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Chapter 3: Pathology | FINALE | 3/3

The diagnosis is complete.

Windblade confronts Prowl. It goes exactly as badly as you'd expect—and somehow worse.

Excerpt:

"What did you say to Perceptor?" "I just asked Perceptor to do what he does best - ratting out his colleagues." Windblade thought she had clarity, that she was ready for Prowl's response no matter how ugly it was. She wasn't. "That—that's monstrous."

[Read Chapter 3 on AO3] → [LINK]

Working on a Gunmax-centric fic that aims to flesh out his backstory. I'll give a tw for abusive relationship but it's quite subtext so far! Anyways, just wanted to post a short excerpt for now :)

“Do Androids dream of electric sheep?” 

That was the question posed by Philip K. Dick’s titular novel and Gunmax thought it was stupid. 

Androids, AI, were created for a reason. When they “dreamed” it was to sort files, declutter data, improve efficiency - counting sheep, electric or otherwise were for children and there was no need for robot children and so they were all brought online with personality and thought modules completed. No room for a “childhood”.

Gunmax was created as part of the Brave-expansion program, designed to be the perfect traffic bot for the Highway Patrol Division. He stood a respectable 5.06m and weighed in at 1.9 tons - large enough to stop rogue cars or trucks but small enough to slip between traffic. His design - sleek and fashionable, so that the pilot program he represented would have the best chance of success in terms of public relations. 

Afterall, people liked pretty things. 

But more importantly, he was resolute in stopping crime but calm and respectful when assisting denizens of Nanamagari. Again, emphasis on the perfect traffic-bot, because like kid-bots, humans had no use for non-functional bots. 

So thank god, or humans, or whatever super-AI deity out there for Mr. Kirisaki. 

Mr. Kirisaki never bullshitted him. He gave it to Gunmax straight, often between puffs of a stick humans called “cigarettes”. His partner laughed when he said that he wanted a bot-sized cigarette to smoke. But that’s beside the point. 

The point is that Mr. Kirisaki lets him know the exact expectations of each mission. He didn’t pretend like Gunmax was allowed to fail, didn’t pretend that he had wiggle room, didn’t pretend that he was human. No, Mr. Kirisaki keeps it real:

“You’re just a temporary fad pushed onto us by the higher ups. Ya think that just because you’ve got that, whatsit, “Super-AI” that you’re one of us?” 

Kirisaki spares him a glance. “You serve, but you don’t get to protect.” 

Chapter 2: Readjustment | 2/3 | Optimus & Windblade

Prowl's first meeting went... exactly as expected. Now Optimus has to deal with the fallout.

Windblade wants answers. Optimus has stories instead.

Excerpt:

The whole meeting started on the wrong pede. Windblade almost stops in her tracks when Prowl dismissed her, casually, cruelly. Jazz stepped in, another point for the SIC in Windblade’s books, Wheeljack almost crashed in, and the meeting finally began. From there, the most unfruitful, convoluted wreck of a meeting unwinds in her processor all culminating in Prowl taking a jack hammer to Wheeljack’s department and credibility. Optimus adjourned the meeting, the only useful thing he did throughout, and the recording ends.  She was already in front of Prime’s office, but hesitated to enter. The situation was much more complex than she’d anticipated. See, she’d expected the Earth-bots to make some rude comments about them not keeping Shockwave back at Cybertron and at worst a fist fight. But what happened here was much worse. Prowl, but not a Prowl she’s ever seen or interacted with ruled the meeting with an iron fist.  In her mind, he’s always been precise, analytical and calm; he didn’t escalate, didn’t rise to baits and most certainly didn’t throw out accusations with only circumstantial evidence. She’s almost ready to entertain the idea that this was a Decepticon scheme, that they’d somehow switched Prowl out or something until a thought stopped her spark cold: he’s a master trap-setter. Traps in traps and traps you can see but have to walk in because that’s your best option and no one, no one got out of Prowl’s traps unscathed. 

[Read Chapter 2 on AO3] → [LINK]

Chapter 1: Misalignment | Prowl-centric | Gen | 3 ch.

Summary:

Elita's dead. Shockwave's on Earth. The Autobots on the Ark are soft, undisciplined, wasting resources on sentiment.

But no matter.

Prowl will fix everything. Starting with one meeting

Or

Watch Prowl Mansplain Manipulate Manslaughter his way through the ark!

