Work Text
Before the New Era, Prowl knew little of D-16, and Orion Pax.
Before the New Era, he had a single ‘friend’, two brothers, and himself.
Before the New Era, Prowl had wanted only to become an enforcer, and nothing more.
Now? He finds himself more lost than he was before.
His structure, his status, his
job
, all
gone
, rendered useless and outdated as the Energon reserves are renewed thanks to their
fool
of a prime. The structure of their entire society,
shattered
, and the average citizen is left scrabbling for scraps in the wake of an old war, and the beginning of a new dawn.
A new dawn
Is it really dawn if there are no rays breaking through the darkness? Is it really dawn if things seem to be worse than they were before.
So here he is, standing under the beating sun of their planet, as workers slowly re-build Iacon above ground. It is beautiful, as the Prime had promised, breathtaking even as the world glimmers in oranges and blues, and the world shifts around them, living,
breathing
.
If only he could enjoy it more.
“Dear
Primus
-” Prowl hisses as he rubs at his nose ridge, his wings twitching irritably behind him as his hand slowly slides down his faceplates. “Put the supports on the
South
end! Not the
West
.” He snaps as he grabs the datapad from the other bot’s servos and overlooks the information. “You're not even supposed to be on this site! This is Site U-73, your delivery is due for A-1, the new capitol.”
“Sir-” The bot attempts to speak, his paint dusted in weird organic material that made Prowl’s olfactory sensor turn up in disgust.
“No.” He deadpans as he hands the datapad back to the other bot, “Take the northern express route, with this delay both of our sites will be off schedule.”
New Dawn
his aft.
Prowl glances up as dust kicks up suddenly in the distance, and the sound of music booming from an all too familiar mech’s external speakers covers the usual clangs and clicks of the construction site. Prowl barely manages a quick, desperate prayer to Primus, begging for some sort of mercy as the silver bot barrels in his general direction.
“Prowler!” Drawls Jazz, his form folding in upon itself as he skids to a stop in front of the former miner. His doorwings bounce as he hops forward and clumsily swipes surface dust from his paint.
“Jazz.” He grunts in dull greeting, turning his back to the other mech as he quickly tries to finish the last of his work before it was inevitably taken from him by the other mech.
“Prowler.” Jazz greets once more, his faceplates stretching with a smug smile as he bumps their pauldrons together, reaching over Prowl’s shoulder to blindly grasp for his datapad. “It's time for your break, c’mon, let's grab some energon.”
Prowl sighs, jerking the pad out of Jazz’s reach as he talks. “As much as I would
love
to get away from this…
site
, I just so happen to be be-”
“Behind schedule.” He finishes with a roll of his optics, snatching the datapad from Prowl’s servos, “Bot, didn’t you read through those new labor laws
the
moment they were published?”
“I’m just one groon under the limit.” Prowl sighs, loosely giving in to Jazz’s charm as he turns to fully look at the shorter mech.
“Yeah, that's one groon too little, come on, there's this new energon eatery that opened in sector T-16, it has copper and titanium toppings, just how you like them.” He explains as he scrolls through Prowl’s datapad with feigned interest.
“Jazz, I don't have the credits to spend offhandedly like you do.” He protests weakly.
“I’ll pay.” Jazz insists, grasping Prowl’s shoulder as his wings flutter in a friendly manner, “You need to
relax
, mech.”
He grins slightly, tilting his helm down to make fond optic-contact with Jazz. “
You
need to catch up on that work the new Prime gave you.”
Jazz gasps loudly, his optics are wide in fake surprise as he places his servo over his spark, “Betrayal of the highest degree, how dare you mention my workload in my presence?!”
Prowl’s faceplates twitch as he attempts to hide his smile while he continues to stride past Jazz, “It is my job as your…
best friend
, is it not?”
“Don’t you use my words against me, mech!”
-______-
Prowl didn’t complement servers much, and complements shop owners even less, but dear
Primus
, this was the best energon he ever had. This Maccadam mech was skilled at his work, the shavings of Titanium and Copper were the perfect size and offered a nice crunchy, soft texture as he popped a cube into his intake.
