[Bay] War Without End - Prowl - Pt I
Jun. 3rd, 2013 12:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: War Without End - Prowl
Universe: Transformers Bayverse, post-DotM film
Characters: Prowl, Sunstreaker, Hound, Optimus Prime, Sideswipe, Will Lennox, (Others)
Rating: T
Genre: darkfic, Angst, Drama
Word Count: ~34,500
Warnings: spoilers, canonical and non-canonical character death, violence, some disturbing imagery, mentions of m/f and m/m relationships
Description: Empty words, empty promises. Optimus Prime is not the mech Prowl remembers at all.
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Part I
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“We're getting close.”
Prowl doesn't bother to ask Sunstreaker how he can be so certain. He's given up understanding or making reason out of myth.
“Estimated distance?”
Sunstreaker glances at him. A visible shudder skips across his armor.
“Soon.”
Prowl nods and returns his attention to the nav panel. They've swung around a gas giant with an enormous storm on the surface. Prime's message came from this system. The planet's coordinates are simple to follow, but Sunstreaker's confirmation is appreciated. It makes something in his processor settle as he’s reassured they are on the right course.
“And Hound?”
Sunstreaker doesn't so much as turn and look over his shoulder. The disquiet in his field is tangible. It speaks volumes.
“Still hanging on.”
Prowl presses his mouth together, and his plates pull tight against his back. Sunstreaker's assessment is an overstatement. Hound has been in deep stasis for more than half of their journey. He has only surfaced from his self-inflicted state to occasionally inquire about their location or apologize even more. Prowl has long ago given up the attempt to correct him.
If anyone is at fault, it is Prowl himself. It was his plan. His…
He shakes his helm and resolutely turns his attention back to the console. A blinking light indicates their growing proximity to Prime. And by proxy, Ratchet.
Medic. Salvation.
Hound needs Ratchet if he is to live.
Clawed fingers rap over the console. Sunstreaker shifts, either out of discomfort or anticipation.
“This flying slab of tin won't survive atmospheric entry,” he says, and his tone is full of nameless things that threaten to reach inside Prowl and tear him asunder.
“We will have to do an orbital drop,” the lieutenant replies. He’s already anticipated this issue.
Sunstreaker pauses. “He won’t survive an orbital drop.”
He doesn’t need to say who he means. Hound is always first in their thoughts. Nothing else is more important at this point. Nothing.
“We have no choice,” Prowl responds, but his voice is tight. Edged with things he still can’t admit. “He will offline if we leave him here. He must come with us.”
Sunstreaker ex-vents. His optics shift back to the viewscreen but don’t really seem to see it.
“And if he doesn't?” His claws curl into fists. “If it kills him?”
“It won’t. He will live.”
Prowl can't remember when he became such an optimist. Necessity, he supposes. If he tried to believe anything else, he would’ve succumbed to the drag of this endless war vorns and vorns ago.
Sunstreaker's makes a derisive sound. “I fragging despise orbital drops,” he mutters, kicking out a pede in a sparkling-like sulk.
It’s all bravado though. Pure theater to hide the vulnerable spots beneath. Prowl can see Sunstreaker’s optics flicker toward the back compartment. Toward Hound.
“I'm sure Sideswipe will be willing enough to help you scrub off the scorch marks,” he counters effortlessly.
Sunstreaker inclines his helm. “That slagger. He better give me a proper welcome.”
If there is one topic certain to shift Sunstreaker's mood, it is to talk about his brother. Prowl will admit that he shamelessly takes advantage.
“He'll be happy that you're alive,” he allows, but his tone has a hint of wickedness that he’d deny until the end of time.
Prowl returns his attention to the console of their tiny shuttle as it putters toward the planet where the Autobots are to make their new home. He tries not to hold too much hope but fails spectacularly as his thoughts turn to Hound and Ratchet who awaits them.
“That fact has never been in question.” Sunstreaker flicks his fingers through the air before pulling a cloth from subspace and rubbing it over his arm. “I still expect some pampering after he abandoned me to wander the universe with you and Hound.”
There had been others, as well. Too many others. But neither of them make mention. The pain is still too fresh.
Besides, an unwise mech would take offense at Sunstreaker's words.
Prowl is many things but not that.
A chuckle bubbles up in his vocalizer. “For what it's worth, I couldn't have asked for a better partner.”
“You could have,” Sunstreaker corrects, optics flashing with his own brand of amusement. “But you wouldn't have found one.”
After so many vorns, it's no longer unusual how his friend’s offhand arrogance feels so comforting and familiar. A mech, who Prowl once believed he could never predict much less understand, has now become as almost close to him as his brother.
Prowl shakes his helm. His hands land on the controls as the shuttle shudders, and proximity sensors alert them to the presence of an asteroid band in the solar system.
“Are you picking up anything on the comms?”
Sunstreaker swivels his chair. His taloned fingers plucking at the other console.
“Not a blip,” he says, but then, his field spikes. “Wait. There's something.”
“Autobot?”
Prowl twitches, and the shuttle jerks hard to the right, deftly skimming around a particularly large asteroid. Their transport may not have much in the way of amenities or space, but it more than makes up for that lack in speed and maneuverability. Especially since it has little shielding and zero defensive capabilities, which is the primary reason why they fly silent.
He would like nothing more than to try and contact Prime, but the message they received was so garbled that Prowl had trouble discerning details. He was able to pick out coordinates, determine an Autobot presence, and extrapolate to a victory. But regarding the Decepticon menace, he remains in the dark.
“Yes and no.” Sunstreaker raps over the console before he whirls around in the seat. “There's heavy interference. Two broadcasts overlapping. One of them's Prime. The other…”
Prowl's entire body sets in a grim line as they emerged from the asteroid belt. Another planet appears on their scopes.
“Decepticons.”
A soft whine fills the tiny cockpit. It is a familiar noise, that of battle systems charging. But it’s one Prowl hadn't heard for several diun. Their last encounter with Decepticons ended in their current harried flight and Hound's unfortunate condition.
Prowl glances to his left, but the scanners offer up nothing. Not so much as an echo of a Decepticon signal.
“An overlap means the broadcast origins are of the same general coordinates.”
Sunstreaker puts a hand to his face. “Meaning they're on the same planet with Prime.” He offers a frustrated noise. “Think he found Megatron?”
A small flutter of optimism dares to flicker through Prowl's processor.
“It is possible,” he concedes.
There's also a fair chance that Prime has found the Allspark as well. However, the incoherent communications leave too much to speculation. For all he knows, Prime is now the last of their kind. Or is surrounded by a hoard of sparklings. Or now sits at Prima’s right hand with Jazz laughing as he watches from the sidelines.
Each seems about as likely as the next.
Sunstreaker straightens, hand rising to his chassis again. His fingers grasp where his spark is hidden beneath triple-reinforced armor.
“We're close. Really close.” His optics flare with what Prowl would designate eagerness were Sunstreaker any other mech.
He can understand the sentiment. He isn’t a twin, can’t even behind to understand such a tie. But he does have a brother. One he hasn’t seen in so long. Their connection has been dormant so long. Distance and time have quieted it to an aching whisper he can barely even hear. Danger has made it muter still. Has made both he and Jazz close the door between them. Lock and bar it tightly. And then cry out from opposite sides.
But that won’t be for much longer.
Through the viewport, Prowl watches their shuttle whip by a small, red planet. Beyond that is another planet. It is blue and white primarily, and early readings indicate an atmosphere, a true atmosphere. Very organic, Prowl assumes, especially with a base of carbon and an abundance of dihydrogen monoxide. It matches the coordinates Prowl gleaned from the communication and that is all that matters to him.
“What are we going to do with the shuttle?” Sunstreaker asks, energy field giving an impatient pulse.
Prowl's doors contract as he considers. “There's a satellite,” he finally points out. “It is as good a landing zone as any. We can make the orbital drop from there.”
“I still say it's a bad idea,” his friend mutters.
That doesn't require a response. Prowl adjusts their course so that their trajectory intersects with the orbiting satellite. As a precaution, he dials down several more systems, trying to run as many stealth protocols as possible.
“Uh, Prowl,” Sunstreaker interrupts just as the satellite comes into view, both optically and through the sensors. “We've got a problem.”
“Is it the thrusters again?”
“Remember that Decepticon broadcast?” Sunstreaker shoves away from the console and shoots to his pedes. “Well, it isn't coming from the planet.”
Prowl's tank all but dives toward the floor. One hand remaining on the controls, he reaches for the console, already trying to plot a new course. Frag it all to the Pit and back. Of course the planet and its satellite would be in a synchronous orbit just close enough to completely baffle the communication equipment.
“How long?” Prowl demands as proximity sensors suddenly blare to life and bathe the tiny cockpit in garish colors.
Sunstreaker curses, fist slamming into a panel and denting the cheap metal. “No time. They must be scanning for approaching ships. We were in their sights before we even cleared the asteroids.”
Prowl's jerks the shuttle off course entirely. He aims instead for the blue-white of the planet.
“We have no choice then,” he bites out, optics cycling down. “We'll have to chance atmospheric entry.”
“This isn’t how I wanted to offline, Prowl,” Sunstreaker informs him, bracing his arms against the narrow doorway connecting the cockpit to the rest of the shuttle.
“That's not going to happen.” Prowl grits his denta as the sensors shriek and the shuttle trembles around them.
He cables himself to the shuttle, alerts and warnings cascading by his HUD, and the ship’s computer streams data into his processor. One thruster is down for the count, a smoking ruin. Laserfire has scored several hits, but the Decepticons haven't breached the hull. Yet. It's only a matter of time; this craft is not built for battle of any kind. It's a miracle they've made it this far on something originally meant for short-range flights.
However, with the shuttle's real-time data pouring into his processor, Prowl finds it easier to take control. Sensors indicate two attackers, probably Seeker in origin, giving off Decepticon signals and making no attempts to hide it.
Another barrage rakes across the shuttle's portside, and Prowl winces. A few more hits like that, and it won't matter if they survive atmospheric entry or not. He redirects more energon to the thrusters, pushing them harder and faster. He streaks toward the planet with utter disregard for the fact he'll have to decelerate rather soon.
“Prowl!”
“I know what I'm doing.” His tone is serene, a complete contradiction to their situation, but his doors are flat against his dorsal plating. “Haven't you learned to trust me by now?”