Excerpt:

Prowl looks at Jazz, sitting at the other end of the table beside Prime and lounging like he owns the space. Was this discipline aboard the Ark under Prime? If Elita was here, she’d already reprimanded Jazz before he could even…But this isn’t Cybertron, and the mechs in front of him weren’t Elita and Windblade.  “Is Windblade joining us? I can update the attendance list if she was missed.” Prowl directs his question at the Prime who suddenly looks a little sheepish. But Prowl was never good at reading faceplates and the Prime has most of his covered. “No, it’s just you today I’m afraid. Windblade felt that she needed some time to clear her processor. I agreed.”   Prowl barely suppressed an eye-roll but still let out a “typical” under his breath. Sure, Elita’s passing was a heavy blow for the Autobot cause, but she used her own death as a checkmate against Shockwave. Now if that wasn’t ruthless, tactical genius Prowl didn’t know what was. For all it’s worth, they should be glad that things fell out the way they did. 

With the AllSpark lost, Ratchet believes that every life counted, even if it was on the other side. But ideals have pricetags and Ratchet can only pay what he owes in solitude. But Wheeljack makes the payment not so steep.

Ratchet rolls up the mountain back to the Ark. He was saved the kidnapping that “wounded” decepticon had in mind by another one of Wheeljack’s gadgets. He couldn’t wait to bring the inventor his thanks. 

He transforms at the entrance of the orange craft, welcomed home by its bright yellow hue against the bleak twilight. As he walks more and more bots come into view busying themselves around Autobot headquarters. Only Ironhide gives him a small nod as a welcome back, Ratchet doesn’t blame them.

“Hey doc, ready to properly join us?” 

Ratchet turns his helm right to see Sunstreaker there with his arms crossed. He sighs but ignores the racer and keeps going. 

“Hey doc, Doc! Ratchet!” Sunstreaker turns Ratchet around by the pauldron so they stood face to face, “Can’t you at least look at me when I’m tryna talk to you?” 

Nearby bots stood and watched now, no longer busy with their tasks. 

“Sideswipe is stable and just needs a few rounds of deep defragmentation.” Ratchet checks his chronometer, “He should be waking soon, I think he’d appreciate you there.” 

Sunstreaker crosses his arms, “You do good work, doc, just wish it was applied in the right direction.” He fixes his optics on Ratchet, “Autobots don’t fix up decepticons.” 

Ratchet wants to leave this confrontation. Sunstreaker was worried for his twin and Ratchet’s not one to reproach him for this. But looking around, he finds the sentiment reflected in the optics of every onlooker. It seemed that Ratchet would have to explain himself to the jury before moving on. 

“The Allspark is lost, we could be the last of us there ever is and will be. All of you are the future of our kind, and this goes for the other side as well.” Ratchet tries to choose his words carefully, but judging by the looks he’s getting, this might escalate to Optimus after all. “I think it’d serve us well to remember that we’re all Cybertronians.” 

Sunstreaker who looked ready to drop it snapped around with renewed vigour, “Well then doctor, why don’t we all just come ‘round the Well, make nice and kiss? Oh that’s right, the Well’s dead, Cyberton is dead because of the deceticreeps. O’buckethead and his suicidal ideology will offline everyone of us before he’s through-so save me your “We’re all Cybertronian” scrap.” 

Before Ratchet could respond Sunstreaker’s already leaving with a sigh, “But thanks for continuing our species, doc. I’ll be sure to let Sideswipe know he can look forward to being clobbered in the helm by Breakdown again.” 

The gathered crowd was dispersing, going back to their tasks again. For a moment Ratchet felt lead in his pedes, wanting to explain himself more but also wanting to just turn around and leave again. Just get to Wheeljack’s lab, you should get this to him. 

Treating everyone wasn’t all doom and gloom, the occasional vehicon would gift him a human trinket for his services. Of course, Ratchet himself had no use for broken TVs, random furniture and bits of plastic and cloth but he knew Wheeljack loved them. 

Some time ago, Wheeljack had dragged him into a small side room attached to the lab with a vague pink glow about his fins. It turns out he’d turned that storage room to his own miniature room, a large table taking up most of the space with a half-built Protihex atop it. He works on it during his occasional off-time to take his mind off things. 

“Already rebuilding Cybertron, huh?” 

Ratchet had given the inventor a few pats on the shoulder and felt the amusement grow in the other’s EM field. “You know it, I’m already thinking about where I’d put my labs.” 

