[TF] Frame of Reference 05/07
Jan. 30th, 2020 06:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Frame of Reference
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
Part Five
They bring Prowl to him, unconscious, sensory panels twitching, his field a chaotic frenzy. Ratchet injects him with a sedative, until the tension in Prowl’s armor goes slack, and the twisted pain on his face smooths into a genuine recharge.
“What the frag happened?” he growls, only to carefully gentle his tone when he sees the anguish in Sideswipe’s optics, the way he and Sunstreaker draw together, embracing in view of everyone, pressing their foreheads one to the other.
“An inconvenient truth,” Soundwave replies, without emotion the glitch, and he hands Ratchet a datapad before ghosting out of the room, leaving Ratchet with an unconscious tactician and his twin lovers.
“What the frag is this?” Ratchet demands, waggling the datapad into the air. He’s confused and angry and this situation has been fragged since Perceptor dragged Drift’s twitching frame into Ratchet’s medical bay, and he doesn’t like it.
He doesn’t like it one fragging bit.
“I don’t get it,” Sideswipe says, voice muffled as he folds himself into Sunstreaker’s arms. “The database says Prowl’s just a computer. That they powered some program with a spark to make him.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.” Ratchet slants a look at the sleeping tactician before he flicks on the datapad to see for himself. “That’s not how it works.” He ignores the tiniest niggle of doubt.
Sparks are tricky things. When it comes down to it, as far as they’ve come, they still don’t really understand how sparks work. How sparks make them who they are. How a spark imprints memories and forms emotions. They just don’t know.
“I’m not a medic. I’m just telling you what we found out,” Sideswipe says, and he pulls away from Sunstreaker to drag over a chair closer to Prowl’s medberth. His expression softens as he reaches for one of Prowl’s hands, tangling their fingers together. “I know he’s not a machine.”
“We both know that.” Sunstreaker sits on the edge of Prowl’s berth, for lack of another chair, his hip pressed to Prowl’s. “I don’t know what really happened in the past, but I’m gonna thrash the first person who dares say something bad about Prowl.”
Ratchet sighs and rubs at his temples. “Let’s do some research before either of you go off on a rampage.” The information unspools on the datapad, lines upon lines of text. He supposes he should share it with Perceptor. “I’m going to take a look at this. You two stay here with him. Don’t do anything rash.”
“Who? Us?” Sideswipe’s innocent grin is anything but.
Sunstreaker grunts.
Ratchet supposes that’s as good as he’s going to get.
He leaves them alone -- it’ll be some time before Prowl reboots and wakes -- and steps into a nearby room, where Drift is still aberth and Perceptor perched beside him. They’ve managed a stopgap measure that keeps Drift conscious, and able to ambulate short distances, but too much exertion claws at the firewall they designed.
“I think I’ve had enough of this virus,” Ratchet says by way of announcing himself, and hoping not to walk into some low-energy intimacy like he has before. “This is a fragging mess.”
“It is indeed,” Perceptor agrees in a tart tone. “Good morning, Ratchet. I see you’re in a fine mood.”
“That’s his usual mood,” Drift says with a weary smile. He’d recognized Ratchet immediately upon waking, just as Ratchet had recognized him. “How was the scavenger hunt?”
“Productive.” Ratchet groans as he leans against a console as the only chair is occupied by Perceptor. He holds up the datapad. “We can start on a legitimate cure now, though that means working hand in hand with Decepticons. Present company excluded.”
“I’m not a Decepticon anymore,” Drift says.
Perceptor squeezes his hand. “And we both know how little any of it was your choice.”
An emotion flicks across Drift’s face, too quick for Ratchet to read, before it’s gone again. He suspects this is a discussion they’ve had before. Or maybe argument is the better word.
“Choice,” Drift repeats, a contemplative murmur. “I wonder if I ever had it.”
Ratchet shifts, uncomfortable with the sudden tension in the room. He straightens and hands Perceptor the datapad -- he’ll put it to greater use than Ratchet, and besides, Ratchet has already downloaded the pertinent information he’ll need.
“They’re setting up a neutral facility between the Ark and the Nemesis for us to start working on an anti-virus,” Ratchet explains as Perceptor accepts the datapad with a nod. “Whenever you’re ready, it's pretty easy to find.”
“Starscream will be joining us, I imagine,” Perceptor says, his gaze focused on the datapad, but something pointed in his tone.
Ratchet tries not to bristle, but his armor flicks before he can smooth it down. “He is one of their greatest scientific minds, to hear him say it.”
Drift grins.
Perceptor makes a noncommittal noise. “It will be good to work with him rather than against him, don’t you agree?”
“It’s better not to try killing each other, yeah,” Ratchet says, knowing full well what Perceptor is trying to get at and ignoring him outright, just as he’d ignored Wheeljack’s insinuations. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have Prowl to fix.”
He leaves, perhaps impolitely, but they must be used to that by now. Ratchet stopped bothering with politeness after the first decade of war. He’d rather save his energy fore more important things.
Politeness is a waste of time he doesn’t have.
~
Iacon was beautiful once.
Optimus holds those memories close, both the ones he’s experienced for himself, and the memories the Matrix carries from Primes before him. Iacon had been a glittering, shining metropolis. A grand example of the greatness of Cybertron.
Now it is a wasteland and perhaps rightly so. Iacon was as much an example of the grandness of Cybertron as it was an example of Cybertron’s greatest mistakes. It was a place of waste, of inequality, of smug nobility sneering down at the poor and powerless.
Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it is true that things must be burned to ash in order to start anew. Optimus wonders if change would have ever been wrought with the institutions already in place.
Sometimes, he wonders if Megatron had the right idea.
“You look disturbed, Prime. Having second thoughts already?”
Optimus turns to acknowledge Megatron’s arrival, having expected it. Megatron, like himself, has come alone and unarmed, and it speaks to an enormous trust that they both followed through on their agreements.
Optimus has no doubt Soundwave is somewhere nearby, lurking out of sight, but fully observant of their meeting. Just as Jazz is likely hiding in the shadows, ignoring Optimus’ orders to stay away, unwilling to trust the Decepticons to this extent. It is interesting how both he and Megatron have thirds so invested in their welfare.
Perhaps the rumors of Megatron and Soundwave’s relationship hold some truth to them.
“Yes,” Optimus says, “but not about this.” He tips his head in greeting. “How fare the Decepticons?”
“Confused. Angry. Bitter.” Megatron pauses to grin, sharp and pointed. “Ready for violence. You’re lucky our teams found answers together. Or things might not have gone so well for this cease-fire of yours.”
Yes. Answers.
Optimus thinks briefly of Prowl with a flicker of disquiet. They’d found many answers in the Iaconian database, as well as uncomfortable truths.
“It will take the combined efforts of both our factions to put an end to the virus. You know this.” Optimus folds his hands behind his back, stares out over the ruined landscape. “We’ve already agreed on it, but I have another proposal for you.”
“Do you now.” It’s not a question. Megatron steps up beside him, copies his pose. “And what else would you ask of us, now that you’ve demanded patience?”
Optimus cycles a ventilation. He shutters his optics briefly, remembers Iacon as it was, and looks out at Iacon as it is. “Peace,” he murmurs. “For this cease-fire to be permanent rather than temporary. For our two factions to lay down arms for the sake of ourselves and our planet. To work together to build a new Cybertron where all can live freely without the burdens of our shared past.”
Megatron hums contemplatively.
Optimus knows better than to push. He lets Megatron ruminate, while his own spark spins and dances with a thin thread of hope. He hopes knowledge of the virus makes fighting against the insidious push of it easier. He prays Megatron can see reason, beyond the dark whispers of the Senate’s last weapon.
“I am going to tell you a secret, Prime, only known by one other.” Megatron’s engine slips into an idle, a quiet rumble. “I tire of war. I tire of watching my Decepticons die with nothing to show for it but spilled energon and desolate battlefields. I want the war to be over, but I will not surrender to achieve that.”
By Primus, it’s a chance.
Optimus seizes it.
“No surrender,” he says immediately. “Neither of us concedes defeat. No one wins, but no one loses either. We agree to lay down arms. We agree to work together. We build a treaty that we both unequivocally support, and we both abide by it and defend it.”
