Chapter Text
The Ark had gathered data that suggested that the Quintesson base on Esus-hin-023, a desolate desert planet, had been abandoned after the Quintessons decided they had finally drained every drop of use from their colony. After vorns of minimal activity recorded, Prowl had felt confident [73%] that the Quintessons had, for the most part, left, and that any remaining activity was low-ranking troops deemed too expensive to transport elsewhere. He had taken one of the Ark's personal spacecraft down to the planet, ostensibly to attempt to gain access to the base and gather any information left behind.
Really, he had just needed a break from Smokescreen's ongoing attempts to secure Prowl a date. The pickings on the Ark were slim, with most mechs disliking him [97%.], and the few that didn't were unsuitable choices (his commanding officer, his brothers, or already Conjunxed mech). He had thought that Esus was safe; that he would be able to handle some assorted techno-organic spawn via sniper rifle [94%.]. He, honestly, was rather looking forward to some time away from the Ark.
Then his ship had been shot down in orbit. He had survived the crash relatively unscathed, but his ship had not, and he'd been forced to evacuate when an investigative party had come barreling towards him.
For an entire cycle now, he'd been on the run. The planet's surface wasn't conducive to the tread on his tires, so he'd been forced to walk, constantly moving as he ran into more and more hordes of Quintessons. This planet was swarming with them. How had the Ark's sensors not detected this? He hadn't been able to re-establish contact with the Ark; he couldn't risk sending out an omnidirectional signal while in hiding, didn't know the Ark's current location and thus couldn't send a direct signal, and there was no signal band capable of traversing the planet's thick atmosphere that wasn't under Quintesson watch.
Prowl's primary goal was escaping from immediate danger - survival. His tertiary goal was a return to the Ark. His secondary goal was gaining access to the Quintesson base, ranked above return due to the plan being a result of that desire. Although contrary to his primary goal, his only option to get off of this planet was to use the space bridge that was built into every known Quintesson base; the one that he could tell was present within this one due to the over-use radiation he could feel clinging to his plating. Ideally, he would get to the space bridge, bridge himself to the coordinates he believed the Ark would be occupying [Stationed in orbit. No use of thrusters. Prime's refusal to abandon hope. 88%.] and hope that the ship's internal beacon would redirect Prowl's portal to the ship's bridge.
It was the best plan he had. All options led to either offlining at the claws of Quintessons, draining his systems dry of energon, his spark spinning out of existence from instability, or making it back. And this had the highest chance of success.
So, he had set out to infiltrate the base.
And then a portal had suddenly opened nearly on top of him, spitting out Scouts that, almost immediately, had him pinned. Because, as it turns out, this base wasn't just ‘active and hiding its signal’. No. That would be too easy. The Quintessons had been using this planet as something of a nexus - mass amounts of troops were dumped into a non-hostile desert until the next time they were needed, when a portal would appear in front of them, and the hive-mind would summon them forth.
Prowl had not even a breem to consider the implications of this before he'd been backed up against a cliff and surrounded on all other sides by mindless beasts with no instinct but to destroy anything that wasn't of them. He'd had even less than that to come to terms with his impending demise when a mech had suddenly come sailing down from the cliff and had mercilessly slaughtered every last one of the Scouts. The mech had then turned to Prowl, their full-face visor glinting in the bright light of Esus's orbital star, Quintesson fluids dripping from their blades, vents flushing air through overheated motors.
And they had calmed.
They had gently inspected Prowl's leaking injuries with their own mutilated servos, and began to communicate with him in Quintesson. Which they audibly weren't fluent in, and possessed the tendency to use a plosive and trill-heavy language at first, then correct themselves to something Prowl could comprehend.
wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn didn't know Neocybex. Their mechanatomy was completely different from a Cybertronian's. They didn't seem to have energon circuits; their injuries sparked, not leaked. Their plating was built from iron alloys; their weapons were modified Quintesson plasma technology, not energon-fueled. They had no kibble. The use of the Quintesson language structure had revealed them to be from a place they called ɜːθ.
