Chapter Text
“Does anyone want to go to the market tonight?”
Scavenger’s question was received with a couple of non-committal grunts, one ‘sure’, one ‘why not?’, and one head shake. Prowl felt as the attention in the room fell upon him, looking up from where he had apparently been staring at the table, processor elsewhere.
Scavenger asked, “Prowl? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I am fine. I am planning on staying in tonight. I was told that there are nearly two hundred proposals for us to get through over the next decacycle.” He lifted his cube, draining the last of the fuel before setting it on the table. Mixmaster had added some new types of trace minerals this time. Prowl was unsure if it was too odd of a flavor combination for him, rolling his glossa over the aftertaste before he continued. “I will likely be gone quite early and return late as a consequence.”
Scavenger’s expression did not dim from his earlier excitement over the city’s festivities, though his field flickered with something like expectation. “Oh, it’s okay! I know you mechs got a lot going on right now. We can bring back some of those powdered rust sticks you like!”
Prowl felt his gaze soften despite himself. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”
They sat around the large table for a while longer, each of the constructicons sharing in turn the pieces of their day hadn’t been spent together. Over the last vorn, as the initial, urgent demands for mass housing had been met, each of them had been branching out. To Prowl’s knowledge, at least, it seemed like they were somewhat new to friendships outside of the gestalt. Scavenger had been an unexpected social butterfly, though the others were still somewhat cautious.
As the conversation died down and the kitchen was deemed acceptably clean, Prowl excused himself, making his way to his room. While he had moved in with the constructicons, and had even been the one to suggest it, one of his few conditions was that he would have a separate berthroom from their shared one.
The door swished shut behind him, and Prowl shrugged off the urge to check that it had auto-locked as it had been designed to. If they were going to invade his berthroom, they would have by now. He pinged the lights to dim to five percent as he crawled into his nest of cushions and mats, adjusting until there was minimal strain across his aching frame.
While much of Cybertron’s first city was in the throes of the holiday spirit, the consulate had entered its own seasonal frenzy. The next cycle began the anniversary of the decacycle of peace talks that had finally ended the war, and it had quickly become custom to celebrate that period annually. The holiday, dubbed ‘Pax Week’, also coincided with the busiest period for the new government, the representatives all somehow coming to the conclusion that the spirit of forgiveness might help get their proposals approved. As this solar cycle marked a full vorn of shaky reconstruction, there was even more work than usual.
Prowl shifted his position slightly, feeling a cable somewhere in his upper back catch on something, and winced. Some enterprising mechs get the idea to start a special night market just five solar cycles after a lifetime of war and suddenly Prowl’s chassis-deep in datapads.
He heard several quite ‘goodbye’s beyond his door as they departed for the eve-market, and settled in for a dreamless recharge.
---
Prowl turned into the transformation lot outside of the currently sole government building, returning to root mode and taking a moment to prepare himself for the joors ahead. Around him, mechs traced the daily paths of their lives, some striding with purpose, others taking slow steps and greeting those around them. It was incredibly odd to Prowl that some of these mechs, staring each other down over the barrel of a blaster not so long ago, moved with such ease. He invented once, sharply, and rolled his shoulders before entering the building.
Many of his colleagues had already set themselves up, the nervously early and overly eager types pouring over their items for the cycle. Prowl took his seat, removing his own datapads from his subspace and placing them on the desk before him. The room slowly filled, the last stragglers trickling in as Ultra Magnus stood at the podium, signaling that the proceedings were to begin.
The hall was designed in much the same way as the lecture halls of pre-war universities, something about ‘ensuring the visibility of each perspective’. Some council members had started calling it ‘the Colosseum’ some time back, though if pressed Prowl might say it felt like more of an opera house. Much of the consequence was in the city outside these walls, though to some, he supposed, that might be splitting wires.
“Council meeting 1.01.00000 in session. Secretary, please proceed with the minutes from session 0.10.1000.”
Prowl poked at the edge of his desk, tracing a carving likely left by someone who should have been paying more attention. He had already reviewed the minutes during his first cube of the cycle, and looked up to scan the crowd. The consulate appeared anxious to jump into their affairs, and even the Secretary, usually intensely thorough in their review of the previous business cycle, seemed eager to wrap up quickly.
Many of the proposals announced throughout the cycle were continuations of ongoing projects, amendments and expansions and simple progress reports. The library and community center was nearing its grand opening, the mass housing project was all but complete and mechs could soon begin commissioning personal and commercial construction, and much the same. Prowl felt his attention wane immediately after each subject was announced, only tuning back in once the spiel was complete and he was required to provide a vote or acknowledgement.
He’d been finding it harder to focus on most things after the war, only really feeling his usual productivity return with the pressure of a deadline. There had been several PSAs about ‘post-traumatic stress disorders’ in recent solar cycles, and Prowl had simply been chalking his reduced efficiency up to that. It had been all too easy to lose himself in his work when there was a looming blade hanging above them all.
