[Bay] War Without End - Prowl - Pt IV
Jun. 9th, 2013 09:16 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 IV
------------
The energy field that blasts Prowl nearly knocks him off his pedes. It’s frenzied with barely suppressed aggression, and it’s clear that Sunstreaker's two weeks spent in solitude have done no good for anyone. This was less punishment and more torture, but all of Prowl's attempts to argue the penalty fell on deaf ears and audials both.
Sunstreaker staggers out, but before Prowl can move forward, Sideswipe is there to catch his brother, whose optics are dull and his finish equally so. The last time Prowl saw Sunstreaker's paint in such disrepair was after the battle on some distant moon, and Sunstreaker barely survived getting stepped on by a gestalt.
“Easy,” Sideswipe murmurs, hand on his brother's chestplate to keep him steady. “Don't go crazy on me, bro.”
Somehow, Sunstreaker dredges up a glare for his twin.
“Kiss my aft,” he snarls.
Ah, brotherly love.
“Are you in need of energon?” Prowl questions, having learned from experience that it's best to be straightforward with Sunstreaker. Pretense never works with him.
Sideswipe snorts. “Of course, he does. He's running on fumes by now! Mearing wouldn't let him fuel up before she ordered him in there.”
Prowl ignores Sideswipe's indignation. “Sunstreaker?”
“Yeah,” he responds in a gravelly tone. “Could use a cube or two.”
Prowl pulls one out of subspace, brought along specifically for this reason, and hands it over. Leaning on his brother, the yellow mech downs half the cube in one gulp, giving credence to Sideswipe's earlier statement.
Prowl frowns. Sunstreaker probably needs an overhaul. Like the rest of them. Not that there's a medic present to do so.
“Did they do it?” the golden twin demands once he chugs down the other half and disperses the cube with a clench of his fist.
Sideswipe's orbital ridges draw together, but Prowl knows what Sunstreaker means.
“Yes,” he replies and pulls another item from his subspace, one he's been holding onto for the past week. “It was a waste of energon to try and argue otherwise. No one else had succeeded after all.”
Sunstreaker's face twisted with disgust. “Barbarians.”
“They are young and naïve, still in that stage of development ruled by arrogance,” Prowl corrects.
Sunstreaker shifts. He puts more weight on his own pedes as the energon floods his systems.
“Don't give me that slag, Prowl. They're just not afraid of us. Prime's done his best to ensure that.”
“We do not need our allies to fear us,” Prowl counters, but there’s only cold calculation. “They are capable of bringing us harm, if you do recall.”
“Tch.” Sunstreaker's engine whines, a half-sparked rev. “We should just leave. They don't want us here, and I don't want to be here.”
Sideswipe, whose optics have been darting back and forth between the two, frowns. “I'm feeling a bit left out here.”
“That's because you’re dull-witted,” Sunstreaker shoots back, but it lacks heat. He flickers his optics at his brother and shifts his gaze to Prowl. “Tell me you want to stay and I won't believe you.”
Prowl ignores the latter statement. “We are under constant surveillance. Nevertheless, I was able to obtain this for you.” He steps forward and hands over the tiny item he had procured.
It’s a small chip from Hound's spark chamber. It even still radiates a measure of the familiar feel of Hound’s spark and undoubtedly will for millennia to come. After all, it has housed Hound’s essence for countless vorns, since his very creation.
Prowl was forced to rely on programs Jazz had once given in order to sneak around the base and acquire that tiny splinter. He hadn't felt like explaining to the humans why he was doing so and was even more reluctant to ask Optimus for permission. He knew it never would’ve been granted anyway.
Sunstreaker takes the sliver, a whorl of Cybertonium alloys that glint in the sunlight, with more care than Prowl has ever seen him treat anything. The chip is tiny, barely the width of Prowl's finger, but anything larger would’ve been more difficult to acquire. Prowl himself kept Hound's Autobot marker, the same as he has for all of their fallen teammates.
It’s the only way he has to remember. To remind himself of his failures.
“Thank you,” Sunstreaker murmurs with complete and utter sincerity as he tucks the shard into a small cache he has in his armor, near to his own spark chamber.
Prowl gives a nod. He wants to do more, but he doesn’t know how.
“He would’ve wanted you to have it,” he offers instead.
“Yeah, probably. He's always been soft-sparked to the core.”
Sunstreaker's tone, however, is wistful and the frenetic whirl of his field finally settles on a blend of grief and fondness. He’s quiet for a moment then, looking out at nothing in particular before his gaze goes back to his lieutenant.
“What are we doing, Prowl?” he asks unexpectedly.
He cycles his optics. “What do you mean?”
Sunstreaker, steady on his own pedes now, stares back at him. “Prime's lost his processor. The humans are walking all over us. Hound's gone. What the frag are we doing, Prowl? Where do we go from here?”
“Go? We go nowhere.” Prowl shifts, sensory panels flattening against his back. “We are Autobots, and Optimus is our Prime. There is nothing else.”
“Now that's downright depressing,” Sideswipe says, a poor attempt at a joke. “All this time, fighting and surviving, and this is our reward? A berth of concrete, oily energon, and the disdain of our allies. Why… it's just like old times.”
“With all due respect, that's a slag-poor plan,” Sunstreaker adds, frown deepening.
Prowl shakes his helm. His processor is starting to ache.
“Leaving is not an option. Where would we go?”
“Ratchet's out there somewhere,” Sideswipe offers, and there’s a playful tint to his tone that isn’t entirely real.
Prowl looks at him. “You want to be a Decepticon, is that it?”
“Never said that!” Sideswipe slams to a halt and whirls around. “Primus, Prowl. I'm an Autobot. Always will be. And so is Ratchet.”
Prowl merely tilts his head. His demeanor is calm, but he inside churn.
“And yet, he isn’t here.”
Sunstreaker huffs. “Can you blame him?” One wobbling arm gestures to the ramshackle warehouses that serve as their home. “Take a look around, Prowl. There's nothing here for us. Nothing.”
Prowl's helm dips. “You would abandon the Autobots and join forces with known Decepticons then? It’s a simple matter to you?”
“Hey. Sunny never said that,” Sideswipe protests, and he’s almost angry now. “And neither did I. We're just saying, you know, something's not quite right here.”
“Besides,” Sunstreaker retorts and gives his brother a push despite how much he's wobbling. “Leaving Prime and joining the Decepticons are not the same thing.”
Sideswipe nods, but there’s a shadow to his face. A darkening to the blue of his optics. He shares a look with his brother.
“We're Autobots,” he says very softly. “We made that choice. And we're sticking to it.”
Prowl isn’t sure he believes either of them.
o0o0o
Sideswipe's words haunt him.
Prowl tries to bury the implications in the depths of his processor and focus only his work, the task Optimus has given him. It's significantly easier to plan a course of action regarding the humans and their enemies. Incorporating the Autobots doesn't complicate matters much, though there are precious few to assign.
He still loathes the idea of this. He finds it unprincipled and a waste of the Autobots' time and energy. There are still Decepticons out there after all. Not to mention their lack of a permanent residence.
The task must be done, however, and Prowl bends himself to it. Despite the discomfort of his makeshift office, the noise of the warehouse, and the nagging thoughts that hover on the edge of his concentration. He hasn't had a solid defrag since landing on this planet, and Prowl despairs of ever acquiring one. Not here in this noisy warehouse, that's for certain.
He can't shut down properly. Too much noise, too much movement. His sensors go haywire; he feels surrounded by threats, and his systems won't cycle down. Sunstreaker's confinement hadn’t helped matters, though Prowl is hardly of the sort to ask the warrior to guard his recharge. He’s starting to suspect though that this may be his only option.
The sound of a human clearing his throat pulls him from his musings a minute later. He looks down, identifying the visitor with little surprise.
“You are here for the first draft, I presume?” Prowl asks, watching as William effortlessly climbs several stacks of supplies until he is more or less at optics level. This suggests familiarity, a task that the colonel has done time and time again.
Considering that this is all that remains of Ratchet's medcorner, perhaps William spent more time than he is admitting in Ratchet's company.
William rolls his shoulders. “It's not my gig, so I guess some lackey will come by soon enough for it.”
Prowl considers that.
“Is there another reason for your visit?” he inquires and is honestly curious.
“It's not official. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” The colonel makes himself comfortable on the crate. “I don't see you in the field like I do the others.”
Prowl inclines his helm. “I’m primarily a tactician. I’m not often needed on the frontlines. Although with our limited personnel, that is likely to change in the future.”
“The future?” William draws up a leg to balance his arm across it. “As in, more battles? But the war's over.”
“There are still Decepticons on this planet. Your latest intelligence puts the estimates at approximately thirty.” Prowl turns back toward his assortment of datapads, selecting one on his far left. “My calculations put that number closer to fifty.”
The discrepancies are only because Prowl is taking into account the number of Decepticons that are still hiding on the moon, like Astrotrain currently is and Blitzwing was earlier. Surely, not all of them had hopped Sentinel's space bridge, and others may have arrived as well.
William lets out a slow whistle. “That's not good.”
Prowl's intakes rattle, and he pauses to contemplate the noise. He could probably use a comprehensive flush. He isn't receiving any system-wide errors. To be fair, he hasn't seen a medic since Hoist was killed in a surprise bombing.
Their first encounter upon leaving Cybertron resulted in a full third of Prowl's crew offlining, his medic the very first to fall. In retrospect, he should have taken that incident as a sign of the sparkbreak and grief to come.
“By now, they must be desperate for energy,” Prowl finally replies, again shuffling his datapads. “It will make them reckless. We should be able to locate them easier.”
The colonel studies him then. His optics – eyes – are small but full of emotion.
“Locate and destroy, you mean,” he clarifies.
Prowl shifts before he can stop himself. “If they will not lay down arms and comply, yes.”
The human scratches the side of his nose. His demeanor is strange. Almost hesitant. Like Ironhide when he wanted to say something but had thought the better of it at the last click.
“You... uh... haven't been reading all of the reports, have you?”
William's reluctance gives reason for Prowl to once more study the human.
“I have assimilated the details of every report Optimus has given me and those I’ve found on the servers at this base.” He leans forward very slightly. “Why do you ask?”
William rises to his feet, as though he doesn't wish to say this while sitting. “Prime's not been giving the Decepticons a chance to surrender. Mearing doesn't want to threaten human lives, and he concurs.”
That brings Prowl up short.
Blitzwing's execution wasn’t been a fluke?
Primus, why are the reports so incomplete? It's as though Optimus is trying to hide the truth. Ratchet's so-called defection, the burials of the fallen, and now the fate of any located Decepticons.
Prowl has never held much faith in the possibility of Decepticons truly defecting, save for a select few. He's found it harder and harder over the years to not take the war personally, but to not give them the opportunity… It is a distinctly un-Prime-like choice. More like Optimus’s brother in fact.
And isn’t that a chilling line of thought in and of itself? That Optimus is acting so much like Megatron?
Another tick mark adds itself to the growing list in Prowl's processor. All the ways that Optimus has changed. All the decisions he's made that hold no logic or seem counter-productive.
“I see.” Prowl sets his pad down, flattening his hand on the top of the crate. “What of arriving Decepticons?”
William won’t look at him at all.
“We have a pretty good defense net now,” he explains without really explaining. “Unless Prime can positively identify Autobots, Mearing doesn't take any chances.”
