his orders then.
Until then, he was a Neutral with Con leanings, just trying to survive as much as the rest of them, with an up close and personal view of the Decepticon army that passed through from time to time. He worked for his keep as a night guard, one with just the most basic training they'd been able to give in an orn. His primary objective was to observe and map all flight in the area, to get a clearer picture of Decepticon supply routes. So his optics were focused up at the sky as he drank, seeing what no one else saw, and then he was looking at a sight that still made his lines run cold.
A dark, metallic cloud on the horizon, one flashing from within with light, and the low, thundering roar came over them moments later.
Seekers.
A massed army of Seekers, so much like what had hit Praxus that he had a moment of disorientation as to where and when he was.
Wherever they were going was about to be leveled.
He wasn't the only one noticing them, now, and murmurs were starting to spread and grow in volume as mecha stopped what they were doing to look towards the darkening sky.
They began to pass over, and there was a collective x-vent of relief, before a solid third of the fliers broke away, doubled back, and within what felt like kliks, the camp had been surrounded.
Jazz knew what was going on before anyone else and he bolted for cover. His systems could survive on the weak energon better than most, but that didn't mean he was even remotely well fueled. His reserve tank had enough energon for a single full-frame shift, held there unless it would drop him into stasis not to consume it. If he had to fight, his cover was broken. It was better to hide. He could leave a message if following or capture was in his cards.
The first klik was going to be the most telling and he huddled down out of visual range, listening with full attention to the blaster shots and screams, counting them, comparing them against the number he'd seen land, and the amount of mecha here. He had a Seeker frame type queued up if he heard enough shots to indicate a slaughter. He couldn't blend in with them for long, but he could get away.
But he didn't hear enough. They weren't here to kill, they were here to take. Protocol was to first and foremost keep his cover, then stay alive, and beyond that, the choices were up to his discretion. He listened.
The first round of intimidation shots over, frames fell to the ground and heavy pede-steps stomped forward.
"We're looking for volunteers," came the sneer. "It is recommended for your personal health that you come quietly." A few moments of silence, and then a growled order, "Round 'em up."
Blaster fire, screams, running pede falls suddenly surrounded him and Jazz cursed silently, crouched down. He could get captured, that was fine, but he needed to know where they were going to take him first. He dared a glance out, found the insignia on what looked like the Captain's front, and ducked back, starting a message.
Not fast enough, though, because a hand grabbed him out and hauled him forward, throwing him down onto the ground. "Trying to hide?" the Seeker hissed, and the muzzle was against his helm.
"N-nah!" Jazz stammered. "Ah's jus' wait'n see, jus' so's Ah know's safe!"
But the blaster wasn't lifting, and the Seeker's teek was a touch too vicious.
"We want them functional, Downdraft," someone snarled, causing the Seeker to scowl harder even as he began to haul Jazz towards the group being guarded.
In the palm of one hand, as best as he could while being pushed and shoved, he was etching a short series of glyphs into a piece of scrap metal that was tagged with a short-range tracer. It would take an Autobot with the correct equipment to find it, but they wouldn't find it until they were on site.
Audials strained to take everything in, and when he heard location of a prison camp, he etched that in along with an extraction date, set for two vorns from now.
He dropped it onto the ground before being shoved into the rest of the huddled group, crouching down and waiting while the rest were rounded up.
The last straggler was dragged, kicking and screaming, and the Captain grabbed him by the wrist and sent a round of blaster fire right into the mech's face.
Jazz cringed, the frame went limp and was dropped.
"So don't ever be last," the Captain sneered. "Get them going!"
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The outing was unusual, and a risky one, but Prowl was too wound up not to be sent. So he and Whiplash, neither looking at all like themselves, were on the ground with a handful of others scouring the remains of a Neutral camp for any sign of their missing agent. They looked like a typical Autobot party sent to investigate the attack, but not even their shuttle was what it seemed. Framespire was arguably one of the most deadly things in the air on the Autobot side, with the possible exception of Dogfight, and just as fast as the crazy Seeker.
Autobot surveillance in this area was next to nothing, with only what they gathered from their ground agents every few metacycles to serve as updates, and it hadn't been until this particular agent's checkpoint had come up and been missed that they had put this party together.
Where a thriving-as much as could be given the resources-refugee camp had stood less than three vorns ago, now rested a picked-over, deserted site.
"Scrappit," Whiplash grumbled, kicking at the remnants of another frame, picked clean of everything useful, no way to identify who it had been. He glared at nothing in particular, watching his scanner as he walked, and then finally-finally-found the signal of the short range tracer Jazz would have known to drop. ::Over here,:: he commed to Prowl, following the signal and digging up the discarded bit of scrap.
They read it together and a huge coil of tension dissipated from them both. Jazz had survived the attack. They knew here he was going and when he wanted to be broken out.
"He's gotten better," Prowl's tone was both relieved and proud of his mate.
"He has incredible focus when he actually sets himself to it," Whiplash agreed. "It's the getting him to care that's the trick. Fraggit, though," he sighed, voice weary. "We could really use what he's been gathering." He looked at the camp location for a few moments, thinking, then shook his head. "Need to get someone in there, can you work something up based on what we have on this one?"
"Affirmative," Prowl nodded. "Myself, or another agent?"
"Whatever gives you the highest chance of success," Whiplash said. "I trust you not to compromise for his sake."
"With how little we know of what he might look or sound like, I have the best probability of finding him, getting the intel he has and getting out," Prowl said after a moment. He was the only one who knew Jazz's field intimately enough that it didn't matter what the frame looked like.
Whiplash nodded. "We need to finish combing the site. I want your outline by then."
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Three orns later Prowl was wearing the frame of a mid-sized grounder. Unremarkable for a Decepticon but not too generic; he wasn't trying to pass for a factory model. He was still and silent, going over every scrap of his created identity as Framespire set down far enough away from the prison that Prowl's drive in was believable. A lowly guard in a minor prison work camp wouldn't have rated a transport, which made it that much easier for Prowl to get in.
"Good hunting," Flamespire said in parting.
"Clear skies," Prowl replied before transforming and driving to the prison camp, a place that was more a mine than prison. It was just how the labor was sourced that made it a prison. It was five joors after he reached the road that the compound came into view. A half joor past that the first checkpoint stopped him with raised weapons.
"Designation and files," a guard snapped, looked him up and down as he transformed back into root mode. "You that transfer?"
"Gradient." He showed his transfer orders, but didn't let them actually take the form. It was his only proof.
Fortunately, the mech didn't seem interested in more than a glance and he waved Prowl past without trying to take anything from him. "Go right to the warden, he'll put you on your rotation and get you bunked. Hope you ain't expecting privacy."
Prowl snorted, expressing how little he thought of privacy, and went to the warden's office as directed. As a Decepticon, he had legal access to the facility map, and used that access to test his codes without suspicion.
Shift rotation, bunk assignment, rules and regulations-such as they were-were all growled to him from across the desk, datapads were swapped, and Prowl was abruptly shoved out to begin his first duty shift.
He found himself down in the mid-level mines, watching the forced laborers work away at the unforgiving interior of the planet, scrounging for resources. He was armed immediately with a whip, given no instruction, and told to hit anyone not working up to standard.