Megatron lifts his chin. “You think it’ll be that easy?”
“No. I suspect it’ll be the hardest battle we’ve ever fought.” Optimus allows himself to sigh, to show some of the fatigue in his frame, in his field. “There’s a lot of bitterness, Megatron. A lot of anger. Hatred. Energon has been spilled on both sides. Lives destroyed. All manner of murder and torture and misdeeds.” He pauses to cycle a ventilation, remembering all too well the wreck of a frame Jazz had once dragged back to him, barely functioning. “But if we don’t figure out how to set it aside, the war will continue until there’s no one left to hold a grudge.”
“Until we wipe each other out,” Megatron says.
Optimus inclines his head. He glances at Megatron, but the Decepticon warlord’s gaze is distant, staring off at the far horizon, as though he’s seeing something Optimus isn’t. His hands are balled into fists behind his back, his armor clamped tight and rippling, like he’s holding in a great fury.
Or maybe he’s fighting against the programming which has extended their war for so long. Megatron is strong, perhaps the strongest foe Cybertron will ever encounter. Optimus is counting on that strength now, to overcome the dark whispers.
Megatron growls, but it’s not directed at Optimus. “I did not shake off my chains to condemn my Decepticons to an unwinnable war, and a future of death.” His whole frame shudders in a wave, like he’s casting off fabric. “I’ll have this peace, even if I have to fight for it.”
“I suspect there will be some on both sides who won’t be happy with the idea of laying down arms,” Optimus muses aloud.
“Then they don’t belong in our Cybertron, and I’ll make sure of it.” Megatron turns to look at Optimus at last, and there’s a fire burning in his optics, one Optimus has only ever seen turned on him at the height of battle. “I am the Decepticon commander, and I started this war. It’s on me to end it, and I will fight to my last sparkpulse to ensure a future for my soldiers.”
Optimus bites his glossa.
It’s not up to him to tell Megatron how to treat the Decepticons who won’t surrender. He can’t force his will on their policies. He can only ensure his own.
“We should present as much of a united front as we possibly can,” Optimus says instead, because diplomacy is where he excels, compared to Megatron’s more violent approach. “That’s the best way to combat any pushback we might receive.”
“Agreed.” Megatron pauses for a moment before the fierceness in his optics softens. “I am certain to have Soundwave on my side. Starscream as well. Others may take more convincing.”
Optimus manages a faint smile, thinking of the arguments he soon faces as well. “It’s going to take much negotiation. A battle of a different sort. But it can be done.” He offers Megatron a hand. “If you’re willing to walk down this road with me.”
Megatron glances at the offered hand, and Optimus can read millennia worth of battles in the glance. “I am,” he says, and slaps his palm into Optimus’. “To peace.”
“To peace,” Optimus agrees, and the flutter in his spark feels a lot like hope.
~
Optimus is quiet for most of the walk back to the Ark. He doesn’t blink when Jazz sidles up to him, as though he’d known Jazz was there all along. Then again, he’s always had an awareness of Jazz’s presence that no one else has been able to match. Jazz doesn’t know if it’s a Prime thing or a Matrix thing or just an Optimus thing.
“You think it’s gonna work? Peace, I mean,” Jazz says as he falls in step with his lover and his superior officer.
“I hope it does,” Optimus murmurs. His shoulders look a bit lighter, as though years of worry have swept off his back. “I believe Megatron is sincere, just as I believe there are few of us left who are actually eager for the war to continue.”
Jazz snorts. “Boss, I know optimism is kind of your thing, but lemme tell you, as much as no one wants to fight anymore, they aren’t that keen on letting the Decepticons off scott-free either.” Decepticons aren’t the only ones who think the other faction should be exterminated in order to win the war.
“I’m aware of this, Jazz.” Optimus’ voice is amused rather than offended. They know each other too well. “However, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do our best to make this work. Concessions will have to be made by both factions.”
And executions, no doubt, are off the table. Pity. Jazz can think of more than a few Decepticons who are better off dead than pretending to be peaceful. Then again, Megatron can probably name a few Autobots he’d rather not see live.
“It’s going to take a lot of negotiating,” Jazz muses aloud. “We’ll need Prowl.”
Optimus nods. “Yes, indeed. Hopefully he recovers soon. I need all the best minds the Autobots can gather. This treaty needs to be comprehensive and fair if it’s going to succeed.”
It’s nice to see Optimus like this, Jazz realizes. He looks lighter. He walks with a little spring in his step, perhaps no one but Jazz would have noticed. There’s a positive air around him; it tastes a bit like hope. Like he’s remembering how to live again.
Jazz would kill to keep that smile on Optimus’ face.
This peace is going to succeed. Jazz will do whatever is necessary to ensure it. Whoever he has to threaten or cajole or bribe, he will make certain this peace comes to pass. Even if it leaves him lost, without any idea what to do with himself, it’ll be worth it.
For Optimus to be happy, Jazz would do anything.
~
Prowl wakes slowly, his processor carrying the dull, familiar ache of a recent glitch, and his tanks clenching from lack of energon, despite the shunt he can feel attached to his lines, directly feeding him. There’s a heavy weight on his chassis, an imaginary one because when he paws clumsily at it, there’s nothing but his own plating there.
He tries to touch it with his other hand and realizes he can’t. His fingers are held fast.
The steady beep of monitoring machines surrounds him, a chorus of higher pitched tones joining the steady whuff of ventilations, asynchronous and not his own. He reaches with his field first, testing the air, and two fields reach back -- Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.
Relief floods Prowl’s system.
It takes two tries to boot his optics, and on the second time, there’s a glitchy haze he has to cycle to clear away. His surroundings are a blur that clarify into a familiar room -- he’s in the medical bay, with Sideswipe clinging to his hand and Sunstreaker knocked out in the other chair. They look as exhausted as Prowl feels.
He shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation. The glitches had been so rare as of late, but he shouldn’t be surprised to have suffered one now. It’s not everyday a mech learns he’s not a mech. He’s not much of a person. He’s a machine. A literal battle computer powered by a spark. A pawn of the Senate, long after their deaths.
He’s been trusted by his Prime, by his lovers, by his friends, and for naught. He’s a snake in their midst, and who knows how long it will be before some deep-seeded code causes him to betray them. What if there’s some programming, buried in his subconscious, designed to work against a possible peace?
He can’t be trusted any longer. Everyone must know, if Rewind hasn’t shared his information with Optimus yet. Prowl would prefer to tell them on his own. He can’t be trusted. He can’t be anything. They should put him in stasis for everyone’s safety.
It’s for the best.
He should tell them.
Prowl fumbles for the berth controls to get himself upright. He tries to disentangle his fingers from Sideswipe’s, but the red twin’s grip only tightens, even in recharge. Prowl sighs and nudges them both with his field.
Sunstreaker bolts awake, startling in his chair, and Sideswipe follows on a second’s delay, his optics bright and wild. Their vents whine in a surge toward defensive protocols that a systems check clicks back into stasis a sparkbeat later.
“You’re awake!” Sideswipe squeezes Prowl’s hand.
“How are you feeling?” Sunstreaker asks, much more reserved, head tilted as though he’s already read the intentions in Prowl’s field.
“I have a lot of work to do,” Prowl says, and gently removes his hand from Sideswipe’s. “I appreciate the both of you looking after me. Have I missed anything?”
“Hey. Whoa. You don’t have to thank us for this kind of thing.” Sideswipe frowns and scoots closer, his field probing at Prowl’s, and Prowl immediately rebutting his interest with a gentle, but firm refusal.
He closes his field behind a firewall. He doesn’t want either of them to sense his emotional state. Then again, do machines have emotional states? Perhaps it’s all a matter of programming. As a battle computer designed to project outcomes, surely he’s taught himself to study the behaviors of mechs around him and react appropriately.
Even machines have limits, however. No wonder they call him cold-sparked. There’s only so much programming can do.
“The scientists have been working on a cure. Both factions are keeping to themselves for now. The treaty still stands,” Sunstreaker says, but his gaze never wanders away from Prowl, and it’s disconcerting to be under that much focus.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Thank you, Sunstreaker. I’m sure there’s much work to be done.” He swings his legs over the side of the berth, nearer to Sunstreaker than Sideswipe. “I need to speak with Optimus. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Best ask Teletraan. He’s been all over,” Sunstreaker says, like his words are carefully chosen, his optics narrowed.
