[Bay] War Without End - Prowl - Pt III
Jun. 5th, 2013 09:12 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.
Part III
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Hound is never alone.
Between Prowl and Sunstreaker, someone is always sitting at his berthside. Admittedly, it’s Sunstreaker more often than Prowl since it doesn't take long for Optimus to involve his second-in-command in their alliance with the humans and the ongoing task of clearing out the Decepticons.
That their enemies hide is interesting in itself. Very few have shown their faceplates or attacked the humans head-on. But surely, they must be energon-starved, losing their processors in the midst of their isolation.
Prime, however, handles the remaining Decepticons personally. It’s up to Prowl to familiarize himself with the details of the human-Autobot alliance. That means he has been introduced to Charlotte Mearing, and Prowl has honestly never met an entity he has wanted to step on so badly in his entire existence.
She fights him on everything, down to the quick. Supplies. Deployment orders. Land for the purpose of building a more permanent home. Freedom and privacy for the Autobots.
She demands technology, weapons and the like, which Prowl refuses to give her. The humans are dangerous enough in their own right, and if they haven't figured out to reverse-engineer Cybertronian weapons yet, Prowl is not about to hand over the instruction manual. There's something in Mearing's tone, in her eyes. It suggests ridding the universe of all Cybertronians is the only way to get any peace.
Sitting by Hound, in their noisy corner of the warehouse, is all the respite Prowl receives. She tries the very depths of his patience, more so than Sideswipe or Sunstreaker ever succeeded. Prowl can't shake the notion that he's fighting a losing battle. Swimming upstream against the current, as the humans might say.
And while he wrestles with Mearing and struggles to find means to repair the Autobots without a medic and worries over the lack of quality energon and fills out sheet after sheet of useless paperwork, Prowl sits beside Hound. He watches his teammate, his friend, slowly fade away. Gradually dim and diminish.
It’s agonizing. And not just for Hound.
They've disconnected him from the machines that sustain his systems. It's a waste of energy and resources, sustaining a spark that’s withering away anyway. Or so Mearing so elegantly put it. Optimus in his most tactful way indicated that perhaps prolonging Hound's suffering is less than kind, too.
Without the steady, if not declining beeps of the machine, the proverbial quiet in this corner of the warehouse is all the more prevalent. All Prowl can hear is Hound's raspy ventilations, the soft hissing of hydraulics as he shifts on the berth.
Conversation, what little there is, remains stilted and awkward. Overwhelmed by the reality of the situation.
Hound is dying, little by little. Prowl fears every time he walks away that when he returns, it will be to an empty shell. It’s only a matter of time, hours not days. Perhaps even minutes.
Nevertheless, Prowl returns every moment he has to spare. It’s the only useful thing that he can do.
“Don't you… have work to do?” Hound asks when Prowl comes into view.
The pause between his words is noticeable. His ventilations have become more and more labored, and Prowl suspects the worst.
Sunstreaker is already here. Perched beside Hound as he has done during every free moment. Going so far as to recharge upright and on the uncomfortable crate.
“Nothing that cannot keep,” Prowl assures his scout. He pulls up his own crate and seats himself near the mech's knees.
Prowl hears Hound reset his vocalizer. He tries to clear the static and only marginally succeeds.
“I'm sure it is important.”
“Tch,” Sunstreaker mutters, grinding gears in a gesture of disdain. “Who cares what new rules the squishies want?”
A look of affection and fond exasperation flickers onto Hound's faceplate. Then, it’s gone again, the effort of holding any expression too great.
“Sunstreaker,” Hound murmurs on a rattling ex-vent. His optics cycle in and out, as though struggling to focus.
Sunstreaker huffs but leans closer nonetheless, fingers grapping onto the edge of the berth. And Prowl doesn't miss the near-unconscious flinch that Hound tries to hide.
“Are you in pain?” he asks because Hound would never say if he were aloud. He thinks himself too much a burden already, no matter how much Prowl and Sunstreaker declare otherwise.
Their scout’s lipplates curl in a weak smile. “I don't feel much of anything,” he confesses.
Prowl's spark stutters. That isn’t a good sign.
Worse that Hound's field has become nonexistent. Prowl stretches out his own, struggling to find any trace of the familiar, cheerful vibrations. There are none to be felt.
He reaches out, brushing his fingers over the plates on Hound's thigh. They’re cool to the touch, and the thrum of living machinery is absent. His extremities are no longer receiving energon or charge.
Then, Sunstreaker’s comm chines.