A puff of frost races down Prowl's backstruts. Lack of evidence is not evidence of lack. And vice versa. Not having an Autobot signal doesn’t mean that they aren’t Autobots.
“Have we suffered any Autobot casualties as a result of this?” he questions, voice pained.
William breathes out. “As far as we know, not yet.”
A small comfort. For all they know the next arrival will be hiding aboard a Decepticon spacecraft or will be disguised him as a Decepticon for the sake of survival. What if they are unable to transmit Autobot codes as they enter Earth's atmosphere?
Prowl and Sunstreaker are slagging lucky they weren’t shot straight out of the sky upon their harried descent. And that their signal was stronger than Blitzwing’s, for that matter.
“I will speak with Optimus,” Prowl says, returning his attention to his datapads. “We are few and cannot afford to lose any one else. Especially not to a mistake that could be prevented.”
The human makes a wordless noise of agreement in his throat. “You'll have to convince Mearing, too.”
Prowl's sensory panels twitch. It’s a tell. One that any mech who truly knew him would be able to recognize. But on this planet, the essentially meant Sunstreaker and perhaps his brother.
“I will factor that into my calculations,” he offers.
“Might be a good idea to set up some kind of beacon, too,” William suggests. “There are plenty of remote areas in the United States where human casualties would either be at a minimum or nonexistent.”
A beacon. The colonel has a point. Even if it drew Decepticon and Autobot alike, with the minimized casualties, Prowl wouldn’t have to work so hard to convince Mearing.
“Excellent suggestion,” Prowl acknowledges. “I shall start searching for an appropriate location immediately.”
William dusts off his hands and approaches the edge of the crate. “Good luck. I'd suggest North Dakota, but honestly, who the frag wants to go there?”
Prowl only half-watches as the human nimbly climbs back down, once again proving a sense of familiarity. The rest of Prowl's concentration is reserved for assimilating the new data William has provided, adding it to a file that's growing with disturbing speed. He also diverts a portion of his processing to the colonel's suggestion. Frankly, it's surprising that Optimus hasn’t thought of a beacon already.
Then again, Prime hasn't seemed to spare much time for rational thought as of late.
o0o0o
Prowl's world settles into a routine.
A dull routine to be truthful but a relatively peaceful one. If he doesn't count the infrequent Decepticon sightings, immediately followed by a prompt dispatch of Autobots and NEST agents. Only once does Prowl accompany them on such a mission.
After watching the humans flush out the obviously under-energized mech and then witnessing Roadbuster run him down and put a laser through his spark, Prowl hasn’t the interest in attending another. Offlining an enemy in the midst of battle is one thing. These feel too much like executions, and Prowl's logic circuits most certainly do not approve.
Luckily, Optimus prefers him on base, accessible, hooked into the human's database and working on upwards of thirty scenarios at any given time. Not to mention his usual duties involve in assisting Mearing and maintaining their supplies, a task which was once Ratchet's.
Days pass. And then weeks.
There is no sign of their medic. No other arrivals, Autobot or Decepticon, and even Mearing has backed off from her outrageous requests.
Leadfoot has managed to engineer a solar collector, one that harvests barely enough for a small cube of energon daily, but it's better than what they refine from natural fuels. Honestly, Prowl doesn't remember what real energon tastes like. He's survived on battle rations for so long, he doesn't think he could process anything more.
Dino spends a lot of time staring up at the sky, especially at night. Searching the stars and waiting – hoping – for some kind of sign from his brother.
Sideswipe is Sideswipe. Sunstreaker, while refusing to warm to this planet and its inhabitants, hasn’t caused any obvious trouble. It's almost a miracle. Prowl actually finds Sunstreaker's good behavior to be unsettling. But trying to explain that to someone else only results in baffled looks.
Routine, he supposes, is a good thing. Peace is much better than war, but Prowl can't shake the feeling something's not-quite-right. He cannot relax. He cannot settle. He feels as though he’s waiting for the next assault.
Speaking with Prime does nothing to allay his disquietude. If Prowl were a different mech, he might admit that instead, Optimus' presence seems to exacerbate his unease.
Speak of the Prime...
Optimus registers on his sensors long before he announces himself, and Prowl carefully saves his current work on the off-chance Optimus requires that he leave his makeshift office. It doesn’t happen often, but with their leader as of late, there’s a first time for everything. Prowl can no longer accurately anticipate what he will do.
“Are you busy?” Prime's field is curious, expression open and teasing.
Prowl's sensory panels hike higher. “No busier than I am at any given time,” he responds truthfully. “Has something happened?”
“No.” Prime wanders around the tiny space that Prowl has attempted to make his own with limited success. He simply doesn't have the supplies or the means for a proper office. “I do have another assignment for you to look over, however.”
Inwardly, Prowl groans. Not another favor for the humans? He is quite weary of sending his Autobots out as though they are hired thugs.
“Of course.”
Prime circles back toward him and offers a data pad. “This may be unsettling at first, but rest assured, it’s in everyone's best interest.”
The unease grows. Something unfurls talons in his tanks and claws at the inside.
Prowl powers on the pad and scans the contents. Only for his spark to stutter, ice slushing through his lines.
“Are you... I cannot...” Prowl shakes his head. “Optimus, you surely do not mean for us to go through with this?”
Prime noisily lets out air and clasps his wrists behind his frame. “Unfortunately, yes. Director Mearing brings up a valid point. While we may be uncertain of Ratchet's motives, the Decepticons are clearly a threat.”
“It's been half a year,” Prowl argues. “We have seen no trace of Ratchet or the Seekers. They haven’t attacked nor had we heard any rumors of mysterious thefts. How do we even know they are still on-planet?”
Prime brushes aside his words easily. “How could they have left? Not even we are capable of that at the moment.”
Prowl presses his lipplates together; he fights to keep his panels from retracting. Prime means for them to hunt down Ratchet, Drift, and the Seekers. Despite the fact they have confirmed nothing about Ratchet's motivations. Hunt them down and no doubt execute them to the last spark. Just as they have all the Decepticons hiding out on Earth. Regardless of what they were doing at the time.
“We have no evidence that they are a threat,” Prowl states, hoping that his Prime will see reason. “More so, I wouldn’t have any idea where to begin. I am still unfamiliar with this planet.”
Prime unlocks an arm and taps the datapad with one finger. “I don't intend for you to produce results immediately, Prowl. I'm only looking for a plan of action.”
Prowl's processor glitches. He’s torn between two directives. His need to protect fellow Autobots versus his drive to obey his Prime. Ratchet is an Autobot, and Prowl still can’t fathom a reason that he would willingly abandon them and become a Decepticon. He has always been one of the most loyal members of their inner circle, trusted to the core, Prime's personal medic.
How the Seekers got to him, manipulated him, Prowl is determined to find out. He wants answers. Yes, he would like to find Ratchet and the others. But not like this. There's no sign of intent to capture or interrogate. It’s simple search and destroy.
Prowl's fingers tighten around the pad, drawing it closer to his frame. He stares at the uncompromising lines of text.
“And when I find them?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.
“We will deal with them accordingly.”
What does that even mean?
Prowl ex-vents, tucking the datapad away so that he no longer has to look at it. His tank roils, and his cortex sends sharp jabs into his motor functions.
“Optimus, are you certain of this course of action?” he inquires and glances up at his leader, his Prime. His friend.
Prime tilts his helm. “The Seekers present a danger to human populaces. It’s important that we locate them.”
“Yes, that is only logical. However...” Prowl draws in a heavy intake. “Are you certain that Earth is where we should remain? That it is the best option for us, as Autobots?”
Prime flickers his optics. There is genuine confusion on his face. As if he can’t fathom why Prowl is unhappy here. Why he doesn’t like their treatment by the humans. Why he doesn’t approve of hunting down his friends.
“You do not approve?” Prime asks in return, still puzzled.
But there is an odd glow to his optics, an off tilt to his helm. A tightening of his mouth at the corners. A foreboding expression that isn’t like Prime at all and more resembles his brother.
It’s even more unnerving than being told to hunt down Ratchet.
“I am only concerned,” Prowl hastily corrects.
Far be it from him to approve or disapprove. Optimus, after all, has the matrix. He has been chosen by Primus himself. Surely, he knows what is best.
Surely.
“The humans don’t seem to like or trust us despite the events of the past five years,” the lieutenant explains further. “I merely worry that their tolerance for our presence will reach its limit sooner rather than later.”
“They are a young species,” Optimus agrees, and suddenly, he looks more like himself. Once again clasping a hand to Prowl's shoulder. “But I’m convinced of their hospitality. They have a right to be wary, suspicious even, which is why we must do everything in our power to be honest and forthright with them. To better cement our alliance and strengthen our ties.”
Prowl isn’t convinced. For all intents and purposes, Mearing is not willing to allow any possible defectors to live. Or anyone not completely with her for that matter. She grudgingly accepts the arrival of new Autobots and seems all too eager to destroy any others. All attempts on Prowl's part to contact someone higher in the American government have been thwarted, and he strongly suspects that should Prime learn of Prowl's efforts, he wouldn’t approve.
“Then perhaps you could convince Mearing to let us build a more permanent base,” Prowl pushes on. “The Decepticons are no longer a threat, and there are many sparsely populated areas on this planet where we could make a home.”
“All in good time, old friend.” Optimus squeezes his shoulder, field flaring with approval. “We still have much work to do until then.”
Prowl's sensory panels twitch. He takes a step backward, Prime's hand sliding away. Much to his relief.
“I understand,” he says, careful to keep his tone neutral. “I will begin analyzing this data at once. I should have a draft ready by the end of the week.”
“Excellent. I'll look forward to it then.”
Optimus leaves. Prowl doesn't watch him go.
It strikes him then that he honestly doesn't know what Prime spends most of the day doing. Recharge is obvious. He also participates in several missions regarding discovered Decepticons. Prowl has seen him in meetings with Mearing and other members of the government from time to time. But there are also times when Prowl doesn't know what Prime is doing or where.
That is… worrisome.
o0o0o
When the alarms go off, Prowl is startled. He disengages from several datapads and rockets to his pedes.
An attack?
He edges out of his tiny cubicle, scanners detecting the many humans who scurry about as busy as always. None of them look particularly frightened or alarmed, but the sirens keep blaring.
“Energon detectors have activated in Sector Fourteen,” a monotonous tone announces over the PA system. “Autobots Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Leadfoot, report to ops immediately. Repeat: Energon detectors have activated in Sector Fourteen. Autobots Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Leadfoot report to ops immediately.”
This can't be another matter of a Decepticon sighting. They don't bother to announce those with such urgency. Most of the time, Prowl doesn't even learn until after the fact.
Prowl hurries to ops, another warehouse located in the near-center of the base. The bay doors are wide open, and no one spares him a glance as he hurries to enter. Soldiers shout to each other, back and forth, across their assigned stations. Optimus is already inside, near to the main screens. One of the three sections show a location marked on a map, the second a live feed from Director Mearing's office, and the third appears to be video footage, obviously amateur, of two aircraft in the sky.
No. Not just any aircraft. Those are Cybertronians, their forms distinctly non-human in design, and one of them even has a large glyph painted on his plating. The first appears to be Seeker class, definitely warrior in origin, but the other is a flyer of a different frame type. Not Vosian. Perhaps Tarn.
“--answers, and I want them now!” Mearing's shrill demand pierces Prowl's audials.
