[Bay] War Without End - Prowl - Pt II

[dracoqueen22]

Title: 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 II
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The rest of the file, when Prowl can finally pull himself together again, is little better. It’s cold and stark like the light that once came from the Towers. Hollow like the transport that still carries he and Hound. Empty of anything resembling empathy or true compassion.

It still manages to get the point across, and the emotionless tones actually keep Prowl in check as he scans through. Hoping against hope that there are no more surprising horrors held inside.

He’s soon disappointed. But at least now, he understands why Witwicky's designation is marked as important. A human defeated Megatron, more or less. Killed him where so many others had failed. How... unlikely.

The Fallen is a twist to the war that Prowl didn’t see coming. None of his calculations ever involved the possible return of a mech long reduced to myth and legend over the eons. Earth came perilously close to its own destruction, and Prime actually died?

Again, Samuel Witwicky proved himself more than an average human.

Then, Megatron returned using a shard of the Allspark. Another piece – and all that does remain – is mentioned in passing, but there is no location given. No hope that it is still even in Autobot hands.

The next part is even worse.

Sentinel Prime.

Prowl's spark – the part that hasn’t been ripped to shreds and stomped on –drops into his tanks. Sloshes around. And threatens to come up through his intake.

Sentinel was supposed to be offlined ages ago, along with his entire crew. He went missing when they ejected the Allspark into the void of space. His disappearance is the chief reason Optimus became Prime in his stead. Why he’s now even in charge of their faction.

Sentinel was dead. But only until he wasn’t.

It doesn’t make any sense. None of it does. Much less his plan for this planet and its people. What use would the humans be as slaves? It stands to reason that raiding Earth's resources to rebuild Cybertron would be useful, but enslaving the indigent population?

Was Sentinel mad? Completely and utterly processor-fired? Had the war broken him so completely? Or was it a much deeper cause? Had he lived too long? Had he seen too much? Had he felt there was truly no other way?

Sentinel's betrayal strikes deep, but no more so than the list of casualties attached to this designation. Nearly a third of the Autobots fell to Sentinel's treachery. Including Ironhide. Stalwart and steadfast. Betrayed to his death.

So much of it. Too much death, Autobot and Decepticon alike. They’ve lost so much. Their world. Their brethren.

Most of Prowl’s own team is now gone. They’d once been a dozen. Now, they are three. And he despairs. Not just for them or Ironhide or even Jazz. He despairs for everyone.

How many of them are left? Here? Out there?

The data lists seven surviving Autobots on Earth. There’s an estimation of Decepticons in hiding, scattered around the globe.

Is that all? Are they all that’s left?

Prowl closes the file. And tosses it into a corner of his processor. His spark is a heavy ache that eats him through, and he curls closer to Hound. Desperate for any contact he can get.

Jazz is gone. Hound is fading. Ironhide is dead. So many are dead. Lost.

They are so close to extinction. They have no planet. No way to revive their species or their culture. They are on the brink. Dying for all that they are long-lived. What is left? What do they have now?

Wait.

Prowl's optics snap open, and he reaches out a mental hand to pull the file from the depths. He scans it once and again. Skipping over the parts that set his spark on edge. But he still can’t find it. Find him. No, he is not mistaken.

Ratchet isn’t there. He isn’t on the list of those on Earth. However, he’s also not mentioned as falling in battle.

--Optimus,-- Prowl prompts, and it’s the first he’s spoken to his leader in what has to be several of the human hours. --What of Ratchet? Where is he?--

There is a noticeable delay in Optimus’ response, one Prowl could attribute to inattention. Nevertheless, he strongly suspects that the delay stems from reluctance.

--Ratchet is no longer with us.--

Prowl frowns. He is all but lying next to Hound’s battered frame, and his gaze is fixed on the crumbling weld on his friend’s chassis.

--He isn’t listed amongst the fatalities.--

-- Ratchet is not offline.-- Again Optimus hesitates, as though carefully choosing each word. --He chose to leave. Of his own volition. His current whereabouts are unknown.--

Leave? Why on Cybertron would Ratchet leave? His loyalty to Prime and the Autobots is unquestioning, much like Ironhide. Ratchet has always been with Prime, as far back as Prowl has known the three of them.

Curious also, that Ratchet's current state is not listed or explained anywhere. Is Prime unwilling to admit Ratchet's actions to himself? Or is it something he wishes to conceal?

He shakes his helm, though Optimus can’t see the action.

--I don't understand.--

--I share your confusion,-- Prime replies, but his voice and tone are peculiar. –It’s been three months since we have seen or heard of him. He may not even be planet-side anymore.--

--How is that even possible?--

And really, that is the question. For surely, Ratchet hasn’t suddenly sprouted wings and flown off.

Prime takes his time in answering. So long that Prowl wonders if he’s been forgotten.

--He is in the company of two Decepticon Seekers and an Autobot deserter,-- Optimus finally admits, and he is hollow sounding even over the comm.

Confusion stutters Prowl's already fragile processor. This makes even less sense than Ratchet suddenly departing.

--He joined the Decepticons?--

--I’m… not certain.-- A soft sound of disappointment trails through the line. --His departure was sudden and left us with many questions. I can't help wondering if he's not under the influence of some outside force.--

Prowl shifts, the discomfort of his injured frame suddenly more apparent. They are none of them medics. What will they do without Ratchet? How could this have happened?

Questions stack upon questions. There are no answers.

He looks at Hound, innocently in stasis. What remains of Prowl's spark contracts all over again. There is no help for Hound now. This is something beyond those who remain.

What is he to do now?

This is too much. It is all too much.

Jazz and Ratchet. Death. Abandonment.

Loss.

Once more, his head is in his hands. It’s not a comfort, but it’s all he has. All he can fathom as he bends over Hound and listens for the barely perceptible hum of his spark.

Prowl doesn’t even notice when Optimus cuts the comm and the line goes dead.

o0o0o

Sideswipe, Prowl muses, would’ve made a passable medic once upon a time. Perhaps with proper training and guidance, he could’ve been even more. It’s a pity that circumstances and the war have turned his function into something the complete opposite.

His hands are deft, well-articulated, and steady. His knowledge, at present, is passable. But relocating Prowl's sensory panel and replacing the motor relay in his leg do not require a surgeon's expertise. Were Prowl flexible enough, he could probably fix both issues himself.

“There,” Sideswipe says with a final pat before he draws back. “Got any complaints, feel free to report them to management. Not that they give a frag.”

