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His servos were shaking. He wished they would stop.
There had been a run-in with the Angry Archer earlier in the solar cycle. It hadn’t been anything monumental, just a typical skirmish. He had been back to his old tricks, had somehow managed to break out of maximum security prison, and was terrorizing the local fleet of armored vehicles for the mountains of human currency stowed inside.
It had just been himself and Optimus who had responded to the call–Ratchet and Bulkhead were preoccupied with maintaining the newly functional spacebridge atop Sumdac Tower, and Bumblebee was off doing something with Sari, an event she had dubbed a ‘haunted house.’ Halloween was still a few decacycles away, but supposed she was eager to get into the holiday spirit early. Why humans found thrill in scaring themselves Prowl could hardly guess, but so long as Sari enjoyed it, he supposed there was some kind of recreational value.
The mission had been routine. They followed their typical manevours–Optimus would trail the armored vehicle the Archer had decided to target while Prowl darted ahead, alerting the unassuming driver to slow down while also blocking a means of escape from the front, while Optimus would do his best to grab the criminal from behind. Should the Prime fail to snatch him, Optimus’s grapplers and bolas were normally enough to keep the Archer restrained until human law enforcement could arrive on scene and properly detain him.
Prowl had played his part. While the Angry Archer was occupied securing his fortune, he had pulled up alongside the driver, waiting for them to notice the motorbike driving in the next lane over without a rider, and once they did, he pulled in front, gently applying his brakes to guide the truck to a stop. By then, Optimus should have transformed and been apprehending the Archer.
Perhaps it was exactly because of how routine the mission was that Prowl allowed his attention to lapse. Before they had come to a complete stop, a set of tail lights suddenly appeared in front of Prowl, much closer than he had been anticipating. To avoid a collision, he veered sharply to the left, but, still adjusting to the immovable weight of his new sidecar, it wasn’t enough.
As a last ditch effort, he transformed, sailing easily over the offending car who had cut him off, but landing less than gracefully against the hard surface of the road, rolling with a horrific screech of metal against asphalt until his momentum had been spent. He had laid there for a moment on his back, arms splayed out at his sides, staring up at the bright white flame of the sun, thoroughly annoyed at his own lack of awareness.
Optimus had rushed to his side just as he was pulling himself off of the ground, worry written clearly across his face.
“Are you alright?” he asked hurriedly, eyeing a few of the deeper scrapes that now littered Prowl’s armor.
“Nothing that can’t be buffed out,” Prowl scoffed, peevishly dusting himself off. He looked at Optimus’s empty servos pointedly. “Where’s the Angry Archer?”
Optimus smiled sheepishly. It was the only answer Prowl needed for a dissatisfied frown to worm its way to the surface.
“You let him escape?”
“The well-being of my teammate comes before any petty criminals.”
“You could have captured him and then come to check on me. Honestly, Optimus, I’m not going to be taken offline by such an insignificant fall.”
“Is the armor still bothering you?”
Not this again, he had thought, fighting to keep his frown from turning into an all-out scowl.
“As I have told you before, it’s not bothering me, I am merely adjusting to it. It causes me no hindrance in my root form, but the sidecar can be a bit…bulky at times. Like you and your trailer.”
“I know, I know. I just want to make sure you’re not taking on too much at once.”
Prowl’s optic twitched.
“I’m fine.” The distant wail of sirens rang clearly through the city streets. “And you are going to be the one to explain to Captain Fanzone why the Angry Archer was allowed to slip away.”
“Fair enough,” Optimus agreed, although it was evident from the downward cant of his finials that the prospect didn’t appeal to him any more than it did to Prowl.
The incident hadn’t actually become a problem until later in the evening.
As insisted upon by Sari, the Autobots had taken up the human tradition of the ‘family dinner.’ Once all of their patrols had been completed and their duties for the solar cycle fulfilled, the maintenance crew gathered for their evening oil ration in the small living space that had been carved out of the larger factory. This was often a time they used to catch one another up on events of the solar cycle, as well as whatever was planned for the solar cycles to come, normally a conversation led by Optimus.
This evening hadn’t been any different. Bulkhead and Ratchet had offered their updates on the status of the spacebridge, Ratchet grumbling all the way about this insufficient calculation or that incorrect calibration. Bumblebee and Sari had their own tale to spin about their adventures within the haunted mansion–of ghosts and ghouls and all manner of monsters which they claimed hadn’t really been scary at all–although they were both very clearly still jumpy, given that a sudden shout from Bulkhead sent the two cowering behind the Cybertronian-sized couch.