Ratchet quickened his paces towards the Ark’s lab. He gets it, everyone’s still tense from the recent skirmish and the fact that he wasn’t kicked out the moment he set foot on the ark was already courtesy enough. He supposed one can’t have their cake and eat it. Solitude came with his choices. 

Without thinking, he pressed his servo to the scanner by the lab’s doors and was promptly denied entry. Right, there’s sensitive info in there. The only place he could really still call his own on the Ark was Medbay, but time had a funny way of manifesting itself as dust here on earth. The layer of powder he’d find on his medical slabs would only remind him of his own absence. He reached into his subspace to leave Wheeljack his little trinkets, then he’d leave. 

“Ratch!” 

The doors slid open to let white light flood into the corridor. Ratchet felt an instant of unreality until Wheeljack reached across the threshold to hold his pauldrons. 

“Wheeljack, just the mech I wanted to see.” Ratchet smiled and reached out his palm. Wheeljack quickly pressed his palm to it before ushering Ratchet into the starkly lit lab. He supposed they were oddballs for enjoying this kind of lighting, maybe it was just their programming. Medical and engineering units were made to feel at home in fluorescent white.

In a side storage section, Ratchet sat on one of the chairs between the two monitors that lined the walls while Wheeljack leaned back on the bench. Two cubes of energon appear out of a pneumatic tube embedded in the wall and slide to Wheeljack along a magnetic track on the bench. Probably one of his least explosive inventions. 

But Ratchet was thankful when the warmth of the energon spread on his palms. The whiteness of the lab felt more like a blanket that covered them both, preserving the heat of the energon.

“Your “mobile immobilizer” really saved my aft out there, I wanted to show you my appreciation.” Ratchet reaches into his subspace and pulls out his newly acquired treasures: a peeling bathtub, screens of various sizes, a bag of colourful glass and a painting roughly the size of two humans. 

“Oh Ratch you shouldn’t have!” Wheeljack’s fins flashed so blue it was almost white. He quickly gathered the gifts and carefully subspaced them, it would be put to good use later on. “I hope you’re not going out there just to extort poor decepticons on my behalf.” He cackles a little at his own joke, he always knew how to amuse himself. 

Ratchet huffed out a chuckle, “Maybe I’d get less flack for my escapades if that was the case.” 

Wheeljack squinted at the other mech who’d gone sheepishly quiet, “Did they give you trouble again? Just tell me, you’re not a great liar anyways.” 

Ratchet takes a small sip, then another, and yet another one. Wheeljack doesn’t say anything, just leans in closer, closer and then right in his faceplates. 

“Ok, alright, they didn’t give me trouble, we just talked a little.” Ratchet pushes his chair back a little to squirm away, “Everyone’s a little tense, the skirmish took more casualties than usual.” 

“But you’re a medical unit, you see hurt Cybertronian you heal, what do those numbnuts not get?” Wheeljack sets his drink down with a deliberate clink, “It’s Sunstreaker ain’t it? Sideswipe’s recovering and he needed to blow off some steam.” 

Ratchet stood to lean back on the bench with Wheeljack, “First of all, I wouldn’t say that I heal solely because I’m a medical unit.” 

Wheeljack withers a little, “oh, right - sorry.” 

“No no, it’s just, that’s what I’m afraid they’ll think. I know you don’t think that way, and it does come easy to me, the urge to heal and soothe. But that's not why I do it.” Ratchet traces the edges of the energon cube with his digits, “I want us all to live to see the day the Allspark is recovered. Isn’t it quite pointless to fight a war to extinction?” 

Wheeljack shrugs, “I don’t really get why we’re fighting at all sometimes. I mean, I get why we’re fighting against the Decepticons, but I don’t understand why they keep continuing the war. They treat us like, like we’re the oligarchs that oppressed them! I don’t know about Megatron but I sure remember you fixing him and his miners up during the revolution.” 

A silence falls between them then, making the room feel more fluorescent. 

“Back then, I was convinced of the revolution and of Megatronus at its helm.” Ratchet began after a while as he set his now-cold energon down. “I thought: a system that fed on sparks doesn’t deserve to exist. I don’t…regret my choice back then, but then I’d never imagine it’d lead to this.” 

Ratchet looks up with weary optics, “So where do my choices now lead? Does doing what I believe in always lead to a better result? I wonder everytime I weld Starscream’s line shut, everytime I amputate a necrotic limb from Soundwave and every time I leave Thundercracker with a beacon and medical-grade energon. Am I just dragging out the tortuous death of a species?” 