He hurries toward the main console and screen, next to Optimus, and tries to take stock of the situation. Clearly, the two bots on the screen are the reason they've been summoned.
“I do apologize,” Optimus replies to Mearing. “We have received no indication of new arrivals in the past month. Nor has our system detected any unauthorized landings.”
The human woman's face twists with irritation. “They had to have come from somewhere, Prime. Maybe your defense net isn’t as secure as you think it is.”
Prowl's gaze whips toward his leader. Surely, he's not going to allow her to speak to him like that?
“There are many possible explanations,” his Optimus concedes, making a vague gesture with his hand. “I'll assign someone to look at the grid. Right now, however, we should consider our handling of these mechs.”
Mearing makes a disdainful noise. “Autobots or Decepticons? And make it quick. Because my boss has twitchy fingers, and they're getting closer to civilian populations.”
Optimus shifts, glancing down at Prowl. “Do you recognize either of them?”
It takes a longer second than is logical for Prowl to stir from his shock. He shakes his helm.
“Not at first glance.”
He steps closer to the screen, peering at the wobbling image and trying to make sense of the highly pixelated video capture. The two mechs on screen don't appear to be engaged in combat nor do they seem to have a destination. Their speed and pattern gives the suggestion of a pleasure flight, perhaps even an element of flirtation. Not that Prowl is all that educated on the peculiarities of flight-based mechs.
“The picture quality is too poor for a positive identification, Director,” Optimus explains.
Behind them, Leadfoot strolls in with the other Wreckers on his heels. “It's pretty fraggin' obvious, isn't it, Prime? They have to be Decepticons.”
“How would you know?” Mearing accuses, one finger adjusting the bridge of her glasses further up her nose.
Leadfoot forces a rev through his engine. “Autobots don't fly.”
“Not entirely accurate,” Prowl corrects before Mearing can get it in her head to start shooting and stop asking questions. “While the majority of us are ground vehicles and most Decepticons came from flight-class castes, there are exceptions on both sides of the faction lines.”
Mearing huffs. “Are they or aren't they, Prime? I've got better things to do than debate this all day.”
Prowl diverts more of his processing power in an attempt to identify the mechs. They aren't of Silverbolt's gestalt. Of that, he is certain. The Aerialbots are the only Autobot Seekers for that matter. At least, the only ones still thought functioning. Which means one of them is a Decepticon and the other must be by default.
Except...
Prowl's optics cycle wider. “Freeze that image,” he barks out, overriding whatever anyone else is saying. “Can you define the quality at all?”
“I can try,” the soldier at the console says.
Prowl doesn't miss the way he subtly edges away from the Cybertronians in the room either. His stress pheromones have spiked considerably. Perhaps the poor human should consider a career change.
“Prowl?” Optimus prompts.
He vents carefully. “One of them is a Decepticon. You can see his insignia on his wings when he banks left or right. The other...”
The paused image on screen magnifies by thirty percent and then clarifies. The darker Seeker, Decepticon insignia's bright purple on his wing tips, is quickly identified as a warrior class. Maybe even once under Starscream's command. The other though isn’t a Seeker. He's not even a Decepticon.
There's only one Autobot Prowl can recall with a frame similar to a Seeker's but whose base support is actually built upon a ground frame. Tracks' caretakers were high class, as high as Mirage, and only wanted the best, the most unique for their Allsparked heir. They wanted him to have the best of both worlds without all the twitchy coding that having a Seeker frame required. Tracks is a triple-changer in everything but name.
--Dino, report to ops,-- Prowl orders over a private comm.
If anyone can confirm Tracks' identity, it is Dino. Standard education for Towers bots required that they be aware of anyone at or above their station.
Dino's response is less than subordinate. --I'm scheduled for recharge right now.--
When the frag did they start scheduling recharge times?
Prowl frowns, orbital ridges flattening. --This will only take a moment.--
--I suppose.--
If it were possible to transmit resignation across a comm, Dino manages it. There is also evidence of a Sunstreaker-class sulk. Sometimes, Dino is a Towers’ mech to the core.
Prowl turns back to the others.
“The other is an Autobot,” he finishes, and the prickles of Prime and Mearing's stares are annoying against his armor. “If I am correct, his designation is Tracks.”
He doesn’t voice the obvious question. Such as, what in the name of Cybertron is Tracks doing with a Decepticon?
The soldier returns the image back to a real-time feed. The two mechs are still flying together, either unaware that they are being observed or not caring. The Decepticon tips left and right in midair. His wings waggle at Tracks, who does an acrobatic loop and cuts through a thick cloud.
The image fizzles in and out. Static and low-quality worsen the view.
“Surveillance drone has been dispatched,” a female soldier announces. “ETA, five minutes.”
At least, they'll be able to get a clearer view. Perhaps the Decepticon will have a designation etched in the glyphs on his wings. Some of the older Seekers do.
“Why is an Autobot flying with a Decepticon?” Mearing demands. “Is he another traitor?”
Prowl's sensory panels stiffen, now arched high behind his shoulders.
“We don't--”
“Director Mearing,” another human interrupts. “They’re approaching Spokane. At their present speed, they’ll be over populations within ten minutes.”
Her eyes narrow, fingers rapping noisily on her desk. Her chair squeaks as she leans to the side, free hand grasping the phone to her left.
“I'm calling in air support.”
“That may be wise,” Optimus concedes and inclines his head. There’s a subtle shift to his stance then.
Prowl's vocalizer glitches, words failing him and emerging as discombobulated clicks. Behind him, Dino stomps into ops, field a whirl of irritation and fatigue.
“Well?” But his gaze shoots past both of his superiors to the shaky camera footage. “Oh. Is that Tracks?”
Prowl's shoulders slump. “That is my assumption, yes. One that you confirmed.”
“What the frag is he doing with a Decepticon?” Dino scowls.
“That's what I want to know,” Mearing snaps, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. “Clearly, both of them are a threat.”
“Drone is now within scanning distance,” a technician announces, remarkably calm for all of the madness going on above his head and on the screen. “Police have been dispatched to clear citizens from the area.”
Meaning whoever is supplying this shaky cell-phone footage is about to find themselves escorted from the scene. All the better. The less chance of human casualties,. The more likely Mearing will listen to reason, however small that chance might be.
The image onscreen switches from the cell footage to shots taken by the much more advanced surveillance drone. Prowl's suspicions prove accurate as identifying glyphs are now visible on the Seeker’s wings, just below his faction symbols. Dreadwing. It isn’t a designation familiar to Prowl, but he supposes it doesn’t matter to Mearing or Optimus. All that matters is his faction.
“I don’t know the circumstances of their arrival on this planet, but the fact that they haven’t attempted to make contact with us is telling,” Prime offers gravely. “We have made no secret of our own location after all.”
“That's hardly cause to shoot them out of the sky,” Prowl counters, forcing his vocalizer to work, trying to reason with madness.
Prime doesn't even glance in his direction. “It’s cause for suspicion, and that is reason enough for me.”
“Optimus, he's an Autobot!”
Prowl's vocals are resounding, surprising himself with their volume. The sheer contention in his tone.
Prime doesn’t flinch, nor falter. Not even at his second-in-command's unusual behavior.
“One knowingly associating with a Decepticon.”
Prowl's hands curl into trembling fists. His sensory panels hike up higher than he can ever remember keeping them.
“Dreadwing may be a defector,” he argues. “We can’t preclude that possibility.”
“Nor can we take that risk.” Prime gestures toward the screen with a casual flick of his wrist. “They are over civilian populations.”
“Shooting them down is no safer than letting them be,” Prowl insists, energy field swelling, unable to be contained. “We must at least attempt to contact them. Tracks has always proven himself loyal. We have to give him the benefit of the doubt!”
“Tch.” Leadfoot's mouth components twist with a sneer, one pede stomping the ground. “He's a Towers mech. You can't trust them any further than you can throw them.”
Dino gives the Wrecker a sidelong glare. “I have been nothing but loyal.” He crosses his arms over his chassis.
“Don't see where you have much of a choice right now,” Roadbuster retorts.
He steps up beside his fellow Wrecker, and Topspin quickly joins him. The three glare heatedly at Dino, whose plates clamp tightly to his frame.
“Enough,” Prime orders, tone harsh and sharp, cutting through the tension. “We are not questioning anyone's loyalties at this time.”
Prowl shakes his helm. “Yes, we are. There’s an Autobot out there, right now, and you are suggesting that we fire upon him!”
Prime's optics cycle down, energy field heavy and suppressing.
“Prowl,” he admonishes. “We are no longer in a position where our assessment of risk is the tipping point. We must consider the safety of the humans above all else.”
What about them? What about their own kind? Are they worth less than the thousands upon millions upon billions of humans infesting this planet? Less than beings who slaughter each other callously and without thought or care daily?
Helplessness rises up and crashes over Prowl in pounding waves. All he can see is Hound's faceplate in front of him, the flickering optics, the faltering ventilations.
“It’s a war, old friend,” Optimus intones, his voice gentling by any definition but Prowl's own. “Sometimes, sacrifices must be made.”
He turns back to the screen. Turns his back to Prowl and all the other Autobots in the room.
“Director Mearing, if you wish to preserve human life, the time to fire is now.”
Mearing sits back in her chair. Her face is a mask, but Prowl can see the triumph in her eyes.
“I'm three steps ahead of you. Raptors are inbound and will make contact in less than a minute.”
She was going to fire anyway. No matter what Optimus said, Mearing intended to shoot down those mechs from the beginning. Questioning Optimus was a formality.
And he's allowing it. Continues to allow it. Doesn't even call her on the lie.
Prowl stares, aghast. “Optimus...”
He’s powerless as the Decepticon on-screen suddenly yaws to the right. Perhaps his sensors are keener than those of Tracks, and he has already detected the danger. Tracks startles and veers in the opposite directions, and a mere half-second later, a missile explodes between them.
The two whip around to face their attackers, but strangely, they don’t fire back. They evade with maneuvers acrobatic enough to make Powerglide deeply envious. Work in a tandem that suggests they have flown together for quite some time.
And then, Tracks miscalculates. He swings around to avoid one jet, only to head straight for a trap, a cross-fire.
Prowl's tanks lurch. His spark flutters. His hands curl into fists.
No. Not again. He can't stand here and watch another Autobot offline.
Weapons fire from somewhere off-screen lights up the transmission. One of the jets goes down in a hail of laserfire but not before the human pilot ejects safely. Another jet careens away, spewing heavy smoke.
The human chatter becomes background noise to Prowl's audials. His every focus is on the screen. This new arrival Prowl knows, both from the files Optimus gave him, and because he's spent many a battle accounting for this Seeker's unusual talent.
Skywarp.
He appears in the footage briefly, flitting in and out of the tiny battle. He easily evades the human jets and shoots them down one by one. Not a single pilot fails to eject, Prowl clinically notes. But then, as suddenly as he appears, Skywarp is gone again.
Tracks and Dreadwing bump wing-tips, a gesture that suggests reassurance. Familiarity. Companionship.
Warning sirens shriek through ops from the surveillance drone itself. There's a flash of bright light, and then, the live feed goes dark and staticky.
Skywarp took out the drone.
Mearing's shouting now. Demanding that someone give her answers, get eyes back on the scene. More aircraft are dispatched. Prime asks the Wreckers to investigate, see what they can find.
And William is looking up at Prowl with something akin to pity. Although that doesn't make much sense at all.