He can’t stifle the happy humm that escapes his vocalizer as he grabs another cube from the bowl that sat between him and Jazz. The other mech, of course, grins brightly once the noise reaches his audials, “told you this place was great.”
“Now, you didn’t say
great
…” Prowl trails off, his doorwings bouncing in poorly hidden joy.
He scoffs, and rolls his optics, “You knew what I meant.”
“Did I?” He mocks
Jazz scowls in reply, his doorwings flaring in fake offense, “I’ll punch you, mech.”
Prowl laughs softly, and shakes his head, the corners of his lips twitching as he tries to keep his smile stable. He dips his intake behind his servos, allowing his smile to drop, and the silence to settle between them.
It was nice.
This,
was nice, not having to worry about Jazz dying in those mine shafts, not having to worry about Bluestreak or Smokescreen being demoted and him never seeing them again. He didn't have to worry about the lives of his family being lost in an instant anymore. He disliked this new prime, of course, he was indeed a fool, but he was better than Sentinel Prime by a landslide.
Now, Prowl had a chance at achieving his dreams. He only had to work overtime for approximately thirty Orns and save up most of his pay to be able to enter the Iaconian Enforcer Academy. Soon he would be able to make a change and start revising the rather..
corrupt
practices that were being pushed upon Iaconian citizens day in and day out.
Injustice was a word that was well known to (former) miners like him.
Prowl wanted to make it a word of the past, as childish as the concept may sound.
“Jazz,” he prompts, suddenly finding the silence to last a little longer than what was often deemed socially acceptable, “you work as the Prime’s..advisor, correct?”
The mech shrugs as he waves a servo offhandedly, “advisor is the official title, but I just help him make big decisions. The mech is trying to change up the political structure, shake up the old ways just a little, you know? He doesn't trust the council since they allowed and supported Sentinel’s questionable choices, though he can’t really do much about it right now. It's just Me, Him, Elita and that..Bee kid.”
“I thought that he took up Ironhide to help as well?” Prowl asks, surprised at the mech’s absence from the chance to, in his glyphs, ‘fuck a mech up’, even if it was to
politically
‘fuck a mech up’.
Jazz sighs, the sound mocking one of grief, “Ironhide said no, th’ old bot’s tryna court that racer, Chromia, I think? Mech’s a psycho, that's for sure.”
“Not Kup?” Prowl offers, almost offhandedly this time, Kup was never an eloquent speaker. No matter how good his advice was, it would do little to help anyone if no-one knew what he was saying.
“He wants nothin’ to do with politics.” he points out.
Prowl sighs again, belatedly realizing how much he’d been sighing ever since Iacon went to slag. “So…our new prime has a personal council consisting entirely of former miners, and all of them have some sort of personality issue. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Perhaps.” Jazz drawls with a loose grin.
He puts his head in his hands, and groans weakly, “Primus help us all.”
“Hey! It could always be worse.” Jazz chuckles, his doorwings bouncing with his laughter.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The almost offensively bright light of his office shined down upon his bland desk. The surface was barely visible, from under the piles and piles of datapads that took up his workspace. His shift was long running, now, and with Jazz no longer able to distract him from his work; having been caught up in his political duties, Prowl was able to drown himself in the vast amount of digital work that needed signing.
It was…not exactly a waste of time, but he found himself unable to take Energon breaks, focused on seeing the end of his work as he looked through the well organized stacks of data. He tried to stave off his impending processor ache, though the incomprehensible amount of stupidity that his co-workers managed to maintain did nothing in his favor, only worsening the ache.
The mech sighed again as he dug his digits into his faceplates, the pressure was a grounding thing, almost relaxing in nature as he allowed his brain to drown in the familiar blank feel of predictable patterns, and the swish and flick that came with the signing of his designation.
His head tilted up as the dim beat of a fist meeting the metal of his door met his audials.
“Come in.” Prowl sighs, sitting upright and fixing the sag of his doorwings, his frame straining under its own demands.