Hound's helm shifts in the most minute of movements. “Time… for your… shift.”
Each word is forced. Dragged from his vocalizer.
Sunstreaker twitches. “Prime can shove it up his aft,” he barks. “I'm not leaving.” He lays a hand on Hound's chest, golden metal a direct contrast to the protoform-silver of Hound's own. Even his color nanites have already succumbed.
Blue optics, once a bright turquoise and now paler, flicker.
Prowl feels himself go rigid all over. He wants to look away. He can't bear to do so. Death hasn’t been like this for too long. Offlining has always occurred quickly. He's never had to grieve while one of his bots still lived. He's never had to sit and watch one of his mechs wither away.
“Hound--”
Words fail him, constrict in his vocalizer. Prowl has no clue what to say, what platitudes to offer.
“I'm sorry,” Hound forces out, power audibly rerouting to his vocalizer. “I should've… dodged that shot.
Sunstreaker's hand twitches on Hound's chassis. He makes a sound like agony, low and hollow.
“Don't you dare apologize,” he grits out through clenched denta.
“If anyone is to blame, it is me,” Prowl retorts and curls even closer.
Sunstreaker's gaze whips toward him. His optics are ablaze with more emotion than Prowl has ever seen him display.
“Don't you start either.”
Hound chuckles, staticky and off-rhythm. He reaches out with motion Prowl didn't know he’s capable of. Shaking fingers brush against Sunstreaker's face and make the warrior to turn his optics back. The soft brush of metal and metal seems unnaturally loud, and more notable is the way Sunstreaker doesn't pull away.
“Hey,” Hound murmurs. Now, his attention is focused on Sunstreaker alone, though his optics are flickering slowly. “It's okay.”
Sunstreaker's ventilations catch. His hand flattens on Hound's chassis, on the raggedly welded piece of temp plating. His fingers hook on a seam as though trying to strengthen Hound's spark with will alone. He leans closer, mouth moving, but whatever he says, Prowl can't hear it. Not that he's trying. The words aren't for him, they are for Hound only. Whatever they are, Hound manages a faint smile with whatever strength he has left.
A rattling ventilation seems abnormally loud. And Prowl waits for the next cycle. His audials are primed for it, counting the clicks.
It doesn't come.
Sunstreaker's helm dips further.
Pale optics flicker out and then don't online again.
The grey hand drops from Sunstreaker's cheek, landing with a solid clunk against the berth. Sunstreaker seems to lose his battle with gravity. He sinks down on the crate. His forehelm presses to Hound's shoulder, one hand curled in his lap. The other is still pressed to Hound's chassis.
Prowl has no words. His own ventilations are staggered, and his spark is small and tight. The emotion is there, but he can't break. He has to be the one who holds it together even if his greater urge is to flee into the night, wheels to the road, if only to find his sanity again.
A soft sound breaks the silence. Prowl half-turns, spotting Sideswipe. The twin's plating is covered in a thin layer of dust. He must’ve been on patrol, perhaps switching with one of the Wreckers in order to be here.
He and Sideswipe trade a glance, but no words are exchanged. Behind where Sideswipe appeared, Prowl notices one of the humans. Lennox. He's watching Sunstreaker and Sideswipe and Prowl, too. There's something in his eyes. Sympathy perhaps.
He says nothing, but he locks gazes briefly with Prowl before turning and walking away. For once, none of the busy humans around the warehouse are watching. They are all scurrying around with their busy little lives, paying no attention to the tragedy mere feet away.
It's enough to make Prowl's tanks roil.
Sideswipe, obviously, is only here for his twin. He wastes no time in approaching his brother and lightly resting a hand on Sunstreaker's shoulder. His twin gives no sign that he's noticed Sideswipe. Save for the bare shift in his energy field. An invitation to share his pain.
--Prime to Prowl.--
The sudden comm shatters Prowl's thoughts. He jerks to his pedes and whirls away, if only to hide the expression of distaste on his face. Could there be any worse timing?
--Prowl here.--
--Captain Manus informs me that Sunstreaker hasn’t shown for his shift. He isn’t responding to my comms either,-- Prime replies with no preamble.
Prowl shutters his optics. He cycles several ventilations if only to keep himself calm.
--There are extenuating circumstances, Optimus.--
A moment of silence passes before understanding colors Prime's transmission.
--Hound?--
Prowl fights to control himself at the complete and utter nonchalance in that name.
--Yes.--
But it’s clipped. Brittle.
--My condolences.--
There's something not-quite-right in the flat way Prime offers his sympathies, as though the matter is far removed from him. As though losing one of his Autobots is simply a piece of data to be absorbed and cataloged.