“Prowl, I'm going to need you on this,” Prime says, his vocals muffled and staticky in his lieutenant’s audials. “Possible trajectories, intentions, base locations, anything you can give me with the available data.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies on automatic. But the rest of the world is dim, seen through a veil, a haze of utter loss.
“If anyone dies, Optimus, I'm blaming you,” Director Mearing threatens, fingernails rapping on her desk. “This is what you're here for.”
“We will stop them,” Prime replies gravely.
Prowl turns on a pede and flees. No one either notices or cares. Prime probably assumes he's rushing to his office. Rushing to compile and collate and devise a means to track down their fellow Cybertronians.
Outside, the air seems no fresher, the atmosphere no lighter. Something dark and nagging clings to Prowl's spark. His tanks lurch again and again, and the thought of returning to his makeshift office, to the uncomfortable crates and stacks of datapads, makes something inside physically recoil. Wind whips across his frame, and only then does he notice how much his armor has clamped down, protecting him on reflexive impulse.
He needs... He can’t...
Distance.
Prowl turns away from ops and the main warehouse where his office sits surrounded by assigned recharge zones and a makeshift medcorner. He just needs a moment to himself.
o0o0o
“Ratchet tried to argue with Prime once, too,” William says.
Prowl startles. He hadn't realized he was followed. He now stands on the distant edges of their base, between two light posts, where it's dark and silent. Then again, human bodies are so much quieter than the hissing pistons and hydraulics of a Cybertronian.
He looks down at the colonel. But William’s gaze is focused elsewhere, his words almost nonchalant.
“He wanted to at least give the Decepticons a chance to surrender,” the human continues, voice strangely soft. “He kept hoping that maybe this peace could actually be peaceful. And I think every time we shot a 'Con out of the sky, something broke in him.”
Prowl studies him. “What are you saying, William?”
The colonel finally looks up. “You don't have to tell me. I can see it. The doubt. The hesitation. You don't know what to do. What to believe in anymore.”
Prowl feels himself freeze. It’s like William has glimpsed into his very processor. An odd sensation indeed.
“Is that what Ratchet told you?” he poses, but his thoughts are reeling.
The human’s shoulders lift and then drop. “Most of it I figured out for myself. Some of it, I made him tell me. It's what Hide would’ve wanted.”
This is yet another example of his familiarity with Ironhide. Had his old comrade really formed such a close bond with an organic? It seems so farfetched, and yet, having met this particular human, it also isn’t.
Prowl watches William for a long moment. Looks at his posture, the tilt of his head, the shadows in his eyes.
“Did he tell you he was defecting?” he asks, and it is softer now. Voice pitched low.
William’s gaze sharpens. His mouth becomes a flat, grim line.
“Ratchet is not a defector. Or a Decepticon.” He makes an emphatic gesture. “He's an Autobot.”
Prowl's vents are stuttered and exasperated. “Then why did he leave with them?” he all but demand but stops himself from saying more.
William sighs.
“He couldn't do it anymore. If I had to guess.” William sighs a second time and drops his gaze, running a hand over his hair. “Betrayal is a double-edged sword, and Prime struck the first blow.”
Words fail Prowl. He simply stares. It’s all he can do.
After all this time of William claiming nothing, all of the sudden he has a keen insight into what Ratchet had been thinking. Why he had done what he did.
But it seems William can read Prowl just as well. Even without any words.
“Do you know why I'm telling you this now? Why I waited?” he questions, and his eyes are far too keen.
Prowl's mouth components work, but his vocalizer produces no sound. He shakes his helm.
“It's because I know what you're thinking,” William replies and turns his entire body to face Prowl, unafraid despite having to look up several feet. “I know you're thinking that you've reached your limit. I know that leaving has crossed your mind. Even if you know you have nowhere to go.”
His sensory panels flatten against his back. He feels his optics flicker. Once. Then again.
“Are you attempting to stop me?”
It’s almost harsh now, and really, when did he lose control of himself? When did he become so emotional? Is this what their Prime has wrought? Is this what happens after so much loss? After Jazz and Hound and everything else?
“Not my place.” The colonel’s lips curl with a bitter grin. “All I'm gonna say is that North Dakota is nice this time of year. And that third shift change is just before dawn. In case, you know, you feel the need to inspect the troops or something.”
His tone is flippant and doesn’t match his words.
Prowl stares at him again.
“Why are you assisting me?” the lieutenant asks, but before the last syllable passes his vocalizer, he suspects he already knows how the human will answer.
And he is right.
The colonel looks up at him, eyes haunted by an emotion that Prowl has seen all too often. And most recently in Sunstreaker's optics.
“It's what Hide would do, and I owe it to him to see this to the end.” His hands go into his pockets, and he rolls his shoulders. “Whatever that end might be.”
Prowl's frame slumps. “How can I abandon the Autobots? How can I even consider turning my back on my Prime?”
It isn’t so much a question as a demand. From William. From himself.
“I can't answer that,” William replies, shaking his head and turning back to the night sky and the multitude of stars. “But I do know that you wouldn't even be considering it without good reason.”
He is right, of course, but that doesn’t make Prowl's contemplations any easier to bear. He feels like a traitor, and his loyalty codes are giving his processor fits. He took the coding upon himself willingly long ago, and it has become fragmented over time, but still...
Betrayal is a double-edged sword.
Can he really consider Prime’s behavior the first blow?
Prowl hangs his helm, hand lifting to touch the small compartment on his right hip. More than a half-dozen Autobot sigils rest inside. Sometimes, if he concentrates, he can still detect faint flickers of those who once carried them. Right now though, Hound's is the only one still strong enough to sense through the metal.
Optimus let Hound offline when he could have been saved. He allowed one of his mechs to die at the whims of their so-called allies. Should that not have been his first clue?
But is it enough?
“Sometimes,” William says, and it's so soft that Prowl has to dial up his audials to actually hear him. “You can't fix things. Sometimes, there’s no cure or miracle. Sometimes... giving up is the only option left.”
He looks at Prowl for a moment longer. Searching his face for something, but Prowl isn’t certain what. Finally, William gives a simple nod and leaves.
Prowl can only track his footsteps, the crackle of heavy boots over gravel. He says nothing else. He can’t even offer the human his gratitude.
o0o0o
Prowl doesn't stir until dawn is a mere fifteen minutes away. It’s taken him all night to come to a conclusion, and he still isn't certain it is the best path to take.
It is, however, the path he’s going to choose.
He has no belongings, nothing that he considers of value. Anything he cannot bear to lose is either attached to his frame or something he can't bring along.
Sunstreaker is going to be furious. Something that Prowl muses over as he sticks to the shadows and quietly makes his escape. He's using the same path he'd taken before. That one disastrous attempt to seek Ratchet alone, which now seems so long ago.
William is right. Shift change at dawn is the best time to slip into the silence with no one the wiser.
He should’ve said goodbye, Prowl thinks, staying in his root mode for now as it is quieter than the engine of his alt-mode. He wants to draw as little attention to himself, so he pulls in his energy field, puts his systems on silent mode, and even powers down the glow of his optics. All neat little tricks Jazz taught him once upon a time. When they were both young and foolish, flush with finding a kindred spark despite their differences of class and make.
Perhaps though on his way to North Dakota, Prowl can take a detour. He can swing to the East Coast, pay his respects to all the Autobot brethren left to rust beneath the ocean.
And there's a strange sensation in his chassis, as though several layers of grit have been washed away. His pedes are lighter; his spark is less constricted.
What he’s doing, Prowl's not really sure. He's leaving. He's going to find Ratchet. He's going to find answers. He's going to do... something.
Prowl will figure it out when he gets there. Just as Jazz would if this were his plan, and maybe that’s why the lack of knowing is strangely comfortable. Prowl planned. Jazz improvised. Together, they’d been nigh unstoppable. Now, Prowl will have to do it for both of them.
But for now, he's going to drive. Put rubber to the asphalt, feel the wind over his plates, and try not to let the weight of the world drag him down. Only if for the drive.
The sun starts to rise, turning the horizon a wash of pinks and oranges that are caused by pollutants in the atmosphere. Yet still considered beautiful. Strange how these humans think.
In the silence, Prowl hears an engine rumble. He pauses, turns around, and can't decide if he's surprised or not by the fact Sunstreaker is less than a block behind him. If Prowl is going to slip by the human's security net without being caught, he'll have to make this quick.
Sunstreaker shifts out of his alt-mode, optics focused on Prowl alone.
“I knew I'd find you here,” he says, rocking on his wheeled pedes just as his brother does. “You're leaving.”
It’s a statement. Not an accusation.
“Yes.”
The warrior huffs and flickers his optics. “I'd ask why, but I can already guess.” His voice is an odd mix of exasperation and fondness, but then, it goes cold. “It's not right. It hasn't been since we got here, and I don't think it's ever gonna be right.”
Prowl closes the distance between them. One hand goes on Sunstreaker's shoulder plating and rejoices in the fact Sunstreaker doesn’t flinch from him. The trust between them remains.
“No, it’s not, but it’s better that I go. I can’t stay here. You and I both know that.”
Sunstreaker lets out a gust of air, but he doesn’t shake off Prowl’s hand. Instead, he leans into the touch. Still reacting to the novelty of a mech not his brother who would burn worlds for him.
Prowl gives his shoulder a squeeze. “I couldn’t have asked for a better partner,” he admits because it needs to be said and Sunstreaker needs to hear it. Especially now.
The smile he receives could hardly be counted as one, but considering the state of grief and anger that's been hovering over both of them, he’ll take what he can get.
“Prowl--”
“Stay with Sideswipe,” he says firmly and before the offer can even be made. “Stay with your brother.”
“Is it an order?” Sunstreaker asks despite himself.
But Prowl doesn’t rise to the bait.
“A request. From a dear friend. Please stay. He’ll need you.”
The smile fades. “I… Yes, sir.”
Prowl smooths his fingers over golden armor for a second and then releases him. He very slowly withdraws the gentle mingling of their energy fields. Allowing himself one final moment in such familiarity and fighting down the urge to hold on and never let go.
“You don't have to call me that anymore. Not that you ever really did,” he adds, and that too is fond.
“You're still an Autobot,” Sunstreaker grits out, and Prowl doesn't miss the way his hands are clenched at his sides. “No matter what anyone else, mech or human, is going to say.”
“Your faith in me is worth more than you know.” Prowl takes a step back, aware of the time ticking down, the swift approach of dawn.
Sunstreaker revs his engine. There are a thousand things on his face. Things Prowl knows that he desperately wants to say. But really, by this point, there are few secrets between them.
“Keep that brother of yours in line.”
It earns him a chuckle. Just as he knew it would.
“Give me something hard.” Sunstreaker gives a dismissive wave.
Before Prowl can convince himself to react with soppy abandon, he turns and drops into his alt-mode, chasing the disappearing shadows. He'll be cutting it close, but he reasons it doesn't really matter. It won't be long before the humans realize he's gone, though it may take some time for them to understand that it's more than an unauthorized jaunt off-base.
Sunstreaker doesn’t follow, and while Prowl aches at the loss, he’s glad for it all the same. If there is one thing Prowl is going to accomplish, it’ll be keeping the brothers together.
Now, he can only hope to find Ratchet.
To North Dakota it is.
***
(Return to Part III) (Master List)
a/n: And so Prowl's part comes to a close. Coming up next: Optimus and then Lennox and following them, Thundercracker.
Feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
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 IV
------------
The energy field that blasts Prowl nearly knocks him off his pedes. It’s frenzied with barely suppressed aggression, and it’s clear that Sunstreaker's two weeks spent in solitude have done no good for anyone. This was less punishment and more torture, but all of Prowl's attempts to argue the penalty fell on deaf ears and audials both.
Sunstreaker staggers out, but before Prowl can move forward, Sideswipe is there to catch his brother, whose optics are dull and his finish equally so. The last time Prowl saw Sunstreaker's paint in such disrepair was after the battle on some distant moon, and Sunstreaker barely survived getting stepped on by a gestalt.
“Easy,” Sideswipe murmurs, hand on his brother's chestplate to keep him steady. “Don't go crazy on me, bro.”
Somehow, Sunstreaker dredges up a glare for his twin.
“Kiss my aft,” he snarls.
Ah, brotherly love.
“Are you in need of energon?” Prowl questions, having learned from experience that it's best to be straightforward with Sunstreaker. Pretense never works with him.
Sideswipe snorts. “Of course, he does. He's running on fumes by now! Mearing wouldn't let him fuel up before she ordered him in there.”
Prowl ignores Sideswipe's indignation. “Sunstreaker?”
“Yeah,” he responds in a gravelly tone. “Could use a cube or two.”
Prowl pulls one out of subspace, brought along specifically for this reason, and hands it over. Leaning on his brother, the yellow mech downs half the cube in one gulp, giving credence to Sideswipe's earlier statement.
Prowl frowns. Sunstreaker probably needs an overhaul. Like the rest of them. Not that there's a medic present to do so.
“Did they do it?” the golden twin demands once he chugs down the other half and disperses the cube with a clench of his fist.
Sideswipe's orbital ridges draw together, but Prowl knows what Sunstreaker means.
“Yes,” he replies and pulls another item from his subspace, one he's been holding onto for the past week. “It was a waste of energon to try and argue otherwise. No one else had succeeded after all.”
Sunstreaker's face twisted with disgust. “Barbarians.”
“They are young and naïve, still in that stage of development ruled by arrogance,” Prowl corrects.
Sunstreaker shifts. He puts more weight on his own pedes as the energon floods his systems.
“Don't give me that slag, Prowl. They're just not afraid of us. Prime's done his best to ensure that.”
“We do not need our allies to fear us,” Prowl counters, but there’s only cold calculation. “They are capable of bringing us harm, if you do recall.”
“Tch.” Sunstreaker's engine whines, a half-sparked rev. “We should just leave. They don't want us here, and I don't want to be here.”
Sideswipe, whose optics have been darting back and forth between the two, frowns. “I'm feeling a bit left out here.”
“That's because you’re dull-witted,” Sunstreaker shoots back, but it lacks heat. He flickers his optics at his brother and shifts his gaze to Prowl. “Tell me you want to stay and I won't believe you.”
Prowl ignores the latter statement. “We are under constant surveillance. Nevertheless, I was able to obtain this for you.” He steps forward and hands over the tiny item he had procured.
It’s a small chip from Hound's spark chamber. It even still radiates a measure of the familiar feel of Hound’s spark and undoubtedly will for millennia to come. After all, it has housed Hound’s essence for countless vorns, since his very creation.
Prowl was forced to rely on programs Jazz had once given in order to sneak around the base and acquire that tiny splinter. He hadn't felt like explaining to the humans why he was doing so and was even more reluctant to ask Optimus for permission. He knew it never would’ve been granted anyway.
Sunstreaker takes the sliver, a whorl of Cybertonium alloys that glint in the sunlight, with more care than Prowl has ever seen him treat anything. The chip is tiny, barely the width of Prowl's finger, but anything larger would’ve been more difficult to acquire. Prowl himself kept Hound's Autobot marker, the same as he has for all of their fallen teammates.
It’s the only way he has to remember. To remind himself of his failures.
“Thank you,” Sunstreaker murmurs with complete and utter sincerity as he tucks the shard into a small cache he has in his armor, near to his own spark chamber.
Prowl gives a nod. He wants to do more, but he doesn’t know how.
“He would’ve wanted you to have it,” he offers instead.
“Yeah, probably. He's always been soft-sparked to the core.”
Sunstreaker's tone, however, is wistful and the frenetic whirl of his field finally settles on a blend of grief and fondness. He’s quiet for a moment then, looking out at nothing in particular before his gaze goes back to his lieutenant.
“What are we doing, Prowl?” he asks unexpectedly.
He cycles his optics. “What do you mean?”
Sunstreaker, steady on his own pedes now, stares back at him. “Prime's lost his processor. The humans are walking all over us. Hound's gone. What the frag are we doing, Prowl? Where do we go from here?”
“Go? We go nowhere.” Prowl shifts, sensory panels flattening against his back. “We are Autobots, and Optimus is our Prime. There is nothing else.”
“Now that's downright depressing,” Sideswipe says, a poor attempt at a joke. “All this time, fighting and surviving, and this is our reward? A berth of concrete, oily energon, and the disdain of our allies. Why… it's just like old times.”
“With all due respect, that's a slag-poor plan,” Sunstreaker adds, frown deepening.
Prowl shakes his helm. His processor is starting to ache.
“Leaving is not an option. Where would we go?”
“Ratchet's out there somewhere,” Sideswipe offers, and there’s a playful tint to his tone that isn’t entirely real.
Prowl looks at him. “You want to be a Decepticon, is that it?”
“Never said that!” Sideswipe slams to a halt and whirls around. “Primus, Prowl. I'm an Autobot. Always will be. And so is Ratchet.”
Prowl merely tilts his head. His demeanor is calm, but he inside churn.
“And yet, he isn’t here.”
Sunstreaker huffs. “Can you blame him?” One wobbling arm gestures to the ramshackle warehouses that serve as their home. “Take a look around, Prowl. There's nothing here for us. Nothing.”
Prowl's helm dips. “You would abandon the Autobots and join forces with known Decepticons then? It’s a simple matter to you?”
“Hey. Sunny never said that,” Sideswipe protests, and he’s almost angry now. “And neither did I. We're just saying, you know, something's not quite right here.”
“Besides,” Sunstreaker retorts and gives his brother a push despite how much he's wobbling. “Leaving Prime and joining the Decepticons are not the same thing.”
Sideswipe nods, but there’s a shadow to his face. A darkening to the blue of his optics. He shares a look with his brother.
“We're Autobots,” he says very softly. “We made that choice. And we're sticking to it.”
Prowl isn’t sure he believes either of them.
Sideswipe's words haunt him.
Prowl tries to bury the implications in the depths of his processor and focus only his work, the task Optimus has given him. It's significantly easier to plan a course of action regarding the humans and their enemies. Incorporating the Autobots doesn't complicate matters much, though there are precious few to assign.
He still loathes the idea of this. He finds it unprincipled and a waste of the Autobots' time and energy. There are still Decepticons out there after all. Not to mention their lack of a permanent residence.
The task must be done, however, and Prowl bends himself to it. Despite the discomfort of his makeshift office, the noise of the warehouse, and the nagging thoughts that hover on the edge of his concentration. He hasn't had a solid defrag since landing on this planet, and Prowl despairs of ever acquiring one. Not here in this noisy warehouse, that's for certain.
He can't shut down properly. Too much noise, too much movement. His sensors go haywire; he feels surrounded by threats, and his systems won't cycle down. Sunstreaker's confinement hadn’t helped matters, though Prowl is hardly of the sort to ask the warrior to guard his recharge. He’s starting to suspect though that this may be his only option.
The sound of a human clearing his throat pulls him from his musings a minute later. He looks down, identifying the visitor with little surprise.
“You are here for the first draft, I presume?” Prowl asks, watching as William effortlessly climbs several stacks of supplies until he is more or less at optics level. This suggests familiarity, a task that the colonel has done time and time again.
Considering that this is all that remains of Ratchet's medcorner, perhaps William spent more time than he is admitting in Ratchet's company.
William rolls his shoulders. “It's not my gig, so I guess some lackey will come by soon enough for it.”
Prowl considers that.
“Is there another reason for your visit?” he inquires and is honestly curious.
“It's not official. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” The colonel makes himself comfortable on the crate. “I don't see you in the field like I do the others.”
Prowl inclines his helm. “I’m primarily a tactician. I’m not often needed on the frontlines. Although with our limited personnel, that is likely to change in the future.”
“The future?” William draws up a leg to balance his arm across it. “As in, more battles? But the war's over.”
“There are still Decepticons on this planet. Your latest intelligence puts the estimates at approximately thirty.” Prowl turns back toward his assortment of datapads, selecting one on his far left. “My calculations put that number closer to fifty.”
The discrepancies are only because Prowl is taking into account the number of Decepticons that are still hiding on the moon, like Astrotrain currently is and Blitzwing was earlier. Surely, not all of them had hopped Sentinel's space bridge, and others may have arrived as well.
William lets out a slow whistle. “That's not good.”
Prowl's intakes rattle, and he pauses to contemplate the noise. He could probably use a comprehensive flush. He isn't receiving any system-wide errors. To be fair, he hasn't seen a medic since Hoist was killed in a surprise bombing.
Their first encounter upon leaving Cybertron resulted in a full third of Prowl's crew offlining, his medic the very first to fall. In retrospect, he should have taken that incident as a sign of the sparkbreak and grief to come.
“By now, they must be desperate for energy,” Prowl finally replies, again shuffling his datapads. “It will make them reckless. We should be able to locate them easier.”
The colonel studies him then. His optics – eyes – are small but full of emotion.
“Locate and destroy, you mean,” he clarifies.
Prowl shifts before he can stop himself. “If they will not lay down arms and comply, yes.”
The human scratches the side of his nose. His demeanor is strange. Almost hesitant. Like Ironhide when he wanted to say something but had thought the better of it at the last click.
“You... uh... haven't been reading all of the reports, have you?”
William's reluctance gives reason for Prowl to once more study the human.
“I have assimilated the details of every report Optimus has given me and those I’ve found on the servers at this base.” He leans forward very slightly. “Why do you ask?”
William rises to his feet, as though he doesn't wish to say this while sitting. “Prime's not been giving the Decepticons a chance to surrender. Mearing doesn't want to threaten human lives, and he concurs.”
That brings Prowl up short.
Blitzwing's execution wasn’t been a fluke?
Primus, why are the reports so incomplete? It's as though Optimus is trying to hide the truth. Ratchet's so-called defection, the burials of the fallen, and now the fate of any located Decepticons.
Prowl has never held much faith in the possibility of Decepticons truly defecting, save for a select few. He's found it harder and harder over the years to not take the war personally, but to not give them the opportunity… It is a distinctly un-Prime-like choice. More like Optimus’s brother in fact.
And isn’t that a chilling line of thought in and of itself? That Optimus is acting so much like Megatron?
Another tick mark adds itself to the growing list in Prowl's processor. All the ways that Optimus has changed. All the decisions he's made that hold no logic or seem counter-productive.
“I see.” Prowl sets his pad down, flattening his hand on the top of the crate. “What of arriving Decepticons?”
William won’t look at him at all.
“We have a pretty good defense net now,” he explains without really explaining. “Unless Prime can positively identify Autobots, Mearing doesn't take any chances.”
