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“Cut the slag,” Prowl said. “Come sit down if you want to talk to me.”
The buzz of a field at his back disappeared as the mech slid into the booth across from him instead.
“So,” Pharma started, fingers steepled. “We can probably skip the niceties. I already know who you are. You’re probably aware of who I am.”
“No,” Prowl said, if only for the twitch of irritation it got him. “What do you want, Pharma?”
Watching Pharma’s face smooth over into a complacent smile made Prowl’s protoform itch. They’d met only once before, after a bold play of Sentinel’s had landed Prowl in the hospital with half of his plating so badly damaged that it had had to be removed from between struts and cables with tweezers. He’d been kept awake, the sensor blocks glitching and ineffectual due to the physical trauma, and his sheer annoyance at Pharma’s bedside manner had eclipsed the pain only a joor into the procedure.
That had also been the first time he met Ratchet, a full vorn before the natural order of things went to the Pit. He’d thought highly of Ratchet back then. A lot had come to pass since.
“I’d hazard a guess that we want similar things,” Pharma said. “These are… strange times, after all.”
Prowl frowned. His drink was almost empty already. He signaled for the waiter, but Pharma cut him off, ordering and paying for both of them. The drink he got wasn’t what he’d wanted, but it burned his intake and it let him look at Pharma without feeling a nigh-irresistible urge to slap him, so. There were more where it came from.
“I want what’s best for Cybertron,” Prowl said finally, once the table between them was covered with empty glasses. He arranged them into a grid as he spoke. “This… peace , if you want to call it that, is untenable. We’re not a race made for static situations. Look how many warframes are still around who haven’t bothered removing their integrated weaponry since the last war ended. It’s not a matter of if this is going to collapse, it’s a matter of when. It’s a matter of whether or not Ratchet and the rest of his cabal of—of optimistic drones are going to unshutter their optics fast enough to cut things off before the whole planet goes down due to their negligence.”
Pharma was watching him over his own glass, full to the brim with light blue liquid. Fancy. It looked sickening. “You have a keen eye,” he said. “It’s a pity nobody recognizes it.”
“Yeah. Well.” Prowl drained his glass. It hit his tanks hard. “Not everyone has Sentinel’s gift for using all the tools at his disposal.”
Pharma smiled. “Well, I’m not looking for a tool. I’m looking for a partner.”
“In what?” Prowl asked, staring at him.
Pharma leaned in over the table. He smelled like high-end polish. No hint of hospital to him anymore. “We have a common interest. We both want to see Cybertron flourish instead of stagnate. You seem like the kind of mech willing to break some laws in order to remake them, stronger. I want our planet to have the firm hand it needs holding the reins.”
Prowl put the pieces together. It wasn’t hard.
“You want revenge,” he said.
Pharma’s smooth smile turned to a scowl. “Please. I’m not so petty as to waste time on personal vendettas.”
“Aren’t you?” Prowl asked. He leaned in as well. The highgrade had his tacnet running faster than normally, but some leaps in logic didn’t require special programming. “Your old coworker, who, correct me if I’m wrong, you had something of a one-sided rivalry with, ends up in the most powerful position on the planet. That’s gotta grind a gear or two.”
“And what about you, then?” Pharma hissed. “You can’t tell me it doesn’t sting to be passed over time and time again, to be assigned meaningless tasks just to keep you away from what really matters , from the work you were made to do.”
It was the needle that really did it. Made. Prowl’s field flared out to tangle viciously with Pharma’s, something triumphant and hot in his anger. Their anger.
“Let me remind you of something,” Prowl murmured. His optics locked onto Pharma’s. They were very blue and held not a microgram of professional comportment. “I have access to almost any document submitted for reference through the government. I know exactly why you were fired, and I know that you don’t stand a chance of getting a job in any hospital now, let alone being reinstated at Iacon General. And you want me to believe that your primary objective here isn’t revenge?”
Pharma’s hand shot out and seized his collar. Something hit his nose. His tacnet might have been running hot but it took his frame a moment to realize that he was being kissed and not assaulted. He shoved back, knocked a couple empty glasses over. Pharma stared at him, still seething, optics narrow.
“I don’t want to kiss you in public,” Prowl said.
Pharma scoffed, but didn't let go. “I’m sure your fancy processor can think of an easy solution for that problem.”
“We are not attacking Ratchet,” Prowl snapped as they crashed through the front door of his habsuite. He bit Pharma’s lip, hard, and was shoved against the wall for it. “Not directly. It would only make him a martyr. Use your critical thinking module.”
“I never said directly,” Pharma retorted. "Use your audials."
Prowl tugged him further into the main room. They went down in a heap on the couch, Pharma’s hands raking across the span of Prowl’s doorwings.
“He needs to, slag, stop that, needs to fail the people first,” Prowl said.
“And he will, ” Pharma assured him, bending to bite at his neck instead. “Trust me.”