Nowadays, even the most pressing matters seemed trivial.
Prowl felt his attention return yet again to the podium as another group of mechs took their place. It was the Science and Research Division’s turn to announce their group proposal, led by a particularly unenthused Perceptor with a particularly enthused Brainstorm hovering just over the mech’s shoulder. Despite this display being typical of the Division’s presentation, the crowd was oddly anxious.
“Do you think it’s true?” Prowl heard one mech whisper to another as he took stock of just how many mechs were glancing around nervously. “I mean, the rumors of Brainstorm’s project sound—”
“Like nothing but conjecture. There’s no way that—”
Perceptor adjusted his stance behind the podium, moving to grip the edges in what Prowl might have guessed was stress. The tacnet clocked his frame as being slightly more tense than usual.
“Consulate,” he said loudly into the microphone, freezing the activity of the crowd into silence. It seemed as if there was hardly so much as a twitch, like everyone present was holding their vents. Everyone save for Brainstorm, who looked as if he might combust in excitement at any moment. “We, the Science and Research Division, stand before you today with a proposal for a much-anticipated project.”
---
The door slammed shut behind Prowl as he entered the hab.
In his periphery, he saw several bright green frames jump at the noise. He stomped his way into the kitchen, ignoring a startled, “Prowl, you’re early!” and the shush that followed.
He wrenched open a cabinet door, snatching up the most highly filtered bottle he saw and moving to grab a small drinking cube from next to the sink. Without bothering to close the cabinet, he filled the cube to four or five fingers, and drained it in a few long swallows. The sting against his intake tubing felt appropriate, and he refilled the cube before seeing a figure in the doorway.
Long Haul took up less of the doorway than he could have. Stupidly considerate aft likely giving him room to elbow past him. Prowl felt the pulsing rage surge through his lines again. “Are you—”
“Do not,” Prowl snapped, “finish that fragging question.”
Long Haul held up his servos, palms open, empty, placating. Prowl’s grip tightened on his cube.
Prowl stormed toward the opening he’d left, Long Haul backing up to let him through with as much clearance as possible. He stomped from the kitchen into his hab, plating prickling where he could feel the constructicons staring at him as he passed through the common area. He bit his glossa, remembering his promise to lash out less, and only felt as if he could properly vent again once the door to his suite swished shut behind him.
Prowl flung himself into his desk chair and dragged a servo down his face. What he would give for something to remain steady for once in his life.
He spun his chair around, back toward the desk, and took a deep sip from his cube. He sighed, slumping back in his chair to stare at the ceiling above the berth. His position wasn’t particularly comfortable, the chair they had made to support his doorwings now digging into the joints from the angle they were at.
Good.
He rested his cube on a thigh, the coolness of the engex soothing the heated plating there.
The tacnet spun away in his helm, producing so many sequence strings at once that it blurred into static. There was no way that he could avoid telling them about that proposal, and given his interaction with Long Haul, he doubted they wouldn’t begin pestering him the moment he seemed to have calmed down.
It was, unfortunately, not only a dinner night, but a special one, given the holiday. During Prowl’s negotiations with the constructicons after the war, one of his several concessions was to have a sit-down, fully conversationally-present meal with them at least twice a decacycle. Normally, Prowl almost looked forward to it. Though he had long since accepted that their company was a new condition, and that physical proximity impacted his frame’s functioning as a result of the slagging bond, he was loathe to spend more time with them than strictly necessary. Mixmaster’s skills in the kitchen certainly helped ease their proximity requirements.
He knew that, as a result of that cycle marking the official beginning to the Pax celebrations, the chemist would have whipped up something special. Prowl had seen the containers for the season’s ‘lucky’ additives on the counter just a moment ago, and guessed he might have had two joors before someone came to get him.
He pinched the sides of his helm between a thumb and index finger, digging into the seams there. A processor ache was beginning to settle in, and he took another sip of his engex.
Perhaps he could get away with simply giving them a non-answer, telling them that he would share the news after the festivities. It would give them time to enjoy the holiday, and, more importantly, would give Prowl enough time to begin making arrangements should he need to relocate. There was always a possibility that, regardless of if they accepted, they might not suggest that he find another hab. He dropped his servo back onto the armrest and shook his head.
The tacnet paused half of its calculations, informing him that there was only a 15.3% chance of them turning down the Division’s offer.
If the project was a success, there was a chance (calculation error, undefined variables) that he might not even remain bonded to them. There was a rather small amount of available research on combiner teams, so there was a non-zero possibility that he might simply be ejected from the gestalt bond.
He turned the chair around to face his desk again, finishing his drink and resting his helm against the cool surface.
---
Prowl jolted out of an unexpected nap at the sound of a knock on his door.
Raising his helm alerted him of the stiffness in his neck and back struts, a familiar ache from recharging at his desk. He onlined bleary optics in time to hear another knock.
“Prowl?” came Scavenger’s muffled voice. “Um… it’s dinner time?”
