#prowl is crosscut's babymama

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows 10

Almost as soon as Jazz left, Prowl felt his anxiety flare up. If he had been less proud he might have asked him to stay, just a little longer, but he was proud and it was pathetic, was it not, wanting to cling to the Polihexian. Crosscut could not hurt him, the tactician reasoned. It was Prowl, not Crosscut who had trained the bulk of his life in martial arts, and it was Prowl who had the greater mass. The laws of Iacon were on his side, not on the side of his ex Conjunx Endura. But logic in this instant was not as powerful as fear. The Autobot could repeat over and over that even if the worst were to happen, if Crosscut were to find him, he could defend himself, and he would win but Prowl was doing a poor job convincing himself of this. Though it was easy to blame his upcoming procreo cycle on his skyrocketing anxiety, but Jazz had been in his observation, he had been running for vorns. Fear had been the constant in his life since his second carrying, skyrocketing by his fourth.

He had no canvas or paints but the saboteur’s suggestion was circling in his helm. Prowl wanted them, he realized, wanted to take this long forgotten part of himself back. Taking a function had been his first thought after escaping Praxus, it had been the single most important thing to him, apart from the mechlings. The jeers of his Enforcer brethren had echoed in his audials for so many vorns, silencing them had been vital to reclaiming his identity, and feeling like a mechanism again, and not just a valve and forge.  His originator had been a mech of wit, and talent, but his brief adult life had been spent on his back or knees emerging fifteen mechlings before his spark had guttered, along with the mechling he had been carrying. Prowl had been his first emerged, and the only receptive spark, the only one who had lived, the other had been the sixteenth spark Schema had carried and the one who had died with him in the final quarter of their originator’s term.

Bishop had divided his creations based on their spark type. Because Prowl’s ultimate value to him had been his bondability to another house, he had largely been segregated from from his younger siblings, who had been sent away to school, taught their progenitor’s business. It had never occurred to Prowl to go to one of his brothers for shelter when Crosscut had been determined to put him down the same path as their originator.  He had no relationship with his brothers, if he saw them on the streets, the tactician would not likely even recognize them. Their progenitor’s disinterest in Prowl had been a blessing for a long time, he had been able to choose the course of his education, and his career, and to enjoy both for many vorns. Most receptive Praxian’s in age had been long bonded by the time he had undergone the Rites. Unfortunately something or someone had put the scraplet in Bishop’s audial shortly after Prowl’s promotion to lieutenant in metaforensics, and from nowhere he had selected Crosscut for Prowl’s mate, declaring the bonding to occur the next quartex, which corresponded with his next procreo cycle.

At the time the tactician had not made the connection, but the short date had most definitely been at Crosscut’s requested. He had wanted a sparkmate he could spark up at the earliest opportunity, that was why he he had wanted Prowl. Bishop could not have given a single damn about what the mech had wanted with Prowl, and his creation had had no time to come to terms with the prospect of bonding, with the loss of his independence. Interfacing, at least with Crosscut, had not been a magical event, to make up for this loss. Every act had been choreographed to best insure conception. Pleasure, even Crosscut’s had only been an after thought. Carrying and emerging bitlets had not given Prowl a divine sense of purpose, or made up for the fact that his mate only cared to touch him if it meant kindling. As much as Prowl loved them, each of them with all of his spark, he had not been happy to conceive them, would always regret what he lost in having them. It was a truth that haunted him, that made him feel like a failure as an originator.

“Or’gin!” It was Skids, not Camshaft that appeared first, after only a joor’s recharge.

“Hello sweetspark,” Prowl said and he lifted his mechling up and nuzzled his sweet face. “Did you have fun this light-cycle?”

“Yes!” The mechling said, he wrapped his arms around Prowl’s neck and giggled. “I love wings!”

“We will go back soon,” the originator promised. “Would you like a bath, Skids?”

“Bubbles?” Skids asked.

“A tub full,” Prowl promised.