A puff of frost races down Prowl's backstruts. Lack of evidence is not evidence of lack. And vice versa. Not having an Autobot signal doesn’t mean that they aren’t Autobots.
“Have we suffered any Autobot casualties as a result of this?” he questions, voice pained.
William breathes out. “As far as we know, not yet.”
A small comfort. For all they know the next arrival will be hiding aboard a Decepticon spacecraft or will be disguised him as a Decepticon for the sake of survival. What if they are unable to transmit Autobot codes as they enter Earth's atmosphere?
Prowl and Sunstreaker are slagging lucky they weren’t shot straight out of the sky upon their harried descent. And that their signal was stronger than Blitzwing’s, for that matter.
“I will speak with Optimus,” Prowl says, returning his attention to his datapads. “We are few and cannot afford to lose any one else. Especially not to a mistake that could be prevented.”
The human makes a wordless noise of agreement in his throat. “You'll have to convince Mearing, too.”
Prowl's sensory panels twitch. It’s a tell. One that any mech who truly knew him would be able to recognize. But on this planet, the essentially meant Sunstreaker and perhaps his brother.
“I will factor that into my calculations,” he offers.
“Might be a good idea to set up some kind of beacon, too,” William suggests. “There are plenty of remote areas in the United States where human casualties would either be at a minimum or nonexistent.”
A beacon. The colonel has a point. Even if it drew Decepticon and Autobot alike, with the minimized casualties, Prowl wouldn’t have to work so hard to convince Mearing.
“Excellent suggestion,” Prowl acknowledges. “I shall start searching for an appropriate location immediately.”
William dusts off his hands and approaches the edge of the crate. “Good luck. I'd suggest North Dakota, but honestly, who the frag wants to go there?”
Prowl only half-watches as the human nimbly climbs back down, once again proving a sense of familiarity. The rest of Prowl's concentration is reserved for assimilating the new data William has provided, adding it to a file that's growing with disturbing speed. He also diverts a portion of his processing to the colonel's suggestion. Frankly, it's surprising that Optimus hasn’t thought of a beacon already.
Then again, Prime hasn't seemed to spare much time for rational thought as of late.
Prowl's world settles into a routine.
A dull routine to be truthful but a relatively peaceful one. If he doesn't count the infrequent Decepticon sightings, immediately followed by a prompt dispatch of Autobots and NEST agents. Only once does Prowl accompany them on such a mission.
After watching the humans flush out the obviously under-energized mech and then witnessing Roadbuster run him down and put a laser through his spark, Prowl hasn’t the interest in attending another. Offlining an enemy in the midst of battle is one thing. These feel too much like executions, and Prowl's logic circuits most certainly do not approve.
Luckily, Optimus prefers him on base, accessible, hooked into the human's database and working on upwards of thirty scenarios at any given time. Not to mention his usual duties involve in assisting Mearing and maintaining their supplies, a task which was once Ratchet's.
Days pass. And then weeks.
There is no sign of their medic. No other arrivals, Autobot or Decepticon, and even Mearing has backed off from her outrageous requests.
Leadfoot has managed to engineer a solar collector, one that harvests barely enough for a small cube of energon daily, but it's better than what they refine from natural fuels. Honestly, Prowl doesn't remember what real energon tastes like. He's survived on battle rations for so long, he doesn't think he could process anything more.
Dino spends a lot of time staring up at the sky, especially at night. Searching the stars and waiting – hoping – for some kind of sign from his brother.
Sideswipe is Sideswipe. Sunstreaker, while refusing to warm to this planet and its inhabitants, hasn’t caused any obvious trouble. It's almost a miracle. Prowl actually finds Sunstreaker's good behavior to be unsettling. But trying to explain that to someone else only results in baffled looks.
Routine, he supposes, is a good thing. Peace is much better than war, but Prowl can't shake the feeling something's not-quite-right. He cannot relax. He cannot settle. He feels as though he’s waiting for the next assault.
Speaking with Prime does nothing to allay his disquietude. If Prowl were a different mech, he might admit that instead, Optimus' presence seems to exacerbate his unease.
Speak of the Prime...
Optimus registers on his sensors long before he announces himself, and Prowl carefully saves his current work on the off-chance Optimus requires that he leave his makeshift office. It doesn’t happen often, but with their leader as of late, there’s a first time for everything. Prowl can no longer accurately anticipate what he will do.
“Are you busy?” Prime's field is curious, expression open and teasing.
Prowl's sensory panels hike higher. “No busier than I am at any given time,” he responds truthfully. “Has something happened?”
“No.” Prime wanders around the tiny space that Prowl has attempted to make his own with limited success. He simply doesn't have the supplies or the means for a proper office. “I do have another assignment for you to look over, however.”
Inwardly, Prowl groans. Not another favor for the humans? He is quite weary of sending his Autobots out as though they are hired thugs.
“Of course.”
Prime circles back toward him and offers a data pad. “This may be unsettling at first, but rest assured, it’s in everyone's best interest.”
The unease grows. Something unfurls talons in his tanks and claws at the inside.
Prowl powers on the pad and scans the contents. Only for his spark to stutter, ice slushing through his lines.
“Are you... I cannot...” Prowl shakes his head. “Optimus, you surely do not mean for us to go through with this?”
Prime noisily lets out air and clasps his wrists behind his frame. “Unfortunately, yes. Director Mearing brings up a valid point. While we may be uncertain of Ratchet's motives, the Decepticons are clearly a threat.”
“It's been half a year,” Prowl argues. “We have seen no trace of Ratchet or the Seekers. They haven’t attacked nor had we heard any rumors of mysterious thefts. How do we even know they are still on-planet?”
Prime brushes aside his words easily. “How could they have left? Not even we are capable of that at the moment.”
Prowl presses his lipplates together; he fights to keep his panels from retracting. Prime means for them to hunt down Ratchet, Drift, and the Seekers. Despite the fact they have confirmed nothing about Ratchet's motivations. Hunt them down and no doubt execute them to the last spark. Just as they have all the Decepticons hiding out on Earth. Regardless of what they were doing at the time.
“We have no evidence that they are a threat,” Prowl states, hoping that his Prime will see reason. “More so, I wouldn’t have any idea where to begin. I am still unfamiliar with this planet.”
Prime unlocks an arm and taps the datapad with one finger. “I don't intend for you to produce results immediately, Prowl. I'm only looking for a plan of action.”
Prowl's processor glitches. He’s torn between two directives. His need to protect fellow Autobots versus his drive to obey his Prime. Ratchet is an Autobot, and Prowl still can’t fathom a reason that he would willingly abandon them and become a Decepticon. He has always been one of the most loyal members of their inner circle, trusted to the core, Prime's personal medic.
How the Seekers got to him, manipulated him, Prowl is determined to find out. He wants answers. Yes, he would like to find Ratchet and the others. But not like this. There's no sign of intent to capture or interrogate. It’s simple search and destroy.
Prowl's fingers tighten around the pad, drawing it closer to his frame. He stares at the uncompromising lines of text.
“And when I find them?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.
“We will deal with them accordingly.”
What does that even mean?
Prowl ex-vents, tucking the datapad away so that he no longer has to look at it. His tank roils, and his cortex sends sharp jabs into his motor functions.
“Optimus, are you certain of this course of action?” he inquires and glances up at his leader, his Prime. His friend.
Prime tilts his helm. “The Seekers present a danger to human populaces. It’s important that we locate them.”
“Yes, that is only logical. However...” Prowl draws in a heavy intake. “Are you certain that Earth is where we should remain? That it is the best option for us, as Autobots?”
Prime flickers his optics. There is genuine confusion on his face. As if he can’t fathom why Prowl is unhappy here. Why he doesn’t like their treatment by the humans. Why he doesn’t approve of hunting down his friends.
“You do not approve?” Prime asks in return, still puzzled.
But there is an odd glow to his optics, an off tilt to his helm. A tightening of his mouth at the corners. A foreboding expression that isn’t like Prime at all and more resembles his brother.
It’s even more unnerving than being told to hunt down Ratchet.
“I am only concerned,” Prowl hastily corrects.
Far be it from him to approve or disapprove. Optimus, after all, has the matrix. He has been chosen by Primus himself. Surely, he knows what is best.
Surely.
“The humans don’t seem to like or trust us despite the events of the past five years,” the lieutenant explains further. “I merely worry that their tolerance for our presence will reach its limit sooner rather than later.”
“They are a young species,” Optimus agrees, and suddenly, he looks more like himself. Once again clasping a hand to Prowl's shoulder. “But I’m convinced of their hospitality. They have a right to be wary, suspicious even, which is why we must do everything in our power to be honest and forthright with them. To better cement our alliance and strengthen our ties.”
Prowl isn’t convinced. For all intents and purposes, Mearing is not willing to allow any possible defectors to live. Or anyone not completely with her for that matter. She grudgingly accepts the arrival of new Autobots and seems all too eager to destroy any others. All attempts on Prowl's part to contact someone higher in the American government have been thwarted, and he strongly suspects that should Prime learn of Prowl's efforts, he wouldn’t approve.
“Then perhaps you could convince Mearing to let us build a more permanent base,” Prowl pushes on. “The Decepticons are no longer a threat, and there are many sparsely populated areas on this planet where we could make a home.”
“All in good time, old friend.” Optimus squeezes his shoulder, field flaring with approval. “We still have much work to do until then.”
Prowl's sensory panels twitch. He takes a step backward, Prime's hand sliding away. Much to his relief.
“I understand,” he says, careful to keep his tone neutral. “I will begin analyzing this data at once. I should have a draft ready by the end of the week.”
“Excellent. I'll look forward to it then.”
Optimus leaves. Prowl doesn't watch him go.
It strikes him then that he honestly doesn't know what Prime spends most of the day doing. Recharge is obvious. He also participates in several missions regarding discovered Decepticons. Prowl has seen him in meetings with Mearing and other members of the government from time to time. But there are also times when Prowl doesn't know what Prime is doing or where.
That is… worrisome.
When the alarms go off, Prowl is startled. He disengages from several datapads and rockets to his pedes.
An attack?
He edges out of his tiny cubicle, scanners detecting the many humans who scurry about as busy as always. None of them look particularly frightened or alarmed, but the sirens keep blaring.
“Energon detectors have activated in Sector Fourteen,” a monotonous tone announces over the PA system. “Autobots Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Leadfoot, report to ops immediately. Repeat: Energon detectors have activated in Sector Fourteen. Autobots Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Leadfoot report to ops immediately.”
This can't be another matter of a Decepticon sighting. They don't bother to announce those with such urgency. Most of the time, Prowl doesn't even learn until after the fact.
Prowl hurries to ops, another warehouse located in the near-center of the base. The bay doors are wide open, and no one spares him a glance as he hurries to enter. Soldiers shout to each other, back and forth, across their assigned stations. Optimus is already inside, near to the main screens. One of the three sections show a location marked on a map, the second a live feed from Director Mearing's office, and the third appears to be video footage, obviously amateur, of two aircraft in the sky.
No. Not just any aircraft. Those are Cybertronians, their forms distinctly non-human in design, and one of them even has a large glyph painted on his plating. The first appears to be Seeker class, definitely warrior in origin, but the other is a flyer of a different frame type. Not Vosian. Perhaps Tarn.
“--answers, and I want them now!” Mearing's shrill demand pierces Prowl's audials.
He hurries toward the main console and screen, next to Optimus, and tries to take stock of the situation. Clearly, the two bots on the screen are the reason they've been summoned.