Prowl finds himself having missed Sideswipe's special brand of humor, for all that it’s off-color. He reroutes feeling to his limb, restoring the haptic connection, and twitches as all of his sensory lines bombard him. It is an annoying discomfort, however, and nothing has been damaged untoward. The rest his self-repair should be able to handle save for his severed data cable. Nothing can be done for it. The linkages are ruined and only a trained medic is capable of reconstructing them without frying the circuits.

“Thank you, Sideswipe,” Prowl replies, flexing his knee joint before sliding off the medberth in this corner of a large warehouse. This is Ratchet's former work area, Prowl's been informed. “You've done well.”

The warrior arches an orbital ridge. “Repeat that after your panel fully integrates, and then, I'll be impressed.”

He is right, of course. For the moment, Prowl has disengaged the input from both of his sensory panels, and he dreads establishing that connection once again. Ratchet could’ve fine-tuned the process, set up some sort of reroute to buffer most of the input noise, but such is the way of things.

“Any discomfort I may endure is not your fault,” Prowl assures and rests for a moment against the edge of the berth. He can't help but be appalled by what Prime has termed their base.

For having been stationed on Earth for five of their years, their living situation is dismal. No personal quarters, no privacy, no supplies. They might’ve just arrived for all that they've been given a sense of permanence. Granted, Sentinel did a fair job of destroying everything, but from what images Prowl's seen, their prior accommodations hadn’t been much better.

Sideswipe shrugs. “If you say so. But we both know you wish Ratchet had fixed it.”

Prowl's gaze swings toward the warrior, the first to actually mention their missing medic by his designation. No other Autobot had been willing to speak of Ratchet. The Wreckers avoid the topic. Optimus changes the subject. Prowl hasn't even seen Bumblebee yet. Dino is doing a fair job of pretending nothing is amiss, despite the tangible pall that hangs over everyone.

“How long has it been exactly?” Prowl questions. He wonders if Sideswipe's penchant for disobeying orders means he'll give the answers no one else seems eager to provide.

“Six orns, give or take.” Sideswipe folds his arms, gaze shifting to the side, optics cycling down. “I dunno what happened, Prowl. He was acting bothered by something, but I never suspected… I mean, Hide was gone, so of course he'd be a little bothered.”

Sideswipe ex-vents audibly. His energy field leaks from his control, teeming with conflicting emotions.

“The next thing I know, we find some Decepticons, Ratchet's attacking me, Drift's knocking me out, and I wake up with no clue what's going on. Ratchet doesn't even tell me, either. Just vanishes with that stupid Seeker. Then, we're all left staring at each other like a couple of glitches, the fragged squishy breathin' down our backstruts demanding answers, and Prime...”

His faceplate twists with something. Prowl doesn't know what to name it. But then, Sideswipe shakes his head again.

“Bah. It doesn't matter anyway.”

Except where it does. There's something there, something about Prime, that Sideswipe isn't saying.

“Drift?” Prowl asks instead.

“Used to be Deadlock. I'm sure that name's stored up in your processor somewhere.” Sideswipe's lipplates curl as he lifts his helm and meets Prowl's gaze. “He and Ratch were pretty cozy up until then, but I never guessed it would go like this. None of us did.”

Prowl makes a wordless sound of commiseration. His fingers tap against the weak metal of the berth as he considers.

“Do you believe Ratchet's been compromised?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Sideswipe drops his hands to his sides, rocking back and forth on his wheeled pedes. “He left willingly. There's nothing they could’ve threatened him with. What do any of us have to lose anymore, after all?”

Could it really be so simple?

Prowl's frown deepens.

Sideswipe heads for the break in the crates that block up the medcorner and give it a semblance of privacy. “I don't know, Prowl. You're asking the wrong mech. I just do what I'm told, shoot where I'm aimed.” He pauses but doesn’t look at Prowl. “Thanks for keeping Sunny alive. Don't know what I’d have done without him.”

Sideswipe leaves before Prowl can formulate a response; receiving gratitude from either twin is such a novelty that he's speechless. Still, his cortex is turning Sideswipe's words over and over, trying to find something in them to explain Ratchet's abrupt departure. What could have possessed Ratchet to defect?

No. Perhaps defect is the wrong word. The Decepticons are defeated. They can no longer be considered a defined faction, not with their entire command element offline and the rest of their forces scattered around the universe. Skywarp and Thundercracker, while Decepticon in name, cannot be considered the entirety of them.

Again, Prowl is left wondering what could’ve changed. What had gone so wrong.

Venting, Prowl pushes himself off the berth and steps out of the medcorner, wary of the humans constantly in motion around the warehouse. Hound has been taken to another part where Prime hoped to solicit the aid of the humans. Though what such primitive creatures can do, he doesn't know.

Prowl limps across the open space, ignoring the stares the humans give. Sunstreaker has already complained multiple times that he feels like he's back in the gladiator pits, for all that the so-called squishies watch him. And though Prowl has always considered Sunstreaker a mech who enjoys attention, there is something unsettling about the manner in which the humans stare.

They seem unnaturally fascinated with Hound as well, and that unsettles Prowl even further. He hasn’t missed the coveted looks several white-coated humans give his stasis-locked scout.

At the moment, Hound lies upon a makeshift berth, little more than a massive slab of metal positioned above the ground. It looks to be constructed of scrap metal and ingenuity with various stairs and ramparts hanging haphazardly around it. The better for the humans to observe, Prowl supposes. Surprisingly, Optimus is here, conversing with one of the humans on the rail near Hound's helm.

“You are certain?” Prime asks as Prowl approaches, speaking in English as a matter of course.

The human, whom Prowl does not recognize, nods his head. “The alloy is nothing we are capable of forging. There's nothing we can do.”

“It’s as I feared.” Prime's vocals teem with disappointment. “Thank you anyway, Dr. Fujiyama.”

The human shutters one optic briefly. “No problem, Prime. Seriously. Any chance you want to give me to get my hands on some more technology is a chance I'll take.”

“Duly noted.”

Prowl watches as the human doctor smiles up at Prime, offers a sketchy salute, and then turns to begin the long, arduous climb down from the railing. Prime, however, offers a palm to the human and helps him down to the floor in one fell swoop.

“The humans have reached the limits of what they are capable of providing,” his leader says once the doctor is beyond audial range.

Prowl cycles his optics, surprised that Prime even sensed his nearness. He takes it as permission and steps closer, one hand landing on Hound's thigh plating. The subtle warmth of armor is a bare comfort.