What "standard" meant was not explained. Prowl, true to his persona of Gradient, didn't ask and didn't much care. He was given free reign for violence, and presumably other abuses, so long as the mine produced. By the time his shift was over the crew he was guarding knew he was free with the whip, an abusive vocalizer and could be bribed to an extent by a good overload. The tricky part was that he took whatever mech was nearby when the whipping got him charged up enough to want a valve, so he didn't give much opportunity to offer.
The only good part for the slave labor was that he didn't seem inclined to kill. For many, that seemed more than enough to redeem him, no matter the other abuses.
"Yer gon' get along jes fine," a fellow guard growled to him at shift change. "C'mon, we all get together fer rations."
Prowl nodded, curled his whip up with a move that spoke of having used one many times before and hooked it on his hip while he followed. "So far it's fun."
A rumbled chuckle answered him. "Glad y'think so. Better'n that last one yer 'placin, he wouldn' have none 't. Tell me, y'ever played with a brand new mechling 'fore?"
Dark red optics flared with a rumble of unmistakable desire. "Not in far too long."
"Oh yeah," the mech grinned. "Yer gon' get along jes fine."
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It wasn't long after being at the camp that Prowl learned about a tunnel collapse a vorn prior, when he found the tunnel on his outdated schematics for the mine, and also learned that the newest batch of laborers had been almost entirely crushed in it. There had been three survivors, all of whom he'd previously teeked and spoken to, and the deactivated frames, at least those they'd been able to recover, had been melted down for parts and scrap.
The timing range matched the group Jazz had been captured with, but there was no telling where they came from. There had been several raids in the last few vorns, all of which had resulted in captured mecha. Decepticons kept miserable records on their prisoners, a fact that Prowl and Ops in general had used to their advantage often, but it did make tracking down a given prisoner much more difficult.
That annoyance drove Prowl to grab one of the slaves that wasn't in his group as they passed and buried himself in the terrified frame and dry valve until he felt better. Then he dropped the mech, not caring that he'd made him late and he would now be beaten. Gradient was a primitive sort, short on processor power, violent and often ruled by his interface array. Even though Prowl was still there, guiding things in the background, Gradient was primarily in control.
Three metacycles passed in similar fashion as Prowl scoured the camp beneath Gradient, using the artificial construct's penchant for spike overloads to seek out anything familiar, but every teek and frame came up with nothing. Even accounting for the fact that Jazz was capable of altering the feel of his teek, Prowl knew that spark rhythm so well that no amount of disguise could hide it, and he wasn't bothering to change his. No one here knew Prowl, but if Jazz was hiding amongst the prisoners, he would know him immediately.
Three metacycles, and nothing. His pickup was scheduled for one more decaorn, and his transfer notice had already been sent through.
Gradient mourned the loss of his best job ever, but Prowl was looking forward to it. From the moment he'd been sure Jazz wasn't here he'd wanted out, desperately. The sooner he was gone, the sooner an Autobot force could take this place and possibly find records he couldn't without breaking into something that might expose him. By the time he was three joors out from the prison camp on his way to his next assignment Gradient had been packed away and Prowl was fully in charge. Two more joors and he turned off what passed for a road in these parts and headed overland to meet up with Framespire.
He was waiting at the exact coordinates chosen for the pickup, engines still hot from the flight over. "Anything?" the intimidating Shuttle asked once Prowl was inside.
"He isn't there. I got enough to make a raid go smoothly," Prowl replied grimly.
A rev of understanding from the powerful jet engines was Prowl's only offered consolation.
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A decaorn after returning to Iacon and the full SpecOps report on the camp later, and Prowl couldn't find it in himself to object to the lack of shift work or orders. Working would have helped him become functional much more quickly, but the grief had claimed him before he could explain that. With grief came apathy. Apathy led him deep into his processors where better times were stored, including the game that had never been turned off, not once, since Radiance's deactivation. Distantly, he knew that his need to serve would drive him back to the real world, but for now he was willing to indulge himself in the self-destructive behavior.
A ping drew his slow to respond and sluggish attention away from the game and the endless memory loop of his favorite dance from all the times Jazz had performed for him as a mechling and he looked at it briefly, seeing a summons to the Prime's chambers.
The Prime's ... chambers. Not his office?
His office was on the way, regardless, Prowl could check to see if it was an error. Slowly he roused himself, hearing old reprimands from his lost mates about how he wasn't designed to sit still for so long and how he always forgot to stretch or even refuel, and made his way up from the SpecOps base to the commander center where the Prime resided when he was in residence.
A check in at the office told him that no, the message hadn't been in error. So bewildered, dull, scuffed, low on energy and still a bit stiff, he made his way to the Prime's quarters. He had to use the base map. This wasn't a place he had any reason to know about. Still he pinged for admittance when he arrived, too dazed to have thought much about why he had been called here, much less worry about it.
"Prowl, you are as prompt as ever," came the Prime's warm voice as the door opened for him and he entered, the rumbling tones soothing for that moment while he spoke. "Thank you for coming."
Optimus's chambers were nowhere near as grand and elegant as those that previous Primes had lived in, but they were still luxurious to the least extent appropriate for the Matrix bearer. Prowl could see him past the antechamber in what looked like a small sitting room, waiting with two cubes of energon on the table before him.
"I was summoned," Prowl couldn't hide his confusion as he walked into the sitting room.
"You were requested," Optimus said, optics warmly exasperated above his battle mask. "You are always free to question or defer a personal invitation. Though, I suppose," he sat down in the lounge that was designed for his size, gesturing for Prowl to do the same, "Knowing you would do neither makes it a summons."
Prowl's features showed his confusion as he reviewed the exact wording before simply admitting that the Prime was most likely correct. No matter how it was phrased, he would perceive it as a summons. Especially with how worn down he was and operating on little more than base coding.
Optimus watched the blank, empty face for a few moments, then sighed heavily. "How are you coping?"
The question, like all which came from a Lord, was given as much consideration as possible. Unlike many Lords, however, the Prime was given the truth. "I would say that I am not coping at all."
The cube was pushed towards him. "Drink that, you haven't been refueling, I suspect. How have you been passing the time?"
Prowl drank on command, not even registering what he was consuming until after it was down. "Memories, and a courting gift from Radiance." Pain lashed at him, and he didn't hide it. Losing his third still hurt, even when Jazz was there to help sooth it. With Jazz gone, he was struggling to remember why he remained in his frame, other than a near-inability to quit.
The Prime just watched sadly, teeking so gently that Prowl could barely feel the brush of the other mech's field. When the cube was lowered, Optimus leaned forward across the table and pressed his fingers to Prowl's chest, right over his spark. "Your frame cages you," he murmured, with a gaze that felt like it was looking right into his crystal. "Coding is preventing you from really feeling the grief as it should be experienced."
"It has always been so," Prowl answered softly, almost leaning into the touch. "I am still a seneschal. Bred and engineered to withstand loss." His vents suddenly hitched at the truth that hit him as hard as a tank. His code had been warped enough that it was now only partially truth. He was broken. No longer a true seneschal, but still too much of one to be free. He'd never desired to be free of it.
The pain of that loss nearly doubled him over.
Serve
It was all he'd ever wanted. All he had ever done. Now processors too sharp and warped fixated on that truth and what he still had left to serve: his mate's, his Lord's final wish.
It was time to kill and then let go. To finally, finally let go.
"Prowl," Optimus said softly, voice cutting through the jumbled pain-grief. "There is still a way to serve, you can serve me."
Ice blue optics, even paler than usual, lifted to regard the Prime. Despite what Optimus was expecting, there was no wariness there, only the grief of fresh loss compounding old grief by tearing off the scars that kept it at bay.