Now, Prowl didn't think that it was easy to catch him off guard, so when
the
Prime strides into his office, he could only barely hide the way his doorwins flicker in surprise.
“Sir!” He shouts as he heaves himself up to his pedes, “It is- such a…
pleasure
to see you here. I hope you don't mind me asking..
why
you are here?”
The Prime greets prowl with a calm and almost disarming smile as he ducks under the entryway. “Prowl, please save the
sirs
for the presence of others. I am not here on any professional business, if that is what you’re worried about?” He offers; an olive branch, it seems.
“Oh..” His doorwings twitch once more as unease fills his chest, “If it is not a professional visit, for what
other
reason would you be here, Prime?”
The other mech shifts uncomfortably under the weight of the title, his shoulders drooping and rolling as if reminded of the weight that comes with it, or perhaps the history. Maybe both, it could always be
both.
“Well, Jazz kept talking about you, every chance he was able,” the Prime begins timidly, nothing at all like the mech he was when he was rallying the miners against Sentinel and his High Guard. “I was curious as to who you were, as he talks about you as if you are some extremely smart mech.” He shrugs, “You also sounded interesting. Extremely interesting.”
Prowl’s optics darted away from the Prime, his unease making itself even more known in his body language, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “Ah, well, I hope I have not disappointed you?” His wording was stilted, almost lost under itself as the multitude of iterations of the simple phrase fill the space between his processor’s wiring.
“No!” The prime seems to interrupt hurriedly, “not at all, Prowl, Jazz spoke about you as if you were a kind mech, and from what I can tell, he is correct.”
“If him talking about me so much is a problem I could-”
“No, Prowl, please there is no issue.” The Prime interrupts, his anxious and underwhelming presence giving way to a soothing tone that made Prowl want to simply melt for the mech. “Though, I suppose I was lying only mildly, when I said that this was not a professional visit.”
Prowl was unsurprised about the ‘twist’, he’d come to expect this with any other mechs. “Ah?”
“Well, from the way Jazz described you, you’re well organized and know how to lead a group of bots.” The prime continues, “With my own council being quite understaffed, I had thought that you would be a great addition to the team, I suppose.”
Prowl’s doorwings flick upward as his processor chews idly on the offer. Of course, being a part of the Prime’s personal council would be a wonderful way to..
influence the
state of Iacon,
however
, he had to think about how the prime is viewed by the mecha of cybertron as a whole. Positive, and negative, their opinions on the prime would ultimately reflect upon him. As a neutral party, however, their opinions would be in line with his
own
actions, not those of the mech he works for….
“With all due respect, Lord Prime,” Prowl begins, dipping his head in respect as he speaks, “I am afraid I cannot accept your offer.”
The prime cocks his head to the side, a remnant act of his time as a miner, Prowl was sure, as a
proper
prime would never act the way Optimus was acting. Prowl dares to allow his plating to shiver minutely at how…
un-primely
the mecha in front of him was.
“Well-” Optimus begins, his faceplates still stretched in an attempt at a comforting smile,”The offer can remain on the table for whenever you may want it.”
Prowl tries not to scowl at the Prime’s assumption that he would ever want to follow such a clumsy and unprepared mech such as him. “Of course, Prime.” He hums respectfully despite his own inner quarrel, “I hope you are able to find your way out?”