“What can we do?” Prowl inquires softly, sensory panels flat against his back in distress. “Self-repair is barely keeping him functional. And--” His vocalizer glitches, emitting static.

Vorns of war and it’s still difficult to admit his own insecurities aloud. To admit that he doesn't wish to lose Hound. That he’s still so raw from losing Jazz. That it’d be more than agonizing to bear another failure. To lose another so close to his spark.

Prime hums a sympathetic note, but his gaze is focused solely on Hound.

“Perhaps it might be better to bring him out of stasis.”

“That will put undue stress on his spark. Hasten the degradation of his systems,” Prowl protests. His grip on Hound's leg grows tighter, as though he can hold his teammate together with willpower alone.

Prime ventilates a noisy hiss of air. “Hound must have the choice. Whether to spend his remaining days in stasis or alert and aware of his surroundings. He may wish to bid farewell.”

“He could still pull through,” Prowl states, and it’s a sparkling’s denial. The belief that everything can be made better so easily.

“And it is my sincerest wish that he does so.”

Prowl stares at him.

This is Prime's best option? If the humans fail, wake up Hound and hope he can make it on his own? What kind of vague, empty hope is that? Especially since they all know the true answer to this riddle.

Prowl works his mouth. His processor goes through several iterations, and he hopes that he chooses the least accusing.

“Are you certain we can't contact Ratchet?” he questions, and his tone is as flat as he can make it. “Perhaps a widescale broadcast? An open comm line? The Decepticons aren't a large threat. Surely, we can risk it.”

“The humans will not authorize it,” Prime says as though this is the ultimate answer that cannot be argued with. “They consider Ratchet persona non grata.”

The last phrase is unfamiliar, but Prowl can reason the meaning of it well enough.

His sensory panels press so tightly to his back that it actually hurts.

“What do the humans have to do with it?”

Finally, Prime turns. His energy field is contained and unreadable, his optics equally so.

“This is their planet, Prowl. They have every right to choose what to allow.”

He sounds... confused. As though it should be obvious to Prowl. As though he should think it normal for them to concede every point to the humans.

For an astrosecond that feels like vorns, Prowl stares at his Prime. He’s at a complete loss for words.

“They would deny us the opportunity to seek medical assistance for one of our own?” he somehow manages, voice so very faint and unlike him. “Purely out of principle?”

Out of spite, he really wants to say. Since that could truly be the only reason. He doesn’t even need to know the humans to realize that.

Prime's optics shift hues into a darker cobalt. “Ratchet left of his own accord, openly siding with Decepticons. In their eyes, that makes him an enemy. And they have a policy against negotiating with known enemies.”

Aghast, Prowl finds himself doing what he has never expected to do before: argue with his Prime. He doesn't mean debating the usefulness of a battle plan or offering advice either.

“That shouldn't be their choice,” he points out, frustration growing. His free hand gestures to Hound, spark constricted within his chassis. “Hound is one of ours! We can’t let him offline because the humans demand it!”

Prowl's fans kick on, much to his surprise, as heat rises in his frame. He forces a ventilation to calm himself.

“At the very least, we must attempt to contact Ratchet. We must try,” Prowl stresses. “I can’t simply throw my hands into the air and surrender this chance.”

He cannot lose another of his team. Not with help so near. So within his grasp if he’s willing to take it.

Prime doesn't waver. Something like sympathy crowds his expression, and his energy field flickers free. It pushes against Prowl, buffering him with resignation.

“I’m sorry, Prowl.” His hands land on Prowl's shoulders, emitting soft pulses of warmth that is probably meant to be soothing, but it leaves the lieutenant cold from the inside out. “But there's nothing we can do.”

o0o0o

The moon, as Prowl's datafiles indicate the uninspired name of Earth's satellite, is mostly hidden by clouds. The Autobots base is lit by numerous floodlights, but luckily, soldiers only patrol the perimeter. There seems little need for security within.

For a mech quite used to slipping through Decepticon blockades, battle lines, and bases, it’s a simple matter to ease past each human. Prowl has learned over the vorns how to mask the sounds of his frame, how to reduce the shifting of metal to a low hum that merges with the overall thrum of his surroundings.

If Prime won’t concede to finding a solution for Hound, Prowl will find Ratchet himself. There’s no other choice. No other option.

A nagging sensation tugs at his processor. He is more or less disobeying his Prime. Optimus hadn’t given him explicit orders not to find Ratchet, but the implications are there. Still, it is a matter Prowl can’t let stand.

He sticks to the shadows, activating the nanocells of his paint to better conceal himself. The moon's bare presence works with him. No human seems to notice.

Slipping out of the base isn’t a problem. Finding Ratchet is. Prowl doesn't know if the medic is even on-planet anymore or where Ratchet may be hiding. He doesn't know how to contact the medic, save to broadcast some kind of distress signal, but desperate times call for the most desperate measures, even if to any other mech they may appear to be foolish.

It's almost a plan that would make Sideswipe proud, truth be told. Perhaps that indicates a certain element of success.

Prowl sneaks past the soldiers guarding the gate into Chicago, too busy as they are with their conversation and a small television set, and heads into the ruined city. Beyond human sight, he shifts into alt-mode and eases through the cluttered streets. His headlights offer a dim path, sweeping over splatters of energon and scorchmarks and wreckage strewn in all directions.

Where to begin? Should he head north or south? There's simply no way to guess where Ratchet could be hiding. He could choose to lose himself in one of the humans' larger cities, or easily be forgotten in the vast tracts of land that even humans consider inhospitable. But if he's truly aligned with the Seekers...

Prowl's engine gives a rev. He doesn't want to believe it. Ratchet isn’t a Decepticon, no matter what the humans may believe. Ratchet is not a traitor.

Torn, Prowl returns to his root mode, sensory panels lifting and settling against his backplate. The lack of facts is making his battle computer have a fit. Without data, he’s left without a means to calculate odds. He's flying blind, so to speak, and that is a state of affairs that Prowl doesn’t like at all. But he has to do this. He must.

Jazz is dead. He can’t let Hound die, too.

“Where do you think you're going?”

Prowl whirls at the sudden vocalization, none of his sensors picking up the fact he'd been followed or that another Cybertronian is present. His battle systems queue up, a scan snapping into the shadows of the crumpled buildings, but he doesn't need the responding ping to identify the speaker.