“It's not a matter of trust!” Sunstreaker hisses, and the sound of crumpling metal is barely heard over the alarms.
Prowl doesn't so much as turn around. “See to Hound.” His focus drops away, processor immersing itself in controlling the shuttle. “Strap him down. Put him in deep stasis if you must.”
“But--”
“That's an order, Sunstreaker.”
There's a long moment where Sunstreaker all but vibrates with the urge to disobey, and Prowl knows that his mouth must be set in a obstinate display.
Then, Sunstreaker slams another fist into the wall.
“Fine.”
He whirls on a pede, stalking through the door before it closes behind him.
Prowl ventilates and bends the entirety of his attention to piloting, to getting them planet-side without offlining all three of them in the process. He has lost too much – too many – to this war, and if it takes the last of his functioning, Prowl will see that Sunstreaker is reunited with his brother. He refuses to fail.
More laserfire erupts, and scores a few minor hits. Either their attackers are terrible shots, or Prowl's more attuned to the shuttle's movements than he could have expected.
The planet looms in front of them, brilliant blue and white. The unsubtle blip of Prime's continued broadcast nags on the edge of Prowl's senses.
More warnings screech through the shuttle's systems. Another hit scores, this time taking out a stabilizer and Prowl tightens his control. His fingers fly over the panel as the shuttle rattles. The engines whine in protest, pushed beyond their limits.
Heat. It envelops the shuttle and Prowl can feel it, even through the craft's metal shell. His own temperature ticks upward, vents kicking on with a furious whirr to cool his frame.
Sunstreaker pings his personal comm, but Prowl ignores it. He reaches out, flicking the switch to lock out the cockpit. Sunstreaker and Hound will both be safer where they are.
One of the Decepticons draws back, as though reluctant to get any closer to the planet, but the other remains right on the shuttle's tail. Determined.
The heat is overwhelming. Several sheets of the shuttle's hull peel away, and one of the stabilizing fins is ripped off by the force of the atmospheric entry. Prowl's fingers grip tighter around the controls, and the entire craft shudders violently. He can see nothing through the viewport but a blur of colors and fire.
The shuttle gives a violent lurch, nearly heaving Prowl to the floor. It tilts dangerously, but then, they are through. The planet's foreground comes into view, a smear of organic colors through the viewport. The shuttle yaws dangerously, laserfire scoring through the atmosphere, and one of his attackers streaks through the air in front of it. Prowl catches a glimpse of grey, bulky plating – not a Seeker but shuttle-class – before the Decepticon is out of view.
The comm unit crackles, picking up a transmission. It pierces through the fog of Prowl's connection, igniting his battle systems and logic centers both. He peels back the layers, forces more of his conscious to the surface, hoping that the second of inattention won’t spell the doom of himself and his crew.
The words are garbled. Not, Prowl realizes, due to technical issues but because he doesn’t understand the language. It's not Cybertronian, that's for certain. Probably the native dialect.
“This is Autobot Prowl,” he replies in a universal language, static lacing each word as he hopes he's not outing their presence to an enemy threat. “I have two Autobots on board, currently under fire from an unknown Decepticon. Please respond.”
For a spark-stalling moment, nothing more comes from the communication but static-dark silence.
“Acknowledged,” someone replies on the other end. This time it’s in Cybertronian, his tone lacking any and all defining harmonics.
He isn’t Cybertronian. Prowl is certain of this. There had been no inflection, no evidence of dialect or accent. But he has little time to spare for pondering right now. The shuttle is spewing smoke. Fire crackles along the edges, and Prowl is reasonably certain that they are losing plating by the sheet.
The planet's landscape looms in front of him, a wash of green and brown and endless blue sky. He has no idea where to aim himself, what would make for a safer crash, but Prowl tries to keep the ramshackle spacecraft in the air as long as possible. He might have succeeded too, if the pursuing Decepticon hadn't decided to throw himself directly on top of the shuttle.
The whole ship lurches and instantly dives, pushed by the additional mass. There's nothing Prowl can do. His thrusters are shot, stabilizers worse, and the ground is rushing up to meet them. He can only brace himself, shout for Sunstreaker and Hound to do the same, and pray.
His battle computer spits statistics at him, probabilities of survival. They are all of them grim. Prowl frowns, grips the console, and ventilates softly.
Another failure to add to his never-ending list. The latest in a long line that stretches so far back he can’t even remember the beginning anymore.
He ventilates again as blue sky is swallowed by brown and green until that’s all he can see. At least it’s beautiful, Prowl thinks. Something glorious to see before death.
He thinks of life then. Just before everything eats away. He thinks of Sunstreaker. Of Hound.
Of his brother. So close and yet so far away. Close enough to touch now, where he hadn’t been before. Close enough to grasp, to hold, if only he could.
Prowl reaches for him, but there isn’t enough time. He offlines his optics mere astroseconds before everything goes dark.
o0o0o
“--owl. Prowl!”
His optics snap online, and Prowl's entire frame jerks. Only to go rigid as pain cascades through every system, HUD flashing alerts at him from all directions. A low groan escapes as he struggles to not so much as twitch. Somehow, he manages to cautiously take in his surroundings.
The world is fuzzy, edged with static, but there's a blue glow above him and an indistinct shape. His sensors register the weight of hands on his shoulders, but there's also a sense of pressure on his left leg, and he can't feel his right sensory panel. It's either dislocated or gone, neither of which are good considering their lack of access to a medic.
“Prowl!”
He reboots his optics. The bleary image sharpens into a familiar helm.
“S—Sunstreaker?”
“You fragging idiot,” the warrior seethes, drawing back from Prowl's immediate sight though the hand remains on his left shoulder. “Did you pick up that self-sacrificing attitude from Prime, or is it just a charming bonus to that backward battle computer of yours?”
Prowl's right hand twitches. His systems ping back with a status update. Something's pierced his leg, a piece of the shuttle perhaps. His sensory panel is indeed dislocated. He's suffering from numerous punctured lines, and his interface cable has been torn from his frame, likely still attached to the shuttle's console.
He quickly dials down his receptors using a little medical override Ratchet gave him eons ago. Right now, he needs a clear processor, and the pain radiating from every micron of his frame isn’t helping.
“The Decepticon?” Prowl asks, having to reboot his vocalizer twice just to clear the static. He feels unstable and reasons that he must have taken several hits to the helm. He wouldn't be surprised if he fried a circuit or two.
“Down,” Sunstreaker replies, tones clipped and furious. His hands, however, are roaming over Prowl's frame, no doubt searching for more injuries. “Can you move?”
“Offline?”
Prowl tests his limbs, none of which are numb, but he knows he can't rest any of his weight on the one leg. Not without yanking the piece of shrapnel first, and Prowl doesn't need a medic to tell him that's probably not a good idea. It might cause more damage.
“Close enough,” Sunstreaker bites out and shuffles around the sparking, debris-strewn interior of the shuttle. He maneuvers until he can get an arm under and around Prowl. “He’s gone Empty.”
Prowl winces as Sunstreaker lifts him to a semblance of standing. The pain is gone, but the discomfort remains.
Empty. Energon mad. Primus, no wonder the Decepticon wouldn't stop attacking. Energy-starvation has caused many a mech to do insane things. Most out of sheer desperation to stop the self-repair from cannibalizing their own frames and their processors from shorting out. The only worse affliction would be space madness.
“Got an ID, too,” Sunstreaker says almost gruffly. “Blitzwing.”
Prowl runs the designation through his internal database. Triple-changer, his memory banks tell him. Not terribly loyal to Megatron but an acknowledged threat. He is most often seen in the company of another triple-changer.
“Then the other was likely Astrotrain,” Prowl says as Sunstreaker half-carries him out of the shuttle's ruins, a few systems flickering colorful lights in their wake.
The shuttle is a loss. Perhaps they may be able to glean useful spare parts, even find some supplies in the wreckage, but it's a miracle that they survived.
Prowl's helm dips.
“Hound?”
Sunstreaker loses control of his energy field for a moment. There is an aching tingle of worry mixed with something Prowl doesn’t dare name.
“He's still in stasis, but he's functioning,” the yellow warrior murmurs, but his grip is too tight. “That weld didn't hold.”
Prowl stills completely.
Hound may be functioning for now, but unless, they can get him to a medic and soon, he won't make it. The slapdash repairs are the only thing keeping Hound's chassis together. Speak nothing of the desperate attempts to patch his spark chamber. He's been functioning on borrowed time for several vorns.
Prowl fears it is nearly run out.
Dull keening floats to Prowl's audials, barely perceptible above the noise of metal cooling and popping and coolant systems hissing. Before he can even begin to pinpoint the origin, Sunstreaker is half-dragging, half-guiding him out of the wreckage. They stumble into brilliant sunlight, warm and insistent upon Prowl's plating. He cycles his optics just to see.
Sunstreaker lowers him to the ground with a care that few ever see, but Prowl releases another hiss. There's a piece debris behind him, and Prowl leans against it almost involuntarily. He sweeps their surroundings, noting that their so-called landing was a crash after all, and they've left a swath of destruction in their wake. The shuttle has cut a deep furrow into the ground. It is, as Prowl suspected, organic rather than metal in nature.
He can see mountains in the distance, and his audials detect several unrecognizable sounds. His still-functioning comms pick a clatter of disjointed noise, so many different broadcasts on too many different avenues. If there's any kind of Autobot transmissions present, Prowl can't pick them out of the mélange. At least, not while his processor is yet churning.
The keening is louder. Prowl turns his helm, which takes more effort than it should, and sees the mech half-crumpled against the dirt. He's on his side, arms stasis-cuffed behind him, Decepticon insignias stark against pale plating. Energon streaks the ground beneath, running in rivulets over his frame. He's twitching.
Sunstreaker limps into view, plates visibly dented on one side. He's taken several hits from a blaster, but he's in remarkably good shape considering recent events. Prowl envies the quality of his battle armor.
“Now what?” his friend demands as he approaches, crouching to give Prowl a critical optic. He focuses on the piece of twisted metal poking out of the tactician’s leg.
“Someone made contact,” Prowl manages, expanding his sensors for a broader sweep and hoping to discern anything about their new environment. “I assume they are allies, but we must be prepared for other possibilities.”
Sunstreaker sneers. “You really think Prime is here?” he asks, optics scanning the landscape. His mouth components curl with disgust.