There once was a time that everyone believed Prowl to be so sparkless. And yet, he is now experiencing it from the famously soft-sparked Optimus. The incongruity is startling.
--I will arrange for someone else to cover Sunstreaker's shift,-- Prowl replies because he doesn't know how else to respond.
--I’ll inform Dino for you. Prime out.--
The quick dismissal is as startling as the sudden hailing.
Prowl, reeling, closes the line and cycles yet another ventilation. His pump feels as though it is straining in polar directions, utterly torn. His field buzzes around his frame; only his tight grip keeps it from flooding the warehouse. Bit by bit, he's losing control.
He onlines his optics, turning back toward Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. The latter of whom has allowed Sideswipe to pull him away from Hound's empty and cold frame. Sideswipe also, has completed the painful task of drawing the shutters on Hound's optics, saving them the bitter sight of dark sockets.
Anger surges in Prowl as strong as the sorrow, and all of his emotions are an inexplicable tangle. He wants to grieve; he wants to shout. He wants to draw his blaster and destroy something, everything. He wants to find the nearest Decepticon and claim his spark. He wants the war to be over, frag it.
And it is. Or so Optimus claims.
But if that were true, why are Autobots still losing their sparks?
There's an ache in his spark that won't leave. It haunts him, minute by minute, making it difficult to concentrate on the assignments Prime has given him.
It’s only been an Earth day since Hound went cold. Hardly enough time to even begin processing that truth.
And Sunstreaker...
Prowl firms his lipplates together. He hadn't needed another reason to despise Mearing or their so-called human allies, but they keep offering him opportunities every which way he turns.
Primus forbid they should be given time to grieve. Prowl largely suspects that their human allies do not acknowledge the Autobots as being truly sapient. That they look at the Autobots and see only highly advanced robots, machines that produce a facsimile of emotion.
Then again, considering how Optimus hasn't so much as unleashed a warble of sadness in his field, perhaps they have a point. Dino has barely managed a sad look in Hound's direction. It's as though in the millennia that stand between them, Prime and his team and those gathered here have become closer to machines and further from their sapient selves.
It's worrisome.
Prowl doesn’t know this Prime. He looks into Optimus' optics, and he sees a stranger. Not the unfamiliar sight of a soldier who has looked into the maw of war and come out changed. But those of a mech who may have been a lie all along. Who was nothing more than a figment.
It’s disconcerting to say the least.
He remembers Optimus. He remembers willingly coming to that mech’s service, despite all the confusion regarding his origins. Whether or not he was a true Prime or just the leader they all needed once Sentinel vanished. But Prowl always preferred Optimus over Sentinel, even if the former was so foolish.
Wanting peace all over Cybertron, believing in the good of any mech, often to his own detriment. Wanting to trust everyone around him.
Prowl remembers an Optimus who was approachable. Who saw beyond class or make or even caste.
He doesn’t know this mech. This... warmonger, who has bowed himself to their human allies to the detriment of their own kind. Writing off a bot who has been with him throughout the millennia and even before their planet devolved into war.
Optimus isn’t Prime. He's become some kind of militant. One who seeks only the next battle, only the next victory. It’s as though he cannot see peace anymore. Not under the rivers of energon spilled. Someone who can't abide by peace anyway.
Prowl worries.
Has their Prime fallen? Has the line of Primes become broken?
Is the war to blame for Prime's changes? Or perhaps it was the betrayal of his brother-spark? The shattering of the bond that he and Megatron shared in their dual leadership? Was it when Ultra Magnus offlined?
Was it when he came to Earth?
Was aiding in the death of his brother the final blow? Was watching Sentinel betray him the acid on a torn line?
So many questions. Too many questions.
Prowl wishes he could contact Ratchet. He's starting to suspect that Ratchet is not compromised but truly did leave of his own free will. Prowl wants to know why. What did the medic see? What was the last rusted cog that led Ratchet to disappear?
He needs answers, and Prowl's searches have come up frustratingly short. The datapacket Optimus gave him only mentions Ratchet in passing and has no details on the medic's disappearance. What files Prowl can access on the human's systems are also equally sparse. As though both human and Autobot alike are seeking to conceal the truth of Ratchet's departure.
No one wants to talk. Optimus changes the subject. Dino and the Wreckers only know what they saw. Sideswipe was present, but he doesn't know anything either. Prowl hasn't bothered to ask the humans. It's quite clear that they don't care what happened to Ratchet beyond the threat the medic's absence might represent.