“Or you could not get out of the berth and wait for Ratchet to clear you,” Sideswipe says, sounding exasperated. “You were out for three days, Prowl. Maybe you should wait a bit before you dive back into the chaos.”
Sunstreaker scoffs, “Honestly, Sideswipe, have you met, Prowl? Primus.” He rolls his optics and gives Prowl a stern look. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Prowl stands and sways a moment, his gyros stabilizing, his sensory panels flicking to balance him. “I’m sure you two have duties also. Thank you for being here.”
Sunstreaker frowns.
“Seriously, Prowl. Why do you keep saying that?” Frustration sparks in Sideswipe’s voice. He stands, the chair shooting out from behind him with a clatter. “Is this about what Rewind found? The Cipher project? Because Ratchet says it’s a load of slag.”
“Ratchet and I have a different point of view,” Prowl murmurs, and he slips around the berth, away from Sunstreaker, without meeting the yellow twin’s gaze. “There are other factors to consider. I am a security risk now, and above all else, that cannot stand.”
Sideswipe snags his wrist before Prowl can escape, his fingers warm against Prowl’s armor, his field tentatively trying to reach for Prowl before he’s rebuffed. “You’re not a security risk,” he says. “And you’re not a machine. Come on, Prowl. Wait a second, okay? We need to talk about this.”
Prowl gently slips free of Sideswipe’s grip. “We’ll talk later,” he says, firm. “For now, I have duties to attend.” He manages a wan smile. “Thank you both.”
He leaves before either can convince him to stay. His spark is a tiny, squeezing ball in his chassis, and his processor whirls in a thousand directions, still bringing up databyte after databyte about the discovery they made in the Iacon database.
He pings Teletraan who informs him Optimus is in a conference room with Jazz, Red Alert, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide. Good. That will make this much easier.
The door opens for Prowl, despite being command locked, and conversation dies as he steps inside, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of their discussion. He doesn’t go far, but lingers within a step of the door. Several pairs of optics turn toward him, and a look of relief flickers over Optimus’ face. Prowl will hate crushing it.
“Prowl,” he greets, starting to rise from his chair. “Ratchet didn’t say you were online yet, but I’m glad to see you on your feet.” Optimus’ smile is genuine, and his relief palpable, and it hurts to know Optimus worried for him.
He dips his head in a bow. “Thank you, Optimus. I haven’t seen Ratchet yet. I onlined a few minutes ago.” Prowl cycles a ventilation, looks past Optimus and stares hard at the wall. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I only came to step down from my post.”
The air goes out of the room.
Optimus frowns in Prowl’s periphery. “I don’t understand.”
Prowl works his intake, focuses on keeping his hands loose at his side, rather than the shaking fists they want to become. “I am a security risk at the moment. We can’t be certain that everything I’ve done or will do does not follow some plan of the Senate’s. Neither can we be certain of my loyalties. You should not trust me.”
He forces himself to look at Optimus, to hold steady against the concern in Optimus’ gaze, bleeding spark that he is. He needs Optimus to be rational here, to understand what Prowl is doing. He’s a machine. Logic is important, but one can’t guide with logic alone. Optimus needs mechs at his side, not machines.
This shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Machines don’t have feelings. Machines do as they are told.
“You have always been trusted,” Ultra Magnus says, slowly and carefully. “Recent revelations do not change that.” How kind of him to say so.
“It should,” Prowl retorts, and is ashamed for how sharp he has made his tone. He draws back, forces calm where he doesn’t feel it. “Regardless, I’m recusing myself from our current negotiations. Smokescreen is more than capable of advising in my place. I suggest you contact him immediately.”
Prowl bows and stares hard at the floor. “I thank you for your trust me until now. It has been an honor to serve.”
He spins and walks out. They call for him, and Prowl ignores it. He is, technically, a footsoldier now, and as such, beholden to the commands of them, his superior officers. But he is sparksick and his recent glitch makes him weary.
He needs to return to the medbay, if only because it’s safer to be in a medically induced stasis, then conscious for whatever foul plot the Senate has lurking in his programming.
What he needs to do and what he ends up doing are two different things. He changes course, making for the room that is his, until he’s assigned a bunk in the general population. He’s no longer a member of high command, therefore, he will not be afforded the minor luxury of a private room.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker will mourn that loss, he supposes.
He uses his passcode and manages a half-smile when access is granted to him. They haven’t kicked him out of the system yet, though if they are wise, they will do it as soon as they can. He slips inside, feeling weary down to his struts, his door moving to shut behind him.
“Primus, Prowl!” A small black and white shape darts in behind him, and Prowl blinks in surprise as Jazz stares at him, aft nearly clipped by the door. “Ya havin’ fun ignorin’ me or are ya still not right in the head?”
Prowl cycles his optics. “You followed me?”
“Of course I did, you idiot.” Jazz straightens, and his scowl would give Ratchet a run for his credits. “That’s the most brash thing I’ve ever seen ya do. We need yer advice, not for ya to run away in the middle of the biggest thing to happen since the war started!”
Prowl backs up a step and his sensory panels flick. “I’m a security risk,” he repeats. “Primus, Jazz. I’m sure you’ve read the data by now. I’m not even a mech! I’m a walking computer powered by a spark!”
“We’re all computers powered by sparks!” Jazz declares, throwing his hands into the air, his field spiking wildly through the room.
“You know what I mean, Jazz, don’t play a game of semantics with me.” Prowl rubs his forehead, the ache growing stronger behind his optics. “I am a computer designed by the Senate purely for the sake of eliminating the Decepticons in a manner which would further their agenda. I sincerely doubt a cease-fire would have been their preferable outcome.”
Jazz glares at him. “Our tactics don’t live and die by your decisions. We need your advice. We trust you. The rest of us can keep you in check.”
Prowl shakes his head and tucks his hands behind his back, to hide the fact they’re shaking. “It’s a risk I can’t take. I don’t trust myself anymore, Jazz. Not after this. Not with everything we have at stake.”
“And to walk out when we’re in the middle of key negotiations is a better option?” Jazz demands, and his field spikes with anger, as sharp as a slap to the face. “That’s stupid! Why don’t you plug that into your calculations?!”
“They’re not mine,” Prowl hisses, his spark strobing fast and sharp in his chassis -- and he has to remind himself, it’s not a spark, it’s a power source. He’s a machine, not a mech. “I can’t be trusted! I could ruin this treaty before it even has a chance.”
Jazz snarls at him, his hands balling into the fists Prowl can’t form. “You’re being a coward. We don’t know what any of it means. We aren’t even sure it’s you. It’s too soon to worry about anything.” He slashes a hand through the air. “We need you in the room, not Smokescreen, not Trailbreaker. Optimus needs you at his side. You. That’s the truth.”
Prowl bows his head, shuttering his optics. It’s hard to think, with the pounding his head, and the truths battering at his firewalls.He knows it’s him. They may choose not to put their belief in it, but the facts are too much.
The sparkdate and space is the same. His prior designation. The day he joined the Autobots. The name of the mech sent to watch over him -- Varnish, not a friend who’d saved his life as he remembers, but a soldier with a duty, meant to deliver him to the Autobots. The stats of the processing unit and his own battle computer, matching kernel for kernel.
“The only absolute truth is that we can’t afford to make any mistakes,” Prowl says, and projects as much command into his tone as he can manage. “I am sorry, Jazz. I’ve made my choice.”
Jazz growls at him, and the anger in his field makes Prowl flinch. “I’m not letting you do this. You can take some time, think about it, but Ultra Magnus ain’t takin’ over yet. I won’t let him. We need you, and you’re goin’ to realize that sooner rather than later.”
He spins on a heel and storms to Prowl’s door, the heel of his palm slamming against the access panel. It springs open, perhaps obeying Jazz’s ire, and he nearly collides with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker standing on the other side of it.
“You try talkin’ sense into him,” Jazz snaps as he pushes between them, and they slide out of his way at the same time. “I’m done.” He throws his hands into the air and vanishes.
Prowl sighs and drops down into the nearest chair, scrubbing his face.