The mute buzzing of the fluorescent light snaps Ratchet back into the present, he turns to Wheeljack with apologetic optics, “Oh Wheeljack, I didn’t mean to- I mean this was supposed to be- oh why can’t I just be happy for a moment?” 

Intro/background: Though both hailing from Caminus, Windblade did not see eye-to-eye with Elita-One at first. Sure, the Caminusuan method for training cityspeakers is archaic if not dangerous but that was what Windblade and her master sought to reform. There were no good reasons for Elita to abandon Caminus for ‘better prospects’ on Cybertron. But her view changed after the incident with Metroplex after which she willingly offered her sword to be of service. But it seemed that Windblade was in for another ‘betrayal’ after the recent skirmish with Shockwave left Elita severely wounded. How do you say farewell to someone already departed ?

Fuchsia is the colour of warriors.

When Windblade first saw the Prime’s bride, she was a lithe fuchsia figure behind that larger-than-life mech giving a rallying speech to his Autobots.

And she was no warrior - top military strategist, they’d say. But that's just the polite term for schemer and Windblade sees her for what she is: a traitor. Sure, Cybertronians might be fooled by their own ignorance of Camunisian culture but in her optics, it’s as clear as the skies she soars through.

Now, she was being betrayed again.

She was standing in front of the doors to the command center. She is still standing in front of the doors. But something was different. Before, it felt like she was standing at the precipice of something looming, dark and foreboding. Now, she’s been swallowed into the belly of the beast.

She slams her palm to the scanner and charges into the center. It was silent, lit by the seven energon lamps that glowed its erudite blue. Elita said that each lamp contained a vial of energon from her fallen classmates back at the Academy on Caminus. They kept her company when she wanted to give up.

But no, there was one lamp with shattered glass and leaking energon by the control panel in the center of the room. It stained the console blue, also stained the limp servo atop the console.

Elita

Windblade closes the distance and yanks the console chair around to reveal her Commander, plating no longer fuschia, optics no longer blue and spark no longer turning. She did it, she used her time-stopping power and it drained her spark.

Without thought, Windblade’s servos found their trembling way to the blank faceplate of Elita-One. She now stared off into the distance, optics unseeing. She doesn’t even look like she’s in recharge. Windblade’s own shifting optics found its way to a datapad in Elita’s lap, she picks it up:

“My Dearest Windblade,

Do not tell anyone of my passing until this next operation turns out fruitful. You will lead our soldiers in a targeted strike against Shockwave and his space bridge. The Ark’s crew will be crushed if Shockwave is allowed to establish transport to Earth, this mission must succeed no matter the cost. Please see attachment below for the exact plan and various contingencies.

The second part is ensuring our base stays intact until Perceptor is able to retrieve all the sensitive information from our main CPU. However, by the time of my passing (Shockwave will know, he saw the extent of my wounds), Shockwave will launch his final extermination campaign against us before leaving for Earth. He will not allow an uncontrolled variable our size to keep existing on an unguarded Cybertron. To counter this, you must paint me again and have Perceptor install the animatronic sequence into my frame (the code is in a chip attached to the back of this datapad). Shockwave will expect this to be simple once he’s located our base. But when I face him alone on top of the base singing our Caminusian war-songs he will have to do some recalculations. I’ve never gambled on anything in my life, I guess I’ll have to see the results of this one from the Allspark.

May Solus guide your wings.

Yours truly,

Elita-One

>Attachment: Operation_SevenStars.ar”

What were her last words to Elita? She can’t remember, she just remembers the act of helping the general to her seat and being dismissed. Coolant was already wetting her faceplates as she let the datapad plop on the console.

Did Elita think she can just leave without saying anything? Was Windblade not deserving of honesty and the dignity of a proper farewell? How dare she? This-this schemer, liar, traitor!

Windblade turns to leave, she will not follow the plan of a manipulator, Optimus and his crew will face what they must and Elita’s frame will not be desecrated for an insane plan. She takes three steps away, freezes and runs back into Elita’s limp arms.

She’s screaming, she’s weeping, she’s trying to feel the warmth of Elita’s spark behind her thin chassis plating again. Windblade though, feels like she’s not doing any of this but just watching impassively above the scene. She’d never experienced anything like this before, not even when her master went immersive with Caminus.