“I do apologize,” Optimus replies to Mearing. “We have received no indication of new arrivals in the past month. Nor has our system detected any unauthorized landings.”
The human woman's face twists with irritation. “They had to have come from somewhere, Prime. Maybe your defense net isn’t as secure as you think it is.”
Prowl's gaze whips toward his leader. Surely, he's not going to allow her to speak to him like that?
“There are many possible explanations,” his Optimus concedes, making a vague gesture with his hand. “I'll assign someone to look at the grid. Right now, however, we should consider our handling of these mechs.”
Mearing makes a disdainful noise. “Autobots or Decepticons? And make it quick. Because my boss has twitchy fingers, and they're getting closer to civilian populations.”
Optimus shifts, glancing down at Prowl. “Do you recognize either of them?”
It takes a longer second than is logical for Prowl to stir from his shock. He shakes his helm.
“Not at first glance.”
He steps closer to the screen, peering at the wobbling image and trying to make sense of the highly pixelated video capture. The two mechs on screen don't appear to be engaged in combat nor do they seem to have a destination. Their speed and pattern gives the suggestion of a pleasure flight, perhaps even an element of flirtation. Not that Prowl is all that educated on the peculiarities of flight-based mechs.
“The picture quality is too poor for a positive identification, Director,” Optimus explains.
Behind them, Leadfoot strolls in with the other Wreckers on his heels. “It's pretty fraggin' obvious, isn't it, Prime? They have to be Decepticons.”
“How would you know?” Mearing accuses, one finger adjusting the bridge of her glasses further up her nose.
Leadfoot forces a rev through his engine. “Autobots don't fly.”
“Not entirely accurate,” Prowl corrects before Mearing can get it in her head to start shooting and stop asking questions. “While the majority of us are ground vehicles and most Decepticons came from flight-class castes, there are exceptions on both sides of the faction lines.”
Mearing huffs. “Are they or aren't they, Prime? I've got better things to do than debate this all day.”
Prowl diverts more of his processing power in an attempt to identify the mechs. They aren't of Silverbolt's gestalt. Of that, he is certain. The Aerialbots are the only Autobot Seekers for that matter. At least, the only ones still thought functioning. Which means one of them is a Decepticon and the other must be by default.
Except...
Prowl's optics cycle wider. “Freeze that image,” he barks out, overriding whatever anyone else is saying. “Can you define the quality at all?”
“I can try,” the soldier at the console says.
Prowl doesn't miss the way he subtly edges away from the Cybertronians in the room either. His stress pheromones have spiked considerably. Perhaps the poor human should consider a career change.
“Prowl?” Optimus prompts.
He vents carefully. “One of them is a Decepticon. You can see his insignia on his wings when he banks left or right. The other...”
The paused image on screen magnifies by thirty percent and then clarifies. The darker Seeker, Decepticon insignia's bright purple on his wing tips, is quickly identified as a warrior class. Maybe even once under Starscream's command. The other though isn’t a Seeker. He's not even a Decepticon.
There's only one Autobot Prowl can recall with a frame similar to a Seeker's but whose base support is actually built upon a ground frame. Tracks' caretakers were high class, as high as Mirage, and only wanted the best, the most unique for their Allsparked heir. They wanted him to have the best of both worlds without all the twitchy coding that having a Seeker frame required. Tracks is a triple-changer in everything but name.
--Dino, report to ops,-- Prowl orders over a private comm.
If anyone can confirm Tracks' identity, it is Dino. Standard education for Towers bots required that they be aware of anyone at or above their station.
Dino's response is less than subordinate. --I'm scheduled for recharge right now.--
When the frag did they start scheduling recharge times?
Prowl frowns, orbital ridges flattening. --This will only take a moment.--
--I suppose.--
If it were possible to transmit resignation across a comm, Dino manages it. There is also evidence of a Sunstreaker-class sulk. Sometimes, Dino is a Towers’ mech to the core.
Prowl turns back to the others.
“The other is an Autobot,” he finishes, and the prickles of Prime and Mearing's stares are annoying against his armor. “If I am correct, his designation is Tracks.”
He doesn’t voice the obvious question. Such as, what in the name of Cybertron is Tracks doing with a Decepticon?
The soldier returns the image back to a real-time feed. The two mechs are still flying together, either unaware that they are being observed or not caring. The Decepticon tips left and right in midair. His wings waggle at Tracks, who does an acrobatic loop and cuts through a thick cloud.
The image fizzles in and out. Static and low-quality worsen the view.
“Surveillance drone has been dispatched,” a female soldier announces. “ETA, five minutes.”
At least, they'll be able to get a clearer view. Perhaps the Decepticon will have a designation etched in the glyphs on his wings. Some of the older Seekers do.
“Why is an Autobot flying with a Decepticon?” Mearing demands. “Is he another traitor?”
Prowl's sensory panels stiffen, now arched high behind his shoulders.
“We don't--”
“Director Mearing,” another human interrupts. “They’re approaching Spokane. At their present speed, they’ll be over populations within ten minutes.”
Her eyes narrow, fingers rapping noisily on her desk. Her chair squeaks as she leans to the side, free hand grasping the phone to her left.
“I'm calling in air support.”
“That may be wise,” Optimus concedes and inclines his head. There’s a subtle shift to his stance then.
Prowl's vocalizer glitches, words failing him and emerging as discombobulated clicks. Behind him, Dino stomps into ops, field a whirl of irritation and fatigue.
“Well?” But his gaze shoots past both of his superiors to the shaky camera footage. “Oh. Is that Tracks?”
Prowl's shoulders slump. “That is my assumption, yes. One that you confirmed.”
“What the frag is he doing with a Decepticon?” Dino scowls.
“That's what I want to know,” Mearing snaps, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. “Clearly, both of them are a threat.”
“Drone is now within scanning distance,” a technician announces, remarkably calm for all of the madness going on above his head and on the screen. “Police have been dispatched to clear citizens from the area.”
Meaning whoever is supplying this shaky cell-phone footage is about to find themselves escorted from the scene. All the better. The less chance of human casualties,. The more likely Mearing will listen to reason, however small that chance might be.
The image onscreen switches from the cell footage to shots taken by the much more advanced surveillance drone. Prowl's suspicions prove accurate as identifying glyphs are now visible on the Seeker’s wings, just below his faction symbols. Dreadwing. It isn’t a designation familiar to Prowl, but he supposes it doesn’t matter to Mearing or Optimus. All that matters is his faction.
“I don’t know the circumstances of their arrival on this planet, but the fact that they haven’t attempted to make contact with us is telling,” Prime offers gravely. “We have made no secret of our own location after all.”
“That's hardly cause to shoot them out of the sky,” Prowl counters, forcing his vocalizer to work, trying to reason with madness.
Prime doesn't even glance in his direction. “It’s cause for suspicion, and that is reason enough for me.”
“Optimus, he's an Autobot!”
Prowl's vocals are resounding, surprising himself with their volume. The sheer contention in his tone.
Prime doesn’t flinch, nor falter. Not even at his second-in-command's unusual behavior.
“One knowingly associating with a Decepticon.”
Prowl's hands curl into trembling fists. His sensory panels hike up higher than he can ever remember keeping them.
“Dreadwing may be a defector,” he argues. “We can’t preclude that possibility.”
“Nor can we take that risk.” Prime gestures toward the screen with a casual flick of his wrist. “They are over civilian populations.”
“Shooting them down is no safer than letting them be,” Prowl insists, energy field swelling, unable to be contained. “We must at least attempt to contact them. Tracks has always proven himself loyal. We have to give him the benefit of the doubt!”
“Tch.” Leadfoot's mouth components twist with a sneer, one pede stomping the ground. “He's a Towers mech. You can't trust them any further than you can throw them.”
Dino gives the Wrecker a sidelong glare. “I have been nothing but loyal.” He crosses his arms over his chassis.
“Don't see where you have much of a choice right now,” Roadbuster retorts.
He steps up beside his fellow Wrecker, and Topspin quickly joins him. The three glare heatedly at Dino, whose plates clamp tightly to his frame.
“Enough,” Prime orders, tone harsh and sharp, cutting through the tension. “We are not questioning anyone's loyalties at this time.”
Prowl shakes his helm. “Yes, we are. There’s an Autobot out there, right now, and you are suggesting that we fire upon him!”
Prime's optics cycle down, energy field heavy and suppressing.
“Prowl,” he admonishes. “We are no longer in a position where our assessment of risk is the tipping point. We must consider the safety of the humans above all else.”
What about them? What about their own kind? Are they worth less than the thousands upon millions upon billions of humans infesting this planet? Less than beings who slaughter each other callously and without thought or care daily?
Helplessness rises up and crashes over Prowl in pounding waves. All he can see is Hound's faceplate in front of him, the flickering optics, the faltering ventilations.
“It’s a war, old friend,” Optimus intones, his voice gentling by any definition but Prowl's own. “Sometimes, sacrifices must be made.”
He turns back to the screen. Turns his back to Prowl and all the other Autobots in the room.
“Director Mearing, if you wish to preserve human life, the time to fire is now.”
Mearing sits back in her chair. Her face is a mask, but Prowl can see the triumph in her eyes.
“I'm three steps ahead of you. Raptors are inbound and will make contact in less than a minute.”
She was going to fire anyway. No matter what Optimus said, Mearing intended to shoot down those mechs from the beginning. Questioning Optimus was a formality.
And he's allowing it. Continues to allow it. Doesn't even call her on the lie.
Prowl stares, aghast. “Optimus...”
He’s powerless as the Decepticon on-screen suddenly yaws to the right. Perhaps his sensors are keener than those of Tracks, and he has already detected the danger. Tracks startles and veers in the opposite directions, and a mere half-second later, a missile explodes between them.
The two whip around to face their attackers, but strangely, they don’t fire back. They evade with maneuvers acrobatic enough to make Powerglide deeply envious. Work in a tandem that suggests they have flown together for quite some time.
And then, Tracks miscalculates. He swings around to avoid one jet, only to head straight for a trap, a cross-fire.
Prowl's tanks lurch. His spark flutters. His hands curl into fists.
No. Not again. He can't stand here and watch another Autobot offline.
Weapons fire from somewhere off-screen lights up the transmission. One of the jets goes down in a hail of laserfire but not before the human pilot ejects safely. Another jet careens away, spewing heavy smoke.
The human chatter becomes background noise to Prowl's audials. His every focus is on the screen. This new arrival Prowl knows, both from the files Optimus gave him, and because he's spent many a battle accounting for this Seeker's unusual talent.
Skywarp.
He appears in the footage briefly, flitting in and out of the tiny battle. He easily evades the human jets and shoots them down one by one. Not a single pilot fails to eject, Prowl clinically notes. But then, as suddenly as he appears, Skywarp is gone again.
Tracks and Dreadwing bump wing-tips, a gesture that suggests reassurance. Familiarity. Companionship.
Warning sirens shriek through ops from the surveillance drone itself. There's a flash of bright light, and then, the live feed goes dark and staticky.
Skywarp took out the drone.
Mearing's shouting now. Demanding that someone give her answers, get eyes back on the scene. More aircraft are dispatched. Prime asks the Wreckers to investigate, see what they can find.
And William is looking up at Prowl with something akin to pity. Although that doesn't make much sense at all.