When it came time for Optimus to share the proceedings from their own mission, Prowl let him do the talking, as he usually did–when the Prime wanted to, he could be quite the storyteller. Perhaps it was the doing of all those history vids he found himself so thoroughly absorbed in. Not without a twinge of embarrassment, Prowl allowed him to describe his unfortunate accident, which, in his opinion, was much exaggerated by Optimus.
Before the Prime could even finish speaking, Bumblebee was already interrupting, a finger pointed curiously at Prowl.
“Is that where you got that nasty scrape on your helmet from?”
The words had sent an icy trickle down Prowl’s spine, freezing his spark in place.
“What?”
His servo flew up to his head, desperately feeling along the sleek metal for any imperfection. Much to his horror, he quite easily found what Bumblebee had pointed out–a single, deep gash, etched from the gold detailing at the front almost clean through to the back of the headpiece. How he had missed such a gash directly after the crash, he didn’t know. He had no recollection of hitting his head hard enough to produce a scratch of such caliber.
As he trailed his fingers over the gouge, his other servo unconsciously curled into a fist in his lap, an unexplainable weight pressing onto his throat and chest, squeezing enough that it suddenly seemed as if his vents were being pulled through thick cotton fluff.
The reaction was noticeable enough that a few concerned looks were thrown his way.
“...You good?” Bumblebee questioned, an eyebrow raised skeptically. Prowl forced his servo down, twining his fingers together and fixing his posture, the perfect model of calm.
“Fine.”
The conversation resumed shortly after, leaving Prowl to stew within the turmoil of his own mind. He was itching to rip the helmet off of his head and examine the damage with his own optics, but he forced himself to remain utterly still, a decorative statue to the rest of his crew. If anyone noticed him practically bolt out of the room at the first suggestion of the conclusion of the meal, they didn’t after him, nor did they chastise him for leaving his half-full can of oil sitting precariously on the arm of his chair.
The nanoclick the door shuddered to a close behind Prowl once he had made it to the safety of his room, he grabbed the helmet, yanking it off with what was probably much more force than was necessary. He didn’t even bother turning on the weak overhead lights, darting immediately into the speckled moonlight filtering through the gently swaying branches of his tree.
The scratch was just as deep as he feared it would be. Silvery threads of starshine wound luminescence across the metallic surface, interrupted by the deep, dark chasm of the gouge. It sent a jolt of panic through Prowl’s processor so potent that he was forced to bite down on his lip, should his vocalizer betray him and let the pained shout building in his throat escape.
He stumbled across the room to his desk, groping blindly through drawers stuffed with meaningless junk until his servo finally fell on the buffer he had dragged with him from Omega Supreme. He used it so rarely that it had been shoved far back into a shadowy, nondescript corner–he preferred the less strenuous means of a cloth and some simple polish and elbow grease to keep his armor glossy. But this repair would require more than what a cloth could provide.
He pressed the rounded end of the buffer against his helmet, the task made much more difficult by the aggravated quivering of his servos, which refused to lie still no matter how much he willed them to be, as he swept the buffer multiple times over the mark. But, much to his consternation, the gouge remained steadfast.
Trying to direct his attention elsewhere, he tore off one of his bulky shoulder pauldrons, descending upon it with a ravenous fervor. The shallow scrapes and gashes here came away as easily as wiping water droplets off a windshield. Encouraged by this, he took each and every extra bit of armor and polished them to a shine, the turbulence in his spark quieting while his servos remained busy.
But all too soon, with the rest of his armor scattered haphazardly on the floor around him, Prowl was left only with the helmet. The slash seemed to twist and distort itself, the chasm practically grinning at him in its mocking triumph. He attacked it again and again with the buffer, but each time it only seemed to have grown deeper, digging with it a pit of despair in the depths of Prowl’s stomach.
Finally, at his wits end, Prowl let out a frustrated snarl, slamming the buffer back onto his desk with all of the force of eons worth of pent up frustration.
It was just a helmet. It was just one scratch.
But it was so much more than that.
Engine revving aggressively, Prowl pushed himself out of his chair, clutching his master’s helmet tightly against his chest as he walked to the base of his tree, leaving the armor he had stolen from Lockdown discarded on the floor like fallen petals.
