for-the-better-and-worse - Tumblr blog

[for-the-better-and-worse]

interested in a date? ;)

"...I cannot possible emphasize further how much I'm not looking for nor do I want a relationship right now, or ever in the foreseeable future. Concurrently, I must also emphasize how much that is most definitely something you do not want."

-------

[for-the-better-and-worse]

Are you single, mech?

"Yes. In a perfect world, forever."

-------

[for-the-better-and-worse]

I broke into your office because you haven’t been answering comms. Hi. -stinglikeame

Prowl makes no indication of acknowledgment. He hardly makes an indication he heard the other come in. He's too busy sitting slumped over on the floor, optics overbright and thoroughly absorbed in getting his processor under control via heaving vent-breaths. The ex-enforcer chokes down air, and rasps out, none too friendly; "Get- hff- get out."

--------

[for-the-better-and-worse]

The EM field of the room slowly ticks up a microtesla or two when Prowl's own unease joins in, forming some horrible cacophony of a negative feedback loop. The mention of outlier weaponization is not a comfort. Nothing that comes out of Perceptor's vocalizer is a comfort. They usually aren't, not when speaking to Prowl- and vaguely, the tactician wonders why he'd expected anything different. The satisfaction he'd once felt in learning uncomfortable truths never comes. Or- he had to have been expecting something different. There was no other logical reason why every personal confession from the other sits at the bottom of Prowl's tank like terrible stones. The weight is awful. Pulled teeth and pried-out truths of a similar ilk had never bothered him before. Perceptor fishes at a seam looking for something that isn't there and Prowl- Prowl looks away. (The kindest thing he knows how to do.) "I hope you realize," Prowl starts, with a tone heavy enough to linger, "That you are admitting this all to me." He does not know what he is offering Perceptor with the silence that follows. An out? A last chance, to back out of revealing something crossing personal, or crossing incriminating? "...This is all off-record, I take it." The tactician chews on his glossa when he eventually breaks the silence, staring pointedly at the blinking elevator lights. Down, down, down. "As I imagine you're speaking from experience. If this is true- a spark research institution with a history of murders would not have been able to produce a Senator without severe revisionism, or record tampering, or both. I assume you have evidence. I assume you know this makes you Airies' loose end." And then- tone breaking from its authoritative front to meet the not-quite-gentle murmur of Perceptor's own, but spoken like it pains him to try; "...Perceptor. Are you alright?" (But he does try, doesn't he?)

-------

— Gaze follows Prowl moving through the room, he can't help the way every system in his body is screaming at him to stay on high alert. His audials fine tuned to every sound in the room and every sound Prowl makes. His scope swivels and twitches, watching any of his blind sides of his without requiring his own head to move.

When he is silently commanded to follow, he does so like a scolded dog. And he feels sick sick sick. He doubts this would affect him so much if the old memories didn't feel brand new given the circumstances. Something to mentally curse his younger and naive self out for later.

It is his turn to pace when the door closes, stalking the edge of the room, thumbing at the seam on his thigh. His old pistol compartments. He stops pacing when he finally registers Prowl's question. He shifts uncomfortably where he stands. He never wanted to talk about this— didn't think he would ever have to.

All actions have equal and opposites reactions. This is simply that belated reaction.

He grinds his teeth for a moment before he speaks, "No, but I'm not a Nova Cronum scientist. Not originally." The admission is flat, his face trained carefully so as not to betray his true feelings despite the way his EMF wildly flares with anxiety.

"I was forged in Protihex, before the war. Airies took over as director to the laboratory I used to work in after the previous one was murdered. If you search for papers by Savant of Protohex, they should be published by The Institute of Spark Research, I'm certain you'll find them. My information removal efforts were rushed."

This time, when he speaks, it is barely above a whisper, "Airies was interested in outliers. He was interested in weaponizing outliers. He is not opposed to murdering whoever stands in his path."