Prowl cycled his optics twice, heaving a sigh and rising from his chair with several pops. His suspension might need a tune up soon.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming.”
As expected, Mixmaster had ‘pulled out all the stops’, as it were. There were multiple different consistencies of fuel, each with their own unique combination of spices and minerals. Their dining room had been decorated, likely led by Scavenger and Bonecrusher, and slightly dim lighting washed over the spread. The atmosphere contrasted sharply against the symbols of a blank slate.
“Can you pass me the jellies? Oh.” Scavenger blinked as Hook set the bowl in front of him with a thump.
“So,” Mixmaster began, smiling wider than seemed strictly necessary. “How was everyone’s day?”
Silence followed for a klik before Bonecrusher began recounting an argument from earlier that day. He had been asked, along with Grapple, to conduct a survey of some land outside of the city proper for a future business district. The two did not get along very well personally. A shame for him, though. The results of their combined efforts were nothing short of exceptional.
“So I told him, ‘if you think this spot’s gonna be stable enough to lay a foundation, you need to get your fragging processor looked at!’” Bonecrusher shook his head, jabbing his elbow onto the tabletop and rattling the dishes slightly. “I swear, it’s like he wants to open up a sinkhole!”
“I think I heard him say the same for you.” Long Haul’s field radiated amusement and affection.
Boncrusher’s expression contorted in outrage as he shouted, “He what?! When I get my servos on him tomorrow—”
Prowl tuned out Bonecrusher’s lively display of threats. He’d seen it enough by now to know that he was mostly showboating, trying to get a laugh out of his gestaltmates with increasingly absurd statements.
“—paint and turn him into the clown he is!”
“Prowl,” Hook cut off Bonecrusher’s tirade, the mech clearly having reached his goal. Mixmaster’s faceplates were nearly glowing pink and Long Haul was attempting to gently (for him) pat Scavenger on the back as he sputtered where he had accidentally cycled his coolant into his ventilation system.
Prowl’s gaze shifted from his plate to Hook’s expression, his intake set in a firm line. “Yes?”
“Are you not feeling alright? You’ve hardly touched dinner.”
Agitation had been curled inside his tank, and it swelled upon the attention now landing squarely on Prowl. “I’m fine.” He turned toward an increasingly disappointed Mixmaster. “Your cooking is excellent, as usual.” The mech brightened. “ I’ve… it’s been a long cycle.”
“All the more reason for you to refuel.” Hook nudged a bowl of cobalt discs toward him.
“You--!” Prowl snapped his intake shut and vented slowly. “I’m quite alright, Hook.” He struggled to keep his field and tone neutral. “How was your cycle, Hook?”
He fixed Prowl with an unimpressed expression. “It was busy. There’s been an expected uptick in mechs making stupid decisions. Now it’s your turn. How was your cycle, Prowl?”
Prowl took a bit of a silicone bun. Mixmaster had filled them with some sort of lead and mercury paste. Prowl chewed the bite very slowly before swallowing. “It was busy. There’s been an expected uptick in mechs making stupid proposals.”
Hook took a sharp invent through his nose, Scavenger cutting in before he could say anything. “We know, but you don’t usually come home so sad about them.” Scavenger tilted his head ever so slightly, giving Prowl his turbopuppy optics. “Was anybody mean to you?”
Sad? Prowl wasn’t sad, he had no reason to be.
---
The council members remained still, watching Perceptor with bated vents.
“As you all know, today is the first day of Pax Week. It has officially been a complete vorn since the beginning of this new age of peace, and we bring you all a proposal for a project to aid in ensuring its stability. As you know, the Division has conducted a significant amount of research into the reanimation of sentio metallico, ushering in hugely beneficial medical advances.” Perceptor paused before continuing. “We have now successfully assisted in providing no less than fifty mechs with replacement parts able to connect with their systems in a way that 90% of them has reported as being significantly better than previous available options. We have, additionally, successfully reanimated—"
“We figured out how to bring back the dead!” Brainstorm blurted, shoving his face closer to the microphone. Perceptor looked at him with disdain and resignation, as if he had expected the interruption.
“As my colleague has so helpfully supplied, the—”
The crowd burst into life, tension snapping into a cacophony of raised voices.
“SILENCE!” Ultra Magnus slammed a hand against his desk, and the yelling died down into quiet chatter. “Allow the presenters to complete their announcement before responding in the agreed upon and orderly fashion!” The crowd fell silent again, though Prowl caught movement in fits and starts throughout the room, reminding him of a frame seizing and jolting under an electro-reflex exam. “Research Officer Perceptor, you may continue.”
Perceptor elbowed Brainstorm back into place slightly beside and behind him. The microphone caught and amplified the click of his vocalizer resetting. “Thank you. My colleague’s rather casual explanation is correct, though under several conditions.”
The crowd began murmuring again, though upon Ultra Magnus moving to lean into his microphone again, the whispering ceased once more.