“What was that about?” Sideswipe asks as he and Sunstreaker enter, the door shutting and locking behind them, Sunstreaker wise enough to activate the privacy screen.
“I’ve stepped down as second in command and tactical advisor to the Autobots,” Prowl says, bracing his elbows on his knees, tangling his fingers together. “Or at least, I intended to. I’m told that my resignation was temporarily refused.”
“Why would you do that?” Sideswipe plants his aft on the low table, despite the fact Prowl has told him many times not to do so.
“I can’t be trusted,” Prowl murmurs, his head bowed, the grief clutching his spark. “I don’t want the Senate to have a hand in the negotiations. I want peace.”
Sunstreaker crouches down beside the chair, and the weight of his gaze lands on Prowl, incisive as always. “Optimus trusts you. He’s always trusted you. This doesn’t change anything.”
“No. It changes everything.” Prowl cycles a ventilation and has a hard time keeping it even. Everything inside of him trembles. “I am not what I thought I was. I’m a pawn. I’ve always been a pawn.”
Sideswipe twists his jaw. "We're all pawns in some way. Besides, the Senate is dead. They aren't giving commands anymore. You're being a little irrational, you know. Which isn't like you."
"Because that's not all this is about," Sunstreaker murmurs, taking one of Prowl's hands into his. "Is it, Prowl?"
He can't meet Sunstreaker's gaze. This is something he's not sure he's ready to talk about, this deep-seeded self-consciousness. A lack of confidence, he's not used to carrying, but is suddenly running rampant through every line of thought in the core of his being.
"I'm a twin, you know," Sunstreaker says, and he squeezes Prowl's hand. "We're split-spark. I used to wonder if that meant we were different people or not. Sometimes, I still do."
Sideswipe's field flickers with understanding. "Yeah, I mean, even I worry about that. If what I'm feeling is me or of it's Sunny. We have to work hard to block each other out, but it's never one-hundred percent."
"We're two separate people, we know that, but sometimes, it's hard to remember it. That we have our own wants and desires outside of the bond. Though you were pretty easy to agree on," Sunstreaker says. His thumb rubs along the back of Prowl’s hand in a smooth, steady rhythm.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. He focuses on the rhythm, counts the beats of it, to give his twirling thoughts something to match. The analogy is apt, not exact to his worries, but close enough. Of all the mechs aboard the Ark-22, with the exception of Red Alert, his twins are perhaps the only ones who might understand his predicament.
He swallows over a lump in his intake. It's terrifying to feel vulnerable. If he opens up about this, there's no closing that door. But then, if he's only a machine as he fears, does it matter?
Logically, this is the best course of action. And logic is all he has right now, since emotion threatens to glitch him.
"I was designed as a tactical computer," Prowl says, barely above a whisper. "They gave me a spark to make me mobile. What if that's all I am? What if I'm just a machine, mimicking real mechs around me to look like I belong?"
Silence.
Sideswipe sucks in a ventilation, swift and sharp. Their fields ripple with the enormity of what he's admitted. He knows they don't have the answers, and it doesn't feel any better to give them the burden.
A burden shared is a burden halved, but Prowl's not sure if that's accurate in this case.
"I don't know how sparks work," Sideswipe says slowly, and he scoots to the very edge of the table, his hands resting on Prowl's knees. "I'm not a medic. I'm just a big, dumb frontliner. But I think that's a load of slag. You're a mech, Prowl. You're not a machine."
"And even if you were just mimicking everyone around you, so what? That makes you a damn good actor, and we like you anyway," Sunstreaker says, with a fierceness Prowl had not expected. "We like you for whatever you are. So anyone else can jump off a cliff if they have a problem with it."
Despite himself, Prowl chuckles, because it is such a Sunstreaker thing to say. He lifts his gaze, and is stunned by the looks on their faces -- twin expressions of determination and affection. His sensory panels flick, his spark swelling with warmth, his own adoration of these two, and he wants so badly for the emotions to be real, rather than a product of some mimicry software.
Only Ratchet could tell him for sure, what his programming does, how he's coded. Part of him is afraid to ask.
"You're not the only one people think is sparkless," Sunstreaker adds, and he grins, but it's a sharp thing, full of dark humor. "We can be sparkless together."
It should not sound so romantic, but it does.
Prowl cups Sunstreaker's face and pulls him in, pressing their foreheads together. "You are not sparkless," he says, sweeping his thumb over Sunstreaker's cheek.
He slips his hand free of Sunstreaker's and reaches for Sideswipe, pulling the red twin as well. "Neither of you are sparkless," Prowl continues as he cups the back of Sideswipe's neck, pulsing his affection through his field -- real or feigned, they both trust in it, so it means something to them.
He supposes that's what matters the most.
"Come to berth," Sunstreaker says.
"There's a lot of things you can fake, but I guarantee that pleasure isn't one of them, at least when it's because of us," Sideswipe says, and Prowl doesn't have to see the grin to know it's there. "You're still Prowl to us. Nothing's changed."
Gratitude pulses heavy in Prowl's spark. He wants to believe the emotion is real.
"The berth," Prowl says, reaching for anything that might prove him wrong. It’s an act of desperation, and maybe that means he’s not a computer, maybe it doesn’t. "I have a lot of free time as it is. Might as well make the most of it."
Sunstreaker stands and pulls Prowl with him, though it's a tangle of red and yellow arms tugging Prowl to the berth. "We'll talk about that, too. But later."
"I think this is the first time we don't have to share you with the war," Sideswipe says, and his engine gives a little rev of eagerness. "So we're going to take full advantage of it."
"Just don't think for awhile," Sunstreaker adds as he pulls Prowl onto the berth, sandwiching him between their frames, "Stop thinking and concentrate on feeling."
"As sappy as that sounds." Sideswipe chuckles against Prowl's audial before his lips wander a warm, wet path down the curve of Prowl's intake.
"Shut up," Sunstreaker mutters, and his indignation is swallowed by Prowl's kiss, by the sweep of Prowl's hands over silken-smooth golden armor, and the rise of Sunstreaker beneath him.
Prowl has never been one for poetic words, and no one has ever accused him of having a silvertongue. While he’s been with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe long enough for such important things like love and trust to pass between them, words often fail him.
Nevertheless, he’s certain that if he were to look up the definition of ‘lovemaking’, it would refer to this very moment.
To the reverent way they lay him out on the berth, and their hands sweep his armor as if memorizing every plate, every seam. To the kisses they leave in their wake, warm and tingling, their movements in synchronized tandem, until there’s not an inch of him that isn’t buzzing with arousal and need.
His valve is slick and swollen. His spike is full and dribbling. They avoid his array, choosing instead to taste and tease his chevron, his sensory panels, the back of his knees, his ankle joint, the join of intake and shoulder. They murmur sweet words and brush his mouth with kisses, and Prowl has to swallow a sob of joy, because it feels like being whole, being a person and not a machine, and he doesn’t know if he deserves this gift or not.
He fears he’s only lying to them, by letting them love him. He’s just selfish enough to bite his glossa, to let them continue, because he wants them so very much, even if that want is only a program meant to mimic real mechs, it feels real to him.
He loves them, and he wants them, and they are the last real thing he’s certain he can hold.
It’s Sunstreaker who slides onto his spike, and Sideswipe who slips into his valve, taking and being taken. Prowl is pinned beneath them, subject to their weight, to the pleasure they thrust on him, and he’s helpless in the wake of it. He doesn’t try to resist. He gives in to the waves of pleasure, to their perfect rhythm and their sweet kisses.
He soaks up the affection they offer, the promises behind their actions, and when he overloads, it’s less about pleasure and more about understanding. Acceptance even. He clings to the love they offer him, pressed between their frames as all three of them click and flutter while they cool down, still sticky from exertions but too exhausted to drag themselves to the washrack.
“Love you,” Sideswipe says, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s shoulder.
“And don’t you forget,” Sunstreaker adds with a sweep of his fingers over Prowl’s chestplate and the seam protecting his spark -- the one line they haven’t crossed yet. “You’re ours.”
“As long as you want me,” Prowl says, and he catches them exchanging a glance, but they say nothing, just settle down into the berth.
“Ten minutes,” Sunstreaker says into the ensuing silence. “Then we bathe.”
Prowl manages a chuckle, clinging to the familiarity of it all. “Yes, sir.”