[for-the-better-and-worse]

Prowl fights the urge to roll his optics when Rodimus speaks, loses terribly against said urge, and glares at the other mech even more than he already was for good measure. He should say something. Rodimus' grating tone makes him want to. But the cloud of smoke blown in his face says politely otherwise, and Prowl can only be grateful he only coughed once as it hit him. If Rodimus had said one more thing to him, Prowl might've done something very stupid. It was a bad place to be; precariously hanging off his balcony railing. But Rodimus did not say anything, and opened his mouth. (There was something Prowl could have said in their silence, but he didn't say it. They could not have peace, but they could have quiet.) With a servo, Prowl hooks a digit behind Rodimus' neck, pulling the mech towards him within range, before promptly putting out the blunt end of his cygarette on the other's tongue. The sound of embers spitting out, crackling to a lull, will suffice for now. Prowl tosses the stub onto the balcony floor, turning and making for the sliding door too quick for Rodimus to see his expression, and too quick for vice versa to happen either. "70 shannix. For two weeks. Covers the damn cost of your recharge fuel-line here. Get it one way or another. I don't care."

Rodimus is quick to find that he enjoyed being near Prowl when he was quiet, not when he is deep in thought, but because he has no words to say. He allows himself to enjoy the silence for as long as Prowl will allow him, letting the taste of the cygarette in his mouth flood his tastebuds and sting the wound on his tongue.

It is almost surprising how slowly he manages to react to Prowl's request. He thinks to ignore it as a most useless infatuation of his own mind, a strange little creation meant to throw him off.

When Prowl keeps looking at him, waiting for an answer, Rodimus finally turns to look at the strategist with furrowed brows, and a skeptical look.

"I-- I'm sorry?" He breathes out a chuckle, a little nervous. "Is this a normal thin' you tend to ask folks?"

He takes another drag from his cygarette, finally straightening his posture to look up those last few inches, absurdly incredulous. He hopes he looks the role, because he wants Prowl to feel ridiculous for-- not asking, but ordering Rodimus to open his mouth.

Still, Rodimus has never been known to deny himself for the answers of his curiosity, even if he comes to regret it later. The speedster props himself up onto the railing and sits down, taking one final drag of his cygarette for the simple pleasure of blowing out on Prowl's face, with a shit-eating grin on his own.

"You gotta work on your people skills, man. You're lucky I'm nice."

He opens his mouth, just enough that he doesn't look ridiculous.

[for-the-better-and-worse]

Prowl stands as he watches his guest push through the doors in somewhat of a tizzy, a mildly amused expression flickering across his expression. The tactician's initial impressions of the scientist chalk up to this: how animated. The contrast between them is rather stark. Prowl carries himself through excessive carefulness- over delicate and controlled, in direct contrast to the water-frame, who carries herself with seemingly spring-loaded gestures. The extent of Prowl's physical tells live in the attentive upright snap of his doorwings, and the slight narrowing of his optics as he observes the newcomer. (He does not miss the way the other stiffens. It is not new. Addressing it would mean addressing everything else, and Prowl would really much rather forget.) "No need to apologize. It's good to meet you." The tactician extends a servo, glancing at the small stack of datapads in the other's arms. "Elaborate Iaconian architecture doesn't mesh well with the high density sprawl of the city. It's an impressive trek from the back entrance to lobby. And, evidently, you have your servos full." "Prowl. High Command Tactician and Autobot Representative Official." He pauses for a moment, fishing up a name. "You must be- Nautical, yes?"

-------

   The big city was something that Nautica was still adjusting to. She'd spent her formative years in what was essentially just an installation of a few dozens of people, a good distance from civilization in any direction. Even the capital of Caminus where she received her schooling was dwarfed by even regular cities on Cybertron. To say that Iacon was a daunting presence would be an understatement.

   She was adjusting, though. Just not at the pace she'd like.

   When the water-frame finally pushes through the doors, she seems a bit frazzled. If one strained their audials, they'd be able to pick up on the end of whatever conversation she'd been having over her commlink.

   " -into it for you once I'm back in Ibex City, alright? See if there's a grant or something that you can apply for for funding. Anyways, I gotta go, sorry. I'll talk to you after my meeting though. "

   She offlines her comms and takes a few moments to gather herself, running a hand over her helm in frustration that she makes obvious. It doesn't take long for her to spot the tactician from where she stood, something that makes her visibly still for a few moments. His reputation preceded him.