Her master was a gentle, carefree spark who loved and cared for Windblade deeply. She named Windblade, she taught Windblade the way of the sword, she showed Windblade the beauty of stars collapsing, of nebulas reborn and she showed Windblade the right way to join the Allspark. Was she given everything just to throw it all away for the femme in her arms?

In beauty, there is often danger. Master would point out as they observed yet another star collapsing. But this time, it was large enough to form a black hole which was not beautiful because it was nothing. Elita, the chosen one, she was a star. In truth, when Windblade saw her behind Optimus, she could only look at her. Optimus shone because he carried the weight of the Matrix, Elita shone because she carried the weight of herself. Like an interstellar object, Windblade found herself irresistibly caught in the other’s orbit.

Master also said that Primus was not Cybertron but appeared in the laws of the universe. When Windblade asked if Primus was gravity, her master just smiled and shook her helm. She said, “gravity is one form he appears in. Asking if gravity is Primus is like asking if Windblade’s voice is Windblade.” They were nestled together on a remote planet guarding merchants travelling around Cybertron’s intergalactic trade routes. The galaxy like the spilled tears of a mermech streaked across the night sky. Windblade nestled deeper to her master’s side. “You see, Primus manifests Themself in patterns, contradictions and processes. It’s all sacred, even destruction, even death.”

Windblade felt the sanctity of patterns whenever she witnessed the death of a star, molecules splitting and reuniting, the sensation of motion on her frame. After the proper rituals, even her master’s immersion felt like she was just going home. Windblade feels reunited with her master every time she sets pede on Caminus. But right now, looking ahead impassively was Elita’s frame robbed of her spark. And soon, she would rob herself of her own frame as well. There was nothing natural or sacred about this. Windblade decides that her master must’ve been wrong for the first time in her life. Elita burned herself up not for an ideal she believed in but in a losing battle against despair.

The universe expands, entropy grows, Primus undoes Themself.

Windblade has grown tired in her crying, she lay her helm listless in the other’s lap. She notices the shoddy weld-job Elita did on her own wrist. Academy trained femmes were taught to speak with City-titans through physical connection from their wrists. That wasn’t how Windblade did it and she considered the institutional way of doing it violent and dangerous. “You can’t just plug yourself into another mech and pray for the best.” Her master would always mutter in an when they did encounter academy-trained city-speakers. It was no wonder Elita never wanted to speak with a Titan again, given her past. But it did make Ratchet’s job a hell of a lot harder, Windblade’s lips quirked slightly at the thought of the mopy physician.

But they were paired on a mission to revive Metroplex and everything that could go wrong, went wrong. Windblade was trapped in a flubbed connection to Metroplex, the Seekers had them pinned down and Elita was stuck between covering and extracting Windblade. Eventually, she ripped open her welded wrist panel and made a hardline connection to the Titan. That was when Windblade saw Elita’s life in the span of the five seconds it took to disconnect the three of them from each other. But that was enough, Windblade realized that Elita did not feel hope. So why does she fight? If it is not for the Prime, what motivates her?

But the more Windblade tried to observe Elita, the less sense it made. She and the prime respected each other a great deal, but both were wholly devoted to the cause. She shared amicable silence with Ultra Magnus, but their optics would always be focused on the younger Autobots. Whenever Prowl suggested a strategy that involved a bit of a gamble but would ce,ent their legacy in warfare history, she always turned him down.

So one day Windblade came up to her and asked, “Why do you keep going?”

Elita was confused at first, but thought about it and said, “I can’t control what I feel, but I can control what I do. As an Idealist in principle, I refuse to give up. I put in the work to show that refusal.”

“Even if it means your efforts will be like tossing energon into a black hole?”

Elita answered with some mirth in her cold-blue optics, “I think black holes are meant to be filled.”

Skyfire had seen snow before. Not on Cybertron, his beautiful broken home, no they didn’t have an atmosphere. But on other planets shielded by gases from their respective suns. 

Earth was beautiful too, but in a way that felt too tender and too good to be true. Well, that was until Skyfire’s optics zoomed onto a large rodent consuming smaller members of its bonding unit. He knew a lot of fellow Cybertronians would find this act revolting, to consume the energon of one you’re bonded to? You’d feel less pain if you cannibalized your own servo. But he always thought that when their sparks returned to the AllSpark, weren’t they being consumed? Of course he kept this thought to himself, people would get the wrong impression if he went around comparing Cybertronians to Organics. 