“You followed me,” Prowl accuses. He draws himself up straight, panels unflexing in a threat display any Praxian would recognize.

Sideswipe steps out of an alley, and his silver armor catches a glimmer of moonlight. In the dim, the blue of his optics is the most visible.

“I had a feeling I’d need to.”

The lieutenant stills. “What precisely does that mean?”

His tone is edged, sharp before he can stop himself. But his legendary control has been slipping for a long time. Before he came to this cursed place or even learned of his brother’s demise.

“It means what you think it means.” Sideswipe folds his arms over his chassis, radiating nonchalance as he leans against a ruined building; scorch marks are an indicator of what caused its destruction. “I know what you're trying to do, and I'm telling you it's not a good idea.”

Prowl doesn’t glare at him. It’s a near thing.

“You presume too much.”

Sideswipe flickers his optics. “I get that you think you know Sunny. But really, Prowl, we're not that different. You're not going to be able to find him.”

“I’m going to make the attempt,” Prowl retorts and then presses his mouth together.

Why is he even arguing with a soldier? He outranks Sideswipe!

He turns back around, striding a single step forward. But then, Sideswipe bursts from his casual stance, wheeled pedes a fast clip over asphalt. He skids to a stop directly in front of Prowl, halting him in his tracks. Though there's not a weapon drawn, there's a distinct element of warning in Sideswipe's actions.

“I want Hound to get fixed as much as you do,” the silver mech says, arms down at his sides, unthreatening but somehow worrisome all the same. “But if you go out there alone, they'll call you a traitor, too. And even if our glorious leader wanted to, he wouldn't be able to convince the humans otherwise.”

Prowl lifts his head. “Optimus has not forbade this.”

“Semantics and you know it.” Sideswipe lifts his hands, near-beseeching, as he rocks back and forth on his pedes. “You won't be able to find him, and if you leave, you'll be risking your spark for nothing. I can't let you do that.”

“So you’d have me abandon Hound.” The chill in his vocals is enough to drop the ambient temperature by a dozen degrees. “Turn my back on him as though we are no better than our enemies.”

Something flashes in Sideswipe's field. It’s without definition but aches as strongly as any regret or any fear.

“No. I want you to live.” His optics are too bright in the dark. “For Sunny's sake if nothing else.”

Frustration colors Prowl's every movement, streaking across his processors. His hands form fists, spark whirling a dissatisfied beat. This is anathema to him, to surrender before the battle is even done. How can he look Hound in the optics and tell him that there is no hope, that nothing can be done?

He looks at Sideswipe, calculating to the very core. And something vicious stirs at his spark. Something hurt and trembling lashes out.

“And if it were Jazz on that berth? If it were Sunstreaker?” Prowl demands, and his own vehemence surprises him. But he knows he’s scored a hit when Sideswipe flinches. “Would you still stop me?”

A growl resonates in Sideswipe. “That's a low blow, and you know it, Prowl,” he counters, wheels retracting as he stomps forward and closes the distance between them. “You think I don't know who kept him alive? Why he isn't half-crazed and mad at spark? And you're asking me that?”

Sideswipe's lipplates curl into a sneer worthy of any Decepticon. And he looks far too much like his brother then. Far too much like Sunstreaker when they’d lost yet another of their team.

“Frag you, Prowl,” Sideswipe bites out. “You go out there, get yourself blown to bits by some trigger-happy human, and you'll lose the Autobots three mechs instead of one. Try calculating that in your glitched battle computer.”

Each word is a punch to the faceplate, and Prowl is both impressed and stunned by yet another example of how much Sideswipe has changed. He truly isn’t the mech Prowl remembers. He’s never been quite so cold or calculating. Not until now.

Then again, not a single one of them remain unchanged.

Sideswipe's energy is a staticky discharge of anger and grief. “Hound isn't the only one who needs you,” he finishes and pushes past Prowl, shoulder knocking against him with enough force that a lesser mech would be thrown off balance.

Prowl doesn't turn to watch Sideswipe go. He barely even registers the noise of the warrior's pedes across the crackled concrete but still hears the distinct noise of transformation and then a high-performance engine roaring into the night. Wind whips across Prowl's armor, pulling and pushing at his overheated plates.

He stares at the road in front of him, leading out of Chicago. Internal maps downloaded from the internet point him to nearby cities and states. He's pinpointed over two dozen possible locations where Ratchet could be hiding, battle computer tagging even more by the astrosecond.

There are so many. Too many. Prowl doesn't have nearly enough time. Not without some hint. Some suggestion to where their medic might be.

The return to his alt-mode is excruciating; every transformed joint and shifted seam feels like a betrayal to his very spark. Turning his aft toward the road out of Chicago hurts even worse, more than knowing that Sideswipe is right. Understanding that for once, Prowl acted on impulse, and it had proven to be the wrong decision. Realizing that he cannot help Hound is like acid on an open line, a blaster to the core.

Prowl heads back to their pathetic warehouse with a heavy spark and the stench of failure wafting from his ventilations. Yet another to add to the roster, the list of missing and deceased Autobots who have fallen while under his command. Hound may yet pull through, but Prowl knows the probabilities. He's run them through his cortex too many times. Calculating variable after variable, hoping to forestall the inevitable truth.

All of his faith rested on getting to Ratchet in time. Every nut and bolt and energon line of his being was focused on that one certainty.

Prowl's engine rumbles, and even it sounds defeated as he rolls up to the same gate he sneaked through earlier. The soldiers look surprised to see him, but lift the gate and return to their television and their loud conversation without a word.

What has happened? What has changed?

Prowl has gone over the bland, impassive facts given to him. He can find nothing in the details, nothing in the reports submitted, that can explain the current state of the Autobots.

He can find no answer to Prime’s strange behavior.

Prowl understands that this planet isn’t their own. He can concede to the necessity of working with the humans, giving and taking, making concessions as they are needed and being willing to compromise. He cannot, however, fathom his Prime’s behavior or choices. That they should bow and scrape and surrender to every demand of the organics.

The main hangar comes into view. Prowl shifts back to root-mode, stepping through the massive doors and turning to the left, where Hound's been resting. The monitors attached to Hound's frame are a quiet hum in the otherwise stark silence. Many of the lights are a reassuring, steady gleam. But one in particular has a slow flicker, and Prowl doesn’t need to be a medic to understand it’s the most important one of all.