Bathing could be an ordeal with the mechlings. The 2in1 bath was a luxury for certain, able to be filled with oil or solvent from the taps, but it was a small tub as things went, and it was not big enough to fit all four mechlings at once, not if they were going to play at all, and none of the four was content to just be washed. With his brothers recharging, Skids had the entire tub to himself, and his toys, and he made full use of it. Prowl smiled at he was fed his lines in the story his mechling was playing out. His third emerged had only recently begun imaginative play. Every mega-cycle was a new discovery and the originator marvelled as his mechling developed more and more into his own mechanism. Though Prowl had seen this age twice before, but Skids was not the same as his older brothers, Camshaft was not the same as Smokescreen. Every knew discovery Skids made, was a new one for Prowl as well. The solvent was cold by the time his creation was ready to come out, and the Praxian was just about as well as his meckling.  He trained the tub, and grabbed a thick microfiber towel and draped it over the now shivering mechling.

As Prowl lifted Skids up from the tub, tightly bundled in the towel, he got a glance of himself in the mirror, and quickly straightened. When he raised his arms or arched his back, more of his protoform showed from under his armour, more specifically his forge. After four carryings in quick succession his forge had not flattened all the way, he had a permanent bump. It was the mark of a broadcarrier, and the tactician loathed it. In Praxus it was considered an attractive attribute, to Prowl it was ugly, at least on himself. He had chosen this armour because the bumper fell lower, and covered more protoform, it was rare that anyone would catch a glimps... but it could happen. Any Autobot who saw that bump, would whisper. They would see what vorns of his life had been, and question his place in the army. This was what he feared in any case, that he would be judged for creating so many, for being a single originator, for...

“No crying,” Skids ordered, and Prowl barked a brittle laugh, and brushed the tears pooling in his optics away. “Happy, not sad.”

“I am sorry brightspark,” he replied. “I am not really sad.”

“We cuddle,” his second youngest declared, not believing his originator’s lie. “Make Or’gin feel better.”

“I would love to cuddle with you,” Prowl said. He finished drying both Skids and himself off and carried the mechling to the couch. Of course Skids could walk just fine on his own, but his creation’s intuition had been on point, Prowl needed the weight of the mechling in his arms and against his chassis.

Work was the last thing on his processor as he stretched out on the couch, Skids curled against him. His mechling cycled down into recharge with a happy sigh. Prowl felt tired and dull. There was always work to be done, and for a nanoklik he mentally reached for his inbox but then thought better of it. It was supposed to be a mega-cycle off anyways, he owed no one his joors, not that this had stopped him before. His processor was not on tactics, and while working for the sake of it, to give no one cause to question his dedication was a habit of his, this mega-cycle he resisted the impulse. Optimus had gently suggested he take more time for himself, his creations, and for once, Prowl was inclined to listen to his commander’s wisdom. He initiated recharge, and all thoughts and fears fled.

Less that a joor later Prowl stirred as Bluestreak climbed up the couch and on to him. Sleepily, the originator, exposed his fuel line and cradled the newling against him as he settled in to drink. Skids flopped his arm over his little brother’s back, yawned and snuggled back in for a little more recharge. Prowl vented softly, luxuriating a little in the moment. Some mega-cycle he would figure out how it was his newling kept escaping his containment berth. Crosscut would never get his servos on these mechlings, or their brothers. There would be no arranged bonding for Camshaft or Skids, no trade deal bartering these mechlings for some trade contract or foreign posting. The war raging across Cybertron should have been the thing that scared Prowl the most for them, but in the fortress that was Iacon, even with his direct part in it, felt further away. Like in the war though, Prowl was not alone in his family’s defence. His ex Conjunx Endura’s silver glossa was no match for Autobot Special Operations, and though the tactician was not about to let down his guard, the prospect of living within the walls of the base was settling his spark some. Crosscut was no matched for the Primal Vanguard.

Bluestreak popped off his line, ready to go. Mercifully, Skids roused to follow him down to the floor, guiding his little brother to the blocks all four mechlings adored. Bluestreak was closest to Smokescreen, but all the brothers had a bond, and though they had their feuds, they all played well together, in different ways. Their originator did not immediately sit up. His servo lay against his protoform, against his empty forge. Why did it matter so much what mechanisms saw or said? The existence of his creations would be all the gossip mongers needed to start their chatter, even if his forge were flat, there would be talk, just like those Enforcers had snickered at his back. He sighed, and sat up. Enough of this self doubt, h was an effective officer, a brilliant tactician the fact that he had carried these four mechlings did not change either fact. Prowl could not be a mech who found his self-worth in the optics of others, this had not, and would not change.