And Prowl hasn't seen plating nor energy field of Bumblebee since his arrival on this planet. Optimus claims that his scout spends most of his time in the presence of Sam Witwicky and doesn't seem bothered by the fact that his loyal soldier doesn't care to socialize with his fellow Cybertronians.
There are secrets here. Many of them. Prowl doesn't like secrets that he isn't privy to.
Jazz would’ve found them out. Jazz would’ve kept Prowl informed. Primus! Jazz would’ve known exactly where Ratchet had gone and why.
Jazz probably would’ve gone with him.
Prowl vents softly, panels drooping. They too ache. Especially the one on the right. Sideswipe fixed to his best ability. Nonetheless, there's a crimp somewhere, and it sends low pulses of irritation to Prowl's sensory net from time to time.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Prowl's panels jerk upright, provoking a hiss that he fights down. He turns around slowly. Awkwardly in his current chair and desk that consist of a stack of storage crates crammed into the first open corner in the warehouse.
His recognition software has already identified the speaker as Colonel Lennox. Prowl isn’t surprised to find the human standing there, expression carefully neutral.
“Was there something you needed?”
Lennox's head dips, eyes searching Prowl intently. “Actually, I was going to ask you that question.” He pauses and runs a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry about Hound. I didn't know him at all, but well, I know what it's like to lose soldiers.”
He would be the first to offer condolences. Whether they are honest or not.
Prowl's posture softens if only by a micron.
“Thank you,” he responds, though he severely doubts the human can even begin comprehending the true depth of what it is like to lose a soldier one has fought and survived beside for eons. “There’s nothing to be done now, however, but to ready ourselves for the final ceremony.”
That draws the human up short. He cocks his head and brings his hand up in a peculiar way that Prowl finds oddly familiar.
“Ceremony?”
Prowl flickers his optics. “You would call it a funeral.”
“Ah.” Lennox folds his arms over his chest then and hunches his shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable. “You really should talk to Prime about that.”
There’s something in that statement. Something hinting over the hidden. It sends a chill up Prowl’s processor.
“I intend to.”
That is, if he can ever get a moment of Optimus’ time. One that isn’t overwhelmed by some new pile of information that his leader feels Prowl needs to assimilate.
Lennox rocks on the balls of his feet in a gesture very similar to a particular twin.
“Sideswipe tells me that Sunstreaker's gone into solitary,” the human says then.
Annoyance creeps in again, despite Prowl's best efforts to fight it down, and his engine gives a small rev. It’s true that the Autobots do not have anything resembling a brig, but that has not stopped Mearing from devising a means to punish. A tiny shipping container has become a makeshift cell just large enough for one Autobot. But barely.
“Yes,” he allows in a clipped tone and turns back to his desk and his work, assuming that Lennox will leave. “Mearing didn’t appreciate his refusal to show up for several of his assigned patrols.”
Never mind that Hound was dying. Never mind that none of them are pleased with the fact that they are all but serving their so-called allies. Even now, eighty percent of Prowl's duties circulate around the humans, their requests, their problems.
Lennox is one of the few who seems to solve his own.
“He was with Hound, wasn't he?” the colonel questions, and his manner is very solemn then. Tired.
Prowl stiffens but gives a nod. “Yes.”
Lennox makes a noise of disgust, and the twist to his expression is visible from one of Prowl's lateral sensors.
“She probably didn't give a damn either.” He mutters, “That bitch.”
Prowl's faceplates set in a neutral expression, but inside, he's surprised. He turns toward the human.
“Pardon?”
“What?” Lennox arches an orbital ridge and shows no sign of fear despite the fact he could easily become a smear beneath Prowl's pede. “Just ‘cause she's human means I'm obligated to like her? That's awfully narrow-minded of you.”
“That isn’t what I meant.” Prowl is careful to choose his words, but he also takes a closer look at Lennox, seeing more in the human this time than he has acknowledged before. “She is your superior officer, yes?”
Lennox visibly shudders. “She's government, yeah, but she's not the one who pulls my strings. I report to General Morshower.”
None of Lennox's contempt for Mearing is present in regards to the second human. Instead, there is genuine warmth and respect. Curious.
“Mearing's just the typical politician with her head up her aft and no clue what it's like to actually be here on the frontlines,” the colonel finishes.
Perhaps Prowl isn’t the only one who finds it frustrating to have dealings with Mearing. It seems she is talented at thwarting anyone who does not conform to her own plans.