They weren't Cybertronian.
But they had defended him on first sight, without speaking, with no hesitation. They seemed to be able to read his expressions despite their own lack of a face, judging from the glint of cameras hidden directly behind that bright blue visor, and the vocoder emitting from speakers embedded into their upper leg segments instead of their intake.
They weren't… not.
His current theory was that they were an alien mechanoid from another planet under attack from Quintessons, possibly a colony that had split from Cybertron long ago.
He's getting off track.
The Scouts that wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn had slaughtered were not the only Quintessons nearby, and so the two had moved into a cave leading into the cliff-face (the one wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn had previously vaulted over). Well, Prowl had moved to escape further detection from Quintesson parties while he regrouped, and wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn had followed. It wasn't like he was going to stop them. Not when he had no real reason. They had saved his life, more than once, and seemed just as out of place on Esus as he did. If nothing else, he wanted more data on them.
Because wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn was an anomaly.
Well, perhaps that was inaccurate.
They could very well be a perfectly average member of their own species.
But, under the rules of Prowl's own understanding of mechanatomy, they were absolutely an extreme variant. [Even accounting for outlier abilities. 100%.] Perhaps they weren't the strangest bot he had ever met [Mesothulas. 57%.], but they were certainly abnormal when it came to their relationship with pain.
No mecha he knew of, not even a Wrecker, could punch a Mount in the face, snag their servo in its jaws, rip off their own servo to escape, gain some distance, and then kill that same Mount with extreme prejudice, muttering something to themselves as their (comparatively) uninjured arm scooped their missing piece from where it had fallen out of the Mount's dentae upon its demise. No mecha Prowl knew could do that without expressing any form of pain at all.
"mɔ̃djøeɪdmwɑ, jɔlˈʌɡliaʊhir," they spit quietly in their native language, tilting their held servo to look down the inside of the wrist, at the exposed wiring and jagged metal at the severed end. They repeatedly flex their servo-less arm, blade sliding in and out of their plating [Testing remaining function? Not enough data. 49%.], the visceral cha-gunk each shift makes drawing a flinch from Prowl, as he peeks out from behind the crevice in the cave wall he'd been shoved into when wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn had noticed [Unfamiliar sensor makeup. 86%.] the Mount approaching from behind.
The crunch of Prowl's pedes echoing off the cave walls catches their attention [Not enough data. Unfamiliar sensor makeup. Previous back-facing sensor use. Noticed him before and only now acknowledging him? 63%.] and they turn to him. "heɪ, ʃɛʁ, juɡɑd'ɛniθæŋɪnðæpɑʃ ɛðækæn pʊmahænbækɑn? weɪmɛrd - " they call out, suddenly stopping themselves.
There's a small click that Prowl recognizes as their vocoder shifting, then:
"Query: Unit: PROWL: Possession: Knowledge: - "
They stutter [Ceased speaking without the modifier that denotes the end of a Quintesson sequence. 78%.], briefly glance down at their stump, then hold out their severed hand, waggling it in Prowl's direction, as if expecting him to take it.
Prowl places his sniper rifle back in his subspace, watching as wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn's visor brightens and their finials raise [Indicative of interest or excitement? No EM field. Not enough data. 34%.] as it vanishes, then lower back down when he hesitantly reaches out to grab it from them. They jerk their servo back before they motion as if to reattach it. [Regenerative capabilities? Other unhealed injuries visible. Reattachment capabilities? Not enough data. 15%.]
Prowl braces himself for a moment, expecting to see the gory sight of wires reconnecting and motors rebuilding. But when nothing happens, he un-tenses, feels his door-wings lower, and gives wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn a quizzical look.
They swing their amputated limb in a small circle as they gaze somewhere above them, thigh speakers emitting a soft buzz, then an excited click [Alien tonal use may differ. Previous similarities documented. 54%.] as their finials suddenly perk up. "Query: Unit: PROWL: Possession: Tool: Function: Repair: Mechanoid: Positive?" they quickly repeat with a new ending.