“You would know better than I,” Prowl murmurs, fighting not to lean into Sunstreaker’s warmth too much.
“If you can't pick anything out of this, I know I can't.” Sunstreaker grinds several gears together. “But yeah, Sides is here.” He taps his chestplate pointedly. “Getting closer by the nanoklik, too.”
Relief resonates through Prowl so strongly he surprises himself by the depth of it. Some of the tension eases out of his frame.
“Then you have your answer.”
Sunstreaker stands then and scuffs a pede against the ground. “Doesn't mean I have to like it.” He scowls at the organic bits on his armor and the dust cloud that arises. “I'm going to check on Hound.”
He whirls and stalks away before Prowl can protest, not that he has the processing capacity to spare. He can’t think more beyond the fact that the Autobots are coming, and in all likelihood, the closest Decepticon is the one currently babbling nonsense mere meters away.
Prowl adjusts his position with a grimace and assesses his condition. Self-repair is making short work of the minor tears in his lines. He's losing a minimal amount of energon thankfully, and no coolant lines are damaged. The shrapnel in his leg is the worst of the wounds, and once Sunstreaker returns, perhaps he can convince the warrior to relocate his sensory panel, however uncomfortable that might be.
If only Hound were so easy to fix.
But Prowl can’t think of that now. He won’t.
Drawing a repair kit from his subspace, Prowl busy himself by tending to the few injuries he is capable of fixing for himself. Over the vorns, he's learned a passable amount of field repair, but much is still beyond his scope. Sunstreaker's knowledge is slightly better as a consequence of his time spent in the gladiator circuits.
But even between the pair of them, it still isn’t enough to meet their true need.
While his servos are busy, Prowl purposefully turns his processor to other matters. He begins to sort through the untidy collection of transmissions that float across the airwaves. There's a miscellaneous assortment of languages present. Prowl may not be able to recognize them, but he can at least determine that some are of a different cant. There is also what might be music, if not based on a different tonal system. It is altogether puzzling. Chaotic. Loud.
Jazz must love it here.
--Still functioning,-- Sunstreaker tight-beams to Prowl from wherever he is with Hound, just out of immediate sight but not sensor range.
But for how long?
Prowl's mouth components set in a thin line. --Keep him in stasis until we can make contact with Ratchet. It may be safer over all.--
He can’t hear Sunstreaker huff out, but he knows the golden mech far too well to think he doesn’t.
--I will.--
Sunstreaker cuts off without waiting for a dismissal, but the warrior's curtness no longer irritates. Instead, it’s nearly comforting, familiar. A form of directness that is still refreshing no matter how much happens. Sunstreaker is nothing if not honest, brutally so.
His friend limps back into view then, blaster drawn and tapping against a thigh. There's a gleam to his optics, one that Prowl recognizes as a mech with every battle system engaged. A wise decision. Prowl doesn’t intend to be caught off guard again.
“Didn't you say Astrotrain was this piece of scrap's partner?” Sunstreaker asks, waving his blaster in the direction of their prisoner’s quivering frame.
A static-laced growl emerges from the Decepticon, but he can do little more than twitch under the influence of the cuffs. Truly though, it’s probably a mercy. Empties aren’t known for being docile.
Prowl merely tips his head. “Does it surprise you that a Decepticon would abandon his fellow?”
Sunstreaker gives Prowl a flat look in return. He stalks over to Blitzwing, prodding the downed triple-changer with a pede. The Decepticon makes a truly wretched sound.
“Primus, he’s pathetic this way.” Visibly recoiling, Sunstreaker steps back and gives Blitzwing a wide berth. “Want to bet they've been sitting on that satellite, just waiting for some hapless bot to come along?”
“I imagine Astrotrain is in little better state,” the lieutenant comments “Still, he hadn't wanted to enter this planet's atmosphere, which makes him more cautious. Aware.”
“Dangerous?” Sunstreaker infers, and that earns him a nod.
But Prowl’s gaze turns even more thoughtful then, and he gives their prisoner a once over.
“Damage?”
“Mmm. Don't think so.” Sunstreaker tilts his helm, blaster again tapping on his thigh. “Other than the energon madness, Blitzwing here's in pretty good shape. Probably hasn't seen any battle longer than we have.” His optics shift away to something beyond Prowl's helm and the shuttle wreckage behind him. “I think Astrotrain was avoiding actually coming to this planet for a reason.”
A noise cuts into their conversation.
Sunstreaker whirls, blaster whining as it builds a charge. Prowl goes rigid, sensors expanding outward in a rapid sweep. His are more finely-tuned, and he detects the vibrations of some sort of engine. He isn’t picking up any kind of signal, however, Autobot or Decepticon.
“What is it?” Prowl demands, annoyed by his immobility.
He shoves his uninjured leg against the ground. He attempts to brace himself against the piece of debris and stand.
“Don't get up,” Sunstreaker orders as his optics cycle down, shifting his optical scanners for long-distance viewing. “It's some kind of personal transport. Natives probably.”
Prowl ignores him and tries to push himself upright. But his left leg won't respond at all. No doubt the motor relay has been either damaged or severed.
Sunstreaker mutters a curse under his breath, shifting his weapon to his other hand and stalking back towards Prowl. He grasps the tactician's uninjured arm and hauls Prowl up with little effort.
It makes Prowl's gyros spin.
Ugh. Perhaps standing is not in his better interest after all.
“Stubborn glitch,” Sunstreaker says subvocally, but he all but forces Prowl to lean on him nonetheless.
Prowl scans the landscape as soon as his optics right themselves. Several transports come into view on a black strip that can only be a road before pulling off and making straight for them. Prowl's own battle systems click on with a quiet hum, though he's next to useless at the moment.
Prowl can't detect anything that might be a weapon, but it's frustratingly difficult to be certain at this point. He doesn't know if the locals are friendly, though if Prime's taken to living here, he must have come to some kind of agreement with the indigenous population.
The vehicles stop at a distance as though unwilling to come any closer, and tiny beings step out. They jabber to each other in their own language, pointing at Prowl and Sunstreaker and the shuttle wreckage. They don't approach.
Something chimes Prowl's comm unit, finally breaking through the tedious jumble of transmissions infesting this planet's atmosphere.
--Prowl, this is Optimus Prime. Lower your weapons. The humans won’t harm you.--
Several questions answered all at once, Prowl feels the tension ease out of his joints. But he still feels a twinge of it in his chest as he reaches out. If Prime is close, where is Jazz?
He sends at a questioning ping, but there is so much interference around him that he can’t even hear a reply.
“Put away your blaster, Sunstreaker,” Prowl finally instructs after a click. “Apparently, they are on our side.”
“I'll believe it when I see it,” Sunstreaker replies curtly, optics locked on their spectators, blaster unwavering.
Prowl bites back a retort and shifts his attention back to Prime's comm. Now, isn’t the time for this.
--It is a relief to hear from you, sir. We are in need of transport and medical assistance though I can’t provide coordinates at this time.--
--There is no need. We have been tracking you since you first entered Earth’s airspace. We’ll be arriving within five minutes.--
That last term is unfamiliar to Prowl, but he ignores that for the moment. Prime has been amongst the natives for long enough that he has likely adapted some of their customs and terminology. Prowl is sure he’ll come to understand it with time.
--Understood. We will wait for you. Prowl, out.--
The comm closes. Which subsequently opens Prowl up to all of the ambient noise again, and he hurriedly dials down his communication protocols. He establishes an alert for any pings coming from the channel now identified as Prime's, but any others are to become background babble that he doesn't wish to pay any heed. He only leaves two more open. One that he shares with Sunstreaker and Hound. The second, a frequency he and Jazz have long used only between themselves.
“Prime's on his way,” Prowl says then, reaching out with his uninjured arm to place his fingers over Sunstreaker's wrist. It’s an almost intimate gesture, but his companion merely lowers his weapon. “They are friendlies. Do not fire.”
He can feel Sunstreaker's frame vibrate, tense and ready for combat. It's much harder for him to cycle down from battle readiness than it is for Prowl, and he has always been keenly aware of that. Aware that he is different than the other two of his team. An obvious weapon where they are more concealed and unassuming.
Sunstreaker says nothing. However, his grip on his blaster tightens by a fraction, and his energy field draws so tightly to his frame that energy crackles over his armor in blue-white snaps.
“Sunstreaker,” Prowl repeats, keeping his vocals firm. But his touch is steady, gentle even.
Sunstreaker audibly grinds several gears before he peels his fingers off the blaster's grip, one by one. He slowly stashes the weapon away.
“I don't like this planet,” he grits out in a low tone.
Prowl shakes his head. He doesn’t much care for it yet either.
“We have only just arrived,” Prowl states evenly enough.
“Your point?” Sunstreaker tilts his helm, looking at him. There is an eerie gleam in his optics that the warrior gets from time to time.
Before Prowl can respond, Sunstreaker's entire frame goes rigid and his head snaps up, optics focused on something beyond their immediate sight. He awkwardly shifts around in Sunstreaker's grip until he can see whatever has captivated his attention.
More transports now approach, but this time, Prowl's sensors ping back with Autobot identification codes. Prime, Sideswipe, and a third who Prowl knows only by reputation. Leadfoot is a Wrecker, and frankly, Prowl is surprised that any member of that team has survived this war. A fourth transport follows behind, but it doesn't respond to a curious ping. It must be of the insentient variety then, like the ones the other humans use.
Prowl watches them as they come closer, but something tugs at his spark even as he looks on. He can understand very clearly why Sideswipe his here. But why Leadfoot? Jazz is undoubtedly needed at their base while Prime is away, but where is Ratchet? Where is Ironhide?
Training? A mission? Injured even? Surely not… deactivated?
It doesn’t even bear contemplating.
Prime rolls up to meet them then, shifting to his root mode the instant he comes to a halt. Sideswipe is right on his heels and Leadfoot as well. The fourth transport veers off, heading for the humans clustered around and now staring at all and sundry.
Prowl tries to stand up straight to the best of his ability. Only Sunstreaker's grip on his elbow truly keeps him upright.
“Prime,” he greets. “Autobot Prowl reporting for duty.” He offers a salute. “With me are my second, Sunstreaker, and our scout, Hound. He is in need of medical assistance.” The lieutenant pauses for a moment. “Is Ratchet not with you?”
