Ars Imperatoria

“Did you know that I am from Praxus?” Ptowl asked her in return, his voice faintly acidic. “And do you know what happened to Praxus?”

He thought he remembered what happened to Althiex, but a second check confirmed it. Altihex - destroyed by repurposed dilithium warheads. One of the very first geographical casualties of the war. Its waters had been beautiful once. Prowl had never had the privilege to see them in person, but he had seen pictures. Then, pictures of what became of it.

“It was all melted,” he answered for her. “A whole city turned to slag in under a day. You will find that destroyed cities are getting more and more common. But I don’t think you’ve answered my original question - not adequately, at any rate.” He leaned forward. Glared. “Why did you join? Because of Altihex?”

“Praxus was…leveled.” Riella didn’t feel like reciting the details. It brought up too many vivid images. “It was targeted early in the war. I didn’t know you were from there.”

That was an unfortunate gap in her knowledge of the mechs she worked with. She would need to fix that, once she had some time to do some research. Anything could be important, and she should have at least known where Prowl was from.

He did.

“No,” Prowl said. “Walk me through it, please.”

On his datapad, he opened a new folder. Altihex.

“You don’t know?”

Didn’t everyone know about Altihex? Leveling an entire city wasn’t exactly something that could fly under the radar. Maybe a random frontliner could have missed it, but an officer?

He thought he remembered what happened to Althiex, but a second check confirmed it. Altihex - destroyed by repurposed dilithium warheads. One of the very first geographical casualties of the war. Its waters had been beautiful once. Prowl had never had the privilege to see them in person, but he had seen pictures. Then, pictures of what became of it.

starter for @silverwheeleddecepticon

-

His first breath of air that wasn’t recycled a dozen times through stale filters was, unfortunately, on the surface of Caminus. The enforcers who escorted him around loitered by the entrance of the Prime Rehabilitation Center, watching him. He paid them no regard as he looked around the city.

It was alive. Prowl couldn’t remember the last time he was actually in a metropolis without thinking about how to destroy it. It was a change, though he did not know if it was welcome or not. The people looked a little different, sure, but they were Cybertronians, past the veil of history and isolation.

He took an step forward and then lurched to a stop when the gestalt link, long silenced by his prison sentence, surged into wild, chaotic life. Nausea coursed through him as a riotous explosion of voices stampeded through his head.

Shut up, he snarled. When people in the street gave him odd looks, he realized he said that out loud.

Long Haul belatedly added his own assurances, and Hook a ping of possible maintenance issues that he was positively itching to check Prowl for. 

“Not here,” he hissed. “Who even let you into this city?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Prowl pushed past them, away from the prison, aiming to get away before they attracted even more attention. Camiens were wary of combiners these days. He walked on, trying to wrestle thr link into submission as he did, and was forced to concede when they only came back stronger, like the high tide.

“…News? What news? From where?” That was Bonecrusher, jostling Hook out of the way, ignoring the other’s engine rev of annoyance to press closer in his place. 

“You assume correctly. As you may well know, we have plenty of volunteers joining everyday. Sometimes, we ask why.”

Prowl tilted his head to one side, still watching her. She didn’t seem nervous- proof of innocence, or the tell of a practiced liar?

“Why are you here, Riella?”

…That wasn’t at all what she’d expected he would want to discuss.

Why are you here. Such a simple question, with such a complicated answer.

Didn’t he know? Didn’t everyone know? Surely she wasn’t the only one to join up after a disaster because she wanted to prevent it from happening again. Why even bother asking? 

"No," Prowl said. "Walk me through it, please."

Her stated information didn’t deviate from the record. Prowl was pleased. More than one soldier decided that this new world order symbolized an opportunity to shed their past - a notion he thoroughly disabused them of. He set down his datapad, curled his fingers together, and gave her a level look.

Unremarkable, as far as models went.

“Do you know the reason for why I called you here today?” he asked, his tone neutral.

Well, she could think of a reason, or two, or three, but one of the most important things Melody had taught her about interrogations was that it was never a good idea to fill in the blanks in open-ended questions. She might as well practice on Prowl. If he didn’t already know, then she didn’t need to confirm anything for him.

Prowl tilted his head to one side, still watching her. She didn't seem nervous- proof of innocence, or the tell of a practiced liar?

starter for @silverwheeleddecepticon

-

His first breath of air that wasn’t recycled a dozen times through stale filters was, unfortunately, on the surface of Caminus. The enforcers who escorted him around loitered by the entrance of the Prime Rehabilitation Center, watching him. He paid them no regard as he looked around the city.