“As a result of our successes with revitalizing sentio metallico samples and the proven usefulness in medical trials, the Division continued research in that focus area. We have had nine-hundred and seventy-five successful trials with rebuilding and reanimating twenty-four mechanimal species as a joint project with the Cybertronian Rewilding Committee, who has provided much of our materials and funding. We now have a strong methodology for the reanimation of transformation-capable mechanisms, and are seeking approval to begin trials on select deceased Cybertronians.”
Perceptor paused as if receiving a message through his internal comms, and frowned. It was sensible to have him be the main presenter, at least in Prowl’s opinion. While the mech was dreadful when it came to giving a sales performance, announcing this proposal with any amount of cheer would have been gauche.
Prowl glanced at Brainstorm, nearly vibrating in excitement, and suppressed a shudder.
Perceptor began speaking again. “We have curated a list of candidates with the highest possibilities of successful reanimation and reintegration. Additionally, all research will be de-classified to consulate-level clearance for utmost transparency. Council members are also free to request additional information through the proper channels.” His tone lost what little inflection it had, and he woodenly continued his presentation. “This project is intended to assist in the rebuilding and repopulation of Cybertron. While the populace has been relatively peaceful, we believe—” Perceptor’s expression seemed to wobble for a moment before returning to a cold neutrality. “This project is intended to curb the potential for ex-factional tensions to arise as we complete the projects essential to our survival.” He paused as if he had finished his statement, then tacked on a final, damning note. “We also seek assistance from the Memorial Project Committee in providing necessary materials and funding.”
His posture loosened, as if completing the spiel was a great weight taken off of his frame. He took a breath and stated, “The floor is open for questions.”
The counsel had taken a short recess after the Science and Research Division had answered the first ten questions, and they were to reconvene, vote, and recess for the remainder of the day. Where mechs would usually be thrilled to complete the cycle several joors early, everyone Prowl passed on his way to his office was filled with tension.
Everyone, that was, except for the femme blocking the hallway.
“Oh!” Starscream feigned delighted surprise upon seeing the mech she obviously had intended to bother. “Counsel member Prowl, how are you on this festive cycle?” Her optics glittered in a way that sent alarms ringing through his threat assessment systems.
“Counsel member Starscream,” Prowl gritted out. “I’m fine. I take it you’re well.”
She straightened up from where she had been leaning against the wall. Her recent frame alterations seemed to be integrating well, but the limp she tried to hide was obvious.
“Yes, thank you.” Starscream smiled in a way that gave the tacnet pause. “Say, what do you make of all that ‘reanimation’ talk? I imagine you must be thrilled, considering…”
Prowl did not have the patience for this, and tried to move past her. Starscream was, if nothing else, persistent, and when her attempts to block his path failed, she seemed content enough to follow him back to his office.
Starscream sighed loudly, and Prowl refused to take the bait.
She sighed louder.
Prowl spun around and snapped, “what the frag do you want?”
Her optics brightened.
Slag.
“Why, I was just wanting to congratulate you! It must be such a relief that this proposal’s finally been announced. I know you and your little posse must have been eager for it becoming official.”
Prowl stared at her, frustration evident in his field.
“Oh, did you not know? I had assumed a mech so… well connected would have known about this the moment it leaked!”
“Starscream, if you are going to keeping wasting my time—”
“I mean, everyone thought you’d be tripping over yourself to bring that dolt of a gestalt leader back! I’ve been hearing all of your old,” she bunny-eared her fingers, “‘autobot’ buddies say how much you’ve hated being tied up to the constructicons.” She looked to the side, a servo on her chin in mock-thoughtfulness. “I thought that you’ve been looking a lot more relaxed lately, but your friends just keep telling me that there’s no way you’d go soft like that, especially with the way that it all happened—”
Bang!
Prowl’s processor had filled with staticky rage, and he felt himself shaking subtly. His fist ached from where he had slammed it against the wall. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Starscream smiled at him.
“You really had no idea, did you? I’m amazed the Committee didn’t already know about the project! That Red Alert really can keep his intake shut when it really matters, I suppose. The research is promising, but of course, with something as challenging as bringing back the dead, you know they’re being smart about it. Dragging a spark all the way back from the Well’s no joke, and from what I’ve heard, spark bonds give them the best shot at revival. Now, if you have more than one? Well, that’s a damn near guarantee.” Starscream was nearly radioactive with glee.
“You—"
She cut him off, bearing a feline grin so strong she was nearly squinting, “Their little list has your dear Scrapper sitting right at the top.”
---
Prowl had managed to successfully distract Scavenger by asking him about how the eve-market had been the previous night. Hook had given him a frown showing that the conversation wasn’t over, but the rest of dinner had continued with more ease than it started with.
Unfortunately, it was Prowl’s turn to wash the dishes. Mixmaster had a bad habit of using nearly every item in the kitchen when making big meals like this or when trying out new concoctions, and thanks to the holiday, that evening had been a bit of both. Long Haul had apparently half-succeeded in cleaning up after him as he cooked, but there were still a lot of dishes.