Sideswipe doesn’t startle. He’s too good for that, but Leadfoot visibly tenses.
“There is much we must discuss,” Optimus replies instead, noticeably avoiding the query. “Right now, we must focus on getting you and your team back to our base.”
Sunstreaker is all but fidgeting next to Prowl. He knows without even looking that he’s eager to reunite with his brother. They haven't taken their optics off of one another for a single astrosecond.
“Go,” Prowl says softly. “I’ll make sure Hound is attended.”
Sunstreaker finally glances away, even if only for a click. “You'll fall.”
“I am capable of standing on one pede for a limited amount of time.” Sunstreaker's concern is touching, but Prowl gives the warrior a light tap on the arm. “Go.”
This time, he doesn't argue. Sunstreaker disengages himself from Prowl carefully and heads for his twin. Sideswipe is already hurrying to close the gap between them, and while Sunstreaker is not one for public displays of affection, it doesn't stop him from grabbing Sideswipe's helm with both hands and dragging his twin close. They press their foreheads together, optics offlining, energy fields swirling, struggling to sync after so long a separation.
Prowl knows he needs to look away, but somehow, he can’t. Can’t look anywhere but at the brothers and wonder where his own is. Wonder when he’ll see Jazz again and if he will fall apart completely when he does.
“Prime, looks like they caught themselves some Decepticon scum,” Leadfoot interrupts his thoughts.
Prowl rips his optics away to glance at the Wrecker. But that’s only to watch as he advances toward Blitzwing, mouth components twisted with disgust.
Prowl wobbles, off balance. Then, Optimus is there, offering an arm like Sunstreaker had.
“He and another Decepticon attacked us before we entered this planet's atmosphere,” Prowl informs the group at large. “They launched from its satellite. The second, Astrotrain, withdrew. Blitzwing did not. He is energon mad. Empty even.”
“I see,” Prime says, and his energy field reaches out, offering comfort. But it's edged with something else, something Prowl can't quite place. “I suspected that more Decepticons were hiding there, but we haven't the capability to leave the planet to be certain.”
Blitzwing begins to cackle as Leadfoot circles him, wriggling in the confines of the stasis cuffs. He is too far gone to do more than snarl unintelligibly, and it’s a truly pathetic sight indeed.
“You want me to take care of 'im?” Leadfoot asks suddenly.
Prowl feels himself stiffen at the tone, but Prime merely seems to be considering. He looks over at the Decepticon, battle mask concealing his expression. It is strange, but Prowl once though their leader to be so approachable, so readable even when he chose to protect his faceplate with the mask. But now... not nearly as much.
“Is your base equipped with a brig?” Prowl questions, sagging slightly as his system protocols send him flashing alerts. The pain reroutes cannot remain for much longer or his system will force stasis on him.
Leadfoot makes a disgusted noise. “No.” His right arm rises as a cannon forms out of his hand. “It's not.”
He fires, one quick and clear shot directly into Blitzwing's helm. Instantly, the mech stills.
Prowl's optics cycle wider. His entire frame goes rigid. Even as his processor shorts.
By the Allspark!
“You--”
Leadfoot fires again. The quick blast drowns out Prowl, and the shot sears through Blitzwing's chassis and destroys his spark chamber in one fell swoop.
Prowl's processor comes to a shrieking halt, and absolute disbelief crowds at his logic center. He waits for Optimus’ rebuke, his outrage. For any reminder about the preciousness of all life, that they must be better than the Decepticons.
Prowl waits for words that never come.
“I will inform Mearing that we require another disposal,” Prime comments, voice eerily calm before he turns his attention back to Prowl. “Can you transform? We can find you something to scan. Or I can locate a trailer for transport.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation. His spark shivers as his processor brings up several responses before he can settle on the safest. And truly, it’s the only thing he can actually think to say
“I am… incapable of transforming currently.”
He stops himself from physically withdrawing from Prime. It’s a near thing.
Optimus doesn’t seem to notice.
What in Prima’s name is going on?
“Fair enough.” Prime shifts them both easily. Carelessly even.
The fourth vehicle from earlier returns. Two more of the natives – humans – step out, and one of them addresses Optimus in a language Prowl has yet to translate. The human gestures to Prowl before gesturing back at his leader.
--Prowl.--
The comm comes from the private line that only members of his team know. And he's quite certain the request hasn't come from Hound.
He looks to Sunstreaker, who is no longer pressed together with his twin, though they are still standing closely.
--What the frag's going on?--
Prowl feels his mouth pinch. --I honestly don’t know. What does Sideswipe have to say?--
He sees Sunstreaker twitch.
--The fragger's not talking. Says he'll tell me when they get back to Chicago. Wherever or whatever the Pit that is.-- Unease echoes in Sunstreaker's words.
“Prowl.”
He shifts his focus from the private comm and back to his Prime, who has ended his conversation with the human.
“The trailer is here,” Optimus informs him, still acting as if nothing at all is the matter.
Prowl can only incline his head.
What appears to be a large cargo container comes into view, hauled by a transport very similar to his Prime's alt-mode. It is large enough to hold Prowl and Hound comfortably but not Sunstreaker. Luckily, the warrior is in well enough shape to transform, no doubt having copied alt-mode schematics from his twin.
--Prowl.--
--Quiet, Sunstreaker. I can’t focus.--
He's wobbling worse now, one leg numb and the dislocated sensory panel off-setting his balance. His processor is reeling from the clash of information, and Blitzwing is still there, offline and grey. None of it makes any sense.
Optimus helps him to the trailer, and Prowl awkwardly drags himself inside, where it's dark and lit by a few running lights. The metal enclosure is humming in tune to the transport's engine.
“Will you be all right inside?” Optimus asks as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker come into view, carrying Hound between them. The scout looks limp and lifeless.
Prowl has to look away.
“I am not alarmed by confined spaces,” he replies and leans against the side of his enclosure. “The discomfort is only temporary after all. I'm sure Ratchet will fix me soon enough.”
“We are several hours from base,” Optimus offers, inclining his helm. “In the meantime, I can send you a data packet with the details of what's happened over the past five years. I know how you hate to be idle.”
Finally, some answers. Prowl actually feels a flash of relief at that. Though once again, he doesn't fail to notice that Optimus has avoided anything mention of Ratchet. And for that matter, Ironhide.
Jazz's absence is more understandable. Someone must remain in command after all, but Prowl can’t help the trickle of worry that aches at his spark as he opens the bond between them ever-so-carefully. Reaching. Searching.
His systems ping then as a rather large file awaits his acceptance. He takes the packet and sets his processor to unpacking it while he makes himself as comfortable as possible within the confines of the trailer. He detects the sound of the transport's engine rumbling to life, and with a lurch, they start to move.
There will be plenty of time, he surmises, for sightseeing later. Right now, it’s better that he at least understand what it is he's looking at.
Shifting, Prowl reaches out a hand, laying it gently on Hound's helm. The scout doesn't stir beneath his touch, and the subtle hum of Hound's systems is barely present. But he's still online at least, and there's hope now, hope that Hound will make it. Fixing him should be no issue for Ratchet.
Hound will love this world, Prowl realizes. The scout has always had an affinity for life of an organic nature, and it seems this planet is teeming with nonsynthetic creations. Sapient, sentient, and otherwise.
A chime in his processor announces the completion of the file decompression. Prowl offlines his optics, focusing on the immense amount of data that Optimus has sent him. First and foremost is an introduction to the planet, called Earth, and its many residents. There are several language files with a suggestion that he integrate English into his principal communication processes.
There’s a ping to his comm then. It’s from Sunstreaker and seems urgent, but Prowl merely sends an automatic reply that he’s busy.
Nearly eighty percent is details about Earth, the natives, and everything Prowl might need to know for living here. Several humans are of key importance. Including a Colonel William Lennox, whose image matches one of the faces Prowl recalls seeing earlier. There is also mention of a Samuel Witwicky – these humans possess strange designations. But his name is marked for further details, all linked to the summary of recent events regarding the war.
He comm beeps again. Still Sunstreaker. And now, Sideswipe as well.
But Prowl has already opened the file regarding the war on Earth. His spark begins to whirl with quiet anxiety. He almost doesn't want to know.
And there it is. In all it's terrible glory.
The battle of Mission City. Megatron and the Allspark.
Jazz…
There’s a sound like a mech dying, and it takes Prowl a moment realize it comes from him. He feels Sunstreaker ping his comm desperately, but he cuts the connection like a knife to the spark and puts his head in his hands.
It’s so stark. So frank and devoid of emotion. A mere recitation of data with no element of grief.
Jazz. Killed in action. A date on the human calendar.
Nothing else. Nothing at all.
Not how he died. Not where they’re keeping his body or who now has his recycled parts.
And now, everything makes sense with a sick sort of clarity.
No wonder he hasn’t sensed his brother on this planet. No wonder Jazz has made no attempts at contact. No wonder Optimus arrived without his trusted second by his side.
--He was brave,-- Prime suddenly comms, and his tone isn’t nearly as sorrowful as it should be. As if he hadn’t just informed Prowl of his brother’s death through an information packet.
Prowl can’t even respond to that. Jazz is always brave. It means nothing to even say it. Like calling a sun bright. Or saying that fire burns. It’s so obvious.
--He fought Megatron to buy us time,-- Prime continues, clarifying what his damnable file hadn’t bothered to explain. --He saved many lives that day.--
Prowl’s entire frame trembles. He’s alone in the half-dark save for Hound’s unconscious form and Prime’s voice. His good hand flexes against his side, and his processor is such a twisting mess that he can’t even fathom anything beyond the fact that his brother is dead. He can hear Optimus speaking through the comm, but it means nothing. He only catches snippets.
--Performed his duty well.--
--Fought with courage.--
--Everything I expect of my mechs.--
Prowl’s helm is still in his hands, and he grips the side of his face so strongly that he leaves dents. His ventilations are a ragged sound that echoes around him. Louder and louder until he hears little else. Not the transport as it travels onward without care. Not the subtle rumbles of his own body. And surely not Hound’s weak systems.
Only that and Prime.
--You should be proud of him,-- his leader says then, and his tone is so matter-of-fact. Flat even. Blunt without any softening of the deathblow.
There is no grief. No remorse. Nothing resembling sentiment.
--You should be proud,-- he repeats, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
Prowl stops listening then. He doesn’t want to hear anything else.