   She speaks up halfway through the jog across the room, shifting her small stack of data pads onto a different arm as she does so.

   " I apologize for being late. I made a mistake and went to the wrong side of the Center, and anyone I asked for directions from kept giving me obtuse answers. " she slows to a stop not far from where he was sitting, " If I wasn't forced to walk halfway around the building, I probably would have been on time. "

   The pain of not being very land worthy, it seems. Not being very land worthy, or street savvy for that matter.

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"Of course," Prowl says smoothly, hardly a hitch in his expression. Blue optics flicker up to that yellow visor, conveying what little satisfaction gained from the resolution that his tone did not. "I wouldn't dream of it." For an agreement, Prowl's tone is awful flat. Neither mech dabbles in sincerity, it seems. Not behind curtains, and not amongst cloaks and daggers. A pause. A careful one, as the tactician studies the hired gun with a level look at the threat. Clarification wouldn't be necessary- Prowl got the gist just fine. "...And I'd expect nothing less. We can be upfront with each other- I don't trust you. You don't trust me. But the war pushes us all to dire straits- I can only expect you to do your job, and leave me to mine." With a final cold look, Prowl sends two pings. One to his ship. One to Ghostspire, through short wave communications - the frequency for the live comm line. With that, the tactician turns, making to leave, expression level and grievances swallowed.

-------

Ghostspire considered all of what the mech said, not saying anything for a long moment and simply staring at Prowl. It was possible Prowl didn't want to waste Autobot resources, and sending a Neutral to do it was the best option. All they needed to do was drop a handful of credits on whatever poor sod excepted. 

Which was him, unfortunately. Finally, he gave a long vent and nodded. 

"Live-com, emergency drop ship. Don't cut off the com till I'm off the prison." He would much rather not get fragged over. He would reveal as little as he possibly could during the com. However, depending on who was there, he might not be able to. 

"You understand that you break the contract in anyway way, shape, or form I will come for you, correct?" He didn't specify how, when, or for what. If the mech had truly read the contract he would know that he would simply owe Ghost a... favor of sorts. And Ghost could think of a lot of things Prowl could do for him.

[for-the-better-and-worse]

Every following sentence that comes out of Perceptor's vocalizer is alarming worse than the last. Prowl does not miss the omitted response- or rather, the lack of it, to his initial question. Briefly, he debates pressing the point. Primary and secondary directive mesh neatly to paint the option to do so in shades of green, tagged as a point of interest, and outfitted with a generous approximate estimate of importance. Prowl does not press the point. The choice to move on is both done on social instinct and deliberate choice, the fact of which he keeps to himself to mull over at another time, outside of crisis, optimally less sober. "Airies-2." The tactician runs the name through memory banks, brute-forcing through compiled files and integrated Cybertronian record checks- and resurfaces with beautiful strains of nothing. Prowl chews indents on his glossa, shoots a disconcerted glance to the room's panel-windows and door, and motions towards Perceptor with a severe look. Follow. Out to the hall. Elevators. The tactician makes the walk brisk and silent, refusing to look back at scientist. When the metal doors close behind them, Prowl does not meet Perceptor's gaze still. "...Tell me how you know this. Tell me how Airies knows you. A Senator from Protihex shouldn't be privy to the files of a Nova Cronum scientist."

-------

— He tries to listen to Prowl, tries to use his voice as a way to ground himself but it's not working too well. Whether it's because of his words or if it's because it's Prowl he's not entirely sure. Not now not now not now. His mind can't help racing to the worn and broken down memories that had been knocked forcefully back into place not long ago.

Of his mentor dead. Of the experiments. The rows and rows and rows of text denoting living beings as nothing but numbers. And how he was involved. His hands should be shaking. He tries storing it all away to the best of his ability to address the issue at hand.

"Audio," he clarifies, and his jaw shifts as he considers skirting the initial question. He doesn't care to share something so personal, least of all with himself if the purged memories were anything to go by. He could do it again if he wanted… Push them back to whatever depths they were in before… It would be easy.

No. No, the situation is becoming dire. Protihex is reaching a precipice.