"To begin again," Prowl murmured, more to himself than the Prime. "Do you know what you are offering?"
"I'm trying to offer healing, and maybe an eventual peace through having a new function," Optimus said. "I would ... I would like to offer something now, to help with the pain. The old pain, I'm afraid I can't help with the new, that will take time."
Prowl found himself chasing hope around his processors and spark, tying to catch and crush it before it destroyed him. The Prime's words helped that a great deal. This wasn't beginning again. If Prime could help him think, to get back to work... "Understood, and I accept."
Optimus nodded and stood, drawing Prowl with him. "I would wait until you know what you are accepting. Come with me," he murmured, and led Prowl through his chambers, back into the deepest, nestled room, one with a grand berth in the middle. "I thought ... this might be more comfortable," he said, one warm hand on Prowl's back. "You can say no, this is a request."
"If this can put some of the loss to rest, I accept," Prowl repeated, sure of that much. He didn't know exactly what form of interfacing the Prime was proposing, nor how it could help, but he had long ago lost any association with any act as one reserved for his mates.
Large, strong hands lifted him effortlessly and carried him to the berth, laying him down on his back before the Prime moved over, running fingers down the seam in the center of his chest. "I would know your spark once more," he murmured.
The armor unlocked immediately, parting with no reservation or fear. On a level Prowl was eager for it, eager to share once more, to be that close to another spark. That, perhaps, there might be someone to grieve for him and remember his triad when he was gone.
A smile warmed the Prime's field. "Exquisite," he said, as his own soothing blue spark was revealed, brilliant flecks of flashing gold deep within the crystal chamber. He gathered Prowl into his arms and let the seeking tendrils of his essence caress Prowl's, and the merge shifted forward naturally. There was no lust behind that spark, no craving and not even really love, not as Prowl had always known this act when it was with a chosen lover. There was only deep affection and caring, and strength.
Prowl accepted it all. He didn't know what to expect, exactly, but he knew it wouldn't be like with Radiance or Susurrus, and he rather hoped it would be better than the breeding merges he'd endured.
That thought was a mistake the moment it happened and Prowl recognized it. With Radiance's deactivation he'd scrapped the locks on his kindling protocols. Now old desires roared to life on recognizing the quality of the spark whose tendrils danced with his. Even at his best he couldn't stop it on his own, and right now apathy and grief had robbed him of much of his will.
~Shh,~ the Prime calmed the desires with less than a whisper and a brush, and suddenly that instinct, one of his primary functions in life, to create, was gone.
But no, he realized, not gone, it was ... aside. Held carefully aside, cradled and cared for, but separate, kept there by the spark touching his.
~Is kindling what you want in this moment?~ the Prime asked. ~What your spark truly wants, without the confines of your coding?~
~No.~ Prowl's answer was simple, clean, empty of need even as he offered up everything he was, everything he knew to this spark that could tame what he couldn't. ~I/it wishes to rest.~
~I can free you,~ Optimus murmured, just as simple, and while there was sadness there, it was not for the thought of Prowl's spark leaving his frame but rather for the life that had led any one of his people to wish for that kind of rest before its time, with so much strength and life left to give. ~If you have no more desire to Serve, if you want to escape this frame and leave this world, I will free you.~
Prowl's processors drew back from the merge, as did his spark. Not fully, but enough to give him a better sense of self to sort it out. His spark cried for release now that it was on offer. Five creations, a mate, his triad, his function twice, his sanity, his suitability as a carrier by his own standards, his very purpose, all lost. It hardly mattered that three of those creations were still in their frames. The creator bonds had been broken long ago. His spark couldn't take any more.
His processors, his self-awareness, disagreed that there could be no more. They were far more driven to serve, and to serve no matter the pain or personal cost.
As spark and processors wrangled, Optimus had the rare privilege of watching a spark and coding that were in general perfectly in tune sort out what to do. With every passing nanoklik Optimus became more and more aware of just how much Prowl had lost that was harder to put terms to. Corrupted coding, failure, his glitch ... everything his original culture told him meant it was past time to move on.
He had one duty left, one last promise to fulfill.
Could he allow Vortex to win by being the last to give up?
With a quiver Prowl's spark relented. It didn't want to stay, but with promises of not having another to lose, it would see their duty to the end.
Warm, soothing understanding and acceptance of that choice, with the promise that it could be changed at any time greeted him immediately, and there was a subtle shift in space as Optimus gathered him and held.
~Your grief has been hidden, here, for so long,~ the Prime said, and touched a place so deep in Prowl's spark, a place that had been beaten down over the centuries until it had formed into the dense, agonized cluster that it now was. ~Rotting, like metal kept damp for too long, crumbling into rust. This is what I would like to open. It will be painful.~ The words were simple, but the message behind them was a powerful promise, and warning.
~If it breaks me, let me go,~ was Prowl's only reply. He didn't understand what was going to happen, even as he understood the fundamental results.
~#So be it#,~ the Prime whispered in perfect unison with a second voice, and before Prowl could respond to that, he felt a small pull, and then a cut, and then his spark was completely on its own, removed from all but the barest lines of coding that were Prowl.
Then Optimus reached in and down and even the first touch against that wild, knotted mass of energy and memory was agonizing and it made face, voices, fields flash across his awareness. The Prime moved inwards, pinched, and pulled, undoing the knot at the very center and letting everything spill out in a rushing, consuming flood.
Prowl screamed.
Nothing his frame had endured prepared him for this pain. There was no distraction, no inevitable end, nothing but facing each loss as it came. Some were pains he thought he'd dealt with long ago, like his creator and first lover. Others were ones he still struggled with every orn, like Radiance and his function as a seneschal. Praxus, seeing his second creation's deactivated frame, knowing his first was gone without ever seeing him, the hate his third creation still held for him, all that the twins had suffered rarely crossed his processors but still hurt when they did.
The deepest pain, though, was one was that resisted even the pull that had brought everything else to flood through him. Even in his spark, there was a pain with the designation of Vortex wrapped around it that did not want to explain itself.
Optimus stopped pulling and held Prowl's frame tightly so he wouldn't damage himself or his spark, forcing him immobile even as he tried to thrash with all his strength, and the touch of his spark stayed calm, accepting, endlessly patient and forever loving. He curled around the battered life, ancient beyond its age, and grieved with him. It was the Prime's age, the familiarity of grieving, loss and recovery that Prowl's spark finally noticed through its agony and latched onto. Even without the processors and programming, Prowl craved to know. What he could put in context he could deal with.
So the Prime's spark, aided by the Matrix, gave him that expansive context. The Matrix sang of its previous Bearers, how each one changed it, how it grieved the loss of one whom it had become one with even as it embraced its new Bearer for the joy and understanding the new joining would bring. It was not completely applicable to Prowl, yet there was enough there, enough time, enough losses, for the pale blue spark to grasp as a path.
Yet it also carried a dangerous idea, for a mech so inclined towards it, anyway. To soothe the loss with the new.
Prowl's spark nudged at that idea, and colored by its innate nature, it looked to its new Lord and offered.