Someone has dragged a crate next to Hound's berth. It is the perfect height and mass to suit a Cybertronian form, and Prowl takes a seat. Hound's arm lays lifelessly within reach, and Prowl takes the scout's hand in his, alarmed by how cool his plating is to the touch. He feels more than halfway offline already, so still and silent. Hound has never been one for quiet.

He has always laughed and joked and encouraged, doing his best to pull the more withdrawn members of their cadre into the fold. He hates battle but will fight with denta and talons to protect his own. And he lives, lives where Prowl and Sunstreaker are slowly losing themselves to the madness of this never-ending war.

It’s unfair that Hound should be the one on this berth, spark hanging on the precipice of existence. Of all of them, he’ll enjoy Earth the most.

Thus the question remains. Would it be better to keep Hound in stasis or allow him to wake?

Prowl lowers his helm, offlining his optics as his hand curls around Hound's limp one. Truly, it’s a riddle without an answer.

“I am sorry,” Prowl murmurs to audials that cannot hear him. His fingers twitch around Hound's hand. “Forgive me.”

o0o0o

In the end, the decision is Prime's as it has always been.

Prowl bows his helm, concedes to his superior officer, but remains present as they take Hound out of stasis and allow him to come online. Sunstreaker, too, is present. However, he hovers in the background, pacing a circuit that alarms the humans milling around and refusing any comfort Sideswipe offers.

Even in this, they have no privacy. Beyond the wall of Autobots are the humans and their machines and their shouting and their engines. All of it is a cacophony on the edge of Prowl's audials that continues to disrupt the solemnity of the moment. Have they no respect?

--This is fragged!-- Sunstreaker snarls across the narrow band comm unique to their team alone. --Ratchet could fix him in a click. It's sparkling play to him.--

Prowl's lipplates thin. --Ratchet isn’t an option, Sunstreaker. I’m sure Sideswipe has explained it to you.—

Apparently, Sideswipe had not seen fit to inform Sunstreaker of Prowl's former intentions. Interesting.

He can practically feel Sunstreaker's glare boring into his back. --He's not an option only because the squishies demand it. Why are they calling the shots? What the frag is Prime thinking?--

Prowl’s insides are hot with agreement, and while it hurts him to do it, he still rises to defend his Prime.

--It isn’t our place to question Optimus. I am sure he’s doing what he thinks is best.--

Sunstreaker's frantic pacing abruptly ceases. --You really think this is the best? –

He is utterly incredulous.

Prowl understands completely. But he knows that he just has to look for another solution. He just has to buy them time. To convince Optimus otherwise. To find a clue to Ratchet’s whereabouts. For Hound to heal on his own.

--We don’t understand enough of the situation,-- he says in his own defense. --The humans outnumber us, Sunstreaker. We cannot afford to anger them.--

The stare bores between Prowl's sensory panels like a laser-guided strike. --We shouldn't have to fear our allies.--

Prowl's panels lift, upright and rigid, a language that he knows Sunstreaker can recognize after so long together. It is a chastisement and a warning all rolled into one motion.

--We will discuss this later,-- Prowl replies careful to keep his tone sharp and inflexible. --Hound deserves our support right now. He doesn’t need our anger.--

He can feel Sunstreaker wilt a bit at the last part, and if he says anything further, Prowl doesn’t hear it because he closes off the line and reroutes all queries to a queue. Sunstreaker's words ring with an element of truth, but Prowl doesn't have time to consider them right now because Prime has disconnected the many cords attached to Hound, manually booting the scout from an enforced stasis.

Prowl steps forward, standing at the base of the berth. He watches as optics flicker on, and the low hum of wakening systems fills this corner of the warehouse. Hound's left pede twitches and then his right arm. Immediately thereafter, Hound sends out an automatic, location ping, something they'd gotten into the habit of broadcasting over the vorns.

Prowl reflexively responds and notes that Sunstreaker does as well. A grating noise resonates in Hound's chassis, a sound that might have been a laugh were his systems in better shape.

“It seems like every time I boot up, something's different,” Hound rasps, energy field extending outward in seeking tendrils. He brushes against Prowl with familiar warmth and continues further.

“Should be glad enough to boot up at all,” Sunstreaker all but growls.

Surprise radiates from the other Autobots, those who don't know Sunstreaker well enough to hear the care behind his words. Hound, however, chuckles again. He struggles to sit up, but machines shrieking warnings at him encourage him to believe otherwise.

“Yeah, Sunny, love you, too.”

Prowl lifts a hand, laying it gently on Hound's leg to let the scout know where he is. Though Hound's multi-layered scans must have already informed him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks very softly.

“More than ready to get out the berth.” Hound's faceplates crinkle with a smile as he turns his helm, optics surveying the room and all those gathered. “Lots of familiar faces, I see. And Prime, too. We finally found you, sir.”

Prime rests a hand on Hound's shoulder. “It’s inspiriting to see that more of our kind has survived. You are on an organic planet that the natives call Earth.”

“I figured it had to be something like that.” Hound's orbital ridge furrows, an action Prowl has recognized as his processor slipping into scout-mode. “There is a lot of multi-tiered chatter on the airwaves.” He flashes a cheerful grin. “So where's Ratchet? I'm ready to get back on my pedes.”

Sunstreaker mutters a curse, field flaring strongly enough that it feels like a slap to the face. Prowl doesn't startle, having suspected that the volatile mech's emotions would escape his control. Dino and Prime though whirl toward Sunstreaker.

Not that the warrior offers anyone an explanation. He sneers at Prime, shakes his helm, and storms away from this corner of the warehouse. In passing, Prowl gets another taste of Sunstreaker's energy, a chaotic mass of fury and despair and helplessness, before he’s gone.

Sideswipe sighs, runs a hand over his face, and rolls out after his brother. He falls so easily into his once-upon-a-time habit of trailing along in Sunstreaker's oft-destructive wake.

Hound winces and shares a commiserating glance with Prowl.

“Ratchet isn’t here,” Prime answers in the ensuing silence, tones carefully modulated, but not even he can take the sting out of the truth.

There’s no help for Hound. They onlined him from stasis to tell him that he's going to die.

Prowl's free hand curls into a fist, and he carefully reins in his energy field. He doesn’t wish for Hound to sense his own confusion and despair.

Not that it matters because Hound's smile starts to falter as realization dawns.

“Oh.” His vocalizer crackles with static. “I see.” His optics flick around the warehouse again, the familiar prickle of a scan washing over Prowl's sensors. “Ironhide was with you, too. And Jazz. They aren't here either.”