"Airies," he says after a moment, "his name is Airies-2. Not Ramwing. I… He hid something in one of the equations. My old name." He leaves the mention of his… file number unsaid.

Absently, he worries the edge of his chestplate. "Airies was a Senator from before the war. He ordered and conducted spark experiments."

[for-the-better-and-worse]

The sudden movement spurs a reaction from the enforcer. Actually, quite a few things spur a number of varied reactions from Prowl, namely offence. The field-prodding is unwelcome- Prowl's field, normally drawn taut and close to his frame, responds with a controlled jolt of aversion. 13.41 microtesla, but with the pose, the frequency of the electromagnetic jolt ups itself to a 13.52. Prowl, with much imagination but very little of it dedicated to whimsical creative thinking, sees no stars nor sparkle nor charm in the neutral's antics. Rather, he sees for exactly for what it is, thank you very much- a melodramatic demonstration of immaturity.

In short- the speedster hits a nerve. One that drives the black-and-white mech into deflection.

He tells the neutral just as much- narrowed optics, antagonizing pointing finger, and clipped tone. "Because you're in such a place to speak on the war, aren't you? Or- no, the war's your inconvenience, isn't it? The view of Cybertron must be comfortable from here, a star system and a half away."

Prowl catches himself slipping into a familiar tone. He knows the words by heart, at this point. "If you want to stay unaligned, fine. It's no business of mine. But don't act scandalized finding Cybertronian resources hard to come by- or at least, any not already half-rusted from passing twenty hands before yours- the more galaxies you run from the war."

"Do what you want. Get arrested. Cyberbull to china shop. Pleasure to meet you, I'm not staying for this."

-------

There is a point in-between their talking that Hot Rod becomes increasingly offended. That point is the instant the Autobot opens his mouth. So he rolls his optics, crosses his arms. The spoiler on his back, a little bent out of shape but still attempting to look glorious and shiny, lifts a little with the motion.

The audacity feels personal. Hot Rod reaches out with his field-- annoyed beyond measure, obviously trying to get a feel for who this guy thinks he is-- and decides to give him a show by throwing his hands in the air and groaning.

"Aaah-- Cybertron! Primus, I'm so fraggin' stupid. Y'know, in four million years of war, I really didn't think once to go to a collapsin' planet for my paint. Thank yooou--" Hot Rod clasps his hands together, near his helm, lifts one leg, and tilts his head so it touches his clasped hands. If you squint and have an imagination, you will find tiny sparkles around his head and inside his optics. "--You're my savior!!!"

He holds the pose up for exactly 3 seconds after he's done talking, after which he puts his leg back down and gives the Cop the meanest look he can while looking like scrap metal.

"Listen, buddy, I dunno if you noticed, but war tends ta make stuff expensive. And if you're flyin' solo, those thin's are damn nearly impossible to get. I tend to go to your-- adjacent planets," The racer makes a motion with his hands that are akin to a magician trying to make his trick seem impressive. "But, y'know, they don't like us very much. I'm sure you've noticed. Your 'Nowhere systems' are the only place I can get good shit from, cuz not only they're usually top tier quality, they're also cheap and stolen from some other guy."

"It's also, really fraggin' annoyin' navigatin' through your war. You know how many people will kill a neutral if they say they're not interested in bein' recruited? And let me tell ya, it ain't just the 'Cons that get pissed off 'bout it. I'd rather not go through the hassle."

[for-the-better-and-worse]

The days-long processor ache has worked itself up to a migraine Prowl sits at his desk, holds his head in his hands, and ignores every call that comes to him without so much as a thought. His head is heavy. Nothing new there, then. There's an ache in his spark that accompanies the burning throb in his processor. His chassis feels hollowed out- as if some great claw had taken the filament and array wires out of his chest. Hm. Hyperbole. There's something gaping missing, but nothing physical. Nothing that stops Prowl from showing up to work, day after day, in some terrible clockwork of living and continuing to live. He doesn't know a doctor. Well- no, that's a glaringly wrong assessment of things. He knows many doctors. He trusts none of them. None on-world, at least. Perceptor's comm frequency burns holes into his processor. Prowl ignores it. He deigns himself to reaching into the metaphysical air of his subspace, itching terribly for a smoke, and finds an empty packet.