Nearly three joors had passed since they had returned from the park, it was a long nap for either mechling, Smokescreen rarely napped at all at this age. Rising from the couch, Prowl went to the berthroom all four mechlings shared. They would love being able to spread out, he thought, once they were in their new habsuite. He imagined some mega-cycles the mechlings would choose to crowd together, Bluestreak often stole into his oldest brother’s berth for sleeping cuddles, Skids and Camshaft were much the same. Prowl found Camshaft still in recharge, but Smokescreen was up and awake, reading on his berth. Well of course, there was no space to spread out here and now, if his eldest wanted a quiet break from his brothers, staying in the berthroom while one recharged was a clever trick.

“What mischief is Fangblade getting into this time?” Prowl asked.

“He caught a prince to hold for ransom but the prince turned the tables and now Fangblade’s up for ransom!” Smokescreen explained. The adventures of Fangblade was the mechlings favourite series. At this point Prowl had not told his creation the fate of the real Predacon. Sometimes fantasy was better than reality.

“There is a certain justice in that,” the originator replied. “I am sure Predaking will not be impressed.”

Camshaft was curled tightly in his blanket, and as Prowl knelt next to his berth, the tactician heard a faint wheeze. That explained it then, his mechling had caught a system virus. The revelation did not send him into a panic, they had all been sick before. Bluestreak rarely got more than a rasp, as long as he was nursing, he shared his originator’s anti-viral systems. If Camshaft had a virus, the odds were good that the other mechlings would catch it too. Unfortunately for his golden faced creation, Camshaft tended to get the worst of these bugs. When he stroked his bitlet’s helm, he felt it was hot, not hot enough to scar the Praxian, but hot enough to confirm his suspicion. Camshaft onlined his optics, and made a little face.He would be miserable for a couple of mega-cycles but while the mechling got the sickest of his brothers, he got through his viruses the fastest.

“Not feeling well, dearspark?” Prowl asked.

“Uh uh,” Camshaft replied. “My intake hurts.”

“Poor bitlet,” the Praxian crooned. “I will warm energon for you. You stay in berth.”

“Did you want me to read you a story, Cam?” Smokescreen asked.

“That is a sweet idea, Smokescreen,” Prowl said.

He sent a quick message to the Prime. As long as Camshaft was sick, his place was at home. Prowl was not inclined to expose other sparklings to whatever virus his mechling had caught, it would not be fair to any of them. After warning the younger mechlings that their brother was ill, the originator went to the kitchen and warmed energon for Camshaft. It was typical of the mechling to play hard and then drop with something. Since the tactician had already shifted his entire schedule to telecommuting, there was nothing else he needed to do. In the past he had always been anxious when he had needed to stay home with a sick mechling, afraid Jazz would become suspicious. Every time it had come up, he had used his own glitch as a cover, but falling on that excuse had brought up its own unease. Though Optimus and Ratchet had both known the truth, each and every time, allowing others to think his glitch was unstable enough to cause so many episodes had been uncomfortable, and he had always been afraid that someone, namely Jazz, would call into question his fitness for service. But each and every time, upon his return, the Polihexian had checked into to make sure he was feeling better, and that was it. As the saboteur had proven again this last orn, Jazz was a good mech.

“There you are Camshaft,” the originator said and he helped his creation sit up to drink his fuel. The surface of the fuel shimmered with flecks of iridescent flakes, additives meant to boost the mechlings anti-viral and self-repair systems.

“Thank you Or’gin,” Camshaft replied.