The offering was received with honor, humility, and understanding even as Optimus gently declined. ~I cannot give you what you need, not in such a manner,~ he said, and he spoke Truth. ~Nor could you give the same for me. I would be your commander,~ a mouth pressed to his, warm and chaste, ~Your friend, your Prime. I would know you,~ their sparks flared warmly together. ~No more than that.~
Even though Prowl didn't understand, he accepted. The truth, the rules, were taken in by his spark and stored there. As was his core function, he adapted to whatever rules he was given. He liked it, the knowing. Having a place, a structure to be part of. What part he played mattered much less than having one.
Pain flared up again. The loss of being a seneschal. The loss of being an Enforcer. Twice stripped of his function, his spark had floundered in the centuries after Praxus fell. It curled into Prime's spark, welcoming the warmth and stability there. He needed an anchor. He always had and always would.
In the torrent that was still mostly pain came a moment from the present. Special Operations was not structured enough for him. He was needed there. He liked the work. It gave him access to knowledge few others had. But it lacked structure. Rank was a suggestion for the most part, a fluid thing based on specialty, knowledge and skill level. It strained the seneschal's spark.
But his goal was best served by being there, so he would never complain.
It hurt. It hurt more than Prowl thought anything could, the loss of his first function. He still grasped for it, longed for it, tried to find a way to regain it in a world that no longer had it.
~You have much to give, we will find a way for you to give it,~ Optimus promised him, voice smooth and steady. He gently and quietly refocused Prowl's attention back to the tempest that he was pulling away from, and reached back into his spark, touched that deeply-rooted, coiled pain that still had not released, and gave another pull, testing the strength. ~Be in this moment,~ he murmured, preparing Prowl as best he could for the worst, and at the next pull, stronger than any before, it all loosened and freed, joining with the rest.
Instead of screaming, instead of the fiery pain of the previous losses, this was quiet. It brought a sob, soft and nearly silent, as Prowl's entire universe crumbled around him. The ruled he'd abided by his entire existence were thrown in his face. His charge badly damaged. The rules, the social laws that held society in place had been abandoned.
There was physical pain there. Hate flared to life in a way Prowl still did not understand. All that hurt, but the moment was bound so tightly because Prowl could not cope with it. The rules had been abandoned. He still lived. His charge had been punished instead. His spark chased that around as doggedly as his processors had, and to the same inability to accept.
He should have been executed. That was the Law.
His charge should have been immune. That was the Law.
An oligarch had no right to break the Noble Laws.
And because of wealth, because of something so dead and unfeeling as credits no one had stepped in to aid them and put everything to rights. The structured world he'd been bred for, devoted everything he was to, had let him live and let his charge suffer.
All of it, for credits.
Optimus just held him as he cried, waiting what felt like an endless amount of time in the full merge, as close and curled around Prowl as he could be. Not trying to protect, just trying to help him through the wretched moments of grief.
~Love and its loss must be felt in equal measure,~ Optimus said as Prowl's awareness began to settle, and for the first time, the Praxian caught a glimpse of how much control it was taking for the Prime to hold the merge this steady for this long. ~You have known pure, ecstatic love and joy. This is your consequence.~
That was something Prowl could understand. Maybe not accept, not fully, but he could understand.
As strained as he was, his spark reached out to the Prime's and stroked it suggestively, offering pleasure in thanks for the understanding.
A shiver from above, a stroke in return. ~Only if the desire is mutual.~
~Yes,~ Prowl's voice was soft, a purr that left no doubt that he desired the overload, and to know it was shared. It wasn't love, it wasn't base lust, but somewhere in between where shared pleasure was an act of alliance, of caring.
Optimus stroked over, around, through his spark in a gentle touch backed by strength, searching through everything he'd brought up, running a cooling salve over the still-raw wounds. ~The hurting is not over,~ Optimus told him. ~It will take time to settle. I will see you through the worst orns when I can.~ Soft, wanting tendrils danced over Prowl's. ~Feel with me,~ the Prime whispered, and let go of his control, and his spark pulsed bright, touching every part of Prowl.
The Praxian moaned and gave himself as completely to this as he did to his mate. It was not the surrender he gave those who had a right to him, but a welcoming, pulsing, stroking embrace he gave those he cared about, reserved for those few who had worked their way into his spark.
Optimus moaned, realizing the gift he was being given, accepting and cherishing it as much as he cherished Prowl's trust. Ricocheting waves of energy danced and swirled between them, each feeding off the other, growing, blinding, until the two sparks trembled together, squirming to touch and be touched, almost painfully sensitized after being merged for so long.
~Beautiful creation,~ came the Prime's deep rumble from the panting frame. ~Thank you!~
Energy spilled forward, filling Prowl's open chest, rushing against his crystal as the Prime shook in overload. It was far more than any mech could have resisted, and Prowl had no desire to try. He keened his pleasure, his spark pulsing and flaring in answering bliss that contained the soothing comfort of one he trusted. No, the pain and grieving wasn't over, but he was no longer alone.
He could do this.
It was the last sensation to pass between the sparks before Prowl dropped offline.
The next thing he felt as he booted, still merged, was Optimus's reassuring and steady presence. ~Are you ready to return to your frame fully?~ he asked.
~If I must,~ Prowl nuzzled into the comforting warmth. He was ready, though, at least as much as he would ever be.
Optimus chuckled deeply. ~Unfortunately yes,~ he said, and began carefully lowering down the partitions he had placed, separating spark from frame, which had allowed the grieving to begin.
The two halves of the whole that was Prowl went together easily, well-suited for each other and with no hesitation, and the last flickering tendrils of their sparks disconnected before chests were sealed firmly back up. Optimus lowered himself carefully, drawing Prowl into his arms and against his chest, holding. "It is late," he murmured.
"I may stay?" Prowl relaxed into the warm, comforting embrace. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to feel wanted and protected, even if just this night.
"Mm, please," Optimus rumbled with a smile clear through his voice and field as they both settled in for recharge.
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Optimus began to boot with a deep purr already thrumming up from deep within his chassis, warm with the hazy remnants of the pleasure from the previous evening and with the soft, skilled press of lips on his spike cover. He reached down to stroke Prowl's helm. "So I suppose I don't have to ask how you are feeling this morning," he said with a smile, but it was still a question in the subharmonics.
"Shaky, but revved up enough to want to play," Prowl pressed into the stroking hand as his field curled around Optimus's with a friendly affection that could so easily become a twisted devotion if the Prime nudged the grieving mech that way. "Never have been inclined to deny it when a partner is willing."
"Neither have I," Optimus agreed with a soft moan, tracing the Praxian's chevron, making sure to brush his thumb over the center where he knew Prowl still displayed the woven design of his mates' designations with his. Prowl pressed into that touch, grief and loss flaring at the reminder of his triad, but it did little to hamper his arousal or the trace of his glossa along the panel's seam to Optimus's approving moan and a subtle shift up of his hips. "Pleasure is too precious a thing in our world anymore." He settled his processors from the boot sequence and was firmly, decidedly Optimus once he had finished. To warp this mech into the fanatical devotion he was capable of and prone to, especially to the Prime, was something he wanted to avoid.
"Yes, you are good at that," he said with a sighing x-vent when the cover drew away, and enjoyed the pleased flare in Prowl's field just as much as, if not more than, the knowing strokes and touches.
"I've had a great deal of practice," Prowl's engine purred at the compliment while his lips played at the spike housing as wide as his wrist. The anticipation of feeling a spike that different from what he was used to stroked his arousal and pushed that arousal against the mech he was teasing.