Perhaps some meditation would allow him to clear his processor, recalibrate some misfiring sensors, and then he could—
Above the sound of his engine and stuttering vents, an insistent sound reached Prowl through the muddled channels of his processor. He focused and was just able to make out a rhythmic tapping, approaching closer with every nanoclick he spent standing like a deer caught in headlights.
Pedesteps.
And then, faintly, through his door:
“Prowl? I uh–I heard something drop, and just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
It would have been so easy to simply shout back through the door, reassure the Prime that everything was in order, that nothing was amiss. He would have walked away considering his duty to be fulfilled, and Prowl, after the interruption, could return to smoothing out his frayed nerves in privacy, away from the prying optics of his teammates.
Instead, he bolted.
A quick boost from his jump jets brought him into the shivering leaves of his tree, using one servo to hoist himself higher and higher, his helmet cradled gently in the other. It wasn’t until he reached the uppermost branches that he found a suitable knot to curl himself into, sure that the dappling of the moonlight would disguise the shimmer of his gold highlights to anyone looking from below.
The door creaked open.
“Prowl?”
Pedesteps rang out like claps of thunder as Optimus slowly made his way into the deserted room. Prowl couldn’t see the Prime from where he had wedged himself, but he could imagine him surveying the room, taking in the scattered armor and the unusual disarray having taken over Prowl’s desk.
“Prowl?” he called again, futilely. Prowl’s only response was to shrink further into himself, his chin practically buried in his knees, the helmet sandwiched securely between his stomach and his legs.
Go away, he thought, squeezing his optics shut, ignoring the twinge of embarrassment that came with the petulance of such a plea.
But, despite his quiet wishes, Optimus remained exactly where he was.
“I know you’re up there. I can hear your engine.”
Slag, Prowl grimaced, wanting to kick himself for so obvious an error.
“You wanna come down and have a chat?”
“No.”
The word came out in a whisper, scratchy and weak, but evidently it was enough for Optimus to hear.
“Am I going to have to climb up there and drag you down?”
Prowl only sunk further into the twining branches, his forehead falling against his knees with a light thunk. A sigh floated up from below when he failed to respond.
“Have it your way.”
He’ll give up eventually, Prowl reassured himself. We’ve played this cat and mouse before. He never makes it past the first branch.
Prowl was nearly jolted out of his perch as a violent shudder rocked the boughs of his tree. He scrambled out of his shelter, peering down through the latticework of branches, glaring at the blob of red and blue which clung to the sturdy trunk.
“Optimus! It won’t support your weight,” he shouted.
“We’ll see about that,” Optimus grunted, dragging himself up another couple of feet. He was smart enough not to be using any of his climbing gear, whether it be axe or pedespikes, but even in spite of such limitations, Prowl was begrudgingly impressed by the progress he was making.
“If you break anything, I’ll–”
“Have me smelted down for scrap metal, yes, yes, I know,” Optimus huffed. Then, much to Prowl’s chagrin, a small grin had the audacity to brighten his face. “But I got you out of your hidey hole, didn’t I?”
With a roll of his optics aggressive enough to make him dizzy, Prowl retreated back into the comforting cover of the leaves.
“Wait, Prowl, seriously, what’s up? If something’s wrong, you know you can always talk to me about it,” Optimus continued, hefting himself onto one of the larger branches for a quick rest. “I noticed you were a little off at dinner once Bumblebee mentioned that scratch on your helmet–”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Prime.”
The venom dripping from his voice was at least enough to get Optimus to shut up for a blissful few nanoclicks, giving Prowl enough time to scrape together whatever tattered shreds of his composure remained.
“You may not want to, but sometimes we need to do things we don’t want to do.”
Prowl could have punched Optimus for using that tone with him, soft and tentative, like he was talking to a misbehaving newspark. It would serve the Prime right for being nosy.
The tree shook again as Optimus scaled a few more branches. This was definitely new–Optimus didn’t have the security of jump jets to fall back on should he miss a step, nor was Prowl convinced he had the agility to land easily on his pedes. But the closer he approached, the more Prowl wondered if he was actually at risk of being caught.
“Do you really believe encroaching on my personal space is going to magically make me want to bare every dark secret nestled away in my spark?”
“Well, I’ve tried the ‘sit around and wait for you to come to me’ method, and that hasn’t worked too well for me so far, now has it?” He was only a few branches below Prowl now, within swiping distance. “Come on, I thought we were making some progress. You haven’t been this reclusive since those first few decacycles after we picked you up.”
Prowl let out a quiet scoff.
“It’s really nothing, Optimus. I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe that for a nanoclick, and neither do you.”