With Smokescreen having taken charge of entertaining his sick brother, Prowl left the mechlings and again returned to the kitchen, to prepare fuel for his family. He was not an imaginative cook, or much of a cook at all, having only had to learn the craft upon leaving Praxus. Crosscut had kept staff for that, staff trained to prepare the fuels he had enjoyed best, fuels the ambassador enjoyed, not the fuels his sparkmate had cared for. Once Prowl had kindle Crosscut had gone so far as to dictate his diet, banning rusts in favour of patinas. Though the ambassador had returned to space, leaving his staff with strict orders with how his mate was to be cared for, and what he was permitted to do. They had tried to block him from practising Diffusion and Circuit-Su, so Prowl had resorted to practising his stances in his berthroom, and when his tank had been so uneasy the fuel he had been served had been even more unpalatable, he had snuck out of the manor to buy rust sticks. The only order Prowl had been able to convince them to ignore was the ban on pressed energon. In that instance, his temper had been more frightening than that of their employer.

Since relocating to Iacon, he had managed to learn how to prepare a few recipes that the mechlings enjoyed. With Camshaft’s virus in processor, Prowl lifted a pot onto the stove and filled the pot with oil, and set it on to simmer as he added minerals for flavour. On the counter, the originator filled translucent wrappers with gelled energon and ores. When the dumplings were ready he tossed them into the pot with some raw crystals and left it all to cook. He vastly preferred performing these domestic chores to have servants perform them all, despite having been raised with them, and being served by thing during his life as Crosscut’s Conjunx Endura. These were his mechlings, this was his home, he would take care of it all. It was what his own originator had preferred to do, despite being gravid nearly constantly from the moment he had bonded to Bishop. Prowl had learned at his knee, though Schema had not been much of a cook, much like his creation.

“Come to the table Skids,” Prowl ordered after dishing out the soup. “I will collect you brothers.”

The soup had not a casual whim, it was in fact Camshaft’s favourite fuel. Though Smokescreen went off his fuel if he felt even a little sick, it took a bad tank bug to keep Camshaft from his fuel. It was obvious that his mechling was feeling sorry for himself, but he hopped from his berth and trudged into the kitchen, with his blanket draped over his doorwings, and shoulders. Prowl kept Bluestreak on his lap as he fuelled. His youngest creation was starting to take a taste of the fuels his family ate, Prowl allowed him to lead the way. He did not appear particularly interested this dark-cycle but that was not out of the ordinary. As they fuelled Smokescreen asked about the habsuite, and the school. Though he had friends in his old school, once his progenitor had returned to Praxus, and he felt safe to reach out, the tactician would contact the procreators of Smokescreen’s closest friends to arrange play dates. For now, he would stay silent, allowing the school and his classmates to believe Prowl and thus the mechlings had been transferred.

“You will make lots of friends,” Prowl assured him. It would be undoubtedly true, Smokescreen was a gregarious mechling. “There is a music program. You mentioned you would like to learn an instrument.”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen hummed, clearly thinking. “I can pick?”

“Whatever you like,” his originator promised, a promise Prowl was prepared to regret. He put it spoon in his mouth, and chuckled as he looked down at Bluestreak, who was happily sampling his dumpling. “You as well.”

“Will Jazz come and play again?” Camshaft asked.

“He would like to,” Prowl replied. “Did you have fun?”

“We touched the sky!” The sick mechling exclaimed before coughing.

“Is he your mechfriend?” His eldest asked. Prowl shook his helm, his doorwing shot up. It was not a question he had expected.

“He is a friend, and colleague,” the tactician replied. “A very good friend.”

Smokescreen cleared the table when the meal was done, and Camshaft curled up on the couch in his blanket as he and Skids washed a cartoon before it was time to go to berth. With them happily distracted, Prowl took Bluestreak to the washracks for a quick bath. A warm bath had a calming affect on his youngest creation, and after his bath he settled in with his brother for a show before it was time to recharge. In a testament to how he was feeling, Camshaft retreated to his berth after only two short shows. His originator waited a half a joor for him to fall into recharge before collecting Bluestreak and putting him down to recharge. When his newling had needed to fuel throughout the dark-cycle, the containment berth had been in Prowl’s berthroom, which was little more than a closet, but now that he was a little older, and closer to his sparkling upgrades, Bluestreak was finally recharging through the dark-cycle, which meant he was in the same, larger room with his brothers. He went down easily, he usually did, unlike Smokescreen who resisted recharge at every turn. It took three stories and Prowl laying in berth with him to get Skids to settle, but eventually only Prowl and Smokescreen remained online.