The kitchen, one of the brightest areas in their suite and still uncomfortably warm from the cooking, was loaded with plates and bowls and almost every fragging spoon they owned. They were all covered in bits of sauce and crumbs, and Prowl was ready to just throw everything away and buy an entirely new collection.
Washing dishes was, by far, his most hated chore.
Unfortunately, Scavenger was also trying to be helpful.
Disgusting, sudsy solvent splashed up Prowl’s abdominal plating and that was it for him. “Scavenger! If you throw one more dish into the sink I—"
Scavenger recoiled as if slapped, and Prowl felt guilt sink into his chassis, feeding his agitation further. Great.
“Hey, frag off dude!” Bonecrusher had been carrying an armful of plates, and had stepped in front of Scavenger, setting them beside the sink. Scavenger whipped around, wiping his optics and all but fleeing the kitchen. “He was just trying to help you. What’s your fragging damage, mech?”
Prowl felt his stress levels skyrocket. “My damage?” He shook solvent off his servos before drying them on a mesh towel so aggressively it stung his plating. “My fragging damage? My damage, Bonecrusher, is that I can’t have one bad day without everyone riding my aft!”
Bonecrusher crossed his arms, his frame immovable. “Maybe we wouldn’t be riding your aft if you told us what was so bad about today! Mixy cooked you a beautiful fragging dinner and you just sat there staring at it, and now you made Scav cry, too. Are you happy, Prowl? Does that make you feel better?”
“I told you the food was fragging fine! It was fragging great!” Prowl leaned up toward his face, servos fisted at his sides.
The constructicon leaned down to match him, the distance between their faces shrinking despite their volume only growing. “Oh, yeah? Then why are you being such a glitch?”
“What’s going on in here?” Hook stated, rather than asked. “Lower your voices.”
“What’s going on is that Prowl’s being a jackaft like fragging usual!” Boncrusher seethed before Prowl could respond.
“Oh, like usual? Like fragging usual, Bonecrusher? And you’re, what, the universe’s most innocent fragging angel? Give me a break.”
“I--!”
“That’s enough!” Hook snapped. “Bonecrusher, go sit in the berthroom with the others.” He opened his intake to argue back, but huffed and retreated at Hook’s glare. “Prowl, what happened today? It’s been a long time since you’ve been this upset.”
It had been a while. Prowl had decided, as one of his personal concessions in favor of establishing mutual tolerance with the constructicons, that he needed to watch his tone around them. The way he interacted with other mechs was one of the main complaints he’d heard throughout his entire functioning, so this was one of the first things he had focused on.
“I told you, there were a lot of proposals to get through. Can I not be stressed about work?”
“And yet the counsel left early today?” Hook leaned his hip against a dry part of the counter, crossing his arms and cocking a brow at him. “No one’s saying you can’t be stressed, we just want you to talk to us.”
“I am talking to you!”
“So why, more specifically, are you so stressed?”
Prowl gritted his teeth, bending slightly at the waist to grip the edge of the sink in both servos, the metal creaking slightly. “Starscream was right.”
Hook tilted his helm closer. “Sorry? What d—”
“I said, you’re getting Scrapper back.”
Hook reared back, faceplates visibly hot. “What the frag does Scr—”
“They figured out how to bring him back. The program was greenlit today.” The kitchen was so bright it sent a lance of pain stinging through his left optic, the nerve still oversensitive despite long since being repaired. Why couldn’t those geniuses figure out a way to set the lightbulbs on a dimmer switch?
Long Haul chimed in from the doorway, “what program?”
Prowl cycled his vents more quickly than he likely should have. All those PSAs about taking ‘slow, deep vents’ suddenly sprung to the front of his processor, mocking him for his inability to even vent correctly.
“It’s a program they announced today. They figured out how to reanimate dead mechs. Scrapper’s apparently the candidate with the highest chance of success.”
Hook and Long Haul were quiet for a moment, before Hook’s field blossomed with anger and he jerked his frame away from the counter. “And when were you going to tell us? When he was already back here? That’s—” Hook looked down at his servos. “He’s— I tr—There’s no way—”
“There is. They’ve already done it with nearly a thousand mechanimals. They’re going to begin trials on mechs.” Prowl deflated, helm hanging down between tense shoulders. He closed his optics and felt as if his hold on the counter was the only thing tethering him there, like if he let go he would go spinning out into deep space. “I was waiting for a better time to tell you.”
“So he’s coming back?” Long Haul said slowly, softly, as if moving too quickly would set Prowl off again. That heavy, slimy sensation of guilt sinking into his system returned with nowhere to go.
“If you accept their offer, there’s a possibility he might, yes.”
He heard Hook sniff. Prowl had seen him cry only a servoful of times, and always in frustration.
“No, Haul.” Prowl heard pedesteps recede from the kitchen.