His optics go to Prowl, and the lieutenant sees the apology there. One for Jazz. One Prowl doesn’t deserve.

Prime's vocals remain infinitely gentle. “No, they aren't.”

Hound's arm flops around, strutless, before landing on his chassis. “The war's over though. Right?” His palm is flat against his chestplates.

“Yes.” Prime's fingers stroke over the armor on Hound's shoulder, but it’s an intimacy that he hasn’t earned. “Megatron is defeated, his forces thin and scattered. The war is won.”

Hound releases a shaky gust of air. “That's good,” he says, optics dimming several shades. “That's... a relief. Glad that happened before I... well, I'm just glad.”

Prowl cannot take it anymore. His hand has curled into a trembling fist, the anger in his energy field barely restrained.

“Do not speak that way, Hound. You are not going to die here,” he states with enough emotion to take Prime aback.

Optimus angles his frame toward Prowl, and his hand withdraws from Hound's shoulder. His ventilations though are heavy with exasperation.

“Prowl--”

He gives a jerk of his helm. “There's still a chance. There's always a chance.”

Optimus stares at him for a long and agonizing moment, and something a lot like pity buzzes in his questing energy field. He drags a hand down his faceplate.

“We will discuss this later.” But it’s more dismissal than statement. “For now, please take advantage of the time you have.”

Prowl's optics cycle outward, but Prime is already turning back toward Hound. His expression is oddly blank.

“Welcome to Earth, Hound,” he says ever-so-pleasant, as though Hound will be able to get off the berth in the next few astroseconds and dance happily into the sunset. “You are an Autobot of which to be proud.”

Optimus pats Hound on the shoulder and excuses himself from the shadowed corner. That leaves only Prowl and Dino behind.

The lieutenant forces his gaze away and struggles to regain his usual poise. It's a battle he's losing with every passing second. With every dipping number on the machines hooked up to Hound's spark. Time is slipping by at an illogical rate.

Dino's engine revs a strangled noise then. The red mech approaching the berth like one might approach a rabid Empty.

“Hound...”

Dim optics briefly brighten in recognition. “Not a youngling anymore, are you?” Hound asks in a voice thick with affection. The look he gives is soft and warm. “Mirage would be proud, you know.”

Dino's plating clamps tightly to his frame at that. He has to look away for a click before glancing back.

“Have you seen him anywhere?” he questions, tone pitched low. “Do you know where he is?”

“I wish that I did.” Hound pauses, face twisting with a grimace. A full-frame shudder rakes across his plating along with several curls of blue static. “And I'm sorry that I don't. You shouldn't worry about him though. He's a fighter and a survivor. The ‘Cons never could catch him, and they never will.”

Dino takes a step forward. Only to retreat a few paces back, as though reluctant to get too close.

“He's going to be fragged off,” the red mech says, sharing the hint of an inside joke. “You're not supposed to die without him.”

Hound only smiles. But there’s a bitter pull to it.

“Sometimes, we don't have the luxury of choice. But it's all right. He can yell at me in the Allspark.”

Prowl winces and turns abruptly away so that neither mech can see his expression. Hound doesn’t know that the Allspark is gone, and he hopes that Dino is wise enough not to mention that fact. Let Hound cling to whatever hope remains.

“Yes.” Dino crackles with restrained emotion, but he thankfully, does not correct Hound's assumption. “I'm sure he'll rant for joors.”

Prowl offlines his optics and restores acknowledgment to the private line he shares with his team.

--Sunstreaker, return to the hangar.--

--No,-- the yellow twin snarls, fury and despair bleeding into the line. --I won’t stand there and watch him go grey.--

Prowl's mouth forms a severe line. --That was not a suggestion. That was an order. He is your teammate, and the least you can do is acknowledge it.--

It’s a cruel thing that he makes Sunstreaker do this, and Prowl is well aware of that. They have both sat by too many mechs, watching them turn grey. Or watched in the midst of battle, as their companions were shot through the spark, or rent to pieces, or taken and never seen again. Or worse, left behind and lost.

--Sometimes, I think you enjoy reminding me how much of a sparkless drone you are,-- Sunstreaker hisses and abruptly cuts off with a whine of feedback that aches in Prowl's audials.

His sensory panels droop. He onlines his optics, Hound and Dino's conversation returning to the forefront of his attention.

“Take care of yourself,” Hound is in the midst of saying. “Raj’s going to need you.”

Dino makes an incoherent noise. “I will,” the red mech says.

He lifts a hand, touching first his own forehelm before pressing the same two fingers to Hound. A gesture of long farewell once so common in the Towers but now a lost part of that culture.

Nothing more is said. Dino turns to leave, shooting Prowl the briefest of glances. Then, he too is gone, and Prowl is left staring in the faceplate of his most recent failure.

“It's okay, you know,” Hound murmurs into the quiet, optics focused on the ceiling since Prowl's current position puts him out of view. “A part of me is ready by this point.”

The lieutenant lurches into motion, crossing the distance in a few long strides, until he stands at Hound's berthside. One arm flops toward him, fingers smacking against Prowl's chassis, leaving him no choice but to take Hound's hand into his. The scout's energy field is remarkably calm and even for all the terrible reality of the situation.

Prowl tries to speak but static spills out of his vocalizer. He forces himself to reset it.

“No,” he replies, startling himself with how fiercely the denial emerges. “It is not and will never be okay.”

He cannot stop himself from pulsing a low-level scan, but the results spew pessimism and bad news. Hound's spark is losing viability at an alarming rate. The cracked weld isn’t holding, and the longer Hound is online, powering even minor systems like his optics, the more stress he's putting on his spark.

“It is and will be,” his friend retorts and has to pause, optics flickering him. His left leg twitches, and he draws in a slow ventilation. “It's not your fault either, and you know frag well I'd do it again if I had to.”

Prowl works his jaw, searching for a diplomatic answer, unable to grasp his usual cold distance. It's impossible now. He's fought and lived with the members of his team for far too long to treat them with the detachment that has served him so well in the past. During the war. Before even. When the only one to even look at him as worthwhile was Jazz. Before they became brothers, never telling anyone save Prime that they’d ever been different.

But Optimus isn’t the only one who knows anymore. Prowl has been with Sunstreaker and Hound for too long to not have them know the truth. To not have them know him as only Jazz has before.

Hound squeezes his fingers then. “Prowl.”