Some things change, and some things never will.
***
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
They bring Prowl to him, unconscious, sensory panels twitching, his field a chaotic frenzy. Ratchet injects him with a sedative, until the tension in Prowl’s armor goes slack, and the twisted pain on his face smooths into a genuine recharge.
“What the frag happened?” he growls, only to carefully gentle his tone when he sees the anguish in Sideswipe’s optics, the way he and Sunstreaker draw together, embracing in view of everyone, pressing their foreheads one to the other.
“An inconvenient truth,” Soundwave replies, without emotion the glitch, and he hands Ratchet a datapad before ghosting out of the room, leaving Ratchet with an unconscious tactician and his twin lovers.
“What the frag is this?” Ratchet demands, waggling the datapad into the air. He’s confused and angry and this situation has been fragged since Perceptor dragged Drift’s twitching frame into Ratchet’s medical bay, and he doesn’t like it.
He doesn’t like it one fragging bit.
“I don’t get it,” Sideswipe says, voice muffled as he folds himself into Sunstreaker’s arms. “The database says Prowl’s just a computer. That they powered some program with a spark to make him.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.” Ratchet slants a look at the sleeping tactician before he flicks on the datapad to see for himself. “That’s not how it works.” He ignores the tiniest niggle of doubt.
Sparks are tricky things. When it comes down to it, as far as they’ve come, they still don’t really understand how sparks work. How sparks make them who they are. How a spark imprints memories and forms emotions. They just don’t know.
“I’m not a medic. I’m just telling you what we found out,” Sideswipe says, and he pulls away from Sunstreaker to drag over a chair closer to Prowl’s medberth. His expression softens as he reaches for one of Prowl’s hands, tangling their fingers together. “I know he’s not a machine.”
“We both know that.” Sunstreaker sits on the edge of Prowl’s berth, for lack of another chair, his hip pressed to Prowl’s. “I don’t know what really happened in the past, but I’m gonna thrash the first person who dares say something bad about Prowl.”
Ratchet sighs and rubs at his temples. “Let’s do some research before either of you go off on a rampage.” The information unspools on the datapad, lines upon lines of text. He supposes he should share it with Perceptor. “I’m going to take a look at this. You two stay here with him. Don’t do anything rash.”
“Who? Us?” Sideswipe’s innocent grin is anything but.
Sunstreaker grunts.
Ratchet supposes that’s as good as he’s going to get.
He leaves them alone -- it’ll be some time before Prowl reboots and wakes -- and steps into a nearby room, where Drift is still aberth and Perceptor perched beside him. They’ve managed a stopgap measure that keeps Drift conscious, and able to ambulate short distances, but too much exertion claws at the firewall they designed.
“I think I’ve had enough of this virus,” Ratchet says by way of announcing himself, and hoping not to walk into some low-energy intimacy like he has before. “This is a fragging mess.”
“It is indeed,” Perceptor agrees in a tart tone. “Good morning, Ratchet. I see you’re in a fine mood.”
“That’s his usual mood,” Drift says with a weary smile. He’d recognized Ratchet immediately upon waking, just as Ratchet had recognized him. “How was the scavenger hunt?”
“Productive.” Ratchet groans as he leans against a console as the only chair is occupied by Perceptor. He holds up the datapad. “We can start on a legitimate cure now, though that means working hand in hand with Decepticons. Present company excluded.”
“I’m not a Decepticon anymore,” Drift says.
Perceptor squeezes his hand. “And we both know how little any of it was your choice.”
An emotion flicks across Drift’s face, too quick for Ratchet to read, before it’s gone again. He suspects this is a discussion they’ve had before. Or maybe argument is the better word.
“Choice,” Drift repeats, a contemplative murmur. “I wonder if I ever had it.”
Ratchet shifts, uncomfortable with the sudden tension in the room. He straightens and hands Perceptor the datapad -- he’ll put it to greater use than Ratchet, and besides, Ratchet has already downloaded the pertinent information he’ll need.
“They’re setting up a neutral facility between the Ark and the Nemesis for us to start working on an anti-virus,” Ratchet explains as Perceptor accepts the datapad with a nod. “Whenever you’re ready, it's pretty easy to find.”
“Starscream will be joining us, I imagine,” Perceptor says, his gaze focused on the datapad, but something pointed in his tone.
Ratchet tries not to bristle, but his armor flicks before he can smooth it down. “He is one of their greatest scientific minds, to hear him say it.”
Drift grins.
Perceptor makes a noncommittal noise. “It will be good to work with him rather than against him, don’t you agree?”
“It’s better not to try killing each other, yeah,” Ratchet says, knowing full well what Perceptor is trying to get at and ignoring him outright, just as he’d ignored Wheeljack’s insinuations. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have Prowl to fix.”
He leaves, perhaps impolitely, but they must be used to that by now. Ratchet stopped bothering with politeness after the first decade of war. He’d rather save his energy fore more important things.
Politeness is a waste of time he doesn’t have.
Iacon was beautiful once.
Optimus holds those memories close, both the ones he’s experienced for himself, and the memories the Matrix carries from Primes before him. Iacon had been a glittering, shining metropolis. A grand example of the greatness of Cybertron.
Now it is a wasteland and perhaps rightly so. Iacon was as much an example of the grandness of Cybertron as it was an example of Cybertron’s greatest mistakes. It was a place of waste, of inequality, of smug nobility sneering down at the poor and powerless.
Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it is true that things must be burned to ash in order to start anew. Optimus wonders if change would have ever been wrought with the institutions already in place.
Sometimes, he wonders if Megatron had the right idea.
“You look disturbed, Prime. Having second thoughts already?”
Optimus turns to acknowledge Megatron’s arrival, having expected it. Megatron, like himself, has come alone and unarmed, and it speaks to an enormous trust that they both followed through on their agreements.
Optimus has no doubt Soundwave is somewhere nearby, lurking out of sight, but fully observant of their meeting. Just as Jazz is likely hiding in the shadows, ignoring Optimus’ orders to stay away, unwilling to trust the Decepticons to this extent. It is interesting how both he and Megatron have thirds so invested in their welfare.
Perhaps the rumors of Megatron and Soundwave’s relationship hold some truth to them.
“Yes,” Optimus says, “but not about this.” He tips his head in greeting. “How fare the Decepticons?”
“Confused. Angry. Bitter.” Megatron pauses to grin, sharp and pointed. “Ready for violence. You’re lucky our teams found answers together. Or things might not have gone so well for this cease-fire of yours.”
Yes. Answers.
Optimus thinks briefly of Prowl with a flicker of disquiet. They’d found many answers in the Iaconian database, as well as uncomfortable truths.
“It will take the combined efforts of both our factions to put an end to the virus. You know this.” Optimus folds his hands behind his back, stares out over the ruined landscape. “We’ve already agreed on it, but I have another proposal for you.”
“Do you now.” It’s not a question. Megatron steps up beside him, copies his pose. “And what else would you ask of us, now that you’ve demanded patience?”
Optimus cycles a ventilation. He shutters his optics briefly, remembers Iacon as it was, and looks out at Iacon as it is. “Peace,” he murmurs. “For this cease-fire to be permanent rather than temporary. For our two factions to lay down arms for the sake of ourselves and our planet. To work together to build a new Cybertron where all can live freely without the burdens of our shared past.”
Megatron hums contemplatively.
Optimus knows better than to push. He lets Megatron ruminate, while his own spark spins and dances with a thin thread of hope. He hopes knowledge of the virus makes fighting against the insidious push of it easier. He prays Megatron can see reason, beyond the dark whispers of the Senate’s last weapon.
“I am going to tell you a secret, Prime, only known by one other.” Megatron’s engine slips into an idle, a quiet rumble. “I tire of war. I tire of watching my Decepticons die with nothing to show for it but spilled energon and desolate battlefields. I want the war to be over, but I will not surrender to achieve that.”
By Primus, it’s a chance.
Optimus seizes it.
“No surrender,” he says immediately. “Neither of us concedes defeat. No one wins, but no one loses either. We agree to lay down arms. We agree to work together. We build a treaty that we both unequivocally support, and we both abide by it and defend it.”
Megatron lifts his chin. “You think it’ll be that easy?”