The mech nods politely, and Prowl watches as the door closes behind him. His stiff posture falls away, his doorwings fall from their upright position and his struts feel like they crumpled with the way he folded into himself as he sat down in his chair.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Iacon’s unrest is thick in the air. Prowl can sense it as he steps off of the train to the surface, dipping back down under into the safety of, old Iacon. His gait is stilted, his doorwings bouncing uncomfortably with his every step. Light flittered down into the darkness, stretching its arms from the surface, and comforting the unlucky working class below. He vents softly and pushes past a crowd of other working mechs, dipping and weaving past the masses of wheels, doors and seeker wings. The hustle and bustle of shouts and conversations flitted over the sensors on his doorwings, rough imaging of the scene behind him idled in the corner of his mind. As the sidewalk dipped to merge with the main path, the sound of mechs transforming filled his ears. The long haunting sound, something only made by enforcers, was slowly changing into something new, a part of their day-to-day life. Prowl shakes out his doorwings, half tempted to transform as well. He stops, gently tapping over his chassis where his new t-cog rested, thrumming and shifting under his plating, as if excited to transform, to perform its purpose for the first time since it was gifted to him. He walks down the sidewalk. It was rather empty, all the other mecha having taken kindly to their own T-cogs, and happily taking advantage of the newly built streets that stretched over the length of the city. He lets out a long vent, doorwings drooping tiredly as he trudges towards the medical facility on the edge of the main district. As he ducks into the clinic, he is greeted with the blinding white light that comes with.. Every medical facility in Iacon. He winces, his optics twinging in upset as he blinks past the pain and steps toward the mech at the front. “First aid.” He greets, nodding politely as he stops at the counter. “You’re here for your frame inspection?” The small bot prompts as he types away at the display, “This one will be different form your usual- due to the eh..” First aid peers at Prowl’s doorwings, “new look, so it should take a little longer than usual.” Prowl shakes his head minutely, “Do you know exactly how long it will take?” He asks, clearly exhausted from a long day of yelling at his slag brained co-workers. “Not too long, you should be out in a half groon or so, don't worry. Just take a seat and Ratchet will be out to grab you in five.” The younger mech waves Prowl off, in an uncaring motion. He settles down on one of the low quality chairs in the waiting room, wiggling slightly in place as he tries to get his stupid doorwings settled politely behind him. Of course- since these chairs arent exactly meant for back kibble, he’s forced to lean forward on his thighs in an awkard position. Great. Ratchet, never one to waste anyones time if they’ve treated him well-enough, enters the room after a few moments of impatient waiting. “Prowl!” He calls- his voice sounding a little too much like a cyber-cat’s yowl for Prowl’s liking. “Im here, Ratchet.” He answers, rising to his pedes and trudging over to the other mech before he got too riled up. “Well look at you.” The older mech drawls, looking Prowl up and down, “You got a new shiny frame like the others, good for you..good for you..” he trails off, and raises an optic-ridge as he circles Prowl and takes in the sight of his back kibble. “You’ve got allo’ more kibble than I thought you would-” he mumbles, this time to himself as he tugs Prowl’s doorwings into an uncomfortable position, attempting to get a good look at the wiring and joints that were hidden by his thin plating. “Ratchet, please-” Prowl attempts, sounding exasperated even as he made little effort to try and pull his doorwings out of Ratchet’s grip. The mech’s only reply was the smack of a wrench in the back of his helm. How…eloquent. After a few moments of poking and prodding, he’s dragged further into the back of the clinic, and sat down on a medical berth. “Now, I ain’t been treated no doorwingers in a good long time-” The mech starts, “But that doesn't mean I dont know how to handle them, y’ got that?” Prowl only manages a nod in place of a proper reply, “Good” Ratchet huffs, walking behind Prowl to continue his seemingly mindless groping at his wings. “Yer joints and sockets look as good as they can while still being considered new.” He reports, “Though, the sensors on the plating itself..” Prowl shivers as the stabbing wave of a scanner digs into his sensor net. “Are tuned above what I would consider to be the average for mechs like you. “I suppose that is a bad thing?” Prowl murmurs, trying to keep the limbs as still as possible. “It depends.” Ratchet answers almost disinterested as he overlooks the scanner's results,“unless…” Prowl looks over his pauldron to peer at Ratchet “Unless what?” The older mech shakes his head, dismissing the unspoken thought, and offers little in explanation. Prowl’s processor practically squirms at the lack of an answer, and he finds the discomfort to express itself in an upset shiver that digs into Prowl’s frame like a restless cyber-cat. The rest of the inspection goes just as planned, and Ratchet sends Prowl off with a clean bill of health and a rather cheap actual bill. He steps back out onto the sidewalks and follows the usual path back to his and his brothers’ hab. While not located in the worst parts of town, Kiou is one of the…cheaper options for living in Iacon, none of the streets that spanned across the better parts of Iacon reach into here, leaving for mechs in their alt modes to suddenly come storming past, or for others to trudge through piles of trash.