Thump thump thump! Skyfire! Skyfire let me out you useless, patronizing slagger! I’ll rip a hole through you if I have to. Skyfire!!

So this was it. Him, Starscream, trapped on the planet that held such promise. Starscream was supposed to get published and try gunning for that diversity spot at the Academy. They were supposed to bring the news of an abundant source of energon, hope, for Cybertron. But it was too late, the snow storm came as they tried to leave Earth’s atmosphere. Skyfire’s navigation system suddenly went haywire; he went down taking Starscream along with him. 

When he came around, only Starscream’s wingtip was visible and the truth howled past him with the storm: this planet was going to bury them alive. He ran an internal diagnostic, if he could find out what went wrong he’d be able to bring them both back…home.

Oh. 

How stupid could he be? 

It was that priest that came to visit their Academy after Perceptor was taken. That slight squeezing of optics, that knowing smile - Skyfire just took it as the default expression of those priest-caste mechs. Now the Church’s sigil sneered down at him from the error window that showed the virus clear as day. He was a dead-mech-walking, they didn’t need to hide anymore. Skyfire didn’t know if Cybertronians were capable of feeling cold, but he shivered. 

A slight wiggle of Starscream’s wingtip paused his spiral. At least one of them needed to get out of here. Skyfire decided right then and there, he would shield Starscream with his frame, his life, his spark. 

He fought his way to Starscream, a slight touch of the other’s frame showed dangerously low temperatures for a seeker. He blasted his engines and fans to warm himself up one last time, just until the storm passes, just until Starscream survives his mistake. 

His mind was slipping, just a moment ago, he could still feel Starscream’s small blue servos pounding on his inner walls. But now, now, even that bit of pain had been taken from him. His emergency stasis protocols were booting up, Oh Primus, save the mech that didn’t trespass against you, save Stascream. 

Skyfire woke up in his berth but couldn’t move. 

Even now, in the Ark, he hated recharging because waking up always felt like coming out of that ice again. But he’s learned by now to not fight it, he tries to adjust the focus, the aperture, the light filters in his optics one by one. He did this in front of Starscream once, accidentally, they’d pulled an all-nighter for an experiment that couldn’t run unsupervised. He startled awake after feeling Starscream’s light taps to his helm and was then promptly blinded by Hadeen when he threw his helm up from his arms. To adjust to the new lighting, his optics ran through the motions. 

Starscream later told him that the room was showered in the golden-blue light refracted from his optics. It was quite a lightshow, he’d commented, trying to appear casual about it. Skyfire knew then and there that he’d acquired a new habit. 

When dreams like glaciers melted out of him and unto his recharge slab, he could finally bring his hand up to feel his windshield. unbroken. It didn’t matter though. Starscream was gone regardless. So maybe he’d rather have it broken. A mark Starscream left behind, a trail that could lead Skyfire to him. 

Of course, when he’d woken from the ice the other mech was already there, looking down with hidden concern. But that didn’t matter, he came back for Skyfire, he saved Skyfire and if it took him clawing out of Skyfire’s alt-mode, well, that just made the reunion that much sweeter.  

It didn’t matter that their grey leader could only see worth in things he could use whether it was Earth for energon or Starscream for air-cover. It didn’t matter that Starscream laughed in his face when he asked if being a soldier was better than being a scientist. It didn’t matter that humans cowered in fear from the purple emblem on his chassis. None of it mattered until Starscream ripped a hole in his windshield again, with a blaster this time. Skyfire had only thoughts of regret when he collasped. 

His servos went to his mid-section again. Think back in time, think about Cybertron. That was all he could do to try and stop the phantom pain, it usually worked. 

He remembered the cycle before they left for Earth. They went to their favourite energon dispensary knowing they won’t be having their usuals for a while. When Skyfire’s plain energon infused with xenon, neon and zinc and Starscream’s clear energon with added cinnabar, lithium and copper flakes finally swirled lazily in front of each other, Starscream started speaking. 

“We’re really leaving next cycle huh.” 

Skyfire had started sipping on his favourite and Starscream usually would be as well, but he seemed absent-minded, looking out the dispensary windows, stirring his energon. 

“Yep, nice and early at 0600. We’ll be flying with Hadeen.” Skyfire smiled, oh I should try telling a joke! Try to get him to smile. “No time for second thoughts now. You’re trapped with me on this mission.” 