“Prowl, I'm going to need you on this,” Prime says, his vocals muffled and staticky in his lieutenant’s audials. “Possible trajectories, intentions, base locations, anything you can give me with the available data.”
“Yes, sir,” he replies on automatic. But the rest of the world is dim, seen through a veil, a haze of utter loss.
“If anyone dies, Optimus, I'm blaming you,” Director Mearing threatens, fingernails rapping on her desk. “This is what you're here for.”
“We will stop them,” Prime replies gravely.
Prowl turns on a pede and flees. No one either notices or cares. Prime probably assumes he's rushing to his office. Rushing to compile and collate and devise a means to track down their fellow Cybertronians.
Outside, the air seems no fresher, the atmosphere no lighter. Something dark and nagging clings to Prowl's spark. His tanks lurch again and again, and the thought of returning to his makeshift office, to the uncomfortable crates and stacks of datapads, makes something inside physically recoil. Wind whips across his frame, and only then does he notice how much his armor has clamped down, protecting him on reflexive impulse.
He needs... He can’t...
Distance.
Prowl turns away from ops and the main warehouse where his office sits surrounded by assigned recharge zones and a makeshift medcorner. He just needs a moment to himself.
“Ratchet tried to argue with Prime once, too,” William says.
Prowl startles. He hadn't realized he was followed. He now stands on the distant edges of their base, between two light posts, where it's dark and silent. Then again, human bodies are so much quieter than the hissing pistons and hydraulics of a Cybertronian.
He looks down at the colonel. But William’s gaze is focused elsewhere, his words almost nonchalant.
“He wanted to at least give the Decepticons a chance to surrender,” the human continues, voice strangely soft. “He kept hoping that maybe this peace could actually be peaceful. And I think every time we shot a 'Con out of the sky, something broke in him.”
Prowl studies him. “What are you saying, William?”
The colonel finally looks up. “You don't have to tell me. I can see it. The doubt. The hesitation. You don't know what to do. What to believe in anymore.”
Prowl feels himself freeze. It’s like William has glimpsed into his very processor. An odd sensation indeed.
“Is that what Ratchet told you?” he poses, but his thoughts are reeling.
The human’s shoulders lift and then drop. “Most of it I figured out for myself. Some of it, I made him tell me. It's what Hide would’ve wanted.”
This is yet another example of his familiarity with Ironhide. Had his old comrade really formed such a close bond with an organic? It seems so farfetched, and yet, having met this particular human, it also isn’t.
Prowl watches William for a long moment. Looks at his posture, the tilt of his head, the shadows in his eyes.
“Did he tell you he was defecting?” he asks, and it is softer now. Voice pitched low.
William’s gaze sharpens. His mouth becomes a flat, grim line.
“Ratchet is not a defector. Or a Decepticon.” He makes an emphatic gesture. “He's an Autobot.”
Prowl's vents are stuttered and exasperated. “Then why did he leave with them?” he all but demand but stops himself from saying more.
William sighs.
“He couldn't do it anymore. If I had to guess.” William sighs a second time and drops his gaze, running a hand over his hair. “Betrayal is a double-edged sword, and Prime struck the first blow.”
Words fail Prowl. He simply stares. It’s all he can do.
After all this time of William claiming nothing, all of the sudden he has a keen insight into what Ratchet had been thinking. Why he had done what he did.
But it seems William can read Prowl just as well. Even without any words.
“Do you know why I'm telling you this now? Why I waited?” he questions, and his eyes are far too keen.
Prowl's mouth components work, but his vocalizer produces no sound. He shakes his helm.
“It's because I know what you're thinking,” William replies and turns his entire body to face Prowl, unafraid despite having to look up several feet. “I know you're thinking that you've reached your limit. I know that leaving has crossed your mind. Even if you know you have nowhere to go.”
His sensory panels flatten against his back. He feels his optics flicker. Once. Then again.
“Are you attempting to stop me?”
It’s almost harsh now, and really, when did he lose control of himself? When did he become so emotional? Is this what their Prime has wrought? Is this what happens after so much loss? After Jazz and Hound and everything else?
“Not my place.” The colonel’s lips curl with a bitter grin. “All I'm gonna say is that North Dakota is nice this time of year. And that third shift change is just before dawn. In case, you know, you feel the need to inspect the troops or something.”
His tone is flippant and doesn’t match his words.
Prowl stares at him again.
“Why are you assisting me?” the lieutenant asks, but before the last syllable passes his vocalizer, he suspects he already knows how the human will answer.
And he is right.
The colonel looks up at him, eyes haunted by an emotion that Prowl has seen all too often. And most recently in Sunstreaker's optics.
“It's what Hide would do, and I owe it to him to see this to the end.” His hands go into his pockets, and he rolls his shoulders. “Whatever that end might be.”
Prowl's frame slumps. “How can I abandon the Autobots? How can I even consider turning my back on my Prime?”
It isn’t so much a question as a demand. From William. From himself.
“I can't answer that,” William replies, shaking his head and turning back to the night sky and the multitude of stars. “But I do know that you wouldn't even be considering it without good reason.”
He is right, of course, but that doesn’t make Prowl's contemplations any easier to bear. He feels like a traitor, and his loyalty codes are giving his processor fits. He took the coding upon himself willingly long ago, and it has become fragmented over time, but still...
Betrayal is a double-edged sword.
Can he really consider Prime’s behavior the first blow?
Prowl hangs his helm, hand lifting to touch the small compartment on his right hip. More than a half-dozen Autobot sigils rest inside. Sometimes, if he concentrates, he can still detect faint flickers of those who once carried them. Right now though, Hound's is the only one still strong enough to sense through the metal.
Optimus let Hound offline when he could have been saved. He allowed one of his mechs to die at the whims of their so-called allies. Should that not have been his first clue?
But is it enough?
“Sometimes,” William says, and it's so soft that Prowl has to dial up his audials to actually hear him. “You can't fix things. Sometimes, there’s no cure or miracle. Sometimes... giving up is the only option left.”
He looks at Prowl for a moment longer. Searching his face for something, but Prowl isn’t certain what. Finally, William gives a simple nod and leaves.
Prowl can only track his footsteps, the crackle of heavy boots over gravel. He says nothing else. He can’t even offer the human his gratitude.
Prowl doesn't stir until dawn is a mere fifteen minutes away. It’s taken him all night to come to a conclusion, and he still isn't certain it is the best path to take.
It is, however, the path he’s going to choose.
He has no belongings, nothing that he considers of value. Anything he cannot bear to lose is either attached to his frame or something he can't bring along.
Sunstreaker is going to be furious. Something that Prowl muses over as he sticks to the shadows and quietly makes his escape. He's using the same path he'd taken before. That one disastrous attempt to seek Ratchet alone, which now seems so long ago.
William is right. Shift change at dawn is the best time to slip into the silence with no one the wiser.
He should’ve said goodbye, Prowl thinks, staying in his root mode for now as it is quieter than the engine of his alt-mode. He wants to draw as little attention to himself, so he pulls in his energy field, puts his systems on silent mode, and even powers down the glow of his optics. All neat little tricks Jazz taught him once upon a time. When they were both young and foolish, flush with finding a kindred spark despite their differences of class and make.
Perhaps though on his way to North Dakota, Prowl can take a detour. He can swing to the East Coast, pay his respects to all the Autobot brethren left to rust beneath the ocean.
And there's a strange sensation in his chassis, as though several layers of grit have been washed away. His pedes are lighter; his spark is less constricted.
What he’s doing, Prowl's not really sure. He's leaving. He's going to find Ratchet. He's going to find answers. He's going to do... something.
Prowl will figure it out when he gets there. Just as Jazz would if this were his plan, and maybe that’s why the lack of knowing is strangely comfortable. Prowl planned. Jazz improvised. Together, they’d been nigh unstoppable. Now, Prowl will have to do it for both of them.
But for now, he's going to drive. Put rubber to the asphalt, feel the wind over his plates, and try not to let the weight of the world drag him down. Only if for the drive.
The sun starts to rise, turning the horizon a wash of pinks and oranges that are caused by pollutants in the atmosphere. Yet still considered beautiful. Strange how these humans think.
In the silence, Prowl hears an engine rumble. He pauses, turns around, and can't decide if he's surprised or not by the fact Sunstreaker is less than a block behind him. If Prowl is going to slip by the human's security net without being caught, he'll have to make this quick.
Sunstreaker shifts out of his alt-mode, optics focused on Prowl alone.
“I knew I'd find you here,” he says, rocking on his wheeled pedes just as his brother does. “You're leaving.”
It’s a statement. Not an accusation.
“Yes.”
The warrior huffs and flickers his optics. “I'd ask why, but I can already guess.” His voice is an odd mix of exasperation and fondness, but then, it goes cold. “It's not right. It hasn't been since we got here, and I don't think it's ever gonna be right.”
Prowl closes the distance between them. One hand goes on Sunstreaker's shoulder plating and rejoices in the fact Sunstreaker doesn’t flinch from him. The trust between them remains.
“No, it’s not, but it’s better that I go. I can’t stay here. You and I both know that.”
Sunstreaker lets out a gust of air, but he doesn’t shake off Prowl’s hand. Instead, he leans into the touch. Still reacting to the novelty of a mech not his brother who would burn worlds for him.
Prowl gives his shoulder a squeeze. “I couldn’t have asked for a better partner,” he admits because it needs to be said and Sunstreaker needs to hear it. Especially now.
The smile he receives could hardly be counted as one, but considering the state of grief and anger that's been hovering over both of them, he’ll take what he can get.
“Prowl--”
“Stay with Sideswipe,” he says firmly and before the offer can even be made. “Stay with your brother.”
“Is it an order?” Sunstreaker asks despite himself.
But Prowl doesn’t rise to the bait.
“A request. From a dear friend. Please stay. He’ll need you.”
The smile fades. “I… Yes, sir.”
Prowl smooths his fingers over golden armor for a second and then releases him. He very slowly withdraws the gentle mingling of their energy fields. Allowing himself one final moment in such familiarity and fighting down the urge to hold on and never let go.
“You don't have to call me that anymore. Not that you ever really did,” he adds, and that too is fond.
“You're still an Autobot,” Sunstreaker grits out, and Prowl doesn't miss the way his hands are clenched at his sides. “No matter what anyone else, mech or human, is going to say.”
“Your faith in me is worth more than you know.” Prowl takes a step back, aware of the time ticking down, the swift approach of dawn.
Sunstreaker revs his engine. There are a thousand things on his face. Things Prowl knows that he desperately wants to say. But really, by this point, there are few secrets between them.
“Keep that brother of yours in line.”
It earns him a chuckle. Just as he knew it would.
“Give me something hard.” Sunstreaker gives a dismissive wave.
Before Prowl can convince himself to react with soppy abandon, he turns and drops into his alt-mode, chasing the disappearing shadows. He'll be cutting it close, but he reasons it doesn't really matter. It won't be long before the humans realize he's gone, though it may take some time for them to understand that it's more than an unauthorized jaunt off-base.
Sunstreaker doesn’t follow, and while Prowl aches at the loss, he’s glad for it all the same. If there is one thing Prowl is going to accomplish, it’ll be keeping the brothers together.
Now, he can only hope to find Ratchet.
To North Dakota it is.
(Return to Part III) (Master List)
a/n: And so Prowl's part comes to a close. Coming up next: Optimus and then Lennox and following them, Thundercracker.
Feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
