Chapter Text
Something’s wrong with his TacNet.
At least, that’s what Prowl tells himself as he slowly opens his optics. He should be drowning. He should be dead, actually.
Getting thrown from their ship in the middle of a raging storm is not something one survives. Especially when they land in mer-infested waters. Yet, here he is; vents shakily cycling as he stares up at the stalagmite-covered ceiling above.
His TacNet informs him that he’s under sea level, which isn’t promising. It’s been a couple of joors since he first hit the water, too, which means his crew has sailed on without him.
One joor’s stay maximum, in the best of conditions. That was the agreement Prowl and his crew had come to after the last mecha went overboard. There’s no doubt they probably left soon after he succumbed to the raging waves. It had been hard to see your servo in front of your optics, let alone an entire mech being pushed overboard.
His TacNet also informs him that he’s low on energon and there’s an 86.43% chance he’ll die in this place without finding some soon. Speaking of, what is this place?
It’s dark, but the cool surface under him feels damp and porous, like some sort of rock. A constant drip, drip, drip feeds into the room, informing Prowl of a nearby water source.
With a groan, he pushes himself up onto his elbows. His helm pounds as his TacNet spits statistics out about his impending death, worsening the situation in its attempt at warning. Alarmed shuffling rings out somewhere from his right before a series of deep trills and chirps join the rushed movement.
It’s siren song.
His already struggling processor becomes sluggish with the noise, and part of him wants to slip off into recharge while listening to that beautiful clamor. His TacNet begins to alert, forcing him out of his rapidly relaxing state, as it declares, ‘Danger! Sirens nearby! Do not fall partial to their tricks!’
The literal alarms blaring in his helm make him snap his headlights on while he pushes himself up against a wall. Two large sirens shield their eyes against the beams, both chirping in further alarm from being blinded.
‘Probability of survival: 3.26%,’ his TacNet updates helpfully. One of the mermechs in the water awkwardly pulls itself onto the ground as it lets Prowl’s headlights shine into its visor.
“You… safe,” it says clumsily. Now out of the water, Prowl can see that it’s easily the length of himself, plus some. Its green tail shimmers in the light of his headlights, contrasting against the black fins adorning its helm that soak up the luminance. “Prowl safe,” the creature reassures.
He pushes down the fear that arises after hearing his own designation come from the mouth of the mechanimal.
Despite his TacNet’s better judgment, which demands he escape and find energon, Prowl finds himself sluggishly trying to get on his pedes. He knows that he needs to get out right this instant, but it takes a considerable amount of energy just for him to stand up. Too much, even.
Swaying a little, he reaches out a hand to steady himself. He’s only risen to a crouch before his frame also begins to scream at him to find energon. He’s desperate to get out of this place—to get away from these mers—so he doesn’t notice how screwed up his knee joint is until it gives out. Tumbling, he can vaguely hear extremely distressed trills, but he definitely doesn’t miss the slick hands that catch him.
The other mer that had stayed in the water looks up at him as he looks down at it. There’s an odd sort of concern and fear in the siren’s visor that sets off even more alarms in Prowl’s helm. The mer begins to chirp frantically, glancing over at the one who had spoken earlier, all the while gingerly holding Prowl away from itself. In one quick motion, it sets Prowl down and escapes into the water.
“Wha-“
A different mer emerges from the water, loudly proclaiming something. They’re speaking some sort of siren-exclusive language, Prowl realizes. It’s more than just animalistic noises. There are patterns of speech to be found in the repeated phrases and sounds.
The one who had spoken to Prowl shoves the other’s helm back under the water after seeing the mech jump. “Prowl safe,” it tries again.
This one commands some sort of authority over the other two; the one looked to it for reassurance (? advice?) and the other reported directly to it.
How many of them were there anyway? At least three, but how many more? Granted, Prowl doesn’t know much about mers—no one really does—but he knows that some of them travel in pods. How big is this pod?
The leader reaches out, wrapping its wet digits around the enforcer’s leg plating. Instinctively, Prowl kicks and struggles. He’s not going to let them drown him.
The leader immediately lets him go, holding its slimy servos high above its helm. “Safe!” Pointing to Prowl’s leg, its glossa struggles with the newness of Prowl’s language. “Leg hurt. I check.”
“Keep your servos off of me!” Prowl barks back, scrabbling away from the water. The mer mumbles something to itself, and the musicality of the glyphs coax Prowl to relax.
Every time one of them speaks in their native tongue, his helm begins to swim. Siren’s song is quite powerful as it is, but being this close and this discombobulated, it’s drastically more effective in forcing his walls down.
“I’m fine!”
The mer shakes its (his?) head, but remains where it is in the water. This time another new mer peeks its head out of the water, but it stays toward the back of the cave, far away from both of them. That makes four mers so far.
“Not fine,” the leader argues.
“Yes, it is fine! Why do you even care? You’re going to eat me anyways!”