He held his position, waiting for Long Haul to take the hint and leave him, too. When he spoke again, choosing to stay with him, Prowl felt a surge of irritation.
“Do you want to sit down?”
Prowl sighed heavily, fighting the urge to slip down onto the floor and stay there. He straightened, opening his optics, and returning to the dining room for the second time that night.
He sat in his seat, another custom chair of theirs, and wished not for the first time that the chair was more unfomfortable, that they were less observant.
Long Haul lumbered into the dining room again, sliding onto one of the benches that the constructicons had set on either side of the table. Prowl had asked, only once and shortly after he had moved in, why they had chosen not to craft a special chair for each of themselves, too. Three of them had substantial back kibble, theirs even heavier than Prowl’s doorwings, and he found it odd that they hadn’t chosen to accommodate themselves. They had just told him that they would rather sit closer together than apart. Prowl had nodded wordlessly in response, moving to scoot his chair closer to the head of the table.
Long Haul, considerate as he was, had brought two cubes of coolant and a generic pain patch. He wordlessly sat next to Prowl, placing the cubes and patch in a sort of neutral zone on the table between them – far enough to be undemanding, close enough that Prowl could take what he wanted without reaching.
He accepted the coolant, leaving the patch on the table despite his helmache morphing into a proper migraine. The aura he saw obscured the empty side of the table, lining up to be a shimmering, patterned mirror of where the constructicon sat. Prowl wished it didn’t make him feel so cornered.
Waiting until after Prowl had begun sipping at the shockingly cold liquid, Long Haul asked, “can you give me more details on the offer?”
Prowl cycled his vents, taking his time properly. Perhaps those PSAs were onto something.
“The program is still highly confidential, so nothing shared this evening is to leave this hab.”
Long Haul nodded, and Prowl felt, through the closed door of his side of the bond, as Long Haul passed the message onto the rest of his gestalt.
“The Science Division has been making significant breakthroughs with reviving dead sentio metallico over the past vorn. I believe Hook himself oversaw some of the first procedures with the new technique?”
Long Haul nodded, asking, “with the new sensory suite connection, right?”
“Yes,” Prowl replied. Hook had returned to their hab that cycle and, once the shock had worn off, had talked about it for joors. He had been puzzled and amazed at how quickly and completely the new tech was able to integrate with a frame, explaining that it even drastically reduced risks of rejection, lack of sensitivity, and infection.
After a nightmare that even Prowl had felt through his closed connection to the bond, Hook had been distant and irritable for a while. He had apparently been called in for an emergency surgery the cycle before, needing to reconstruct most of a mech’s helm after they had accidentally knocked over some unstable scaffolding. The surgery went better than anyone had expected thanks to the new tech. Hook was fine again a few cycles after.
Prowl drew his focus back to a quiet Long Haul. He wondered if the mech really had as much patience as he seemed to, or if he was simply better at hiding his annoyance than the others.
“And, like I said, they’ve supposedly revived almost a thousand mechanimals with great success. Apparently, about a third of what’s now in the wild is currently reconstructed from dead metal.” Prowl tried not to wonder where they had found so many mechanimal frames, but the tacnet cheerfully supplied him with possibilities, as always. “Now, they want to try bringing back dead mechs.”
Long Haul hunched over where he had rested his forearms on the table. Prowl could practically feel the steady rumbling of his engine through where the soles of his pedes touched the floor. “And they want Scrapper?”
Prowl took another sip of his coolant, finally reaching for the pain patch and pressing its little conductive barbs against a cable in his neck. “I was told that he is apparently the best candidate. At this point, they’re only reaching out to select individuals in the consulate. If they have enough successful revivals and reintegrations, then it will be opened up for the public to apply. They think this will help with the reconstruction efforts.”
He traced a bead of condensation down the side of the cube, surface tension allowing it to absorb other tiny droplets along the way until there was a puddle forming on the tabletop.
“They plan on using spark bonds to help replicate the deceased’s spark signature as exactly as possible, and…”
Long Haul finished his sentence, “… starting with a gestalt is their best bet.”
Prowl kept his optics trained on the puddle, dragging a streak toward the pulsing artefacting of his migraine. “Both for the revival and for settling the mech back into society, yes. I was told that they wanted a response by the end of the decacyle.”
The pain patch began to kick in, though the migraine had set itself in too firmly for it to do more than take the edge off.
“I figured that you would all jump at the chance, but wanted to let you sign the papers yourselves."
“How fragging magnanimous of you.”
Prowl jerked his helm up with a throb of pain to see the rest of the constructicons gathered just beyond the entrance to the dining room. Hook was the closest, stood right next to the shimmering smear across Prowl’s vision.
In that moment, Prowl felt exhaustion hit him anew. The weight of the day, of the last vorn, perhaps of his entire lifetime fell heavy into his lap, pinning him in place. “I was going to tell you. I was going to wait until—”
“Until after the deadline? Until we only had about an hour to make a huge decision like that?”