“She has proven to be... difficult,” Prowl acknowledges with an element of tact that would’ve made Jazz proud.
Lennox snorts. “Yeah. Difficult. That's the word I'd use.” He shakes his head, as though trying to clear away mere thought of her. “I'm serious, Prowl. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know.”
Prowl looks at him for a very long moment. This human isn’t like the other ones. There’s something in his demeanor. In the way he carries himself. It’s so very familiar.
“Why?”
He’s genuinely curious.
The human unfolds his arms and runs an anxious hand through his hair once more. He doesn’t look at Prowl, and his gaze is distant.
“Because Annabelle – my daughter – still asks me when Hide's coming home, and I die a little more each time I have to tell her he's not.” Lennox breathes out and finally glances up. “I really am on your side. Even if it seems like no one else is.”
Prowl struggles to find words. In the face of so much loss, he hasn’t had much time to mourn Ironhide. It never occurred to him that one of the humans might in his stead.
“I understand,” he says, keeping his tone soft and even. “Thank you, Colonel Lennox.”
He smiles. “You can call me Will, if you want. Ironhide always did.”
“Very well.” Prowl inclines his helm. “Thank you, William.”
The colonel makes a face, but it’s tinted with playfulness.
“Close enough.”
William's half-smirk is a pale shade of amusement, but it’s there nevertheless. And Prowl begins to see why Ironhide was so drawn to this human.
The discovery of three Decepticons in India derails Prowl's efforts to discuss Hound's ceremony with Optimus. Instead, he watches as Prime, Roadbuster, and Dino take off in a large human aircraft. They are heading for far shores in order to put down the threat, and it seems even with the war ended, the battle has not been won.
Prowl hopes that the encounter is short and swift. With Ratchet gone, they have no medic. And he doesn't think he can watch another of his own offline so soon.
Optimus’ absence frees up Prowl as well, especially since Sunstreaker is still in solitary. Prowl has his own duties, but for once, the thought of returning to the datapads of dry facts that Optimus gave him holds no appeal. And while he’s never been a mech who loathes confined spaces, there is something about the cluttered, noisy, and yet open space of the warehouse that sets him on edge.
Perhaps it’s the multitudes of humans constantly moving around underfoot, no bigger than recently sparked hatchlings and equally ignorant to the danger. It is exhausting to keep track of so many scurrying forms, and the humans don't even have the safety-sensors that all hatchlings are equipped with. Nor do they seem to care whether or not they are in range of an Autobot's pede.
It's been a month since Prowl and his team arrived here, and he still feels as uncomfortable here as he had since the crash. This place, this warehouse, these humans... they do not feel like home. Prowl despairs that they ever will.
He wanders around the compound on the edge of the ruins of Chicago, occasionally glancing at the shattered skyline and the destroyed buildings that are still somehow standing. The humans suffered a terrible blow at the hands of the Decepticons and Sentinel, but Prowl is still appalled by what truths led to the battle in this city.
They surrendered themselves to the Decepticons, agreed to ship the Autobots off-planet. What did they think was going to happen? Years of fighting alongside the Autobots and they still hadn't realized the Decepticons couldn't be trusted? What special kind of glitches were these humans?
Then again, the Nebulans had tried the same thing. The sight of their planet reduced to a decimating black hole is all the convincing Prowl has ever needed.
Dispirited, Prowl continues his wandering, taking note of the locations of all the buildings, the armories, the insentient vehicle storage, and what areas the humans consider off-limits. He finds some storage facilities, another hangar that seems to be a collection of all the Cybertronian tech recovered, and a third storehouse that contains the wreckage of his shuttle. Humans currently crawl all over the scorched hull and shattered ruins.
What Prowl does not find, however, is any trace of a mausoleum. There may have been one at their base in Washington before Sentinel destroyed it, but there should also be one present here or close by. After all, half a dozen Autobots died in Sentinel's betrayal and the following battle.
There is no map in the file Optimus gave him. There are no directions, no indications of its location anywhere. Not on this particular continent or on this planet for that matter. Where then has Optimus entombed their fallen comrades? Where has he placed the pieces that couldn’t be salvaged and worn to honor their brethren?
Bumblebee still has not shown his faceplate. Leadfoot is recharging. Topspin, Prowl knows, is on a routine patrol. That leaves Sideswipe to ask, and so the lieutenant seeks him out.
He finds Sideswipe on the other side of the base's runway in his alt-mode, not quite recharging but soaking up the warmth of Earth's sun. It is a novelty, Prowl thinks, to have a sun again. Perhaps the only aspect of Earth that he has grown fond of in his short residence on this planet.