Prowl knows he’s not being rational. He knows he shouldn’t jump to conclusions; he knows he shouldn’t argue with a mechanimal, but he’s heard the stories! He’s seen the scars! Mecha came back from the sea missing their crew, along with a few less limbs.
The mer, just barely peeking its head out of the water, chirps quietly, and the leader grumbles back at him. The mer sinks further under the water, allowing just its optics to rise above the meniscus as it monitors Prowl.
“Not eat you.” The leader turns its attention back to Prowl. “Lots eats in ocean.”
“Looks tasty,” the other mer adds, grinning and licking its derma as it looks at Prowl. Subsequently, the leader growls and pushes the other mer back under.
‘Probability of becoming food: 91.54%. Use Caution.”
Prowl finds the wall behind him for a second time. Aware of his failing joint, he puts his weight on his other knee as he finally—finally!—stands. The mer is busy berating the other. This is his chance!
He has a blaster on him somewhere; he’s sure of it. A little bit of searching later, and he retrieves the destructive instrument from his subspace. His chance of survival rises to 15.73%. He might just get out of here if he plays his hand correctly.
His servos are shaking as he raises the weapon. He doesn’t know if it’s caused by the cold or his nerves, and frankly, he doesn’t care. Leveling it with the leader’s helm—who is still squabbling with the other—he takes a deep invent, ensures that he will hit his target, and begins to pull back on the trigger.
Only, he doesn’t get that far.
He is slammed into the wall that once supported him, his helm banging against it with a sickening clang. The blaster is gone from his servo, lying antagonizingly out of reach a few units away. His olfactory sensor scrunches up as a pungent odor reaches it. It reminds him of when he once found an abandoned fishing boat; the rotting meat inside had been left alone for cycles.
Tearing his gaze from his last hope of survival, he finds big, razor-like denta seething down at him. He can see his own terrified optics gleam in the dirty metal.
‘2.37% chance of Survival.’
The mer above him growls aggressively. There’s a commotion behind it as multiple fat tails land on the rock, the water splashing as ocean creatures force themselves up onto land.
“♩♬♪♩ ♫♩♩♪ ♬!” one of the mers quavers. The mer above him does not move.
“♬ ♫ ♩ ♩♬♪♩!” another one chitters, grasping at the mer’s arm. Further enraged, the one atop Prowl swings around, bellowing back. The offending mer lets go as the snarling one continues to press Prowl into the rock below. The mech can feel the distortion of his wings as the weight of two frames overwhelm the delicate metal.
He wants to scream! He wants to run! Only static comes out of his vocoder, and his legs are pinned by a heavy, scaly, slimy tail.
The intake hovering above him parts, exposing rows upon rows of sharp denta, its stench intruding upon Prowl’s olfactory. He’s sure that this is it; he’ll return to the Well of All Sparks any moment now.
“♩♬♪♩!”
The mer above him pauses, turning to look over its shoulder right before being roughly yanked off of Prowl.
“♩♪ ♬♪♫ ♩♬♪♩!” A new mer bellows as it tosses the one that attacked Prowl across the small cave. This newest mer is easily the largest out of the group. It stands out not only because of its size, but also because of its white helm.
The large one makes five, but counting the mermechs around him, he finds six. Again, how big is this group?
The large one snarls again at the mer it just tossed, who pouts and returns to the water. Two more follow after it, leaving Prowl with three of them. Too many.
The large mer reaches for Prowl’s leg just as the other had. His TacNet sets off another round of alarms as if he wasn’t worried enough. Prowl ends up kicking the big mer in the faceplate, and so the mer stops its advance in favor of running a servo over its helm.
The one that had spoken to Prowl begins to chitter, and the big mer also returns to the water.
“♩♬♪♩ scared,” the leader states, galumping over to him. He keeps his servos to himself, yet still gets too close for the enforcer’s liking. “Didn’t mean hurt. We want help you.”
“Like pitt you do!” Despite what his processor is telling him, his TacNet argues that after the rough treatment of the angry mermech, there is a slight possibility (25.62%) that the leader is telling the truth.
The leader sighs and begins to converse with the only other mer left. Giving them nicknames would make it easier for his TacNet to categorize all the information it’s already collected. Prowl, for all his skills, has a hard time correctly recognizing and identifying new faces.
The newest mer eyes Prowl’s leg struts, or Prowl believes that he does. He can’t tell with the visors most of them have. He doesn’t appreciate Jazz’s for this exact reason.
“♩♩♪♩ help. Best help.” The leader gestures at the mer currently scowling at him. “Heal leg well. Promise.”
Prowl’s helm is throbbing. As in, he can almost feel the pulse of his spark in it. He opens his intake to protest, but the combination of lack of fuel, an agitated TacNet, a probable concussion, and their lulling voices causes him to crash.
Vaguely, he can feel servos grip his shoulders as more chittering commences, but he’s too far gone to do anything but observe while his optic feed fades out.