Optimus groaned deeply and the thick, rounded tip of his spike began to poke out as both hands now settled on Prowl, gripping and loosening in time to his licks. The Praxian began to hum, tuning his engine to amplify the vibration and slid his lips down around the large head. It was almost too large for him to take. It had been ages since he'd pleasured a mecha this large, and he was enjoying it far more this time.
His glossa circled the thick, rounded head, learning each node as he found it to be able to use it again. Some made Optimus moan, others made his hips jerk up, and he worked his way down along the shaft as it emerged, blue and red alternating rings leading down the silver base, ridges that made his valve clench just to imagine. He did his best to take the entire length down his intake as he continued to hum and found it easier than he expected to accommodate the girth when he was relaxed and more than willing.
"Prowl," Optimus murmured, legs splayed out, head thrown back. "I'd like to hold you."
Gradually Prowl lifted his helm, drawing off the glistening spike to climb forward for a kiss that was pure heat.
"I'd rather you held me down to spread me that wide," Prowl rumbled, deep and seductive and very much genuine.
In answer Optimus rolled, moving Prowl easily onto his back and settling over him, his size and mass covering him from the rest of the world. The kiss was returned and hands that could nearly wrap around Prowl's waist began to wander and explore, stroking the loose plating, dipping his fingers along the seams. "I won't hurt you?" he asked.
"No," Prowl promised with a wanton moan, his cover sliding open to expose the slick, relaxed, but eager valve as he spread his legs and curled them around the outside of his Prime's. It felt so good to be under the Prime, covered and shielded. He had no idea why, and he didn't care to work it out. Now was for feeling good. Analyzing came later. "Praxians are built to take two."
Optimus nodded, mouth pressed to Prowl's neck for a moment, licking the cables and enjoying the moaning squirms it elicited as much as the Praxian was enjoying giving them. Eventually he shifted up and curled on arm under Prowl's shoulders, the other hand going to Prowl's hip to help lift and brace as he settled between the spread legs.
The first nudging push made them both groan from the stretch and squeeze as the tip pierced into the slick darkness, Optimus moving as slowly as he was able, giving the Praxian time to adjust. He could feel and teek that Prowl hadn't exaggerated. Even though it had been many hundreds of vorns since he'd had a third, his valve easily relaxed and calipers spiraled wide to accommodate him. There was no pain, not even that of growing accustomed to such a wide stretch. All that rolled off Prowl was waves of pleasure and the desire for more.
Optimus gladly obliged, pushing slowly, still careful no matter how easily he could feel himself slipping in, until he was seated fully inside, feeling Prowl trembling around and under him. He curled, pushing the Praxian's legs up and back with his thighs, cradling his helm in one hand as he began the slow, torturous pull back out. It gave them both time to become accustomed to the new frames and movements, the way their equipment slid together.
His field was deep and soothing, ripples of pleasure over the ocean that was this Prime's capacity to love his fellow mecha, a teek that held strength, determination, and the promise to protect. He backed that promise with his frame, holding and shielding even as he pleasured with slow, deep strokes. Though he made no demand of it, no actual expectation that the mech beneath him do anything more than enjoy, he felt Prowl's reply in a field that settled quickly, adapting to the slow pace easily, welcoming it where most would want a hard pounding to blind their processors. So soon after such a deep healing merge it was pure instinct for Optimus to know and give what was needed, even when the mecha in question couldn't have articulated that need.
With Prowl, the deep calm and centered nature of his spark rose to bathe in that ocean and offer its own strength to the vastness. Smooth and willing, he rippled the calipers of his valve and rippled the lining around each frictionless stroke. It wasn't the simple squeeze and release that most knew and were happy with. For the mech that had done so much for him, he turned nearly his entire attention to his valve and eking out every last bit of pleasure for them both.
"Optimus." The designation came out a pleasured sigh, and an intentional indicator that Prowl knew he was with the mech, not the Prime.
"Prowl," was his warm answer, gratitude and pleasure wrapped up together in the single glyph as Optimus continued to rock, his full focus on enjoying the gift he was both giving and being given. Slow, careful, steady and sure, Optimus moved, a blissful wash of motion input lighting up their sensory nets with each touch and slide. "Prowl."
His lover was hungry for it, but to be stretched so wide after so long with a normal spike, Prowl could only tremble and keen as he gripped Optimus's arms. His optics white and unseeing, mouth open and helm thrown back, he was a vision of absolute surrender to the bliss. It was a truth his field backed up even as his frame continued to work his lover's.
The energy crackling around them only added to the dance and the sharp bolts of pleasure that had turned their ocean of peace and acceptance into a maelstrom of pleasure-need, something that not even Optimus could resist after holding himself in check for so long. The pace was slowly increasing, his hold on the Praxian tightening, each drive into the cycling, pleasuring valve just that much harder, until Optimus was all but holding Prowl to his chest as he rocked above him, moaning from his chassis.
He never lost himself, not in that complete, driving way that Prowl's lovers always had, staying always focused on the true goal of bringing pleasure to this spark. That Prowl was making that self-appointed task all the more enjoyable was just extra, it was the Praxian's bliss that Optimus sought. "May I fill you?" he asked, a low, gasping request.
"Yes please!" Prowl howled, past coherent but always attuned to his lover enough to respond even in the grip of his burgeoning overload.
Optimus let go, falling with Prowl into that craved moment of ecstasy and union as he spilled into his lover, charged fluid that some among their species even considered as holy, serving in this moment to heighten the bliss of another.
Optimus could think of no more sacred cause than that, shaking in pleasure, feeling it returned just as strong from Prowl's field and feeling the rippling spasms of his valve for himself.
"Beautiful," he gasped as soon as he could speak, cradling Prowl in his arms, supporting his frame entirely. Prowl's final gift when he regained some control of his frame was of trust. He relaxed in Optimus's arms and slowly caressed those strong limbs.
"Thank you," Prowl whispered in reply, a soft smile on his face and ice blue optics watching hazily.
Optimus lowered him gently to the berth, settling there, pressing a kiss to the top of his helm. "You are welcome," he murmured.
Prowl's stroking touches were affectionate, but his field was steady. He was a friend, intimate with Optimus, but not his lover. "When are you due somewhere?"
"Later this orn," Optimus said, enjoying the closeness. "I believe you will be getting a summons-an actual summons-around the same time."
Prowl's curiosity was peeked and he teeked clearly of it, but his intent was elsewhere at the moment. "Then we have some time to indulge a little more," he purred and shifted to claim a kiss, soft and gentle. "I would like to find out how well I have learned to use my magnets."
Optimus's deep, rumbling chuckle was thrilling to hear.
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Prowl felt sated on a level that he'd rarely experienced since the loss of his third. He wasn't terribly pleased with the summons when it arrived, but pure habitual obedience roused him from the strong embrace of the mech who was also his Prime.
"Whiplash wants me in SpecOps Medical," he murmured an apology, not trying to hide anything, from his reluctance to leave to how emotionally drained he was.
Optimus nuzzled him and carefully sat up, bringing Prowl with, and let his hand slide down to the center of his back, warm and supporting. "How are you feeling?"
"Drained, numb, better," Prowl leaned into the touch with a caress of his field and small flare of desire to snuggle again. "Do you know why they've called me while I'm on grief leave?"
"I do," Optimus murmured, and his other hand came to Prowl's front, pressing over his spark, and sighed heavily. "You might not be able to feel it clearly, but you are still very raw from our merge. I helped where I could, the rest takes time. I could not do much for the newest loss, that still too strong. Be gentle with yourself, Prowl. Take the time to figure out what you want. And," his field warmed in a smile, "Do not hesitate to call on me. Even for conversation, I would very much enjoy that."