“Never thought I'd see the orn when you, of all mechs, were restless,” the warrior comments as he approaches, tires crackling over gravel interspersed with weeds.
Prowl slips out of alt-mode. “Were you watching me?”
Sideswipe too emerges into his root form. His arms stretch out with crackling pops of joints and hisses of hydraulics.
“Sometimes, I hack the humans' radio chatter.” He makes a nonchalant motion. “They were keeping tabs on you.”
Prowl hesitates a click. That's the sort of behavior one would give the presence of an enemy in his or her midst, not supposed allies.
“I see.”
He frowns. Do the humans distrust them so much?
“How is Sunstreaker?” Prowl tries instead.
“Were you really bored enough to look for conversation?” Sideswipe redirects, scuffing one tire against the ground and pulling up clods of damp dirt. It rained yesterday, a phenomenon that no longer surprises Prowl, having seen it on other organic planets.
Prowl vents softly. “I take it he is unhappy.”
“That's putting it tactfully. Good for you. Finally learned it.” Sideswipe grins, but it doesn't contain an ounce of humor. “Maybe we should give Sunny some kind of long-range patrol because he hasn't stopped bitching about Mearing since they shoved him in that crate. But that's Sunny for ya. Nice to see some things haven't changed.”
Implied in Sideswipe's words are that other things have. Sunstreaker is different, and if Prowl can recognize this, of course his brother can.
The lieutenant makes a wordless noise of acknowledgment. Sideswipe gives him a sidelong look.
“But you didn't come to the furthest edge of the base to ask me about my brother,” Sideswipe says and folds his arms over his chestplate, a mannerism he must’ve picked up from the humans. “What is it?”
Prowl turns his attention to the landscape. From here he can see a great expanse of water, the Great Lakes according to a quick internet search.
“I wish to pay my respects to Jazz,” he replies, and his tone is soft. Aching. “Where is the mausoleum?”
Sideswipe gives a harsh intake. That’s Prowl's first indication that he's not going to like the answer. But it’s his optics that seal the deal.
“We don't have one.”
Prowl's panels jerk upright. But he forces them to relax.
“Was it destroyed?”
Sideswipe has to look away, and that makes Prowl’s processor prickle.
“No,” he retorts, and it’s long and drawn out. “We never had one. Not in Diego. Not in Washington. And not here.” Sideswipe’s energy field spikes with a querulous mix of anger and resignation. “They've moved us around so much we never could build anything. Not that it matters. The humans had a better idea of where we could keep the fallen.”
The bitterness in his tone is tangible. Prowl call all but taste it, and he nearly shudders. He dreads the answer, but he still needs to ask.
“Where?”
Blue optics darken with disgust. Sideswipe doesn’t look at him still. Doesn’t dare.
“It made sense at first. Who cares about the Decepticons anyway? They deserve whatever they got, and what better place to shove them than the deepest, darkest place on this planet?” His engine gives an unhappy rumble. “But then… they put Jazz there, too. Optimus didn't fight them on it.”
Prowl stares at him. And keeps staring.
Jazz was… He’d been… What? What was this?
“I don’t understand,” Prowl admits, and he really doesn’t. “What do you mean?”
It comes out like a demand, and Prowl would be mortified at the emotional tone were it not for the circumstances.
Sideswipe, however, wears an indescribable expression.
“Jazz got dumped just like the ‘Cons,” he repeats.
There’s a buzzing, staticky noise in Prowl’s audials. It rattles through his processor and right into his spark. Right where Jazz should be but isn’t.
He aches for the loss and knows he won’t ever stop.
Few mechs even realize that they aren’t true siblings. Know that they’d found each other later and formed a connection beyond mere friendship. Beyond imprinting even. A true and lasting bond.
But Optimus knows. Had always known. He’d treated them just the same. Had given them all the same privileges and rights that true brothers shared. Had never treated them as anything but siblings.
And now… Now, of all times, he’s decided to treat Jazz like gutter trash? To throw him away like unwanted scrap?
Ice filters into Prowl's lines. So cold that it burns all the way through. Empty like Cybertron was at the end and twice as bitter.
“Where?” he snarls, and he doesn’t have to explain the question.
Sideswipe looks at him then. “They call it the Laurentian Abyss. To them, it has some sort of cultural significance. To me, it's just a dark hole in their planet's crust. A Primus-forsaken maw at the bottom of the ocean. A place ya send mechs to rust.”