***
(On to Part Two)
(Back to War Without End Master List)
Universe: Transformers Bayverse, post-DotM film
Characters: Prowl, Sunstreaker, Hound, Optimus Prime, Sideswipe, Will Lennox, (Others)
Rating: T
Genre: darkfic, Angst, Drama
Word Count: ~34,500
Warnings: spoilers, canonical and non-canonical character death, violence, some disturbing imagery, mentions of m/f and m/m relationships
Description: Empty words, empty promises. Optimus Prime is not the mech Prowl remembers at all.
Part I
------------
“We're getting close.”
Prowl doesn't bother to ask Sunstreaker how he can be so certain. He's given up understanding or making reason out of myth.
“Estimated distance?”
Sunstreaker glances at him. A visible shudder skips across his armor.
“Soon.”
Prowl nods and returns his attention to the nav panel. They've swung around a gas giant with an enormous storm on the surface. Prime's message came from this system. The planet's coordinates are simple to follow, but Sunstreaker's confirmation is appreciated. It makes something in his processor settle as he’s reassured they are on the right course.
“And Hound?”
Sunstreaker doesn't so much as turn and look over his shoulder. The disquiet in his field is tangible. It speaks volumes.
“Still hanging on.”
Prowl presses his mouth together, and his plates pull tight against his back. Sunstreaker's assessment is an overstatement. Hound has been in deep stasis for more than half of their journey. He has only surfaced from his self-inflicted state to occasionally inquire about their location or apologize even more. Prowl has long ago given up the attempt to correct him.
If anyone is at fault, it is Prowl himself. It was his plan. His…
He shakes his helm and resolutely turns his attention back to the console. A blinking light indicates their growing proximity to Prime. And by proxy, Ratchet.
Medic. Salvation.
Hound needs Ratchet if he is to live.
Clawed fingers rap over the console. Sunstreaker shifts, either out of discomfort or anticipation.
“This flying slab of tin won't survive atmospheric entry,” he says, and his tone is full of nameless things that threaten to reach inside Prowl and tear him asunder.
“We will have to do an orbital drop,” the lieutenant replies. He’s already anticipated this issue.
Sunstreaker pauses. “He won’t survive an orbital drop.”
He doesn’t need to say who he means. Hound is always first in their thoughts. Nothing else is more important at this point. Nothing.
“We have no choice,” Prowl responds, but his voice is tight. Edged with things he still can’t admit. “He will offline if we leave him here. He must come with us.”
Sunstreaker ex-vents. His optics shift back to the viewscreen but don’t really seem to see it.
“And if he doesn't?” His claws curl into fists. “If it kills him?”
“It won’t. He will live.”
Prowl can't remember when he became such an optimist. Necessity, he supposes. If he tried to believe anything else, he would’ve succumbed to the drag of this endless war vorns and vorns ago.
Sunstreaker's makes a derisive sound. “I fragging despise orbital drops,” he mutters, kicking out a pede in a sparkling-like sulk.
It’s all bravado though. Pure theater to hide the vulnerable spots beneath. Prowl can see Sunstreaker’s optics flicker toward the back compartment. Toward Hound.
“I'm sure Sideswipe will be willing enough to help you scrub off the scorch marks,” he counters effortlessly.
Sunstreaker inclines his helm. “That slagger. He better give me a proper welcome.”
If there is one topic certain to shift Sunstreaker's mood, it is to talk about his brother. Prowl will admit that he shamelessly takes advantage.
“He'll be happy that you're alive,” he allows, but his tone has a hint of wickedness that he’d deny until the end of time.
Prowl returns his attention to the console of their tiny shuttle as it putters toward the planet where the Autobots are to make their new home. He tries not to hold too much hope but fails spectacularly as his thoughts turn to Hound and Ratchet who awaits them.
“That fact has never been in question.” Sunstreaker flicks his fingers through the air before pulling a cloth from subspace and rubbing it over his arm. “I still expect some pampering after he abandoned me to wander the universe with you and Hound.”
There had been others, as well. Too many others. But neither of them make mention. The pain is still too fresh.
Besides, an unwise mech would take offense at Sunstreaker's words.
Prowl is many things but not that.
A chuckle bubbles up in his vocalizer. “For what it's worth, I couldn't have asked for a better partner.”
“You could have,” Sunstreaker corrects, optics flashing with his own brand of amusement. “But you wouldn't have found one.”
After so many vorns, it's no longer unusual how his friend’s offhand arrogance feels so comforting and familiar. A mech, who Prowl once believed he could never predict much less understand, has now become as almost close to him as his brother.
Prowl shakes his helm. His hands land on the controls as the shuttle shudders, and proximity sensors alert them to the presence of an asteroid band in the solar system.
“Are you picking up anything on the comms?”
Sunstreaker swivels his chair. His taloned fingers plucking at the other console.
“Not a blip,” he says, but then, his field spikes. “Wait. There's something.”
“Autobot?”
Prowl twitches, and the shuttle jerks hard to the right, deftly skimming around a particularly large asteroid. Their transport may not have much in the way of amenities or space, but it more than makes up for that lack in speed and maneuverability. Especially since it has little shielding and zero defensive capabilities, which is the primary reason why they fly silent.
He would like nothing more than to try and contact Prime, but the message they received was so garbled that Prowl had trouble discerning details. He was able to pick out coordinates, determine an Autobot presence, and extrapolate to a victory. But regarding the Decepticon menace, he remains in the dark.
“Yes and no.” Sunstreaker raps over the console before he whirls around in the seat. “There's heavy interference. Two broadcasts overlapping. One of them's Prime. The other…”
Prowl's entire body sets in a grim line as they emerged from the asteroid belt. Another planet appears on their scopes.
“Decepticons.”
A soft whine fills the tiny cockpit. It is a familiar noise, that of battle systems charging. But it’s one Prowl hadn't heard for several diun. Their last encounter with Decepticons ended in their current harried flight and Hound's unfortunate condition.
Prowl glances to his left, but the scanners offer up nothing. Not so much as an echo of a Decepticon signal.
“An overlap means the broadcast origins are of the same general coordinates.”
Sunstreaker puts a hand to his face. “Meaning they're on the same planet with Prime.” He offers a frustrated noise. “Think he found Megatron?”
A small flutter of optimism dares to flicker through Prowl's processor.
“It is possible,” he concedes.
There's also a fair chance that Prime has found the Allspark as well. However, the incoherent communications leave too much to speculation. For all he knows, Prime is now the last of their kind. Or is surrounded by a hoard of sparklings. Or now sits at Prima’s right hand with Jazz laughing as he watches from the sidelines.
Each seems about as likely as the next.
Sunstreaker straightens, hand rising to his chassis again. His fingers grasp where his spark is hidden beneath triple-reinforced armor.
“We're close. Really close.” His optics flare with what Prowl would designate eagerness were Sunstreaker any other mech.
He can understand the sentiment. He isn’t a twin, can’t even behind to understand such a tie. But he does have a brother. One he hasn’t seen in so long. Their connection has been dormant so long. Distance and time have quieted it to an aching whisper he can barely even hear. Danger has made it muter still. Has made both he and Jazz close the door between them. Lock and bar it tightly. And then cry out from opposite sides.
But that won’t be for much longer.
Through the viewport, Prowl watches their shuttle whip by a small, red planet. Beyond that is another planet. It is blue and white primarily, and early readings indicate an atmosphere, a true atmosphere. Very organic, Prowl assumes, especially with a base of carbon and an abundance of dihydrogen monoxide. It matches the coordinates Prowl gleaned from the communication and that is all that matters to him.
“What are we going to do with the shuttle?” Sunstreaker asks, energy field giving an impatient pulse.
Prowl's doors contract as he considers. “There's a satellite,” he finally points out. “It is as good a landing zone as any. We can make the orbital drop from there.”
“I still say it's a bad idea,” his friend mutters.
That doesn't require a response. Prowl adjusts their course so that their trajectory intersects with the orbiting satellite. As a precaution, he dials down several more systems, trying to run as many stealth protocols as possible.
“Uh, Prowl,” Sunstreaker interrupts just as the satellite comes into view, both optically and through the sensors. “We've got a problem.”
“Is it the thrusters again?”
“Remember that Decepticon broadcast?” Sunstreaker shoves away from the console and shoots to his pedes. “Well, it isn't coming from the planet.”
Prowl's tank all but dives toward the floor. One hand remaining on the controls, he reaches for the console, already trying to plot a new course. Frag it all to the Pit and back. Of course the planet and its satellite would be in a synchronous orbit just close enough to completely baffle the communication equipment.
“How long?” Prowl demands as proximity sensors suddenly blare to life and bathe the tiny cockpit in garish colors.
Sunstreaker curses, fist slamming into a panel and denting the cheap metal. “No time. They must be scanning for approaching ships. We were in their sights before we even cleared the asteroids.”
Prowl's jerks the shuttle off course entirely. He aims instead for the blue-white of the planet.
“We have no choice then,” he bites out, optics cycling down. “We'll have to chance atmospheric entry.”
“This isn’t how I wanted to offline, Prowl,” Sunstreaker informs him, bracing his arms against the narrow doorway connecting the cockpit to the rest of the shuttle.
“That's not going to happen.” Prowl grits his denta as the sensors shriek and the shuttle trembles around them.
He cables himself to the shuttle, alerts and warnings cascading by his HUD, and the ship’s computer streams data into his processor. One thruster is down for the count, a smoking ruin. Laserfire has scored several hits, but the Decepticons haven't breached the hull. Yet. It's only a matter of time; this craft is not built for battle of any kind. It's a miracle they've made it this far on something originally meant for short-range flights.
However, with the shuttle's real-time data pouring into his processor, Prowl finds it easier to take control. Sensors indicate two attackers, probably Seeker in origin, giving off Decepticon signals and making no attempts to hide it.
Another barrage rakes across the shuttle's portside, and Prowl winces. A few more hits like that, and it won't matter if they survive atmospheric entry or not. He redirects more energon to the thrusters, pushing them harder and faster. He streaks toward the planet with utter disregard for the fact he'll have to decelerate rather soon.
“Prowl!”
“I know what I'm doing.” His tone is serene, a complete contradiction to their situation, but his doors are flat against his dorsal plating. “Haven't you learned to trust me by now?”
“It's not a matter of trust!” Sunstreaker hisses, and the sound of crumpling metal is barely heard over the alarms.