"I will remember," Prowl promised, relaxing in the touch as he could with few others. As much as the thought hurt, as ridiculous as it was, he couldn't stop himself from asking if Optimus Prime was the beginning of a new triad in the privacy of his processors even as he dismissed it as ludicrous. He didn't want to leave the touch. Badly didn't want to leave it. Yet duty called and he could no more ignore that than he could have ignored Jazz. So reluctantly he pulled a cloth from subspace and began making himself presentable enough to be seen in the halls.
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Ratchet whirled around from where he had been glaring at Wheeljack, who was cowering slightly, and turned the full force of that same glare on Whiplash. "You already commed him?! We are not done discussing this!"
"He was expecting it," Whiplash replied blandly. "I've already cleared this with Prime."
"He is still in grief leave!" Ratchet roared. "And you sure as Pit didn't clear it with me!"
"He's my agent," Whiplash countered. "I didn't even need to bring this to you. You're only here because Wheeljack wanted you in on the install if Prowl agrees."
Ratchet turned his glower on Wheeljack again. "I am not through with you, why you built that thing for this maniacal little terror is still beyond me."
Wheeljack winced. "But Ratch..."
One look shut him back up.
Ratchet turned back to Whiplash. "That mech has emotional protocols that are fragged beyond belief, self-written hacks that are almost beyond my ability to understand, and is potentially suicidal! You have no idea what this install will do to him! I have no idea what this install will do to him!"
"I am not suicidal," Prowl said quietly, interrupting the rant and startling Ratchet. "There is a difference between seeking death and being apathetic towards life. What is to be installed?"
"No," Ratchet growled, deep and deadly. "You are on grief leave. You are not competent to make major decisions."
Prowl regarded him for a moment before focusing on Wheeljack. "What did you create for me?"
The inventor brightened. "An expansion on your tactical system; a true internal tac-net. You'll have the tactical abilities of a full command center all in your frame."
"And the potential drawbacks?" Prowl continued calmly, deflating Wheeljack somewhat.
The inventor hummed. "Well, I'm probably going to have to disable, maybe remove the sorcelling systems. The tac-net will push your systems to the limit. I don't think you'll have anything left over to run much else."
"Which potentially means anything," Ratchet said. "And there's no way to tell, it could severely impact your quality of life!"
"He'll have full mobility!" Wheeljack objected sharply. "He'll be able to think on his own."
"Vortex severely impacted my quality of life. Megatron severely impacted my quality of life," Prowl suddenly rounded on the medic, his doorwings flared in an open threat. "This, whatever this is, won't qualify for me."
Ratchet didn't even so much as twitch. "Healing," he said. "Recovery. Friendships. Emotions. Relationships. There is no telling how this will affect those! It's completely untested, it might very well turn you into a walking tactical computer with nothing left over!" He huffed, then softened slightly. "And it's your choice. But not while you're on grief leave." He rounded on Whiplash. "And that is my call to make."
"I've lost my triad, my city, my function twice," Prowl said quietly. "I've failed at the only goals I've set myself. You seem to be under the impression that I want to go through it again."
"No, I-no," Ratchet said, sighing. "I want you to have a high quality of life and the potential for recovery and a future, but ... with our planet the way it is..." He shook his head. "So I have to settle for wanting you to fully understand the risks and what you could lose." He turned a glare on Whiplash. "And I want you to not make the decision while you are affected by recent trauma."
"If our planet wasn't like this, we would have gladly extinguished with Radiance," Prowl said simply. "Recovery has not been a goal since his deactivation. As for your authority, I will study the specs and systems until the leave is over and give my answer then."
"That's all I ask," Ratchet said, voice gentle even as he gave a sour look to the inventor and Ops commander. "I would have preferred you not even know about it until then but apparently everyone else has lost their senses."
"Prime knows things we do not," Prowl could only shrug slightly and extended a hand to Wheeljack. "The data, please."
Wheeljack handed it over, unable to contain his quiver of excitement to have Prowl's feedback on his work, Whiplash nodded his satisfaction with the arrangement, and Ratchet could only shake his head and watch the Praxian turn and leave.
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Optimus Prime relaxed on his large, lushly padded berth and smiled to himself. No matter how terrible the circumstances were that brought it about, it was nice to have someone in his arms that didn't take him as a living god and seemed to like physical contact as much as he did. Prowl was a snuggler, just as much as he was, even if he never showed it in public.
As much as Optimus enjoyed sharing pleasure, having someone who just liked to be in close contact as they recharged was even better. He still missed Ariel's affection. After their rebuilds they had drifted apart. It still stung sometimes, but he had never been surprised. They had both been changed so much by it, her even more than him. She was still a steadfast friend, supporter and now a command officer, but they had accepted that they were no longer mates and not really even lovers.
He knew Prowl wouldn't stay, not forever. Even if this lasted centuries they would never be mates. The Praxian was dedicated to his lost triad, as it should be. They were both simply taking comfort where it was offered, even if Prowl didn't grasp how much comfort he was offering just by being there, and being calm. It was a rare and precious thing among the command staff. Though Optimus valued them all, 'calm' was not a term he would use to describe most. Ultra Magnus, perhaps, was generally calm, and he was steadfast much like Prowl, but he still lacked a level of self-confidence that the Praxian came by naturally. There was something very enticing about the field of a mech who was at peace with himself.
Deep in recharge, Prowl's severe expression relaxed and Optimus could see the strong, classical beauty that had likely first drawn Jazz to him. Likely Radiance as well, though that was a story he hadn't asked yet. He had no doubt that Prowl would tell it with that blissful, nostalgic and distant look he had whenever he spoke of his mates. Even deep in pain intense enough to twist his very coding Prowl only loved them and remembered them fondly.
It was a depth of emotion that warmed Optimus in ways he couldn't name but wanted to continue to enjoy. In less than a decaorn they had become quite accustomed to the arrangement that seemed to have simply fallen into place. Optimus wasn't fooled, though he never questioned it. Even disoriented and prone to bursts of grief Prowl was still a master planner and organizer on every level. Optimus knew what it looked like on the outside, that he was taking advantage of Prowl and Prowl was jumping in the first berth that had been offered, but they knew the truth, and so did Ratchet. Neither of them was pretending this was anything other than what it was: mutual comfort.
That it was mutual comfort with a mech who had a processor to rival his own, who happily talked universal theory, was thoughtful and never discounted an idea because it was contrary to his own beliefs, and never assumed that he knew everything there was to know just made it better. Optimus saw too much of either blind loyalty or inflexibility with belief, having just the opposite had been a welcome relief.
They were good for each other and they were quickly becoming friends, and no matter how it ended, he knew he would always be grateful to have known this spark.
The slight shifts of Prowl's field warned of him booting up more than any sound the finely crafted and maintained frame would ever emit. Even in the silence of this room, Optimus's innate system noise drowned out any that Prowl's made.
"Hello," Optimus greeted with a murmur and a fond nuzzle once Prowl's yellow visor was powering on. "How did you recharge?"
"Better," Prowl snuggled into the contact, willing to be himself and not try to modify his behavior before one who knew his spark so well. "It is getting better. We have the morning to ourselves," he purred softly.