Prowl takes a klik to parse through the clunky sequence. ['Ask Prowl if possession of tool of function of repair of mechanoid.' Asking if Prowl is a possession of a tool of a mechanoid with the function of repair? Context is related to servo and interested in subspace. Asking if Prowl is in possession of a mechanoid repairing tool? 94%.]
Prowl slowly rotates his helm side-to-side, experimenting [Gesture previously associated with negative affirmation. 89%.], and their finials droop [Disappointment? Not enough data. 64%.] as they seem to stall, looking down at their servo. Once more, he reaches out to take it. They make no move to stop him this time, so he grabs it [No visible energon circuits. No visible pain. Non-living iron alloy material. Prosthesis? 64%.] and subspaces it, cataloguing the rapidly moving position of their finials as his plating shifts to encompass and envelop the appendage [Familiar with reattachment. No attempt to pocket it themselves. No objection to Prowl pocketing it. Reaction to subspace usage. Unfamiliar with subspace? 92%.], before it finally dematerializes.
wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn's visor meets Prowl's gaze, then dims to almost nothing, and they bend over from their waist, their injured arm folding over their chassis while their remaining digits splay out in a stretch off to their side.
"Statement: Unit: PROWL: Possession: Unit: wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn: Positive," they say, rising back up to their full height ['Prowl has wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn-yes.' Are they putting themselves in his possession? Under his command? Going to follow him? Not enough data. Poor language comprehension from both parties. Bending that way for a Cybertronian would expose a vital point and diminish visual range; perhaps intended as respect, deference, trust? Intended meaning: Prowl has made wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn positive? wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn being positive meaning: wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn has positive feelings? wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn is thankful? Expressing thanks for usage of Prowl's subspace pocket? 79%.] as their visor returns to its previous luminosity.
"You're… welcome," he says with a helm bob of acknowledgement [Gesture previously associated with positive affirmation. Negative affirmation seemingly accepted. Positive equates to assent? 83%.]. He turns out to the cave's exit and flicks open a plate on his forearm to his the hologram projector, ignoring wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn as they peer over his pauldron [Curiosity? Confusion? Not enough data. 54%.].
Prowl begins to process aloud as he plans.
"You were likely brought here on accident, at least on the Quintessons' behalf; perhaps you snuck through a space bridge, either intentionally or otherwise. If you had been taken by the Quintessons, you would be in much worse condition, unless you possess a modification that would allow you to remain undetected and escape with ease, but there has been no evidence to suggest that." Prowl's pedes start to move as he mutters to himself, door-wings twitching. "The excessive portal activity on this planet must mean that this base has a space bridge. A higher-ranked Quintesson such as a Bailiff has to be able to get off of this planet without outside help if brought here by mistake. You are a more capable close-range fighter than I, being able take on a Mount single-servo'd, both literally and figuratively, and seem to be attached to me, perhaps as a being a fellow mechanoid, or just as an enemy of your enemy. I can use that."
wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn watches as he paces, their visored gaze never leaving him.
"Assuming I can convince you despite lacking a strong method of communication to follow my plan, we should be able to infiltrate the base, with you holding off the Quintessons long enough to allow me to activate the bridge and put in my coordinates, allowing us to return to the Ark, where I will inform Prime of the situation, and you will have access to a much wider array of data that ideally will facilitate my discovering of your origin. Also, Ratchet will be able to provide us both with medical care. That is the best case scenario."
He halts in his tracks, and turns to wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn, meeting their visor with his own optics.
"Worst case scenario, we both die. Painfully. Or are captured and used as experiments. That are painful. And will likely result in death. But if there's one that Optimus Prime has proven to me time and time again, it is that working toward the best solution is always more productive than preparing for destruction, because there is no action after death."
He lets a rush of air pass through his vents, shuttering his optics, and allows the holographic model of the Ark to project itself from his arm.
"Query: Unit: PROWL: Possession: Tool: Unit: wʌnəʊsɪksWʌn: Function: Destination: Origin: Unit: PROWL: Positive?" he attempts, and awaits their response.