Starscream huffed from his intake, but whether it was at the joke or at Skyfire… well it didn’t matter either way. His tone was more present but not much lighter when he spoke again, “I should be asking you that, no second thoughts on this fool’s errand?” Starscream smiled wider at Skyfire’s anxious look, “Oh stop stressing you big oaf, I’m not talking about the data and energon signals from this exoplanet, we’ve done too much calculation to be mistaken. No, it’s…actually nevermind, forget it.” 

Starscream stops stirring his energon but doesn't drink it. Instead, he just rests his face on the servo. Well, if he wants to drop it, they’ll drop it. 

“To be honest Starscream, this field study is so important to me that it can’t fail, I won’t accept that and it’s not for the reason most think.” Skyfire lets out a vent and reaches for the blue servo on the table, “It’s because you’ll finally get the chance to show them all how brilliant you truly are. It’s not right what was done to you, how they keep you from your true potential. But it’s alright, I’m here now and we’ll make it right, together.” 

Before Skyfire’s large white servos could reach the other, Starscream had quietly slid it back to interlock with his other. His optics pointed down but looked around, like those of a trapped mechanimal that’s learned its place in the cage. “You keep wanting to fix things, “make it right”, “the way it’s supposed to be”, but Skyfire, are you fixing what’s been done to me or are you fixing me?” Starscream’s red optics pierces Skyfire, “Am I not a sum of what’s been done to me?” 

Skyfire tries to put on a smile, something to placate the other, “Starscream, you know that’s not true, I mean at least I don’t see it that way. You are the sum of what you’ve done to overcome all the barriers placed in front of you, that’s how I see it.” 

“But I’m beginning to feel that it’s a fool’s errand. A Vosian military semi-drone reject for a place in the academy? We all know those spots are for a senator’s dumb sparkling with a science dream-—

“Don’t say that.” Skyfire looked stricken and in his sadness reached across the table to hold Starscream’s clasped servos. It made sense, with his long arms he could reach over whenever he chose. “What do I have to do to make you see what I see? Sometimes, when my aperture isn’t set right, I look at you and see Ulchtar, the brilliant-—

-—brave and ambitious seeker who makes a name for himself by rediscovering the Omega Sentinels and saving Cybetron from alien invasion, yes Skyfire, I know.” Starscream’s intake is set into a line and he falls silent. He looks down at his own servos in Skyfire’s large white ones. The size difference was so ridiculous that they had separate sets of equipment before Skyfire gave up on wet lab. Turns out he paid for his own set with a stellar-cycle’s worth of wage he’d saved up just so Starscream didn’t feel like he’s doing all the grunt work in the lab. 

Starscream didn’t know if that melted his spark somewhat or just made it burn brighter with distaste. Skyfire told him stories, told everyone who’d listen stories in fact, it was like he couldn’t process the world without them. But Starscream was different. He had no patience for illusions and could not afford them anyway. Reality marched forward, material and uncaring and if Starscream even dared imagine anything else he’d be left behind as a pile of trodden scrap. 

So why did he waste his time with the illusionist that sat across the table?

Sure, Skyfire helped him without holding back anything, that was the nature of the mech. He never held back any help he could give, whether it was a particularly dull student in office hour, a nest of flying organics toppled out of their fibrous structures or failing projects that inevitably found their way to his desk. Starscream belonged in the latter category and hung onto Skyfire like a lifeline. 

But there was something else, something worse than he could’ve ever imagined. Sometimes, when he looked into Skyfire’s crystal-blue optics he could make out a distorted reflection of himself–no–of Ulchtar and he loved this feeling. He’s been fooled by Skyfire’s lies even when the heavy trodding of reality announced itself, he’d die as “Ulchtar” and be happy. 

“Sometimes I can’t tell if I like you more, or the person I am when I’m with you.”

In the gloom of the Ark’s hangar, Skyfire’s chassis started hurting more. 

Currently working an a pretty big TF project and wrote a test character piece for Jazz & Prowl. Thought it'd be neat to post here, enjoy!

Jazz came to a stop in front of the Ark. He’d never imagine himself in front of the familiar orange thrusters ever again when he left an hour ago but here he was. He’d never felt more defeated in his life. 

He quietly transforms, slinks back in the unguarded entrance, and finds his way around the familiar corridor. It was helpful, pretending that anyone would stop him on his way to the Medbay, helped keep his mind off a certain tactical consultant in permanent stasis. But now the Medbay doors stared him down in a very Prowl-like manner whenever he arrived “fashionably late” to another tactical meeting. 