Prowl’s lips drew into a thin, dissatisfied line. Without a word, he sprang from his hiding spot, nimbly scaling the thinning branches near the crown of the mighty tree, until he was able to snag a servo on the edge of the roof. He hauled himself up over the side, hearing Optimus’s exaggerated sigh fading as he stepped away from the site of the collapse.
The roof was somewhat of a hidden sanctuary to Prowl, even more so than his tree. Not only was his room the only one with easy access to the roof, but scaling the factory walls also required a certain level of finesse that only Prowl possessed.
Or, he had thought as much, until tonight.
Some ways away from the hole and Optimus, Prowl sat down, crossing his legs neatly and placing his master’s helmet on the gently sloping metal in front of him. His optics wandered beyond–this spot had a beautiful view of the twinkling skyline of Detroit, a spattering of stars above struggling to break through the thick sludge of the city’s light pollution. He watched the distant headlights of cars race along roads and highways, winking on and off as they passed behind buildings, signs, and other obstacles.
But, most importantly, this place was quiet.
“Is this really necessary?”
Prowl hung his head in defeat, casting a glance out of the corner of his optic towards Optimus, his shoulders and above visible as he looked over the lip of the roof at Prowl.
“I never told you to follow me.”
Optimus pointedly ignored him.
“How often do you come up here?”
“Not often. Only when I need to get away from people.”
Optimus, with one last mighty heave, brought himself onto the roof, prodding at the thin metal uncertainly with his pede.
“Is this going to collapse under me?”
“You’re worse than Bumblebee, you know that?” Prowl paused. “I’ve never had an issue with it.”
“No offense, Prowl, but you’re about four pieces of scrap metal tied together with some spare wire.”
“I’m not supposed to take offense to that?”
“...You’re right. Sorry.”
Prowl leveled a glare at him.
“The roof will hold.”
Still somewhat cautious, Optimus edged towards him, before finally taking his own seat, legs splayed out in front of him. He clutched his servos in his lap awkwardly.
“The view is nice.”
“You wanted to talk. Start talking.”
“I can’t talk about what’s bothering you if I don’t know what it is,” he said gently.
“Then I suppose we’re at an impasse.”
“But I know it’s about that scratch on your helmet. You left every other bit of Lockdown’s armor down in your room on the floor, but you brought that up here with you.” Despite Prowl’s moping silence, Optimus forged onward anyway. “It was your master’s, right? So it’s important to you.”
“Important doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Prowl murmured.
“Something that means a lot to you was damaged. It makes perfect sense you’d be upset about it. You don’t have to hide that from us. I’m sure Ratchet would be able to patch—“
“It’s more than just the scratch, Prime!” As soon as the words left Prowl’s mouth, he instantly wanted to swallow them back down. Unable to weasel his way out from under Optimus’s imploring gaze, Prowl settled for staring forlornly at the helmet instead. “It’s…it’s everything else I failed to protect.”
“Am I going to have to pry out an elaboration on that or are you going to give it to me willingly?”
After a moment, a hollow chuckle escaped Prowl.
“The cyberninja are a dying breed, Optimus.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with–”
“You wanted me to talk, so let me talk,” Prowl snapped, allowing a brief cycle of air to cool his systems. “When Master Yoketron went missing one million stellar cycles ago, he took with it the last dying embers of the dojo. I was his last student–in all the time I spent with him, he never took on anyone else. It was just him and I.
“Sure, others came through every once in a while. His former students visited infrequently, and I could never decide if I liked the company or not. Some of them were fine. I always enjoyed Jazz’s visits, if nothing else simply because it seemed to make Master Yoketron happy.
“The others were quite…variable. Do you know why so many cyberninja end up being accepted into the Elite Guard?”
“Because of their specialized skill sets?”
“Exactly. It’s much easier bringing an already trained–both in combat and in stealth–operative into the ranks, than training one for scratch.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “I think Master Yoketron realized that was not the path for me. I mean, they never would’ve accepted me with my record, but even if they had, I wouldn’t–”
“Wait, record?” Optimus was looking at him like he had suddenly grown a second head. “What record?”
“You invited a strange bot you found floating on an asteroid in an abandoned sector onto your ship and never checked if he might have anything on him in the Autobot database?” Prowl deadpanned.
“I, uh–I guess it never crossed my mind? You seemed trustworthy,” Optimus shrugged bashfully. Prowl could only sigh.