“No. I suspect it’ll be the hardest battle we’ve ever fought.” Optimus allows himself to sigh, to show some of the fatigue in his frame, in his field. “There’s a lot of bitterness, Megatron. A lot of anger. Hatred. Energon has been spilled on both sides. Lives destroyed. All manner of murder and torture and misdeeds.” He pauses to cycle a ventilation, remembering all too well the wreck of a frame Jazz had once dragged back to him, barely functioning. “But if we don’t figure out how to set it aside, the war will continue until there’s no one left to hold a grudge.”
“Until we wipe each other out,” Megatron says.
Optimus inclines his head. He glances at Megatron, but the Decepticon warlord’s gaze is distant, staring off at the far horizon, as though he’s seeing something Optimus isn’t. His hands are balled into fists behind his back, his armor clamped tight and rippling, like he’s holding in a great fury.
Or maybe he’s fighting against the programming which has extended their war for so long. Megatron is strong, perhaps the strongest foe Cybertron will ever encounter. Optimus is counting on that strength now, to overcome the dark whispers.
Megatron growls, but it’s not directed at Optimus. “I did not shake off my chains to condemn my Decepticons to an unwinnable war, and a future of death.” His whole frame shudders in a wave, like he’s casting off fabric. “I’ll have this peace, even if I have to fight for it.”
“I suspect there will be some on both sides who won’t be happy with the idea of laying down arms,” Optimus muses aloud.
“Then they don’t belong in our Cybertron, and I’ll make sure of it.” Megatron turns to look at Optimus at last, and there’s a fire burning in his optics, one Optimus has only ever seen turned on him at the height of battle. “I am the Decepticon commander, and I started this war. It’s on me to end it, and I will fight to my last sparkpulse to ensure a future for my soldiers.”
Optimus bites his glossa.
It’s not up to him to tell Megatron how to treat the Decepticons who won’t surrender. He can’t force his will on their policies. He can only ensure his own.
“We should present as much of a united front as we possibly can,” Optimus says instead, because diplomacy is where he excels, compared to Megatron’s more violent approach. “That’s the best way to combat any pushback we might receive.”
“Agreed.” Megatron pauses for a moment before the fierceness in his optics softens. “I am certain to have Soundwave on my side. Starscream as well. Others may take more convincing.”
Optimus manages a faint smile, thinking of the arguments he soon faces as well. “It’s going to take much negotiation. A battle of a different sort. But it can be done.” He offers Megatron a hand. “If you’re willing to walk down this road with me.”
Megatron glances at the offered hand, and Optimus can read millennia worth of battles in the glance. “I am,” he says, and slaps his palm into Optimus’. “To peace.”
“To peace,” Optimus agrees, and the flutter in his spark feels a lot like hope.
Optimus is quiet for most of the walk back to the Ark. He doesn’t blink when Jazz sidles up to him, as though he’d known Jazz was there all along. Then again, he’s always had an awareness of Jazz’s presence that no one else has been able to match. Jazz doesn’t know if it’s a Prime thing or a Matrix thing or just an Optimus thing.
“You think it’s gonna work? Peace, I mean,” Jazz says as he falls in step with his lover and his superior officer.
“I hope it does,” Optimus murmurs. His shoulders look a bit lighter, as though years of worry have swept off his back. “I believe Megatron is sincere, just as I believe there are few of us left who are actually eager for the war to continue.”
Jazz snorts. “Boss, I know optimism is kind of your thing, but lemme tell you, as much as no one wants to fight anymore, they aren’t that keen on letting the Decepticons off scott-free either.” Decepticons aren’t the only ones who think the other faction should be exterminated in order to win the war.
“I’m aware of this, Jazz.” Optimus’ voice is amused rather than offended. They know each other too well. “However, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do our best to make this work. Concessions will have to be made by both factions.”
And executions, no doubt, are off the table. Pity. Jazz can think of more than a few Decepticons who are better off dead than pretending to be peaceful. Then again, Megatron can probably name a few Autobots he’d rather not see live.
“It’s going to take a lot of negotiating,” Jazz muses aloud. “We’ll need Prowl.”
Optimus nods. “Yes, indeed. Hopefully he recovers soon. I need all the best minds the Autobots can gather. This treaty needs to be comprehensive and fair if it’s going to succeed.”
It’s nice to see Optimus like this, Jazz realizes. He looks lighter. He walks with a little spring in his step, perhaps no one but Jazz would have noticed. There’s a positive air around him; it tastes a bit like hope. Like he’s remembering how to live again.
Jazz would kill to keep that smile on Optimus’ face.
This peace is going to succeed. Jazz will do whatever is necessary to ensure it. Whoever he has to threaten or cajole or bribe, he will make certain this peace comes to pass. Even if it leaves him lost, without any idea what to do with himself, it’ll be worth it.
For Optimus to be happy, Jazz would do anything.
Prowl wakes slowly, his processor carrying the dull, familiar ache of a recent glitch, and his tanks clenching from lack of energon, despite the shunt he can feel attached to his lines, directly feeding him. There’s a heavy weight on his chassis, an imaginary one because when he paws clumsily at it, there’s nothing but his own plating there.
He tries to touch it with his other hand and realizes he can’t. His fingers are held fast.
The steady beep of monitoring machines surrounds him, a chorus of higher pitched tones joining the steady whuff of ventilations, asynchronous and not his own. He reaches with his field first, testing the air, and two fields reach back -- Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.
Relief floods Prowl’s system.
It takes two tries to boot his optics, and on the second time, there’s a glitchy haze he has to cycle to clear away. His surroundings are a blur that clarify into a familiar room -- he’s in the medical bay, with Sideswipe clinging to his hand and Sunstreaker knocked out in the other chair. They look as exhausted as Prowl feels.
He shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation. The glitches had been so rare as of late, but he shouldn’t be surprised to have suffered one now. It’s not everyday a mech learns he’s not a mech. He’s not much of a person. He’s a machine. A literal battle computer powered by a spark. A pawn of the Senate, long after their deaths.
He’s been trusted by his Prime, by his lovers, by his friends, and for naught. He’s a snake in their midst, and who knows how long it will be before some deep-seeded code causes him to betray them. What if there’s some programming, buried in his subconscious, designed to work against a possible peace?
He can’t be trusted any longer. Everyone must know, if Rewind hasn’t shared his information with Optimus yet. Prowl would prefer to tell them on his own. He can’t be trusted. He can’t be anything. They should put him in stasis for everyone’s safety.
It’s for the best.
He should tell them.
Prowl fumbles for the berth controls to get himself upright. He tries to disentangle his fingers from Sideswipe’s, but the red twin’s grip only tightens, even in recharge. Prowl sighs and nudges them both with his field.
Sunstreaker bolts awake, startling in his chair, and Sideswipe follows on a second’s delay, his optics bright and wild. Their vents whine in a surge toward defensive protocols that a systems check clicks back into stasis a sparkbeat later.
“You’re awake!” Sideswipe squeezes Prowl’s hand.
“How are you feeling?” Sunstreaker asks, much more reserved, head tilted as though he’s already read the intentions in Prowl’s field.
“I have a lot of work to do,” Prowl says, and gently removes his hand from Sideswipe’s. “I appreciate the both of you looking after me. Have I missed anything?”
“Hey. Whoa. You don’t have to thank us for this kind of thing.” Sideswipe frowns and scoots closer, his field probing at Prowl’s, and Prowl immediately rebutting his interest with a gentle, but firm refusal.
He closes his field behind a firewall. He doesn’t want either of them to sense his emotional state. Then again, do machines have emotional states? Perhaps it’s all a matter of programming. As a battle computer designed to project outcomes, surely he’s taught himself to study the behaviors of mechs around him and react appropriately.
Even machines have limits, however. No wonder they call him cold-sparked. There’s only so much programming can do.
“The scientists have been working on a cure. Both factions are keeping to themselves for now. The treaty still stands,” Sunstreaker says, but his gaze never wanders away from Prowl, and it’s disconcerting to be under that much focus.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Thank you, Sunstreaker. I’m sure there’s much work to be done.” He swings his legs over the side of the berth, nearer to Sunstreaker than Sideswipe. “I need to speak with Optimus. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Best ask Teletraan. He’s been all over,” Sunstreaker says, like his words are carefully chosen, his optics narrowed.