Optimus cocked his head, pulled up his fairly neglected personal schedule, and then chuckled. "You keep better track of where I need to be than I do," he said, running his thumb over the Praxian's helm, then tracing his chevron, all for the slightly guilty pleasure of the way Prowl always pushed into that kind of touch and the soft sound of pleasure that wasn't entirely physical.
"Someone must, and I enjoy it," Prowl actually purred as the large thumb circled over the engraving of his triad symbol. It felt good to have it touched, to know the mech he was with knew what it was and was not afraid of what it meant. "Ratchet refuses to let me do anything, and for once Whiplash is going along with him."
"Ratchet is a force to be reckoned with," Optimus said, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. "Even for someone like Whiplash." His hand slipped down to touch Prowl's chest, teeking deep into his chassis, brushing his spark. "Any data glitches while you recharged? You were teeking very unsettled for a little while."
Prowl reviewed his recharge at a glance and hummed a confirmation. "I hardly remember when I didn't anymore," he murmured, content to have the touch. "I didn't process much of the two thousand vorns after Jazz got his adult upgrades when it happened. Even with the help, it won't be worked through soon. I still miss them both too much."
Optimus just nodded understandingly and kept up the slow, wandering strokes, settling and warming the smaller mech, fully enjoying the slight flickering of his visor and the field that pressed affectionately against his. "I would like to do another merge, before the decaorn is out. It will be no more pleasant than the last one."
He felt Prowl contemplate that, the uneasy conflict between not wishing to experience that kind of condensed pain again and knowing it had already done so much good. Eventually Prowl acquiesced to the logic that he would perform his duties better healed. "Very well. In four orns? You will have the next morning half off."
"In four orns," Optimus agreed, relaxing with his berthmate for a long moment until Prowl settled again. "Are you looking forward to rejoining your triad?"
Prowl stilled, going tense on a level that was unusual for any question. This one struck hard, though, and it took him time to answer. It wasn't the answer most mecha gave.
"I still do not believe there is anything after our frame," Prowl said quietly, his field teeking that it was the truth, but a truth that had changed.
"But you believe differently now than you did before?" Optimus asked, keeping up a slow, circular rubbing over Prowl's shoulders, doorwings, and back. He didn't need to ask what event had caused a change in this mech's beliefs, his reaction to his first merge with a Prime had been telling enough.
"It's changed a couple times," Prowl murmured, uneasy at examining this facet of reality. "Faith does not stand up well to analysis and loss."
Optimus nodded. "No, it does not," he agreed, and let that particular question shift to the side for the moment. "What did Radiance and Jazz believe, where did they imagine they would be?"
"Radiance was sure he'd be in the Well, a paradise with us. Jazz ... he was raised as I was, to believe in an after with Primus in the Well and that it would be paradise. The last time we talked, he ... he was still too angry and hurting to have clearly thought about it. He thought if there is a Primus, that to let such things happen he was unworthy of faith and worship for being either cruel or powerless. I don't think he really knew what he believed."
"Too common a thing in our world," Optimus murmured. "The hurt that leads to hate. Why do you no longer believe in an after?" he asked, subharmonics clearly indicating that Prowl's answer would not be cause for judgment or opinion of any kind from the Prime, that it was simply Optimus asking because he cared and wanted to know.
"Enough pain can make what a mecha needs to believe to endure into what they do believe," Prowl said softly. "Vortex did that and far more. And ... and if there is an after, the physical bond will take Jazz to him, rather than to me. Oblivion can be the better option sometimes. It means that eventually the hurting will end."
Optimus just nodded, and his grip tightened that much more as his spark quietly grieved the pain this creation had endured, while they took their silent moments of comfort from each other. He was somewhat surprised when Prowl spoke.
"What do you believe, and why?"
"I believe what I have experienced and Seen and Felt through the consciousness that I am connected to," Optimus murmured. "When my spark parts from this frame, I will join with the Primes who have come before me, as part of the collective knowledge and consciousness of the Matrix. Others return to the Well of Allsparks, which is one and the same with Primus, in the very core of Cybertron. No matter where they have traveled, sparks come back to this place, where they originated."
"Is that what drove you and Elita One apart?" Prowl asked softly. "That you would go somewhere she couldn't follow when your spark was freed."
"Partly," Optimus answered honestly, optics warming with a smile as he thought of his officer and former mate. "It was more of a factor for her than me. It was hard for her to realize we could not be together in the after, and I could not fight to keep her attached to something that would be a constant source of pain. We were both changed a great deal by our upgrades. It is perhaps more accurate to say that we simply drifted apart on friendly terms."
"You are lucky then, that she can still be your friend," Prowl murmured. "Have you ... experienced ... how it is determined what a spark faces when it returns to Primus?"
Optimus's fingers settled lightly over Prowl's chest, and then pressed down, just hard enough for Prowl to feel the pressure on his plating. "I know there is peace," he said quietly. "Eventually, for all sparks, there is healing, and then peace. What that means, exactly, for each one and what they experience, I cannot tell you."
"Peace." Prowl repeated the glyph, tasting it and all its implications and subtleties as Optimus had spoken it. "Primus has his work cut out for him with Jazz. Mech never stood a chance." Anger bubbled up from deep inside Prowl, only to dissipate into bitter, undirected pain before it went anywhere. His fingers curled against his palms until the metal objected. "I hate that Primus is real."
"Why?" Optimus asked simply.
Prowl shivered in his embrace, emotions in turmoil before they were forcefully shunted to the side. "Because it means that I've spent the entire time I've been with Jazz for nothing."
"No," Optimus said, quietly shocked. "Not for nothing, never for nothing. I didn't know him well but it would take a sparkless frame to miss how much he loved you and how much joy he took from your presence."
Prowl stilled, trying to follow the conversation, then laughed darkly. "Not that. I could never regret Jazz. But vengeance. Not much point when peace is still going to come to the spark that did so much damage. I can't punish him, and Primus won't."
"It is within Vortex's capacity to punish himself," Optimus said, understanding better, and ran his fingers over Prowl's helm. "But that task is not yours, or even mine. I know it is not what you want to hear, but perhaps even he needs the healing that can be offered in the after."
"No, it is not what I want to hear, nor your truth what I wish to believe," Prowl murmured, still and trying to relax into the touch. "That has never stopped me from asking. It is only with information that one can choose well."
A tiny thrill went through Optimus's field, those words one of the reasons he enjoyed this mech's company as much as he did. "Thank you for listening," he said, and meant it.
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Ratchet stood with his hands on his hips, scowling up at the nearly incomprehensible jumble of monitors, readouts, vital statistics, and processor activity, all of it hooked up to one mech who was very carefully being brought out of medical stasis. His scowl did little to mask what he was actually feeling, which was deep concern and more than a little fear about what they had just installed in Prowl and what it was going to do to him.
On the other side of the berth, watching just as attentively but with the exact opposite language in his field and frame, Wheeljack's fins were a bright, excited rose. Ratchet's scowl deepened as he authorized the next stage of start-up sequences, a process that had been going on for nearly a quarter joor now. "Don't look too happy," he grumbled. "We still don't know if memory will even be accessible."
"After all he's survived, having that missing might be a blessing," Wheeljack calmed a little, looking at the mech he had just completely rebuilt for the second time. "Over two thousand vorns and he wasn't doing any better than the last time I worked on him."
Ratchet huffed. "He took the grief leave recommended for a cousin, not a bonded. Of course he wasn't doing any better." His gaze flickered across to his friend while they waited for the sequence to finish filtering the pre-checks. "You've survived plenty, would you rather not be able to access your memories?"