It was alive. Prowl couldn’t remember the last time he was actually in a metropolis without thinking about how to destroy it. It was a change, though he did not know if it was welcome or not. The people looked a little different, sure, but they were Cybertronians, past the veil of history and isolation.

He took an step forward and then lurched to a stop when the gestalt link, long silenced by his prison sentence, surged into wild, chaotic life. Nausea coursed through him as a riotous explosion of voices stampeded through his head.

Shut up, he snarled. When people in the street gave him odd looks, he realized he said that out loud.

Long Haul belatedly added his own assurances, and Hook a ping of possible maintenance issues that he was positively itching to check Prowl for. 

"Not here," he hissed. "Who even let you into this city?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Prowl pushed past them, away from the prison, aiming to get away before they attracted even more attention. Camiens were wary of combiners these days. He walked on, trying to wrestle thr link into submission as he did, and was forced to concede when they only came back stronger, like the high tide.

Prowl had never envisioned himself achieving a status higher than a detective with the enforcers. Maybe, he could have shot for enforcer captain. Now, that life seemed as distant as the stars. He had more than a mere district under his care - he had an army. A growing one.

Optimus might handle the big speeches and big ideas, but Prowl’s domain was numbers. Had always been. Right now, those numbers kept shooting up at alarming rates. Casualty rates. Enemy numbers. Recruits. And despite what the recruitment pitch said, he could hardly pick up every functioning chassis on the street and expect things to run smoothly. Those numbers needed names and figures. Faces. So Prowl intended to do what he did best.

He was going to investigate.

So far, he’d met more people in one cycle than he did in years. Many of them were unfamiliar, their functions foreign. With each one, he was learning. Sometimes, you couldn’t just meet the figurehead and expect to understand the situation. You had to find the little ones behind them, the ones who pounded pavement and ran cubes between offices. Thry tended to know things beyond what their superiors expected. All this needed to be done discreetly - if people had warning, they could prepare. Prowl didn’t want the recycled data. He wanted the truth.

Today’s interviewee was a simple footsoldier, the kind that no one noticed. The ideal target.

“Designation,” he drawled, not looking up. “Rank. Unit. Commanding officer.”

Had Riella known Prowl’s opinion of her, she would have protested–loudly. She might be small and low-ranking, but that wasn’t going to stop her from taking the fight to the enemy. She was going to help end the war and save the world! What could be unnoticeable about that?

Of course, she had no idea what might be going through his processor, and when it came to officers, it was always best to assume she was about to be scolded for something and act accordingly. Politeness and an expression that conveyed who, me? I didn’t do anything usually went a long way. 

Prowl, in particular, was unreadable. It was impossible to guess what he wanted, why he wanted it, or his opinion of it just from looking at him.

Unremarkable, as far as models went.

At least it wasn’t a formal order to report to Command immediately, but it still had the usual undertone of someone’s in trouble. It was one thing Autobot officers and her former caretakers had in common.

“You wanted to see me?”

Optimus might handle the big speeches and big ideas, but Prowl's domain was numbers. Had always been. Right now, those numbers kept shooting up at alarming rates. Casualty rates. Enemy numbers. Recruits. And despite what the recruitment pitch said, he could hardly pick up every functioning chassis on the street and expect things to run smoothly. Those numbers needed names and figures. Faces. So Prowl intended to do what he did best.

He was going to investigate.

So far, he'd met more people in one cycle than he did in years. Many of them were unfamiliar, their functions foreign. With each one, he was learning. Sometimes, you couldn't just meet the figurehead and expect to understand the situation. You had to find the little ones behind them, the ones who pounded pavement and ran cubes between offices. Thry tended to know things beyond what their superiors expected. All this needed to be done discreetly - if people had warning, they could prepare. Prowl didn't want the recycled data. He wanted the truth.

Today's interviewee was a simple footsoldier, the kind that no one noticed. The ideal target.

In MTMTE, Swerve added this in his description of Prowl for Skids. And that set my mind on fire.

A cruel mouth. A cruel mouth. We all know Prowl has a certain way with words - just on the right side of blunt, offensive, and harsh enough that while it’s not a direct insult, he hits you right in the soft jellied insides to make it hurt. It’s partially to make people stay away and partially because Prowl rarely bothers to hold back his nastier side when it’s not pivotal.