“Or you could not get out of the berth and wait for Ratchet to clear you,” Sideswipe says, sounding exasperated. “You were out for three days, Prowl. Maybe you should wait a bit before you dive back into the chaos.”
Sunstreaker scoffs, “Honestly, Sideswipe, have you met, Prowl? Primus.” He rolls his optics and gives Prowl a stern look. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Prowl stands and sways a moment, his gyros stabilizing, his sensory panels flicking to balance him. “I’m sure you two have duties also. Thank you for being here.”
Sunstreaker frowns.
“Seriously, Prowl. Why do you keep saying that?” Frustration sparks in Sideswipe’s voice. He stands, the chair shooting out from behind him with a clatter. “Is this about what Rewind found? The Cipher project? Because Ratchet says it’s a load of slag.”
“Ratchet and I have a different point of view,” Prowl murmurs, and he slips around the berth, away from Sunstreaker, without meeting the yellow twin’s gaze. “There are other factors to consider. I am a security risk now, and above all else, that cannot stand.”
Sideswipe snags his wrist before Prowl can escape, his fingers warm against Prowl’s armor, his field tentatively trying to reach for Prowl before he’s rebuffed. “You’re not a security risk,” he says. “And you’re not a machine. Come on, Prowl. Wait a second, okay? We need to talk about this.”
Prowl gently slips free of Sideswipe’s grip. “We’ll talk later,” he says, firm. “For now, I have duties to attend.” He manages a wan smile. “Thank you both.”
He leaves before either can convince him to stay. His spark is a tiny, squeezing ball in his chassis, and his processor whirls in a thousand directions, still bringing up databyte after databyte about the discovery they made in the Iacon database.
He pings Teletraan who informs him Optimus is in a conference room with Jazz, Red Alert, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide. Good. That will make this much easier.
The door opens for Prowl, despite being command locked, and conversation dies as he steps inside, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of their discussion. He doesn’t go far, but lingers within a step of the door. Several pairs of optics turn toward him, and a look of relief flickers over Optimus’ face. Prowl will hate crushing it.
“Prowl,” he greets, starting to rise from his chair. “Ratchet didn’t say you were online yet, but I’m glad to see you on your feet.” Optimus’ smile is genuine, and his relief palpable, and it hurts to know Optimus worried for him.
He dips his head in a bow. “Thank you, Optimus. I haven’t seen Ratchet yet. I onlined a few minutes ago.” Prowl cycles a ventilation, looks past Optimus and stares hard at the wall. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I only came to step down from my post.”
The air goes out of the room.
Optimus frowns in Prowl’s periphery. “I don’t understand.”
Prowl works his intake, focuses on keeping his hands loose at his side, rather than the shaking fists they want to become. “I am a security risk at the moment. We can’t be certain that everything I’ve done or will do does not follow some plan of the Senate’s. Neither can we be certain of my loyalties. You should not trust me.”
He forces himself to look at Optimus, to hold steady against the concern in Optimus’ gaze, bleeding spark that he is. He needs Optimus to be rational here, to understand what Prowl is doing. He’s a machine. Logic is important, but one can’t guide with logic alone. Optimus needs mechs at his side, not machines.
This shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Machines don’t have feelings. Machines do as they are told.
“You have always been trusted,” Ultra Magnus says, slowly and carefully. “Recent revelations do not change that.” How kind of him to say so.
“It should,” Prowl retorts, and is ashamed for how sharp he has made his tone. He draws back, forces calm where he doesn’t feel it. “Regardless, I’m recusing myself from our current negotiations. Smokescreen is more than capable of advising in my place. I suggest you contact him immediately.”
Prowl bows and stares hard at the floor. “I thank you for your trust me until now. It has been an honor to serve.”
He spins and walks out. They call for him, and Prowl ignores it. He is, technically, a footsoldier now, and as such, beholden to the commands of them, his superior officers. But he is sparksick and his recent glitch makes him weary.
He needs to return to the medbay, if only because it’s safer to be in a medically induced stasis, then conscious for whatever foul plot the Senate has lurking in his programming.
What he needs to do and what he ends up doing are two different things. He changes course, making for the room that is his, until he’s assigned a bunk in the general population. He’s no longer a member of high command, therefore, he will not be afforded the minor luxury of a private room.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker will mourn that loss, he supposes.
He uses his passcode and manages a half-smile when access is granted to him. They haven’t kicked him out of the system yet, though if they are wise, they will do it as soon as they can. He slips inside, feeling weary down to his struts, his door moving to shut behind him.
“Primus, Prowl!” A small black and white shape darts in behind him, and Prowl blinks in surprise as Jazz stares at him, aft nearly clipped by the door. “Ya havin’ fun ignorin’ me or are ya still not right in the head?”
Prowl cycles his optics. “You followed me?”
“Of course I did, you idiot.” Jazz straightens, and his scowl would give Ratchet a run for his credits. “That’s the most brash thing I’ve ever seen ya do. We need yer advice, not for ya to run away in the middle of the biggest thing to happen since the war started!”
Prowl backs up a step and his sensory panels flick. “I’m a security risk,” he repeats. “Primus, Jazz. I’m sure you’ve read the data by now. I’m not even a mech! I’m a walking computer powered by a spark!”
“We’re all computers powered by sparks!” Jazz declares, throwing his hands into the air, his field spiking wildly through the room.
“You know what I mean, Jazz, don’t play a game of semantics with me.” Prowl rubs his forehead, the ache growing stronger behind his optics. “I am a computer designed by the Senate purely for the sake of eliminating the Decepticons in a manner which would further their agenda. I sincerely doubt a cease-fire would have been their preferable outcome.”
Jazz glares at him. “Our tactics don’t live and die by your decisions. We need your advice. We trust you. The rest of us can keep you in check.”
Prowl shakes his head and tucks his hands behind his back, to hide the fact they’re shaking. “It’s a risk I can’t take. I don’t trust myself anymore, Jazz. Not after this. Not with everything we have at stake.”
“And to walk out when we’re in the middle of key negotiations is a better option?” Jazz demands, and his field spikes with anger, as sharp as a slap to the face. “That’s stupid! Why don’t you plug that into your calculations?!”
“They’re not mine,” Prowl hisses, his spark strobing fast and sharp in his chassis -- and he has to remind himself, it’s not a spark, it’s a power source. He’s a machine, not a mech. “I can’t be trusted! I could ruin this treaty before it even has a chance.”
Jazz snarls at him, his hands balling into the fists Prowl can’t form. “You’re being a coward. We don’t know what any of it means. We aren’t even sure it’s you. It’s too soon to worry about anything.” He slashes a hand through the air. “We need you in the room, not Smokescreen, not Trailbreaker. Optimus needs you at his side. You. That’s the truth.”
Prowl bows his head, shuttering his optics. It’s hard to think, with the pounding his head, and the truths battering at his firewalls.He knows it’s him. They may choose not to put their belief in it, but the facts are too much.
The sparkdate and space is the same. His prior designation. The day he joined the Autobots. The name of the mech sent to watch over him -- Varnish, not a friend who’d saved his life as he remembers, but a soldier with a duty, meant to deliver him to the Autobots. The stats of the processing unit and his own battle computer, matching kernel for kernel.
“The only absolute truth is that we can’t afford to make any mistakes,” Prowl says, and projects as much command into his tone as he can manage. “I am sorry, Jazz. I’ve made my choice.”
Jazz growls at him, and the anger in his field makes Prowl flinch. “I’m not letting you do this. You can take some time, think about it, but Ultra Magnus ain’t takin’ over yet. I won’t let him. We need you, and you’re goin’ to realize that sooner rather than later.”
He spins on a heel and storms to Prowl’s door, the heel of his palm slamming against the access panel. It springs open, perhaps obeying Jazz’s ire, and he nearly collides with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker standing on the other side of it.
“You try talkin’ sense into him,” Jazz snaps as he pushes between them, and they slide out of his way at the same time. “I’m done.” He throws his hands into the air and vanishes.
Prowl sighs and drops down into the nearest chair, scrubbing his face.
“What was that about?” Sideswipe asks as he and Sunstreaker enter, the door shutting and locking behind them, Sunstreaker wise enough to activate the privacy screen.