He jerks his gaze back toward the scout, remarkably calm for the fact he knows he's about to die and nothing can help him. Nothing except for the one thing Prime is unwilling to do and that knowledge brings forth another spark of anger, one Prowl struggles to bury beneath the grief so that Hound can’t sense it.

“I'm tired,” Hound says softly, field stretched and seeking, wrapping around Prowl's like a warm breath of air. “Aren't you?”

“That’s not the point. The war is over,” Prowl replies, sensory panels rigid, resisting the comforting pull of Hound. “You have every right to enjoy this peace.”

“Peace comes in many forms.” Hound tries for a smile, but it slips around the edges. “Do me a favor though. Tell Sunstreaker it's not his fault, too.”

Prowl works his intakes. A weight settles on his chassis that has nothing to do with physical pain.

“I am sure he would prefer to hear it from you. He’s on his way now.”

At least, Sunstreaker had better be. Prowl would hate to have to chase the frontliner down and drag him in here by his vents.

One of the machine's hooked up to Hound starts a slow and steady beep in minor tones that don't bode well. Hound's spark is failing him faster than any of Prowl's calculations could’ve anticipated. No doubt the crash landing on Earth had contributed to his rapid decline in health. Frag Blitzwing to the Pit! If he isn’t there already.

“I'm here.”

Prowl doesn't turn, his sensory panels twitching to acknowledge Sunstreaker's presence. Surprisingly enough, Sunstreaker even came alone. Sideswipe isn’t with him.

“You left,” Hound comments without a hint of accusation in his tone.

He's like that sometimes. Perfectly neutral, perfectly accepting. It is one of the reasons he was a good choice for a team that would include Sunstreaker.

It is and has always been impossible to hate Hound. Sunstreaker, over the millennia, is no exception to that pattern.

Sunstreaker stands there, just on the edge of Prowl's vision, both awkward and contrite.

“I'm sorry.”

The need to make himself scarce becomes suddenly apparent to Prowl. He squeezes Hound's fingers one last time before releasing his hold.

“I will return,” he promises and turns away, leaving the space at Hound's side open for Sunstreaker to take his place.

The warrior glares, but it lacks heat. He brushes past Prowl. Their energy fields come into contact for a brief, nauseating click. The churning emotions hidden beneath the surface are more than Prowl can even begin to translate. It's better for his sanity that he doesn't try. Sunstreaker is the most complicated mech he has ever met, and that includes knowing Jazz for so very long.

Prowl lingers for a moment, watching as Sunstreaker perches on the sturdy crate next to Hound. His hands are folded in his lap until a murmured word from Hound encourages Sunstreaker to reach out. They are speaking to each other, subvocally, and Prowl could strain to hear them, but he suspects it’s none of his business.

Better that he leaves them alone for now.

He wishes he could grant them a measure of true privacy, but there's none to be found in this massive warehouse. The humans are still milling around, occasionally glancing curiously at the two Cybertronians locked in a personal discussion. Some openly stare, faces twisted with a grimace that Prowl recognizes as disgust, even with the difference in their species.

Prowl's plating clamps down tightly, an unconscious response to feeling threatened. The humans are small, frail, but Prowl does not think them harmless. He's seen images of what their technology can do to Cybertronian armor.

He steps out of the main hangar, optics cycling up to compensate for the fact the sun is setting and artificial lights are flickering on all around him. Sensors ping at him, warning him that he's not alone, but Prowl doesn't have to look to know who's been lying in wait.

“Did you help convince him?” Prowl questions, panels fluttering before he turns to acknowledge his visitor.

Sideswipe's arms are crossed over his chassis. His expression is carefully neutral.

“I left you my brother. You gave me back a stranger,” he accuses.

Prowl merely gives him a look. “He's not that different.”

Sideswipe glances away, optics narrowing. “He's different enough. We're warriors. We're good at that. It's another matter entirely to sit and watch someone die.”

Prowl looks down and nearly startles at the sight of a human perched near Sideswipe's left pede. He remembers this one from the data packet: Colonel Lennox.

“Whether he says it or not, Sunstreaker does wish to be present,” Prowl retorts, lifting his gaze back up. “Has he not told you?”

Sideswipe straightens, his mask cracking. “I know better than to ask. He will when he's ready.”

Prowl glances at the open doorway. He can barely glimpse the gleaming metal of Sunstreaker's plating.

“He missed you. Do not ever believe otherwise.”

A noise of disdain escapes from Sideswipe, and his gears grind in an unpleasant answer.

“I don't need you to tell me that.”

He pushes off the side of the building, wheeled pedes rolling over concrete. Prowl watches him go. It's not as though he has the words to fix anything anymore.

“So,” the human says, completely forgotten until that point. “You're the new guy.”

He looks down and shifts his language to push English to the forefront.

“I have recently arrived, yes. I am Prowl. I presume you have met Sunstreaker?”

“Sides' brother?” Lennox's lower lip curls with a grin. “Yeah, we've met. I don't think I impressed him much.”

“There is little that does.”

Prowl must admit he is impressed though. He towers over the small human by several degrees. Yet, Lennox does not look upon him with fear or unease. Clearly, he has grown used to spending time with Cybertronians.

“You are the leader of the military here?” Prowl poses, but he already knows the answer.

Lennox scratches his chin. “Someone else pulls my strings if that's what you're asking, but yeah, you could say that.”

Prowl studies him for a click, but he isn’t about to let this opportunity slip by.

“Did you spend a lot of time with Ratchet?”

The human’s hand drops from his face to hang at his side. “I hang around with all the Autobots. It's part of my job.”

An evasion. But a good one. Prowl considers that.

“Do you think he's been compromised?” he questions almost softly. Like he’s afraid the other humans will overhear.

Lennox makes an unidentifiable noise. It’s one that Prowl's recognition software can't catalog.

“It's not really my place to know, is it?” Lennox shoots back. “Mearing doesn't think it matters.”

Mearing. The human-Autobot liaison as assigned by the United States government. Prowl has yet to meet her, but he is certain that such a thing will happen soon. Optimus is sure to want to start assigning him duties. They are so few after all.

“What do you think?”

One booted foot taps against the ground. “I'm not paid to think, Prowl. I just follow orders.”

He does not miss, however, the note of bitterness in Lennox's tone. It lets it slide though. Especially when Lennox speaks again.

“Sideswipe tells me that Hound's not looking so good.”

The sharp stab of grief and despair that attacks Prowl is unprecedented. He can’t even begin to battle it down.