Prowl doesn't so much as turn around. “See to Hound.” His focus drops away, processor immersing itself in controlling the shuttle. “Strap him down. Put him in deep stasis if you must.”
“But--”
“That's an order, Sunstreaker.”
There's a long moment where Sunstreaker all but vibrates with the urge to disobey, and Prowl knows that his mouth must be set in a obstinate display.
Then, Sunstreaker slams another fist into the wall.
“Fine.”
He whirls on a pede, stalking through the door before it closes behind him.
Prowl ventilates and bends the entirety of his attention to piloting, to getting them planet-side without offlining all three of them in the process. He has lost too much – too many – to this war, and if it takes the last of his functioning, Prowl will see that Sunstreaker is reunited with his brother. He refuses to fail.
More laserfire erupts, and scores a few minor hits. Either their attackers are terrible shots, or Prowl's more attuned to the shuttle's movements than he could have expected.
The planet looms in front of them, brilliant blue and white. The unsubtle blip of Prime's continued broadcast nags on the edge of Prowl's senses.
More warnings screech through the shuttle's systems. Another hit scores, this time taking out a stabilizer and Prowl tightens his control. His fingers fly over the panel as the shuttle rattles. The engines whine in protest, pushed beyond their limits.
Heat. It envelops the shuttle and Prowl can feel it, even through the craft's metal shell. His own temperature ticks upward, vents kicking on with a furious whirr to cool his frame.
Sunstreaker pings his personal comm, but Prowl ignores it. He reaches out, flicking the switch to lock out the cockpit. Sunstreaker and Hound will both be safer where they are.
One of the Decepticons draws back, as though reluctant to get any closer to the planet, but the other remains right on the shuttle's tail. Determined.
The heat is overwhelming. Several sheets of the shuttle's hull peel away, and one of the stabilizing fins is ripped off by the force of the atmospheric entry. Prowl's fingers grip tighter around the controls, and the entire craft shudders violently. He can see nothing through the viewport but a blur of colors and fire.
The shuttle gives a violent lurch, nearly heaving Prowl to the floor. It tilts dangerously, but then, they are through. The planet's foreground comes into view, a smear of organic colors through the viewport. The shuttle yaws dangerously, laserfire scoring through the atmosphere, and one of his attackers streaks through the air in front of it. Prowl catches a glimpse of grey, bulky plating – not a Seeker but shuttle-class – before the Decepticon is out of view.
The comm unit crackles, picking up a transmission. It pierces through the fog of Prowl's connection, igniting his battle systems and logic centers both. He peels back the layers, forces more of his conscious to the surface, hoping that the second of inattention won’t spell the doom of himself and his crew.
The words are garbled. Not, Prowl realizes, due to technical issues but because he doesn’t understand the language. It's not Cybertronian, that's for certain. Probably the native dialect.
“This is Autobot Prowl,” he replies in a universal language, static lacing each word as he hopes he's not outing their presence to an enemy threat. “I have two Autobots on board, currently under fire from an unknown Decepticon. Please respond.”
For a spark-stalling moment, nothing more comes from the communication but static-dark silence.
“Acknowledged,” someone replies on the other end. This time it’s in Cybertronian, his tone lacking any and all defining harmonics.
He isn’t Cybertronian. Prowl is certain of this. There had been no inflection, no evidence of dialect or accent. But he has little time to spare for pondering right now. The shuttle is spewing smoke. Fire crackles along the edges, and Prowl is reasonably certain that they are losing plating by the sheet.
The planet's landscape looms in front of him, a wash of green and brown and endless blue sky. He has no idea where to aim himself, what would make for a safer crash, but Prowl tries to keep the ramshackle spacecraft in the air as long as possible. He might have succeeded too, if the pursuing Decepticon hadn't decided to throw himself directly on top of the shuttle.
The whole ship lurches and instantly dives, pushed by the additional mass. There's nothing Prowl can do. His thrusters are shot, stabilizers worse, and the ground is rushing up to meet them. He can only brace himself, shout for Sunstreaker and Hound to do the same, and pray.
His battle computer spits statistics at him, probabilities of survival. They are all of them grim. Prowl frowns, grips the console, and ventilates softly.
Another failure to add to his never-ending list. The latest in a long line that stretches so far back he can’t even remember the beginning anymore.
He ventilates again as blue sky is swallowed by brown and green until that’s all he can see. At least it’s beautiful, Prowl thinks. Something glorious to see before death.
He thinks of life then. Just before everything eats away. He thinks of Sunstreaker. Of Hound.
Of his brother. So close and yet so far away. Close enough to touch now, where he hadn’t been before. Close enough to grasp, to hold, if only he could.
Prowl reaches for him, but there isn’t enough time. He offlines his optics mere astroseconds before everything goes dark.
o0o0o
“--owl. Prowl!”
His optics snap online, and Prowl's entire frame jerks. Only to go rigid as pain cascades through every system, HUD flashing alerts at him from all directions. A low groan escapes as he struggles to not so much as twitch. Somehow, he manages to cautiously take in his surroundings.
The world is fuzzy, edged with static, but there's a blue glow above him and an indistinct shape. His sensors register the weight of hands on his shoulders, but there's also a sense of pressure on his left leg, and he can't feel his right sensory panel. It's either dislocated or gone, neither of which are good considering their lack of access to a medic.
“Prowl!”
He reboots his optics. The bleary image sharpens into a familiar helm.
“S—Sunstreaker?”
“You fragging idiot,” the warrior seethes, drawing back from Prowl's immediate sight though the hand remains on his left shoulder. “Did you pick up that self-sacrificing attitude from Prime, or is it just a charming bonus to that backward battle computer of yours?”
Prowl's right hand twitches. His systems ping back with a status update. Something's pierced his leg, a piece of the shuttle perhaps. His sensory panel is indeed dislocated. He's suffering from numerous punctured lines, and his interface cable has been torn from his frame, likely still attached to the shuttle's console.
He quickly dials down his receptors using a little medical override Ratchet gave him eons ago. Right now, he needs a clear processor, and the pain radiating from every micron of his frame isn’t helping.
“The Decepticon?” Prowl asks, having to reboot his vocalizer twice just to clear the static. He feels unstable and reasons that he must have taken several hits to the helm. He wouldn't be surprised if he fried a circuit or two.
“Down,” Sunstreaker replies, tones clipped and furious. His hands, however, are roaming over Prowl's frame, no doubt searching for more injuries. “Can you move?”
“Offline?”
Prowl tests his limbs, none of which are numb, but he knows he can't rest any of his weight on the one leg. Not without yanking the piece of shrapnel first, and Prowl doesn't need a medic to tell him that's probably not a good idea. It might cause more damage.
“Close enough,” Sunstreaker bites out and shuffles around the sparking, debris-strewn interior of the shuttle. He maneuvers until he can get an arm under and around Prowl. “He’s gone Empty.”
Prowl winces as Sunstreaker lifts him to a semblance of standing. The pain is gone, but the discomfort remains.
Empty. Energon mad. Primus, no wonder the Decepticon wouldn't stop attacking. Energy-starvation has caused many a mech to do insane things. Most out of sheer desperation to stop the self-repair from cannibalizing their own frames and their processors from shorting out. The only worse affliction would be space madness.
“Got an ID, too,” Sunstreaker says almost gruffly. “Blitzwing.”
Prowl runs the designation through his internal database. Triple-changer, his memory banks tell him. Not terribly loyal to Megatron but an acknowledged threat. He is most often seen in the company of another triple-changer.
“Then the other was likely Astrotrain,” Prowl says as Sunstreaker half-carries him out of the shuttle's ruins, a few systems flickering colorful lights in their wake.
The shuttle is a loss. Perhaps they may be able to glean useful spare parts, even find some supplies in the wreckage, but it's a miracle that they survived.
Prowl's helm dips.
“Hound?”
Sunstreaker loses control of his energy field for a moment. There is an aching tingle of worry mixed with something Prowl doesn’t dare name.
“He's still in stasis, but he's functioning,” the yellow warrior murmurs, but his grip is too tight. “That weld didn't hold.”
Prowl stills completely.
Hound may be functioning for now, but unless, they can get him to a medic and soon, he won't make it. The slapdash repairs are the only thing keeping Hound's chassis together. Speak nothing of the desperate attempts to patch his spark chamber. He's been functioning on borrowed time for several vorns.
Prowl fears it is nearly run out.
Dull keening floats to Prowl's audials, barely perceptible above the noise of metal cooling and popping and coolant systems hissing. Before he can even begin to pinpoint the origin, Sunstreaker is half-dragging, half-guiding him out of the wreckage. They stumble into brilliant sunlight, warm and insistent upon Prowl's plating. He cycles his optics just to see.
Sunstreaker lowers him to the ground with a care that few ever see, but Prowl releases another hiss. There's a piece debris behind him, and Prowl leans against it almost involuntarily. He sweeps their surroundings, noting that their so-called landing was a crash after all, and they've left a swath of destruction in their wake. The shuttle has cut a deep furrow into the ground. It is, as Prowl suspected, organic rather than metal in nature.
He can see mountains in the distance, and his audials detect several unrecognizable sounds. His still-functioning comms pick a clatter of disjointed noise, so many different broadcasts on too many different avenues. If there's any kind of Autobot transmissions present, Prowl can't pick them out of the mélange. At least, not while his processor is yet churning.
The keening is louder. Prowl turns his helm, which takes more effort than it should, and sees the mech half-crumpled against the dirt. He's on his side, arms stasis-cuffed behind him, Decepticon insignias stark against pale plating. Energon streaks the ground beneath, running in rivulets over his frame. He's twitching.
Sunstreaker limps into view, plates visibly dented on one side. He's taken several hits from a blaster, but he's in remarkably good shape considering recent events. Prowl envies the quality of his battle armor.
“Now what?” his friend demands as he approaches, crouching to give Prowl a critical optic. He focuses on the piece of twisted metal poking out of the tactician’s leg.
“Someone made contact,” Prowl manages, expanding his sensors for a broader sweep and hoping to discern anything about their new environment. “I assume they are allies, but we must be prepared for other possibilities.”
Sunstreaker sneers. “You really think Prime is here?” he asks, optics scanning the landscape. His mouth components curl with disgust.
“You would know better than I,” Prowl murmurs, fighting not to lean into Sunstreaker’s warmth too much.