Long Haul sighed out a half-resigned, “Hook,” but was promptly ignored by an incensed, teary Hook.
“No, he doesn’t get to keep doing this.” Hook turned the weight of his gaze back to an already drowning Prowl, and he knew that it was completely deserved. “You said you were going to start trusting us more! You said you’d start asking us what we think about things, like an oh-so-benelovent foreman. This is the last fragging thing that you get to decide that you,” his tone turned mopey, mocking, “’figure you already know our answer to’.” His vitriol returned, voice louder as optic fluid began streaking down heated faceplates with a nearly imperceptible sizzle. “As far as I see it, you don’t get to have any say on if we accept their offer or not. You’ve made it so fragging clear you don’t want to be a part of this gestalt, a part of this family, no matter how much we try to include you. I’m not even sure you even know what family means because it definitely isn’t any of this bullslag that you’ve been pulling all damn cycle!”
“Hook,” Long Haul said more firmly.
Prowl was very tired, and his frame felt hollow and heavy. His audials rang with Hook’s words.
Hook threw his servos into the air, turning to his gestaltmates behind him. “He isn’t even going to fragging say anything.” Hook turned back toward him, asking, “are you even listening to a word I’m saying?”
Prowl reached into his subspace, pulling out the datapad that had sat there with all the severity of a giant star since the counsel had been adjourned for the cycle. He placed it on the table and slid it, achingly slowly across the surface. “You have until the end of the decacycle, but the sooner you sign it, if you choose to, then the sooner they can begin the process. The pad should have sufficient information, but I can make any additional inquiries you might need.”
Prowl rose from his seat at last and made his way to his berth, feeling a strut deep ache that chased him even into his dreams.
---
Shortly after the final peace treaty was signed and sealed, significantly sooner than most expected, the Memorial Project Committee was established. The Committee was one of many created to help divvy up the several dozen projects that sprung up as a result of the creation of a newly settling society. The Memorial Project Committee had been among the first proposed, just after those proposed for urgent essentials and designing an official governmental structure, and had received unanimous approval. The Committee had several achievements to its name, in spite of its rather short existence, and the New Cybertronian Community Memorial Park was its crown jewel.
The park had been completed only a scant few solar cycles ago, and had quickly become a vital part of the growing city’s infrastructure. There were three buildings surrounded by what would eventually become scenic landscaping. The grounds had been a joint project with the Rewilding Committee, emphasizing the use of local flora and microfauna to ‘restore the land and feed her people’. There was a walking trail lined with both fuel-bearing and decorative plants, with several covered seating areas around the grounds. One building currently served as an easy third-space, highlighting the need for the Community Works Committee and its library and community center projects.
Another building served as an archive, its walls wearing the designations of each and every mech lost during the war. There was ongoing talk of adding a display dedicated to the colonies and organic planets impacted by the war, though there was still a significant anti-organic bias holding up the proposal. The archive was always open, much like the makeshift community center, and mechs could contribute memory files of the deceased to the collection or request file downloads at any time. Throughout the archive’s time open, many of the survivors provided the staff with files with image and sound captures, anecdotes, comm records – really anything they could, to the point where the Committee had to double the quantity of the staff. Twice.
The third building, far shorter on the surface than the other two and reaching as far into the ground as was reasonable at the time of construction, was primarily obscured by fast growing plants and seldom visited. This building housed what physical remains they were able to find. Though the recovery expeditions were a controversial use of resources initially, much of the city warmed up to the project soon after the first crews returned. Once the first few mechs who had received closure through the return their fallen comrades’ frames had begun singing the Memorial Project Committee’s praises, the expeditions had begun to receive widespread community support.
Prowl still failed to see how it was at all comforting to look upon mangled plating and visually-unidentifiable pieces, knowing, so intimately, the spark that had extinguished through such horribly destructive ends. He reasoned, though, that his perspective was likely coloured by his involvement in their deaths.
The Science and Research Division’s request for the Committee’s cooperation included not only providing the physical remains, but the memory files and recorded social connections attached to the deceased as well.
In the decacycles following Long Haul returning the informed consent datapad back to Prowl for him to sign and submit, much of their interaction with the reintegration process (dubbed R.I.P. by the less professional scientists they interacted with) could best be described as ‘hurry up and wait’.
After submitting the paperwork, they waited nearly two full decacycles for a response telling them to come in as soon as possible to verify Scrapper’s remains and to provide every last byte of his memory that they could. There was more waiting before they were all pinged with an appointment time for the following morning, the attached message telling them to prepare for spark casing inspections and sampling. As the constructicons (and Prowl) had functionally-significant spark bonds with Scrapper through the gestalt bond, they were told that his spark signatures’s ‘fingerprint’ had been permanently preserved within them, and was crucial to reconstructing his energy signature. After that appointment, there had been several more sudden pings spotted throughout three orns.