Before he could dwell on this any further, the doors slid open and revealed its occupant: Prowl, silent, optics offlined and expression neutral like he’s already joined the AllSpark. Jazz wanted to scream. He wanted to run away. He wanted to run towards Prowl, tear the pod open and shake him awake. Anything. Anything but this silence. 

He opts for a deep intake of the air, a trick Michaela taught him for calming down before looking embarrassed when Jazz playfully reminded her that they didn’t have lungs. But he does it anyway and it calms him down. Something about Pavlov’s dogs pops up in his processor but he couldn’t bring himself to look though that Wikipedia page right now. 

After his spark doesn’t feel like it’s burning a hole through his frame, he approaches the pod and reaches out to the glass that separated them with his servo. A luminescent hue comes to life from around the pod, along with the pulsating machinery all bringing his thoughts to Earth’s ocean or even, distantly, the Rust Sea back home. 

“Prowl, it’s Jazz, I mean of course it’s me no one else would bother.” Jazz starts to laugh but it curdles when Prowl’s offlined optics come into view again. The blue-green illumination gives the illusion that it’s on but Jazz knows the blue of his friend’s optics. It was cold, cutting, intense, nothing like the soft glow that came off the borders of the pod right now. 

“You know, I was going to leave. I’ve stayed for too long, we follow the diurnal course of Hadeen and stop to work where help is needed. I think the peace treaty will go through this time, after facing down that it’d be downright stupid to not end this fiasco already. But ya know, my work here is done.” Jazz glances up meaningfully at the other mech, as inert as could be. “You hear that Prowl? Your stupid contingency plans if you died after the Unicron business? Gone. I came back specifically to wipe them clean. What do you have to say?” 

Nothing. Just pure, untouched blankness. Jazz huffs out a laugh.

“Ok, I lied, came straight to Medbay. Just to see you! And yes, you should feel honoured. You made a Sun Guest turn back, now that’s no mean feat.” 

Jazz is answered by the push and pull, the wax and wane of pumps, pulleys and engines that kept the spark in front of him burning out its last embers. Everything suddenly seemed far away for a moment, the cyclical rhythm of the room lulling his conscious mind to sleep. 

The voices came back: If only he was stronger, faster - if only he didn’t care. But he was weak, slow and cared too much. He cared that Prowl was coming around, cared that Prowl smiled and held his helm, cared that Prowl went into stasis with regret trickling out of his dimmed optics. He shouldn’t have come back, this was a mistake. But even so he needed to know something. 

“There’s an old story back home - a mermech had his t-cog stolen by his lover so he couldn’t leave, couldn’t return to the Rust Sea. One night, when his lover was finally convinced that there was no need to hide it any longer, he took the opportunity and never looked back. Afterall, his spark belonged to the never-ending red…where is my t-cog Prowl? You’re not a cruel mech, I know it, just tell me where you hid it and I’ll leave as I came. Please?” 

One drop, two drops, three more drops. Glowing coolant slid down Prowl’s casket, losing azure as it slid into the cracks. Jazz lowered himself over the pod, trying to hide the sadness only to be betrayed by his own shaking shoulders. Nothing answered but the waves of whirring that went on and off, like that eternal crashing and breaking of waves. 

The highway that led away from the Ark was by the sea and he enjoyed every minute of that view, but this time, that story of the mermech plagued his processor for that entire, excruciating hour. When he took on the role to feel Prowl’s threshold for him he knew he’d given over his freedom, but just for the time being, and after all it was all in service to the work he was supposed to do. It was larger than himself, it was worth it. 

And he’d gained much more than he could’ve ever thought as well, Prowl, a mech he knew as everything the system could hope for, was not cruel. His people’s prosecution was not due to a particular malicious force but inertia from an overdue system that Prowl recognized as well. That was progress, that was hope. 

All he has now is despair. 

He needed to get the hell out of here. He needed his “t-cog” back. If Prowl was decent he would’ve left a clue, something to let Jazz go if things did go wrong. After all, Jazz’s work was Prowl and his work now lay in dreamless stasis, functionally dead. 

Jazz looks up from his arms, opened his intake and found himself speechless. He didn’t like lying but it seemed that’s all he’d been doing until now, “I’m being unfair. You’ve never taken my t-cog, I know where it is. But I think…” what a frightful truth, Jazz couldn’t bear to face it but face it he must, “...I think, I think it wouldn’t fit anymore. I don’t belong with Hadeen anymore.”