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mechanical lips spread and stretched, the malleable metal pulling itself past its structural limits. His optics, followed a different order, squeezing shut, to hide himself from reality. His audials fizzled and flickered, his own ability to process his scream stutters and stops as his processor slowly shuts down. He was tied to a table, like a hound, a collar wrapped around his neck, and his wrists, stuck in cuffs that were welded haphazardly to the floor. His gurgle of pain spills from his vocalizer, dribbling down his chin and spattering over his chassis. Colours bloomed around every object, and for a moment he is so sure he can see in an all too wide array of different colours and frequencies. He cannot remember when he had pried his optics open- nor when they had shoved his face into the floor if only to dig their digits into the access panel at the back of his helm. He cannot remember when they installed the panel, perhaps it was when they had last brought him to their little play area, when they had stripped him of his armor and forced something new, something heavier upon his frame. He felt overburdened, both by sensory input that he could barely process, and by the millions of calculations that seemed incessant as they ran in the background processes of his mind. The calculations, sometimes pooled forward, and the world around him would melt into nonsensical lines of binary input. He claws at the metal below him, and his pedes scrabble uselessly behind him as he throws himself away from the black painted servos that reached for him. He bares his teeth, his processor, in the midst of its meltdown, scrabbles to pull up the ancient code from eons ago- to shove into the forefront of his processes. His mind feels duct taped together, and the only thought he can understand is the need to survive. Wires flickered and fizzled from where they remained disconnected in the back of his helm, he was sure there was some energon leaking down the back of his neck, but the sensory input had devolved into a mess of icy hot goodness. His jaw opens wide and he crunches down on some random limb that had the unlucky pleasure of being in his rather limited biting range. He snarls, his doorwings splay open as he tries to make the best of the opportunity and gain as much sensory information as possible before the- His chest heaves as his digits dig into his office desk. His breathing is loud in his own ears and as he grits his teeth the urge to sob builds up in the back of his throat. He clumsily chokes out a demand for teletraan to turn off the blaring lights as he drops to his knees and does his best to hide himself behind the lumbering form of his desk. His doorwings press tightly to his spine, and he finds himself at a loss of what to do. The need to release the energy that has pent up inside his limbs is overwhelming, but his frame won't respond to his own commands. His chassis jumps as he hiccups and slams his helm into the nearby file drawers. He nearly sags as a minute feeling of relief spreads over his limbs and he slams his helm into the drawers again and again and- He's biting down on his digit, his teeth dig nicely into the malleable metal and his engine is rumbling lowly, just beneath his chassis; pleased as he finally fpund a quiet way to keep himself in the now. He tugs at one of his antennae as he mulls over the carefully designed building plans that had been shoved onto his desk at the wrong ti- “There's something wrong with me.” He snarls, feeling all too desperate as he leans forward in the all too plush chair the psychiatrist had offered up. “Something is not right and if you'd just listen to me!” “Prowl.” The femme sighs, interrupting him for the sixth time as he folds her servos together and leans forward on her desk. “There is nothing wrong with you, dear.” And not for the first time, he feels like he's going insai- “Smokescreen” Prowl gurgles as he curls into himself. His helm is pressed into the cold berth that the other much older mechs had scraped together for the all too large collection of younglings. “Smokey, please” Smokescreen looks lost as he places his servo on his batch-mate's helm, rubbing a thumb over the conjunction between his faceplates and his optics. “It's okay, Prowl.” He squeaks, sounding unsure himself. “We're gonna be okay, I promi-” He's sitting at the meeting table, his smile is unnaturally polite, just bordering on dangerous, as he digs his digits into the seam of his thigh and tries not to space out. Inside, his processor feels like it's going through a glitch that keeps stalling itself, building and festering before it becomes something newer and worse. The urge to slam his helm open on the conference table was all too appealing as the other mechs spoke in their obnoxious tones and lilts. His servo digs too deep into his thigh and the feeling of energ- His chest heaves, and he breathes again.