“Well, now that I’ve opened that can of worms, as the humans say, I suppose you should know that when you look–and I know that you will, so don’t bother looking embarrassed about it–the only thing you’ll find is some petty theft misdemeanors from my early stellar cycles and a draft dodging charge. That last one is what nearly got me sent to the stockades. It was only because of Master Yoketron that I wasn’t locked away for Cybertron knows how long.”
“I know you didn’t fight in the war, but draft dodging? I mean, you’ve never been the most receptive to authority, but what would drive you to that extreme of a position?” Optimus inquired. There was an edge to his voice, and Prowl couldn’t quite tell if he was being judged or not.
Give it to the post-war Prime to blame a mech for not wanting to fight, Prowl grumbled internally, but thought better of saying the thought aloud.
“I didn’t want to fight for anyone who wouldn’t be willing to fight for me. It seemed pointless to give up my spark defending Autobots who would never even see the front lines, let alone feel the impacts of how many lives were extinguished under their command. You weren’t around for the war. The history vids may paint it differently now, but Autobot High Command has not always been so benevolent–if you can even call it that.”
He wondered if that jab would be too personal for the Prime, given his close relationship with Ultra Magnus, but he seemed to take it in stride.
“Then what changed? You don’t seem to have any issues battling with the Deceptions now.”
“...I found something worth fighting for,” he whispered. “People who would fight alongside me, and give their sparks to protect mine. And I would happily do the same tenfold.”
Optimus was staring at him, his mouth slightly open, flapping dumbly like a gasping fish, scrambling desperately for something to say. Prowl saved him the trouble.
“And this planet–this beautiful place. I would fight every solar cycle for the rest of my existence if it allowed me to stop the Decepticons from doing to Earth what they did to Cybertron. But that will never make up for this,” he said, lifting the helmet into his servos, brushing his thumb over the scratch. “Because my master is dead.”
The rest went unspoken: and it’s my fault.
“I thought I was doing better. I thought, because I had something new to nurture, a new home, a new team, I could start it all again. And look what’s come of that. The one thing I hold closest to my spark, damaged. I thought–I thought–”
“Hey, hey, hold on.”
Optimus’s servos had gently twined themselves around Prowl’s wrists. He had been squeezing the helmet enough that shallow grooves had become indented into the metal where his fingers had pressed. The sight was enough to break his spark in two.
When Optimus slowly coaxed the helmet out of Prowl’s grasp and into his own, he allowed it, if only to bury his face in the safety of his newly freed servos.
“I avoided the tragedy of the war, and what do I have to show for it? An empty dojo, a million stellar cycles of my life wasted in isolation, and I can’t even keep a stupid helmet from being damaged. I didn’t see the front lines like Ratchet, and yet there’s still so much that refuses to leave me in peace.”
“You don’t have to fight a war to grieve,” Optimus said quietly. Prowl couldn’t see him through the obscuring veil of his fingers, but the Prime sounded…downcast, so unlike his namesake. “I wasn’t even alive to see the war, but I’ve lost people. I grieve them, just like you grieve your master, and just like Ratchet grieves his own failures.”
Right, Prowl thought, Blackarachnia.
Prowl pulled his servos away from his face. A processorache was just beginning to gnaw at the base of his helmet.
“We can’t always protect those we love, but we can keep moving forward,” Optimus continued, his voice gaining strength. “No matter what happened in the past, look at what you’ve been able to do while you’ve been here on Earth. You stuck up for the Dinobots when no one else believed they were worth saving. Your processor over matter was what kept me from being thrown into an unstable spacebridge by Megatron and flung to the far reaches of space. Even when it seems pointless, you always try your hardest to do what you believe is right, despite any bumps in the road. And, as much as that can become an annoyance to my command, I’ve never stopped admiring you for it.”
For the first time in their stilted conversation, Prowl turned to face Optimus. And, although there was still that cloying weight burdening his spark, he couldn’t help but feel some of the pressure fade and disperse into the still night air.
“Really?”
“Have I ever said something I didn’t mean?”
“Need I remind you of your meltdown when the Elite Guard first visited Earth?”
“Alright, fair. Have I ever said something nice that I didn’t mean?”
“Hmm. I suppose not.”
“Then know that when I say you’ve put more effort into protecting this team than the rest of us combined–” Optimus lifted his arms, fitting Master Yoketron’s helmet snugly back onto Prowl’s head, “–that I mean it with my whole spark.”
And, for just a single moment, Prowl let himself smile.
“Thank you, Optimus.”