“If you can't pick anything out of this, I know I can't.” Sunstreaker grinds several gears together. “But yeah, Sides is here.” He taps his chestplate pointedly. “Getting closer by the nanoklik, too.”
Relief resonates through Prowl so strongly he surprises himself by the depth of it. Some of the tension eases out of his frame.
“Then you have your answer.”
Sunstreaker stands then and scuffs a pede against the ground. “Doesn't mean I have to like it.” He scowls at the organic bits on his armor and the dust cloud that arises. “I'm going to check on Hound.”
He whirls and stalks away before Prowl can protest, not that he has the processing capacity to spare. He can’t think more beyond the fact that the Autobots are coming, and in all likelihood, the closest Decepticon is the one currently babbling nonsense mere meters away.
Prowl adjusts his position with a grimace and assesses his condition. Self-repair is making short work of the minor tears in his lines. He's losing a minimal amount of energon thankfully, and no coolant lines are damaged. The shrapnel in his leg is the worst of the wounds, and once Sunstreaker returns, perhaps he can convince the warrior to relocate his sensory panel, however uncomfortable that might be.
If only Hound were so easy to fix.
But Prowl can’t think of that now. He won’t.
Drawing a repair kit from his subspace, Prowl busy himself by tending to the few injuries he is capable of fixing for himself. Over the vorns, he's learned a passable amount of field repair, but much is still beyond his scope. Sunstreaker's knowledge is slightly better as a consequence of his time spent in the gladiator circuits.
But even between the pair of them, it still isn’t enough to meet their true need.
While his servos are busy, Prowl purposefully turns his processor to other matters. He begins to sort through the untidy collection of transmissions that float across the airwaves. There's a miscellaneous assortment of languages present. Prowl may not be able to recognize them, but he can at least determine that some are of a different cant. There is also what might be music, if not based on a different tonal system. It is altogether puzzling. Chaotic. Loud.
Jazz must love it here.
--Still functioning,-- Sunstreaker tight-beams to Prowl from wherever he is with Hound, just out of immediate sight but not sensor range.
But for how long?
Prowl's mouth components set in a thin line. --Keep him in stasis until we can make contact with Ratchet. It may be safer over all.--
He can’t hear Sunstreaker huff out, but he knows the golden mech far too well to think he doesn’t.
--I will.--
Sunstreaker cuts off without waiting for a dismissal, but the warrior's curtness no longer irritates. Instead, it’s nearly comforting, familiar. A form of directness that is still refreshing no matter how much happens. Sunstreaker is nothing if not honest, brutally so.
His friend limps back into view then, blaster drawn and tapping against a thigh. There's a gleam to his optics, one that Prowl recognizes as a mech with every battle system engaged. A wise decision. Prowl doesn’t intend to be caught off guard again.
“Didn't you say Astrotrain was this piece of scrap's partner?” Sunstreaker asks, waving his blaster in the direction of their prisoner’s quivering frame.
A static-laced growl emerges from the Decepticon, but he can do little more than twitch under the influence of the cuffs. Truly though, it’s probably a mercy. Empties aren’t known for being docile.
Prowl merely tips his head. “Does it surprise you that a Decepticon would abandon his fellow?”
Sunstreaker gives Prowl a flat look in return. He stalks over to Blitzwing, prodding the downed triple-changer with a pede. The Decepticon makes a truly wretched sound.
“Primus, he’s pathetic this way.” Visibly recoiling, Sunstreaker steps back and gives Blitzwing a wide berth. “Want to bet they've been sitting on that satellite, just waiting for some hapless bot to come along?”
“I imagine Astrotrain is in little better state,” the lieutenant comments “Still, he hadn't wanted to enter this planet's atmosphere, which makes him more cautious. Aware.”
“Dangerous?” Sunstreaker infers, and that earns him a nod.
But Prowl’s gaze turns even more thoughtful then, and he gives their prisoner a once over.
“Damage?”
“Mmm. Don't think so.” Sunstreaker tilts his helm, blaster again tapping on his thigh. “Other than the energon madness, Blitzwing here's in pretty good shape. Probably hasn't seen any battle longer than we have.” His optics shift away to something beyond Prowl's helm and the shuttle wreckage behind him. “I think Astrotrain was avoiding actually coming to this planet for a reason.”
A noise cuts into their conversation.
Sunstreaker whirls, blaster whining as it builds a charge. Prowl goes rigid, sensors expanding outward in a rapid sweep. His are more finely-tuned, and he detects the vibrations of some sort of engine. He isn’t picking up any kind of signal, however, Autobot or Decepticon.
“What is it?” Prowl demands, annoyed by his immobility.
He shoves his uninjured leg against the ground. He attempts to brace himself against the piece of debris and stand.
“Don't get up,” Sunstreaker orders as his optics cycle down, shifting his optical scanners for long-distance viewing. “It's some kind of personal transport. Natives probably.”
Prowl ignores him and tries to push himself upright. But his left leg won't respond at all. No doubt the motor relay has been either damaged or severed.
Sunstreaker mutters a curse under his breath, shifting his weapon to his other hand and stalking back towards Prowl. He grasps the tactician's uninjured arm and hauls Prowl up with little effort.
It makes Prowl's gyros spin.
Ugh. Perhaps standing is not in his better interest after all.
“Stubborn glitch,” Sunstreaker says subvocally, but he all but forces Prowl to lean on him nonetheless.
Prowl scans the landscape as soon as his optics right themselves. Several transports come into view on a black strip that can only be a road before pulling off and making straight for them. Prowl's own battle systems click on with a quiet hum, though he's next to useless at the moment.
Prowl can't detect anything that might be a weapon, but it's frustratingly difficult to be certain at this point. He doesn't know if the locals are friendly, though if Prime's taken to living here, he must have come to some kind of agreement with the indigenous population.
The vehicles stop at a distance as though unwilling to come any closer, and tiny beings step out. They jabber to each other in their own language, pointing at Prowl and Sunstreaker and the shuttle wreckage. They don't approach.
Something chimes Prowl's comm unit, finally breaking through the tedious jumble of transmissions infesting this planet's atmosphere.
--Prowl, this is Optimus Prime. Lower your weapons. The humans won’t harm you.--
Several questions answered all at once, Prowl feels the tension ease out of his joints. But he still feels a twinge of it in his chest as he reaches out. If Prime is close, where is Jazz?
He sends at a questioning ping, but there is so much interference around him that he can’t even hear a reply.
“Put away your blaster, Sunstreaker,” Prowl finally instructs after a click. “Apparently, they are on our side.”
“I'll believe it when I see it,” Sunstreaker replies curtly, optics locked on their spectators, blaster unwavering.
Prowl bites back a retort and shifts his attention back to Prime's comm. Now, isn’t the time for this.
--It is a relief to hear from you, sir. We are in need of transport and medical assistance though I can’t provide coordinates at this time.--
--There is no need. We have been tracking you since you first entered Earth’s airspace. We’ll be arriving within five minutes.--
That last term is unfamiliar to Prowl, but he ignores that for the moment. Prime has been amongst the natives for long enough that he has likely adapted some of their customs and terminology. Prowl is sure he’ll come to understand it with time.
--Understood. We will wait for you. Prowl, out.--
The comm closes. Which subsequently opens Prowl up to all of the ambient noise again, and he hurriedly dials down his communication protocols. He establishes an alert for any pings coming from the channel now identified as Prime's, but any others are to become background babble that he doesn't wish to pay any heed. He only leaves two more open. One that he shares with Sunstreaker and Hound. The second, a frequency he and Jazz have long used only between themselves.
“Prime's on his way,” Prowl says then, reaching out with his uninjured arm to place his fingers over Sunstreaker's wrist. It’s an almost intimate gesture, but his companion merely lowers his weapon. “They are friendlies. Do not fire.”
He can feel Sunstreaker's frame vibrate, tense and ready for combat. It's much harder for him to cycle down from battle readiness than it is for Prowl, and he has always been keenly aware of that. Aware that he is different than the other two of his team. An obvious weapon where they are more concealed and unassuming.
Sunstreaker says nothing. However, his grip on his blaster tightens by a fraction, and his energy field draws so tightly to his frame that energy crackles over his armor in blue-white snaps.
“Sunstreaker,” Prowl repeats, keeping his vocals firm. But his touch is steady, gentle even.
Sunstreaker audibly grinds several gears before he peels his fingers off the blaster's grip, one by one. He slowly stashes the weapon away.
“I don't like this planet,” he grits out in a low tone.
Prowl shakes his head. He doesn’t much care for it yet either.
“We have only just arrived,” Prowl states evenly enough.
“Your point?” Sunstreaker tilts his helm, looking at him. There is an eerie gleam in his optics that the warrior gets from time to time.
Before Prowl can respond, Sunstreaker's entire frame goes rigid and his head snaps up, optics focused on something beyond their immediate sight. He awkwardly shifts around in Sunstreaker's grip until he can see whatever has captivated his attention.
More transports now approach, but this time, Prowl's sensors ping back with Autobot identification codes. Prime, Sideswipe, and a third who Prowl knows only by reputation. Leadfoot is a Wrecker, and frankly, Prowl is surprised that any member of that team has survived this war. A fourth transport follows behind, but it doesn't respond to a curious ping. It must be of the insentient variety then, like the ones the other humans use.
Prowl watches them as they come closer, but something tugs at his spark even as he looks on. He can understand very clearly why Sideswipe his here. But why Leadfoot? Jazz is undoubtedly needed at their base while Prime is away, but where is Ratchet? Where is Ironhide?
Training? A mission? Injured even? Surely not… deactivated?
It doesn’t even bear contemplating.
Prime rolls up to meet them then, shifting to his root mode the instant he comes to a halt. Sideswipe is right on his heels and Leadfoot as well. The fourth transport veers off, heading for the humans clustered around and now staring at all and sundry.
Prowl tries to stand up straight to the best of his ability. Only Sunstreaker's grip on his elbow truly keeps him upright.
“Prime,” he greets. “Autobot Prowl reporting for duty.” He offers a salute. “With me are my second, Sunstreaker, and our scout, Hound. He is in need of medical assistance.” The lieutenant pauses for a moment. “Is Ratchet not with you?”
Sideswipe doesn’t startle. He’s too good for that, but Leadfoot visibly tenses.