“Jazz is going to protect us,” his first emerged declared as he gave Prowl a hug before recharge.

“Is he?” The originator asked.

“He promised,” Smokescreen explained. “He said progenitor won’t hurt you again.”

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows - 9

The air and open sky felt peculiarly uplifting to the work oriented Praxian. It was not as though he did not like to drive, or to walk, or to play outside with his creations, but Prowl had spent more time at a desk, or in doors, his time more devoted to work than to anything. That was not entirely true, he was devoted to his creations, but the originator often worried that they would resent his work, his inability to give himself entirely over to them. Originators were not relegated to the home in Iacon, as they where in Praxus. There were other Autobot originators in service but most, all Prowl had observed took procreator leave until their creation or creations were in school, and many progenitors took this leave as well. Procreators devoted their time in these early vorns to care for and to shape their creations, without the distraction of work. Prowl could not do this, could not be an originator and nothing more. It had not only been the repeated carryings that had been killing the Praxian, but also the lack of a function.

Optimus Prime had seen that, at least he had listened. He had offered Prowl a posting, once his creations had developed, and promised him housing assistance as he would a long serving Autobot on leave. But Prowl had requested a posting then and there, not vorns down the road, but now. The Prime had been surprised, but he had listened, and he had given the Praxian his posting, and had even agreed to allow him to keep his family a secret. Prowl thought Optimus had agreed to humour him, but whatever his opinion on the originator’s choices, and whatever his motives, the Matrix Bearer had acquiesced, and that was all that had ever matter.  

Now he was standing under the sun, and sky, and he could not deny that his habsuite had become stifling, even to him. He felt no rush to get to the park, to get done with the park, and back home again. Prowl could not deny he rushed too much, did not linger long enough. When they had all matured, and gone from home, when there would be no walks to the park, how many moment would the Praxian regret rushing, regret missing? Perhaps he needed to reevaluate how he divvied up his time. Though he was not sure he would really be able to work less. His concern was not even significantly related to expectations from command, but instead his very nature. Could he work less? Could he stop himself from working overtime every mega-cycle? The park came into view and Prowl found his lipplates pulled into a smile, and he set aside his worries for the moment as all four of his creations went wild with excitement. He heard Jazz make a sound of surprise, and saw him wrap his arms around Camshaft, who squirmed with unrestrained enthusiasm.

“He has very little in way of fear,” Prowl said. “Camshaft, remain with Jazz until we have arrived.”

“Ya got a lot energy pent up, eh Cam?” Jazz asked, with a rich, warm laugh. The sound made Prowl’s spark flutter and he resisted the urge to put his face in his servo. Only his imminent procreo cycle would explain this sudden... attraction to the Polihexian. He would not stand for it.

“Slides, and swings, and tunnels!” Camshaft exclaimed as he pointed to the sprawling playground. In the distance was a park sized for larger sparklings, either in age or frametype, but the one Jazz had led them to was perfectly sized for Prowl’s both young and small mechlings. There were some taller climbing structures close by but those right in front of them were small enough that Skids would be able to climb them unassisted.

“Down, please, please, please!” Skids begged in his audial as he saw Jazz lower Camshaft to the ground. Smokescreen did not wait for the saboteur to duck down for him, he jumped from Jazz’s back and ran to the slide, Camshaft quickly followed. Prowl crouched, a familiar movement by now, and Skids slid off his back. The mechling shot off after his brothers.

“Chrr?” Bluestreak asked as he pointed to the smallest slide.

“Of course you may slide,” Prowl said, he glanced about the park. They were the only mechanisms utilizing this play structure, but they were hardly the only Autobots in attendance. So far, he did not see anyone he recognized, but sooner or later someone would. What would they say? “Skids, I think this is more the slide for you. Camshaft, Smokescreen, stay where I can see you.”

“I can help’em,” Jazz offered. He did not actually wait for the originator to respond, but walked the short distance to the climbing structure the older mechlings were clambering onto.