Horror floods Prowl's processor and replaces the anger. He struggles for words. His vocalizer clicks but forms no syllables. They entombed Jazz with the Decepticons. They threw him down in some pit like nothing more than slag to be scrapped off.
And they hadn’t even told him. Him… Prowl… Jazz’s brother!
The anger is back now. But it’s more like rage. More like the agonizing cold of deep space and infinitely more desolate.
“And the others?”
His tone would almost be neutral were it not for his optics. For the gleam and glare. For the tightening of his hands and jaw.
“It's a deep hole.” Sideswipe's shrug seems casual, but Prowl can see the disdain. “There was plenty of room for more.”
“That's...”
Words fail him yet again.
Over the millennia, the ability to properly entomb their fallen soldiers was left by the wayside. Cybertron was out of reach. Battlefields were large and numerous. Often times, the fallen warriors were parted to provide one last service to their brethren. But if the opportunity presented itself, if there was a lull and they had the resources, Prowl knew that they did their best to give a proper ceremony to those who had lost their sparks.
But this... this is unfathomable.
Reality strikes Prowl in the next thought-cycle. This is what they will do to Hound. They will take his frame and chuck it into the deep sea with the rest of the Cybertronians, Autobot and Decepticon alike.
His ventilations stutter.
“Yeah,” Sideswipe allows, fingers curling into visible fists. “From what I hear, Ratchet hadn't liked it either. Not that our glorious leader was listening. He doesn't listen to any of us anymore.”
Sunstreaker is not present and Prowl, admittedly, is glad for it. The warrior wouldn’t have agreed to this farce of a ceremony. He would’ve done something irreparable.
Mearing surprisingly allows Sunstreaker to pause his sentence in order to attend the so-called funeral, but Sunstreaker refuses to emerge from his confinement. Sideswipe backs his brother up, and so it is a small collection of Autobots that gather for Hound's sending, if that is what Prowl wishes to call it.
His only consolation is that they aren’t yet depositing Hound in the ocean. Too much cost, Mearing grumbled, to ship off one Autobot frame. They’ll wait until they have more Decepticon remains to make the transport economical.
Human music plays in the background, a warble of some high-pitched instrument that grates on Prowl's sensors. A small assemblage of human soldiers have come to pay their respects, among them Lennox, but they are even less than the Autobots.
Bumblebee still hasn’t returned.
Prowl watches, spark a leaden weight in his casing, as Hound is rolled out of the warehouse on the back of a flatbed, arranged in the humans' idea of repose. The sight of his frame so still and silent is like watching him offline all over again.
Worse still is the alarmingly small shipping container that shall serve as Hound's casket. It’s smaller even than the box that confines Sunstreaker and barely big enough to hold Hound's bulky frame. Someone has messily scrawled the Autobot symbol on the outside. And recently at that, as the paint is still dripping in lurid dribbles down the rusted metal.
Optimus is the one to lift Hound's frame from the flatbed and place it inside with more care than Prowl half-expected. He doesn't know what to think anymore, not when it comes to their Prime. All of his calculations are useless; his percentages shift with each revelation.
The music ends, the half-dozen soldiers snap a salute, and the doors on the cargo container shut with a screech of metal and a dull thud. Optimus flicks the latch into place, tightens the clamps, and signals for the pulley to start reeling the container into the cargo bay of the transport. Prowl knows that from there, it will wait for other containers with similar cargo before the final trip to the ocean.
No, Prowl is completely wrong. There is no consolation to be found here at all.
The soldiers disperse. Sideswipe, at the back of the crowd, rolls away. His expression is unreadable, and he's no doubt contacting his brother over a private line. The Wreckers also disperse. Roadbuster to patrol, Leadfoot to the warehouse where he's been tinkering with Prowl's destroyed shuttle, and Topspin to recharge.
Prowl lingers, watching the transport until it is a mere speck in the distance. His emotions are so chaotic he cannot even describe them to himself. Almost as though he is numb, truth be told.
How many ways, he asks himself, has he failed Hound? Shall he add this to the list?
His processor seems stalled; messages to his motion circuits misfire. He knows he needs to move, get back to work, but the idea of returning to the diplomatic issues with their human allies makes his tanks churn. They have given so much, and yet, Mearing cannot spare a single compromise.
Optimus approaches, and for a brief, shocking moment, Prowl has the urge to turn and walk away. Almost unconsciously, his field draws tightly around his frame, not so much as a wisp escaping. His panels flatten and arch, a purely protective formation. And Prowl's horrified to realize that, for a second, his defensive subroutines has responded with autonomic precision as though considering Prime a threat.