"If I couldn't access anything, I wouldn't miss it, would I?" Wheeljack asked. "It'd be like being newly activated. But ... yeah, some orns I would like to forget."
"A few I can understand," Ratchet said, softening a little. "But everything? You wouldn't be you anymore, but you'd have a spark with a lifetime of experience with no context to put it in." His plating shivered slightly. "I think that would be worse than deactivation."
"You've meet mecha that happened to?" Wheeljack held back on the statement that if losing it all was the price of losing what so hampered his quality of existence, then he considered it a fair price.
"Yeah," the medic said, frowning, staring determinedly at the screens. "It's ... it's nothing like being newly activated. Not even like a pre-prog. Fighters come back that way, helm wounds," he gestured vaguely at his head. "Only kind of therapy I've known to be successful is to download memories from mecha with similar lives, and hope they find something to connect to. Can't get rid of that kind of impression on a spark."
"He still has all his memories, though. Physically they're still there. Worst case we just have to play them back through the new tac-net so it can write them in a way it can access," Wheeljack tried to reassure his mentor-friend. "It's not like a processor injury."
Not like me.
Ratchet winced a little, manually syncing up frame and processor functions while Wheeljack began the simultaneous booting of the last of the tac-net systems. Prowl would be online in a few kliks, if he was going to be online at all. "I'm sorry I couldn't do better for you," he said, voice low.
"Hay, you did a lot more than anybody else could," Wheeljack brightened quickly as systems hummed to life inside the Praxian frame. "It's not your fault that one-opticked slag-for-processors had me. I wasn't even an Autobot then."
Ratchet snorted, watching Prowl with his full focus. "Unlucky break for the Autobots, finding you," he said gruffly. "Crazy pain in the aft."
"Aww, I never knew you cared," Wheeljack teased back cheerfully. "Hay Prowl."
"Nnnn," Prowl's vocalizer buzzed unhappily in response, reset and tried again with similar results.
"Start-up systems are being a bit sluggish," Ratchet said, hand going to Prowl's helm, a smooth field against Prowl's flickering one. "I'd give it one more klik."
Prowl's field and efforts to use his frame settled, counting down the time.
"He recognizes language," Wheeljack trilled happily.
A flicker of a question went across Prowl's field, though he made no effort to move or speak.
"Just a little bit longer," Ratchet murmured. "This first start-up will be the most disorienting while everything is syncing in." He watched for the rest of the indicators to check and report positive, then looked back at Prowl. "Try speaking again, just your designation."
His vocalizer gave a click, then, "Prowl," in his normal voice. "I sound like myself," he added, somewhat pleased.
"How do you feel?" Wheeljack tried to control his excitement.
Prowl gave a long pause, scanning all the new, and newly missing, systems. "Fully functional. My databanks are almost empty, however."
That did not please him. He would almost call it upsetting. Scanning for a reference level of distress he matched it to the loss of his third, Radiance.
"Whoa," Ratchet and Wheeljack said in unison as Prowl's field spiked sharply, one reaching out automatically with a soothing field, a hardwired reaction to anyone currently considered a patient in an effort to calm, the other immediately looking to the system readouts for a cause for the intense distress.
"That's normal, it's okay," Ratchet said. "We had to do a lot of work on you to get the tac-net operational."
"And it's brand new," Wheeljack added. "That's why it's so empty, it doesn't have anything entered into it yet. That's something you have to do."
Logical answer, logical reason, and Prowl settled quickly. "How soon may I return to the tactical center and begin processing its data?"
"I'd ... like to observe you for a little longer," Ratchet said, dubiously, but there was no mistaking the hope-please-longing in Prowl's field, subtle as it was. "You underwent an extensive rebuild." He glanced up at Wheeljack, who shrugged at him. "Can you wait one more joor?"
"If necessary," Prowl capitulated without complaint and turned inward to put the tac-net into standby so it would stop sending errors to his primary processor.
Ratchet huffed, nodded his satisfaction, and started up as many diagnostics and checks as he would be able to fit into a joor. He carefully kept his intense relief that Prowl could comply with the medical request and not fritz to himself. He really, truly, did not need another Red Alert class mecha on base. The one was more than enough to strain his skills.
SxSxSxSxSxSxSxSx S===================S SxSxSxSxSxSxSxS
Smokescreen watched dubiously as Prowl entered the SpecOps tactical headquarters, walked straight to an open station, and sat down without a single word. When Prowl continued to ignore him, even after he turned in his chair to indicate his awareness, he rolled his optics and walked over. "Welcome back," he said, and then, "So ... I heard you got some upgrades, or something?" Because, "How was your grief leave?" didn't sound at all good.
"Wheeljack created and installed a tac-net that should allow me to replace the entire tactical headquarters for the army, thus making it mobile," Prowl said, his voice as flat as his field. There wasn't even the flicker of recognition-regret that usually accompanied speaking with his abandoned creation.
That made all the other tactical specialists in the surrounding area stop and look up at them, and left Smokescreen feeling incredibly awkward. "Um, oh," he said. "Is that ... healthy?"
"Likely not, but it will end the war significantly sooner. The Autobot tactical capabilities have been increased by 83% if I can successfully integrate the information available," Prowl rattled off, seemingly oblivious to the effect his words had on those around him.
"They, uh, they take out some social protocols?" Smokescreen asked, a little shocked.
Prowl paused and scanned. "Negative. Priority downgraded to below the tac-net."
"Are there ... memories?" Smokescreen asked, starting to wonder if the mech in front of him was nothing more than walking, talking tactical simulator.
"I remember all I did before the upgrade," Prowl told him. "There is little relevance to my current existence in them."
"But what about..." Smokescreen glanced around, then lowered his voice a little. "You know, why you're doing this? You have to have a reason for doing this or you won't last long."
Prowl actually stilled at that and looked up at Smokescreen with something that could have been disappointment, or possibly grief in his field. His expression showed nothing. "I am coded a seneschal. Do you know what that means?"
Smokescreen's doorwings gave an almost imperceptible, defensive rattle. "Yeah, sure, you make sure a bunch of noble prats are happy by keeping the House running smoothly."
This time it was definitely disappointment in Prowl's field. "It is to serve. I do this to serve my Prime."
"Fine, whatever, long as you have a reason why," Smokescreen muttered with an uncomfortable resettling of his armor.
"All is well?" a third voice asked, one that neither had noticed entering, and they turned to see Whiplash, quirking a smile at them. "I wanted to see Prowl in action, check up on those systems for myself."
"It will take several orns to fully download and process the data we possess," Prowl told him blandly. "I will have very little to show you until then."
Whiplash nodded with a cheerful bounce, not looking at all deterred.
"Is this entire unit going to get reassigned?" Smokescreen blurted out suddenly.
"Not in my plans," Whiplash turned serious. "He's not replacing anyone."
"Good," Smokescreen huffed, and left for his own work.
Whiplash turned to focus on his newly rebuilt agent and simply watched him for a while.
"How many orns?" he asked after several kliks.
"Between three and three point five, depending on the quantity of data added since I examined the system last. Longer if I encounter difficulties," Prowl answered without hesitation.
"I'll check on you in two orns for a progress report," Whiplash said easily. "Don't forget to tend to your frame."
"Yes, sir," Prowl responded smoothly, not looking up as the lithe matte black mech walked off.