“I would appreciate that,” the Praxian replied. “Listen to Jazz, mechlings.”

“Yes Origin!” Smokescreen called. Camshaft waved his doorwings in a quick nod. If either of them were to wander, it would be Camshaft, that mechling had the independent streak of a youngling.

Skids raced back towards Prowl, stumbling over his peds, but jumping right back up again.  As Skids carefully climbed the steps up to the short slide, Prowl guided Bluestreak down it. The newling squealed with delight, as his originator swept him into the air. He set Bluestreak on the ground and crouched so Skids could slide, and to the sparkling’s obvious delight, Prowl swept him into the air as he had his younger brother. One slide, of course, was nowhere near enough, and the Praxian repeated the pattern again and again, and became largely lost in his creations joy. Periodically he looked over at Jazz and his elder mechlings.  They were clearly delighted with their new playmate. By now they had abandoned the slides in favour of the swings. Jazz swung them high, not dangerously so but perhaps higher than their originator did. Neither mechings seemed able to stop laughing. Soon enough their laughter attracted Skid’s attention.

“Wing now?” Skids asked, and with a pensive look, added: “Please?”

“If you like,” Prowl replied, and he picked up Bluestreak. “Would you like to swing smallspark?”

“Oooh,” the newling cooed, his optics riveted on his older brothers and they kicked their legs as they swung.

To the right of the swing set their brothers were using was a set designed for newlings and tiny sparklings. Prowl strapped Bluestreak into one swing first, before strapping Skids into the one next to it. As Jazz was doing, the stepped from side to side, giving Skids a push, and then Bluestreak, back and forth again. Naturally, he pushed the sparkling higher than the newling, but not so high just yet. Though he had worried, a little, that his second youngest creation would demand the same treatment as his older brothers, but really Prowl need not have worried. Skids was easygoing, and cautious, not at all a daredevil like Smokescreen and Camshaft, thank Primus for that. Though he did adore all four of his creations, the originator was not sure he would be able to keep up with four Camshafts, or four Smokescreens.

As it was, by the time his mechlings were tired of swinging, Prowl was exhausted himself. Bluestreak cuddled into his chassis, and nuzzled him. Not so far off there was block box, and he led Skids over to it as he carried his newling. It took no encouragement to get the first tier sparkling into the box, and he immediately began stacking the blocks. The originator settled on the bench just steps away and exposed his feeding line to to Bluestreak. After another few nanoklik, Smokescreen and Camshaft toddled up to the box, and joined their young brother in building an elaborate construct. Jazz sat down on the bench next to Prowl, arms draped over the back of the bench. He puffed a vent.

“They’re great mechlings,” Jazz said, sounded winded.  “Hard to believe they’re still goin’.”

“I have kept them shuttered up too long,” Prowl confessed, feeling guilty, though he did not give it voice. Still, Jazz managed to detect it.

“Ya just tryin’ to protect’em, any good origin would do the same,” the Polihexian replied. “Ya done brilliantly for’em. Boggles my processor ya been jugglin’em ‘n the Bots as well as ya have.”

“I am questioning whether or not I have overreached,” the tactician said. “I need to work, it is difficult to describe, but I cannot be fulfilled only being their originator. But I worry I am not giving them enough of my time.”

“I guess once ya started havin’ bitlets, ya stopped workin’ wit the Enforcers,” Jazz said.

“Once it was confirmed I was carrying, I was put on desk duty,” Prowl explained. “I was not popular amongst my colleagues. Many had served longer than me and were angered when I was promoted above them. They were gleeful when my forge extended, they gloried in my visible discomfort, and when I went on leave there was a party at the local oil bar. I was not meant to overhear, but I did. They said they were happy to see me promoted off to broadcarrier. Thanks to my hyper-fertility I either been nursing or carrying, or both since, so I was never able to return. I became a broadcarrier. To be truthful, I was so humiliated I do not believe I could have returned to that precinct.”

“Frag’em all to the Pit,” the saboteur said. “I don’t understand why yer superiors wouldn’t push for ya to come back. Y’re brilliant for frag’s sake. Why’d they waste that?”