“There is much we must discuss,” Optimus replies instead, noticeably avoiding the query. “Right now, we must focus on getting you and your team back to our base.”
Sunstreaker is all but fidgeting next to Prowl. He knows without even looking that he’s eager to reunite with his brother. They haven't taken their optics off of one another for a single astrosecond.
“Go,” Prowl says softly. “I’ll make sure Hound is attended.”
Sunstreaker finally glances away, even if only for a click. “You'll fall.”
“I am capable of standing on one pede for a limited amount of time.” Sunstreaker's concern is touching, but Prowl gives the warrior a light tap on the arm. “Go.”
This time, he doesn't argue. Sunstreaker disengages himself from Prowl carefully and heads for his twin. Sideswipe is already hurrying to close the gap between them, and while Sunstreaker is not one for public displays of affection, it doesn't stop him from grabbing Sideswipe's helm with both hands and dragging his twin close. They press their foreheads together, optics offlining, energy fields swirling, struggling to sync after so long a separation.
Prowl knows he needs to look away, but somehow, he can’t. Can’t look anywhere but at the brothers and wonder where his own is. Wonder when he’ll see Jazz again and if he will fall apart completely when he does.
“Prime, looks like they caught themselves some Decepticon scum,” Leadfoot interrupts his thoughts.
Prowl rips his optics away to glance at the Wrecker. But that’s only to watch as he advances toward Blitzwing, mouth components twisted with disgust.
Prowl wobbles, off balance. Then, Optimus is there, offering an arm like Sunstreaker had.
“He and another Decepticon attacked us before we entered this planet's atmosphere,” Prowl informs the group at large. “They launched from its satellite. The second, Astrotrain, withdrew. Blitzwing did not. He is energon mad. Empty even.”
“I see,” Prime says, and his energy field reaches out, offering comfort. But it's edged with something else, something Prowl can't quite place. “I suspected that more Decepticons were hiding there, but we haven't the capability to leave the planet to be certain.”
Blitzwing begins to cackle as Leadfoot circles him, wriggling in the confines of the stasis cuffs. He is too far gone to do more than snarl unintelligibly, and it’s a truly pathetic sight indeed.
“You want me to take care of 'im?” Leadfoot asks suddenly.
Prowl feels himself stiffen at the tone, but Prime merely seems to be considering. He looks over at the Decepticon, battle mask concealing his expression. It is strange, but Prowl once though their leader to be so approachable, so readable even when he chose to protect his faceplate with the mask. But now... not nearly as much.
“Is your base equipped with a brig?” Prowl questions, sagging slightly as his system protocols send him flashing alerts. The pain reroutes cannot remain for much longer or his system will force stasis on him.
Leadfoot makes a disgusted noise. “No.” His right arm rises as a cannon forms out of his hand. “It's not.”
He fires, one quick and clear shot directly into Blitzwing's helm. Instantly, the mech stills.
Prowl's optics cycle wider. His entire frame goes rigid. Even as his processor shorts.
By the Allspark!
“You--”
Leadfoot fires again. The quick blast drowns out Prowl, and the shot sears through Blitzwing's chassis and destroys his spark chamber in one fell swoop.
Prowl's processor comes to a shrieking halt, and absolute disbelief crowds at his logic center. He waits for Optimus’ rebuke, his outrage. For any reminder about the preciousness of all life, that they must be better than the Decepticons.
Prowl waits for words that never come.
“I will inform Mearing that we require another disposal,” Prime comments, voice eerily calm before he turns his attention back to Prowl. “Can you transform? We can find you something to scan. Or I can locate a trailer for transport.”
Prowl cycles a ventilation. His spark shivers as his processor brings up several responses before he can settle on the safest. And truly, it’s the only thing he can actually think to say
“I am… incapable of transforming currently.”
He stops himself from physically withdrawing from Prime. It’s a near thing.
Optimus doesn’t seem to notice.
What in Prima’s name is going on?
“Fair enough.” Prime shifts them both easily. Carelessly even.
The fourth vehicle from earlier returns. Two more of the natives – humans – step out, and one of them addresses Optimus in a language Prowl has yet to translate. The human gestures to Prowl before gesturing back at his leader.
--Prowl.--
The comm comes from the private line that only members of his team know. And he's quite certain the request hasn't come from Hound.
He looks to Sunstreaker, who is no longer pressed together with his twin, though they are still standing closely.
--What the frag's going on?--
Prowl feels his mouth pinch. --I honestly don’t know. What does Sideswipe have to say?--
He sees Sunstreaker twitch.
--The fragger's not talking. Says he'll tell me when they get back to Chicago. Wherever or whatever the Pit that is.-- Unease echoes in Sunstreaker's words.
“Prowl.”
He shifts his focus from the private comm and back to his Prime, who has ended his conversation with the human.
“The trailer is here,” Optimus informs him, still acting as if nothing at all is the matter.
Prowl can only incline his head.
What appears to be a large cargo container comes into view, hauled by a transport very similar to his Prime's alt-mode. It is large enough to hold Prowl and Hound comfortably but not Sunstreaker. Luckily, the warrior is in well enough shape to transform, no doubt having copied alt-mode schematics from his twin.
--Prowl.--
--Quiet, Sunstreaker. I can’t focus.--
He's wobbling worse now, one leg numb and the dislocated sensory panel off-setting his balance. His processor is reeling from the clash of information, and Blitzwing is still there, offline and grey. None of it makes any sense.
Optimus helps him to the trailer, and Prowl awkwardly drags himself inside, where it's dark and lit by a few running lights. The metal enclosure is humming in tune to the transport's engine.
“Will you be all right inside?” Optimus asks as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker come into view, carrying Hound between them. The scout looks limp and lifeless.
Prowl has to look away.
“I am not alarmed by confined spaces,” he replies and leans against the side of his enclosure. “The discomfort is only temporary after all. I'm sure Ratchet will fix me soon enough.”
“We are several hours from base,” Optimus offers, inclining his helm. “In the meantime, I can send you a data packet with the details of what's happened over the past five years. I know how you hate to be idle.”
Finally, some answers. Prowl actually feels a flash of relief at that. Though once again, he doesn't fail to notice that Optimus has avoided anything mention of Ratchet. And for that matter, Ironhide.
Jazz's absence is more understandable. Someone must remain in command after all, but Prowl can’t help the trickle of worry that aches at his spark as he opens the bond between them ever-so-carefully. Reaching. Searching.
His systems ping then as a rather large file awaits his acceptance. He takes the packet and sets his processor to unpacking it while he makes himself as comfortable as possible within the confines of the trailer. He detects the sound of the transport's engine rumbling to life, and with a lurch, they start to move.
There will be plenty of time, he surmises, for sightseeing later. Right now, it’s better that he at least understand what it is he's looking at.
Shifting, Prowl reaches out a hand, laying it gently on Hound's helm. The scout doesn't stir beneath his touch, and the subtle hum of Hound's systems is barely present. But he's still online at least, and there's hope now, hope that Hound will make it. Fixing him should be no issue for Ratchet.
Hound will love this world, Prowl realizes. The scout has always had an affinity for life of an organic nature, and it seems this planet is teeming with nonsynthetic creations. Sapient, sentient, and otherwise.
A chime in his processor announces the completion of the file decompression. Prowl offlines his optics, focusing on the immense amount of data that Optimus has sent him. First and foremost is an introduction to the planet, called Earth, and its many residents. There are several language files with a suggestion that he integrate English into his principal communication processes.
There’s a ping to his comm then. It’s from Sunstreaker and seems urgent, but Prowl merely sends an automatic reply that he’s busy.
Nearly eighty percent is details about Earth, the natives, and everything Prowl might need to know for living here. Several humans are of key importance. Including a Colonel William Lennox, whose image matches one of the faces Prowl recalls seeing earlier. There is also mention of a Samuel Witwicky – these humans possess strange designations. But his name is marked for further details, all linked to the summary of recent events regarding the war.
He comm beeps again. Still Sunstreaker. And now, Sideswipe as well.
But Prowl has already opened the file regarding the war on Earth. His spark begins to whirl with quiet anxiety. He almost doesn't want to know.
And there it is. In all it's terrible glory.
The battle of Mission City. Megatron and the Allspark.
Jazz…
There’s a sound like a mech dying, and it takes Prowl a moment realize it comes from him. He feels Sunstreaker ping his comm desperately, but he cuts the connection like a knife to the spark and puts his head in his hands.
It’s so stark. So frank and devoid of emotion. A mere recitation of data with no element of grief.
Jazz. Killed in action. A date on the human calendar.
Nothing else. Nothing at all.
Not how he died. Not where they’re keeping his body or who now has his recycled parts.
And now, everything makes sense with a sick sort of clarity.
No wonder he hasn’t sensed his brother on this planet. No wonder Jazz has made no attempts at contact. No wonder Optimus arrived without his trusted second by his side.
--He was brave,-- Prime suddenly comms, and his tone isn’t nearly as sorrowful as it should be. As if he hadn’t just informed Prowl of his brother’s death through an information packet.
Prowl can’t even respond to that. Jazz is always brave. It means nothing to even say it. Like calling a sun bright. Or saying that fire burns. It’s so obvious.
--He fought Megatron to buy us time,-- Prime continues, clarifying what his damnable file hadn’t bothered to explain. --He saved many lives that day.--
Prowl’s entire frame trembles. He’s alone in the half-dark save for Hound’s unconscious form and Prime’s voice. His good hand flexes against his side, and his processor is such a twisting mess that he can’t even fathom anything beyond the fact that his brother is dead. He can hear Optimus speaking through the comm, but it means nothing. He only catches snippets.
--Performed his duty well.--
--Fought with courage.--
--Everything I expect of my mechs.--
Prowl’s helm is still in his hands, and he grips the side of his face so strongly that he leaves dents. His ventilations are a ragged sound that echoes around him. Louder and louder until he hears little else. Not the transport as it travels onward without care. Not the subtle rumbles of his own body. And surely not Hound’s weak systems.
Only that and Prime.
--You should be proud of him,-- his leader says then, and his tone is so matter-of-fact. Flat even. Blunt without any softening of the deathblow.
There is no grief. No remorse. Nothing resembling sentiment.
--You should be proud,-- he repeats, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
Prowl stops listening then. He doesn’t want to hear anything else.
(On to Part Two)
(Back to War Without End Master List)