-------

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"Absurd. You busted your spoiler yourself. You can't pin that on me." Prowl takes a long, slow drag of his cygarette- and watches the smoke of his exhale dissipate in the air, optics fixed on something very far away. "In any case, you instigated this. I'd argue everything I'd- well- the first half of everything following was self defence." The moment of silence between them stretches on, as Prowl spends half his mind digging up refutations to exactly just how deserving he'd been of every dent and scratch in his paint. Hm. He takes too long. He hasn't the words. The articulation. Or maybe- maybe Rodimus' staring is throwing him off his usual game. The window of opportunity passes itself by, leaving the tactician doing little more than lean on the balcony and smoke. His optics flicker to meet Rodimus' level stare when the other moves to push the end of his cygarette against his. Feels the press of it against his teeth. Which was- hm. Something very difficult to place flickers across Prowl's expression. The tactician does not move until Rodimus pulls back. He doesn't speak for a few seconds, no matter how much the cut in his mouth stings. Then- and he takes the cygarette out from his lips, tone cold- "Dramatic. Ha. Come here. Open your mouth."

Rodimus chuckles, puts out the end of his cygarette against the thick railing of Prowl’s balcony before pulling a brand new one from the stolen packet.

“You also fucked me up pretty bad!” There’s laughter in his voice. “You bust my lip, my spoiler. And the—“ he points towards the dents on his helm, the prominent one on his tank. “Everythin’. And you kind of asked for it, so— fully deserved.”

He stares at Prowl for a few good moments, simply watching the damage on his frame. He could’ve done worse. He should’ve done worse. Prowl deserved it, and it probably says something about what he thinks he deserves as well, seeing he hadn’t tried kicking him out or arresting him since they called for a break.

Finally placing the cygarette between his teeth, Rodimus is met with the sad reality that trying to light this one when he still hasn’t eaten is a little stupid.

That’s definitely the reason why he makes a non-committed noise, approaches Prowl’s personal bubble, and touches the end of his cygarette to the enforcer’s own.

Once he’s sure it’s lit, he steps back.

“Thanks. Anyway, I’m not bein’ dramatic. But I can be if you want.”

[for-the-better-and-worse]

The tablet shatters loud and hard on the floor. Prowl stares, silent, steeling his gaze at the fragments- then back up at Perceptor. Perceptor. The tactician stands close enough to be on the precipice of his EM field- but he didn't need that to recognize the sudden shift within the scientist. Something of the reaction tugs at a memory- Prowl ignores it, for his processor jumpkicks itself into high-alert at the crunch of the bug. Oh, Prowl can put two and two together just fine. He crosses the distance he'd paced, until a meter separates the two of them. "Slow down." Commanding, but far from a shout. Prowl's voice sharpens itself into an anchor, meeting Perceptor's severity with an authoritative demand. (He does not touch him. Prowl knows better.) "Slow down, now, and focus. Tell me what you just read. On the tablet, before you- before it broke." His optics narrow. Panic falls into a secondary thought when protocols for diffusion and situational analysis click into place. The tactician's plating prickles at how easily he falls back into it. "The Senator is dangerous. Agreed. We were just bugged. The current imperative is informing the rest of High Command. Was it location or audio relay?"

------

— There are only three people in the universe who knows that name, those numbers. Two of which are most certainly dead. Which leaves the one, and suddenly the image in his mind's eye becomes clear. Ramwing. Even that moniker is meant to mock him. He hadn't thought... He didn't think.... It can't be. It can't be.

He suddenly becomes acutely aware of the fact that he's still in the same room as Prowl and he tries to swallow down the fear that grips his spark. His armor suddenly feels so tight around his frame. He feels like he's being constricted. Bury it down. Bury it down. Not now. He can't afford to allow this right now.

The tablet falls out of his hands and it's only the sound of it shattering at his feet that draws him out of his thoughts. That sick feeling in the pit of his tank is remains.

"You shouldn't continue any deals with him," he says with a severity in his voice that is not often used, "whatever he's offered— whatever Protihex has offered isn't worth it."