Yet, Optimus' battlemask is withdrawn. His optics are bright, almost friendly, and there's a smile on his face. He's not being aggressive, his weapons are gone, and his energy positively buzzes.
“How are you?” Optimus asks, vocal tones rife with harmonics. They contain bare traces of the soothing tones he used to bear in abundance.
“I am functional,” Prowl replies, and he swears it sounds faint.
“It’s always hard,” Prime says, sounding in that moment, very much like his old self. “There are so few of us now. Each new loss is a fresh wound. We can take comfort, however, in knowing that the war is over. We can begin to rebuild, start anew, forming bridges between ourselves and our new human allies.”
For some reason, Prowl's processor stutters. The war is over. Why does that sound so false?
And why does he suddenly think of Blitzwing in this moment? And Astrotrain who is no doubt lingering on Earth's moon.
Blitzwing was restrained, cuffed and mobility-bound. They could’ve taken him into custody and questioned him about the remaining Decepticons. Prowl expected to hear Optimus give one of his grand speeches about the right of all beings and follow it up with giving the Decepticon the opportunity to defect if he so chose.
That Leadfoot fired a round into first Blitzwing's helm and then his spark chamber was something Prowl never expected. That Optimus wouldn’t protest seemed even more unlikely.
The war is over. They can rebuild. And all Decepticons must die apparently.
It seems logical. Dare they trust a Decepticon? Dare they risk what few lives remain on the hopes that a 'Con might legitimately defect?
Leadfoot's method, however, seems too callous. Too uncompromising. And never in all Prowl's existence serving the Autobots, has he ever seen their faction reduced to execution.
Until now.
The war is over. Megatron is offline. As are Starscream and Soundwave and Shockwave. Anyone who might be capable of uniting the Decepticons.
The Allspark is gone. They have no future.
The war is over.
Why won't that simple fact compute?
Prime though isn’t privy to his thoughts. He continues on blithely. Without care.
“For that, old friend, I will call upon your aid.” Prime lays a hand on Prowl's shoulder, as companionable as millennia past, but this time, his sensors crawl with revulsion. “We need to cement our alliance, build ourselves a home here, and I need your help.”
The lieutenant forces a smile to his face, but it droops along the edges.
“Of course, Optimus. I am here to support you. What would you have me do?”
Prime expression brightens with the sort of glee that seems incongruous to the situation. “The humans have asked for our assistance in taking down several organizations that have proven a threat. Your talents in putting together plans will cut down on their losses, and you will best know how to incorporate the Autobots into their tactics.”
Prowl reboots his audials, certain he had misheard. “You want me to plan their next battle against their own kind? And also include Autobot troops?”
“Yes.”
“That's...” Prowl struggles to formulate a response that's not overly insubordinate. “Optimus, we are not mercenaries hired out to the highest bidder. We're Autobots.”
His leader’s hand retracts. Prowl suppresses a sigh of relief.
“And as such we are dedicated to preserving life,” Prime states almost loftily. “Is it too much for our allies to ask for this assistance?”
“Yes,” Prowl responds perhaps too hastily and rushes to explain himself. “We are significantly larger than our human counterparts and better armed. We can’t be so biased as to allow ourselves to only offer aid to one portion of this planet's population. It would destroy the balance of power!”
Prime chuckles. “You are overthinking the matter, Prowl. These aren’t petty disagreements after all. These men are insurgents, terrorists even. They are a threat to the lives of countless civilians.”
“By whose definition?”
“The last thing we need, Prowl, is to start questioning our allies. If we want to gain trust we must first offer it in return.”
Prime gives him a patient look like one might a misbehaving hatchling. Or long ago, one Prowl might have given a querulous Sideswipe.
Prowl fights with himself.
“Of course,” he allows grudgingly. “I will do the best I can. When will they need a workable plan?”
“As soon as possible.” Joy returns to Prime’s energy field. “With this, we can further cement our ties to our new allies, building the foundation for a place we can call home. Thank you, Prowl.”
“Anything for the Autobot cause.”
If he sounds disinterested or skeptical, Optimus doesn't seem to notice. He simply strides away with the strut of a confidence leader, his shoulders unburdened and the future bright and charming.
Prowl feels as though he's the one standing in shadows, grasping for signs of the light, but it's nowhere to be found. How much is he going to compromise? How much will he have to surrender for Optimus' idea of their future?
What else are the humans going to demand from them? What else will he hand over? When will it end?
(On to Part Four)
(Back to Part Two)
(Master List)