“We came here with all of our hope hanging on Ratchet being with Prime,” Prowl admits, and it’s agony to even say it to himself. “Without Ratchet, there’s nothing any of us can do.”

“I'm sorry,” Lennox says, and there's true sincerity in his voice, not just words given to fill the silence. “I wish that I could help.”

“I am quite certain that there's nothing you can do,” Prowl retorts before he can stop himself.

“Yeah.” Lennox pushes himself off the wall. “I'm only human after all. Pretty damn useless in the end.”

Prowl could argue otherwise. The case of one Samuel Witwicky is in his databanks after all, but the human is already taking his leave, hands shoved into his pockets. Lennox isn’t quite what Prowl would have expected from these organics. He is a human who bears watching.

No one else approaches Prowl after Lennox departs, and he has no desire to return to the hangar at the moment, wanting to give Hound and Sunstreaker what privacy he can spare. As Prime has yet to give him any duties, Prowl has nothing to occupy his processor.

What then to do?

Solitude is in short supply around this pathetic example of a base. Nevertheless, Prowl seeks it out in the ruins of Chicago. There's something oddly ironic about discovering peace in the middle of destruction.

A sign, scorched by laserfire, is still legible and informs Prowl that he's reached some sort of park. Vegetation survived the Decepticon attack for the most part. It's something Hound would have loved. Will love.

Appropriate, Prowl thinks as he lowers himself to a large piece of building that somehow landed itself in the middle of the park. It makes for an adequate seat to keep himself from the soil. He takes several image captures if only to share them with Hound later, for however long the scout's spark manages to spin. Prowl's scan before he left hadn't been optimistic.

This world is painfully different. While Prowl hasn’t seen much beyond their landing zone and the arrival in Chicago, the world wide web is full of pictures and videos and documentaries. Earth is the epitome of organic, and Prowl misses the elegance of Cybertron so very much.

He doesn’t like how the soil shifts beneath his pedes. He doesn’t like the lingering odor of decay and rebirth. Nor how quickly time seems to pass here. And he especially doesn’t like how nothing here feels the same way that Cybertron does. It’s a sensation he cannot quite put into words.

Cybertron, the planet itself, always hummed with life. As though the legends of their planet being the body of Primus have some element of truth. Earth, while life survives on the surface, feels dead to the core.

It shifts and surges, entirely unstable.

But Cybertron is gone; it is nothing more than a memory. And all that the Autobots have left is Earth, this planet. Prowl does not feel very victorious. How can they even begin to rebuild here?

Was there really no other option? Was destroying Cybertron the only choice Optimus could reach at the time?

Prowl's spark contracts. He no longer knows where to direct his efforts, what hope to cling to.

What he truly has left.

He isn’t even sure how long has passed when he senses Optimus. His leader’s energy field is a confusing tangle of mismatched emotions, and Prowl knows the he hasn’t been sensed in return yet. Optimus is careful where he places his pedes, displaying a grace unusual for his size, but skilled at stealth he is not.

“If you had commed me, I would’ve come,” Prowl says, not turning to acknowledge the other mech’s approach. Still, his sensory panels twitching in recognition.

“This isn’t an official matter,” Prime replies, pausing once he stands beside Prowl. His bulk blocks off the dim glow of a single, functioning streetlight. “I was concerned for your welfare.”

Bitterness crops up before Prowl can block it. “I’m not the one microns away from deactivation.”

“Hound was a great soldier. He will be sorely missed.”

Prowl twitches before he can reign it in. Prime speaks of Hound as though he’s already offline. Has already written him off as some sort of acceptable loss. As if he doesn’t even matter.

Prowl's helm dips. He doesn't dare look up at his Prime or mingle their fields. They’ve had this argument too many times, and he knows Prime's decision isn’t going to change. The question that remains is... why? This Prime isn’t the one Prowl remembers. Not at all.

“I noticed that Sunstreaker is sitting beside him,” Prime continues either oblivious to Prowl's distress or unsympathetic; it isn’t clear which is worse. “It’s not uncommon for soldiers to seek comfort in one another. Are they… involved?”

Prowl rises then without even meaning to, and his core clenches. Prime might be their leader, but it isn’t any of his business. Not anymore. Not when he’s given up without a fight.

“I've lost more than half of my crew,” Prowl states, and it’s quite flat. “Not a one of us thinks it smart to bond in the midst of this war.”

Which is not precisely an answer.

“It’s my hope that the war's end will change that.” Prime's helm lifts, optics focused on the darkened sky. “Earth has given us a chance for a new beginning. We must always be grateful to the humans for their aid.”

The humans. Prime has placed his faith in the organics. But what of the millions who have died on Cybertron? The thousands of Autobots who offlined in the name of saving their planet? What have they sacrificed to obtain?

Cybertron is gone, and their reward is Earth? Prime calls this a victory? They are on the verge of extinction! How many Cybertronians are left, even if Prowl counts the Decepticons? Thousands? Hundreds?

Dozens?

Yet, it’s the humans that Prime has chosen to place his faith in. The very same species who demands so much and gives so very little in return.

“What can we expect?” Prowl asks softly. “What future can we have, Optimus, when we are so few? When the Allspark is lost and our planet a ruin?”

A smile, unexpected, curls Optimus' lipplates. But it’s so foreign, so surreal. Prime looks like a complete stranger then. Like a mech Prowl’s never even met before.

His spark chills within him, and something like dread snakes through every line and pathway.

Optimus doesn’t even notice the flicker of horror. He just keeps talking.

“There is always hope, old friend. It is up to us to find it wherever possible.”

Prowl has to fight not to flinch when Optimus reaches out to touch him.

Empty words, empty promises.

Prowl slides out from under his hand with a graceful motion.

“You are right, of course,” he concedes though he wants to shout otherwise, and he takes several steps back. “I think I will return to the base now. Hound shouldn't be alone.”

He doesn't give Optimus the opportunity to request that he stay or argue with him otherwise. Prowl shifts into his alt-mode and races into the debris-strewn street, engine rumbling a throaty-pitch. This human-designed frame is unwieldy, lacking the sleek design of his Cybertronian mode, but it’s the best Prowl could find. The goal, after all, is to blend in.

Optimus does not give chase, and what does this say about Prowl that he hadn't expected his Prime to do so. Optimus doesn’t so much as toss a warning comm at Prowl's departing form. Instead, he turns his attention back to the dark sky and the winking stars and leaves Prowl to his own devices.

He isn’t the mech Prowl remembers at all.

***
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