“I’ve stepped down as second in command and tactical advisor to the Autobots,” Prowl says, bracing his elbows on his knees, tangling his fingers together. “Or at least, I intended to. I’m told that my resignation was temporarily refused.”
“Why would you do that?” Sideswipe plants his aft on the low table, despite the fact Prowl has told him many times not to do so.
“I can’t be trusted,” Prowl murmurs, his head bowed, the grief clutching his spark. “I don’t want the Senate to have a hand in the negotiations. I want peace.”
Sunstreaker crouches down beside the chair, and the weight of his gaze lands on Prowl, incisive as always. “Optimus trusts you. He’s always trusted you. This doesn’t change anything.”
“No. It changes everything.” Prowl cycles a ventilation and has a hard time keeping it even. Everything inside of him trembles. “I am not what I thought I was. I’m a pawn. I’ve always been a pawn.”
Sideswipe twists his jaw. "We're all pawns in some way. Besides, the Senate is dead. They aren't giving commands anymore. You're being a little irrational, you know. Which isn't like you."
"Because that's not all this is about," Sunstreaker murmurs, taking one of Prowl's hands into his. "Is it, Prowl?"
He can't meet Sunstreaker's gaze. This is something he's not sure he's ready to talk about, this deep-seeded self-consciousness. A lack of confidence, he's not used to carrying, but is suddenly running rampant through every line of thought in the core of his being.
"I'm a twin, you know," Sunstreaker says, and he squeezes Prowl's hand. "We're split-spark. I used to wonder if that meant we were different people or not. Sometimes, I still do."
Sideswipe's field flickers with understanding. "Yeah, I mean, even I worry about that. If what I'm feeling is me or of it's Sunny. We have to work hard to block each other out, but it's never one-hundred percent."
"We're two separate people, we know that, but sometimes, it's hard to remember it. That we have our own wants and desires outside of the bond. Though you were pretty easy to agree on," Sunstreaker says. His thumb rubs along the back of Prowl’s hand in a smooth, steady rhythm.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. He focuses on the rhythm, counts the beats of it, to give his twirling thoughts something to match. The analogy is apt, not exact to his worries, but close enough. Of all the mechs aboard the Ark-22, with the exception of Red Alert, his twins are perhaps the only ones who might understand his predicament.
He swallows over a lump in his intake. It's terrifying to feel vulnerable. If he opens up about this, there's no closing that door. But then, if he's only a machine as he fears, does it matter?
Logically, this is the best course of action. And logic is all he has right now, since emotion threatens to glitch him.
"I was designed as a tactical computer," Prowl says, barely above a whisper. "They gave me a spark to make me mobile. What if that's all I am? What if I'm just a machine, mimicking real mechs around me to look like I belong?"
Silence.
Sideswipe sucks in a ventilation, swift and sharp. Their fields ripple with the enormity of what he's admitted. He knows they don't have the answers, and it doesn't feel any better to give them the burden.
A burden shared is a burden halved, but Prowl's not sure if that's accurate in this case.
"I don't know how sparks work," Sideswipe says slowly, and he scoots to the very edge of the table, his hands resting on Prowl's knees. "I'm not a medic. I'm just a big, dumb frontliner. But I think that's a load of slag. You're a mech, Prowl. You're not a machine."
"And even if you were just mimicking everyone around you, so what? That makes you a damn good actor, and we like you anyway," Sunstreaker says, with a fierceness Prowl had not expected. "We like you for whatever you are. So anyone else can jump off a cliff if they have a problem with it."
Despite himself, Prowl chuckles, because it is such a Sunstreaker thing to say. He lifts his gaze, and is stunned by the looks on their faces -- twin expressions of determination and affection. His sensory panels flick, his spark swelling with warmth, his own adoration of these two, and he wants so badly for the emotions to be real, rather than a product of some mimicry software.
Only Ratchet could tell him for sure, what his programming does, how he's coded. Part of him is afraid to ask.
"You're not the only one people think is sparkless," Sunstreaker adds, and he grins, but it's a sharp thing, full of dark humor. "We can be sparkless together."
It should not sound so romantic, but it does.
Prowl cups Sunstreaker's face and pulls him in, pressing their foreheads together. "You are not sparkless," he says, sweeping his thumb over Sunstreaker's cheek.
He slips his hand free of Sunstreaker's and reaches for Sideswipe, pulling the red twin as well. "Neither of you are sparkless," Prowl continues as he cups the back of Sideswipe's neck, pulsing his affection through his field -- real or feigned, they both trust in it, so it means something to them.
He supposes that's what matters the most.
"Come to berth," Sunstreaker says.
"There's a lot of things you can fake, but I guarantee that pleasure isn't one of them, at least when it's because of us," Sideswipe says, and Prowl doesn't have to see the grin to know it's there. "You're still Prowl to us. Nothing's changed."
Gratitude pulses heavy in Prowl's spark. He wants to believe the emotion is real.
"The berth," Prowl says, reaching for anything that might prove him wrong. It’s an act of desperation, and maybe that means he’s not a computer, maybe it doesn’t. "I have a lot of free time as it is. Might as well make the most of it."
Sunstreaker stands and pulls Prowl with him, though it's a tangle of red and yellow arms tugging Prowl to the berth. "We'll talk about that, too. But later."
"I think this is the first time we don't have to share you with the war," Sideswipe says, and his engine gives a little rev of eagerness. "So we're going to take full advantage of it."
"Just don't think for awhile," Sunstreaker adds as he pulls Prowl onto the berth, sandwiching him between their frames, "Stop thinking and concentrate on feeling."
"As sappy as that sounds." Sideswipe chuckles against Prowl's audial before his lips wander a warm, wet path down the curve of Prowl's intake.
"Shut up," Sunstreaker mutters, and his indignation is swallowed by Prowl's kiss, by the sweep of Prowl's hands over silken-smooth golden armor, and the rise of Sunstreaker beneath him.
Prowl has never been one for poetic words, and no one has ever accused him of having a silvertongue. While he’s been with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe long enough for such important things like love and trust to pass between them, words often fail him.
Nevertheless, he’s certain that if he were to look up the definition of ‘lovemaking’, it would refer to this very moment.
To the reverent way they lay him out on the berth, and their hands sweep his armor as if memorizing every plate, every seam. To the kisses they leave in their wake, warm and tingling, their movements in synchronized tandem, until there’s not an inch of him that isn’t buzzing with arousal and need.
His valve is slick and swollen. His spike is full and dribbling. They avoid his array, choosing instead to taste and tease his chevron, his sensory panels, the back of his knees, his ankle joint, the join of intake and shoulder. They murmur sweet words and brush his mouth with kisses, and Prowl has to swallow a sob of joy, because it feels like being whole, being a person and not a machine, and he doesn’t know if he deserves this gift or not.
He fears he’s only lying to them, by letting them love him. He’s just selfish enough to bite his glossa, to let them continue, because he wants them so very much, even if that want is only a program meant to mimic real mechs, it feels real to him.
He loves them, and he wants them, and they are the last real thing he’s certain he can hold.
It’s Sunstreaker who slides onto his spike, and Sideswipe who slips into his valve, taking and being taken. Prowl is pinned beneath them, subject to their weight, to the pleasure they thrust on him, and he’s helpless in the wake of it. He doesn’t try to resist. He gives in to the waves of pleasure, to their perfect rhythm and their sweet kisses.
He soaks up the affection they offer, the promises behind their actions, and when he overloads, it’s less about pleasure and more about understanding. Acceptance even. He clings to the love they offer him, pressed between their frames as all three of them click and flutter while they cool down, still sticky from exertions but too exhausted to drag themselves to the washrack.
“Love you,” Sideswipe says, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s shoulder.
“And don’t you forget,” Sunstreaker adds with a sweep of his fingers over Prowl’s chestplate and the seam protecting his spark -- the one line they haven’t crossed yet. “You’re ours.”
“As long as you want me,” Prowl says, and he catches them exchanging a glance, but they say nothing, just settle down into the berth.
“Ten minutes,” Sunstreaker says into the ensuing silence. “Then we bathe.”
Prowl manages a chuckle, clinging to the familiarity of it all. “Yes, sir.”
Some things change, and some things never will.