They had, as suggested by the research team, created a space in their shared hab for Scrapper to have privacy should he need it. The space provided a berth and personal washrack for him, and was separated with a locking door. They also, as instructed, filled the room with as many material comforts and sentimental memorabilia as possible, save for anything overly violent or potentially distressing. Fortunately for the constructicons, they were able to repurpose Prowl’s suite, setting up most of his belongings in what had been the dining room. His new… space had been partitioned off with a room divider and the dining table and chairs relocated to the common area. Prowl had been assured that Scrapper (should he actually return) wouldn’t want to recharge on his own and likely wouldn’t need the space for long, and that they would put it exactly as he had it the moment Scrapper felt ready.
It was a tight fit, and petty arguments broke out between all six of them. Rearranging the hab had been a much needed distraction in the downtime between work and random runs to the research labs. Unfortunately, the constructicons were incredibly efficient in that regard, and quickly found themselves bickering over minor details. After the fifth time they argued over the colour of the berth’s sheets, it must have occurred to them to find new projects outside the hab. They had all been occupied with some activity or another as much as possible, and much of their time spent together had been mandated by their pre-planned dinner nights.
It was one such evening when they got the call.
Mixmaster had just put the night’s main fuel on the table, some sort of hearty stew that was apparently a comfort from before the war, when they were suddenly all invited into a group comm channel and told that the usual transport was en route to bring them to the lab.
The constructicons had burst into motion, Mixmaster pulling out seven travel cubes and filling them with their dinner to eat on the way there, Scavenger and Bonecrusher shoving various cushions and tarps into their subspaces, and Hook and Long Haul doing their best to calmly usher the group from their hab to the curb outside. Prowl felt almost as if he was watching them, watching his own quiet responses, as if they were acting out some emotionally wrought holovid from before the war. At some point, he found himself seated in the transport’s cargo bay with the others, a cube of still warm fuel slotted into his servo.
He felt as if he had merely cycled his optics once, and they were getting out of the transport, twice, and they were being filed into a cramped viewing room attached to an operating theatre. Prowl barely registered the rushed itinerary they were given. Through thick and tinted glass, his optics locked onto a grey pede sticking out from under a white sheet.
His visual feed could have been glitching, some trick resulting from the shock of the evening, but it was almost as if it was deepening into a rich purple.
The lab attendant, who might have been an impatient Brainstorm or an overly pleasant First Aid (he was entirely unsure), then skittered out of the room. He heard the beep of a lock trapping them inside where they were silent, fidgeting here and there. They would be able to leave after Scrapper was stabilized or otherwise, something about keeping the theatre as free of confounding electricity as possible.
Until then, all they could do was watch.
A mech encased in a rubber suit entered the theatre and approached the table, removing the sheet as carefully as possible and revealing familiar grey plating blooming in odd places with blotches of green and purple that gained and lost vibrancy.
Hook pushed a vague schematic of Scrapper’s vital internals through their bond. They must have been cycling various impulses through them, priming them for a resuscitation attempt. Prowl wondered when he’d stopped holding himself shut.
The suited mech then trudged over to a host of equipment on the opposite wall before returning to Scrapper’s side, carrying a bouquet of wires and conductive patches with them before attaching them carefully to the mottled plating.
They had done impressive work with reconstructing his frame; Prowl thought Scrapper would have looked perfectly whole if not for the lack of biolights and the hues shifting across the surfaces of his still frame.
Throughout the process of completing their preparations, the constructicons had all taken seats on too-small chairs one by one. Prowl remained standing, the farthest away from the door and the furthest from the glass. He had a perfect view from between Hook and Scavenger.
Eventually, the mech had left the operating theatre, reentering what they knew was the primary control booth. A voice crackled over the physical intercom system in the viewing room that they were about to begin, the stony voice of Perceptor counting them back from ten.
All lighting in the theatre dropped into near total darkness, and they heard the hum and whine of machinery priming even through the thick glass separating them. The faint shout of ‘contact!’ heard, likely by accident, over the intercom was the only warning before intense light flashed throughout the operating room, a loud crack accompanying it.
The sensation, likely incredibly muffled by the sheer amount of insulation in the facility, was unlike any other. Prowl felt a striking sense of déjà vu, as if his nose was bleeding, and as if the magnetic poles had shifted all at once. This feeling echoed through the bond, and it was a small comfort that Prowl wasn’t the only one who had experienced such a strange, unexplainable moment of time.
The world quickly fell away to darkness again, an overexposed glimpse of the operating theatre seared into their vision. Before it could fade fully, they heard another faint ‘contact!’ and quickly shuttered their optics.
After the additional crack had faded from his audials, Prowl onlined his optics, staring into the dark of the theatre. He saw reflections of each of their visors and biolights, mapping the light from their frames into overlapping constellations in the darkness, evidence of their living shining back at them like so many distant suns.
The strange sensation, like a sense memory made tangible, hadn’t faded as quickly as the last time.
He gasped as he saw a seventh constellation staring back at them.