His jaw sets as he looks down at the mess at his feet. Eyes narrow, the lenses over his right eye turn until he has a better view of it. He leans over and carefully picks out a small object, "The Senator is dangerous."

He crushes the object between his fingers, then holds it out in his palm for Prowl to see. "Bugged. Evidently, his intentions are not innocent."

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"You're not my guest, and you're far from noble, considering you invited yourself in." Prowl grinds his dentae on the end of the cygar when he brings it to his lips. Out of irritation, mostly. "And split my lip. And dented my plates. And broke a monitor. You deserve worse than my couch. You've spent recharge cycles in worse places than my couch. So don't be dramatic."

Rodimus leans against the balcony, tilting his head towards the enforcer with a sly smile. “One hundred shannix per day is a lot, considerin’ I’m your noble guest.” He puts some flare while saying it, biting the inside of his cheek at the request.

He obliges by extending his own hand and allowing a flame to rise from his fingertips in a practiced motion.

“And I’ve been sleepin’ on your couch. That ain’t worth the shannix.”

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"Oh, imagine. Really- me, trying to get rid of you." Sarcasm. It does not need to be said. Prowl extends the servo carrying the cygarette towards him. "It's generous. A steal, really. The post-war economy is something terrible to behold. Light this for me."

“Hah!” Rodimus lets him, moving the packet closer to Prowl. “That’s crazy expensive. You trynna get rid of me?” He takes another drag out of his cygarette, holds it in for a little longer, letting the heat wash over him.

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"A hundred shanix a day. Extraneous fees included." Prowl reaches over. Takes a cygarette from the packet. "Cough up."

@for-the-better-and-worse said:

"They're good because they're expensive. Buy your own. Pay rent if you want my balcony."

“Thought we’d already stablished I’m pretty much broke? Come oon. Sharin’ ain’t gonn’ kill you yet.”

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"They're good because they're expensive. Buy your own. Pay rent if you want my balcony."

Stop breaking into my living spaces. You stole my cygarettes. Get off of my balcony.

Not my fault you buy the good ones.

And no. I’ll stay on your balcony for a little longer. Gotta meet my Starin’ off into the horizon and hallucinatin’ people talkin’ to me quota. You understand

[for-the-better-and-worse]

It probably does nothing for the tense atmosphere of the room, but Prowl paces. Paces a good few meters away from Perceptor, preoccupied sorting through his thoughts. The list of thoughts, summarized, goes as follows: he does not like Ramwing. Protihex's political scene is disturbing. He is growing increasingly frustrated with Cybertronian scientists, and wonders, incredulously, why he had not learned his lesson a millennia ago in getting ethically involved with such a crowd. Regardless, he keeps an audial open as Perceptor speaks. Nothing good, of course. Every following sentence only serves another irritating wave of a processor-ache premonition. "Dead technology. Of course. Wonderful. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if this were one elaborate scare tactic." Prowl mutters. Mutters, for the most part- until he raises his voice a little, if only for Perceptor to hear. "The Senator knew you were a scientist. He wasn't fond of you, either. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd-- Perceptor?" The ex-Wrecker had stopped speaking. Ah, not good. Prowl turns fully to face him. "Perceptor. Hello?"

--------

@for-the-better-and-worse said.

"Something for you, if you could do me the favor of looking it over. Spoils of the meeting."

— He had only watched from a distance, but something about the politician's demeanor put him on edge. He's just glad it's over, and if he notices Prowl seems equally disturbed he doesn't say anything about it. Perceptor regards the tablet for a moment before he takes it into hand.

"Of course..." he does not wait for Prowl to leave before he starts skimming over it. Lines of formulas and math and... (something nags at him, the way this is laid out. The way it keeps drawing him in.)

After a moment his brows furrow and he worries his bottom lip. "Is this... This is reminiscent of the technology that was thought to be lost with Alchemist Prime. How did... hold on there's something here..."

He continues to stare at it, there's something wrong in one of the equations, a string of letters and numbers that doesn't make sense. He freezes when he sees it. His hands don't shake anymore but his brain supplies him with the fact that they should be. He feels sick.

SAV0551250.