“In Praxus it was my duty to bare creations, to pass on my abilities,” the Praxian explained, his voice dropped, to keep the elder mechlings from overhearing. Bluestreak’s suckling had slowed as he slowly dropped off to recharge. “I was supposed to want anything else. Receptive Praxians are supposed to be fulfilled by creating. It is supposed to be their fundamental purpose. I could not refuse that purpose. I only tried once. Crosscut threatened to see me arrested. The law was on his side. It was always going to be on his side.”

“That when ya started plannin’ yer escape?” Jazz asked.

“He left not long after, thank Primus,” Prowl said. “He only remained in Praxus for half of Smokescreen’s carrying, he did not bother to remain for any more than the kindling for the other three. Once he was gone I planned. I needed to divorce him, and that would only be allowed after my newspark emerged. I planned it all over the course of Bluestreak’s carrying. I filed the final paperwork to divorce Crosscut on ground of abandonment. My duty was to carry, his was to contribute, which he failed to do. The court sided with me, without argument or issue. That I could prove he had abandoned me for my previous carryings, that he did not respond to his summons, the divorce was granted very quickly. It would have been expected that I return to my progenitor’s home, to have another bonding arranged, natural I did not do this. I boarded a transport to Tyger Pax.”

“How long before the attack?” The Polihexian asked.

“A quartex,” the originator replied. “I was only at that youngling centre because I was trying to find a suitable place to leave the mechlings when I worked. When the attacked started, I took shelter with the caretakers, and young mechanisms in the back most room. After a joor there was a thunderous crash. We could hear a fight, within the youngling centre. I had my rifle, so I crept up to see if there was anything I could do. I shot the Decepticon at the Prime’s back, and then another, he managed the rest. There was a firefight in the street, Seekers were bombing the building. Optimus Prime sheltered with us, as he attempted to rally the defence via his comms. I overheard, and offered my assistance.”

“Ya fed’m tactics, ‘n save Tyger Pax,” Jazz said. “Save my aft, as it happens when ya got’m to lure the Seekers away from the Well. Ya didn’t even realize who ya were bossin’ around, did ya?”

“No,” Prowl admitted. “That was rather humiliating.”

“Come on, ya woulda taken o’er even if ya’d known he was the Prime,” the saboteur said.

“I might have been more tactful,” the Praxian replied. “He offered me a posting, once Bluestreak was older. I demanded it immediately. Thankfully he agreed.”

“We been lucky to have ya,” Jazz said. “Ya know, I think ya outta cut back on your joors. Ya take on too much. Tryin’ prove yer worth. Ya earned y’re post, Prowl. Ya the best tactician we ever had. Even the Bots y’ve brought to task gotta admit it.”

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl said. “You have been a formidable ally.”

“Glad to be of service,” the Polihexian replied.

“Those two adore you already,” the tactician observed. “You have a natural touch with sparklings.”

“Probably ‘cause I got the maturity of one,” Jazz said, laughing, Prowl gave him a sidelong looked. He laughed again. “Ya know ya were thinkin’ it.”

“You are serious when you need to be,” Prowl replied. “I have learned to accept that.”

“Ha, high praise,” the saboteur said. “I like sparklings, always have. Grew up in the Dead End... wasn’t so dead back then. I helped look after neighbourhood bitlets so their procreators to scrape by a livin’. Missed it when we came to Iacon, but by then I was deep in my trainin’, so wasn’t any time for sparklin’ fun anyways.”

“Anytime you wish to embrace your inner sparkling with them, you are welcome,” the Praxian offered.

“’M glad,” Jazz grinned at Prowl. “I was tryin’ to figure how I could get away wit it without steppin’ on yer peds.”

“You have been a good... friend,” Prowl said, hesitantly. “Despite my resistance. I will not say you will always be welcome, but you will be welcome.”

“I gotcha,” the Polihexian replied, he put his servo and the tactician’s shoulder and peered at Bluestreak, who was deep in recharge at this point. “Think it’s time to head back to y’re place?”

“Yes,” the originator agreed, he looked to the three sparklings, still playing but visibly slower. They would need naps or they would be dear but utter Pit-spawns. “Mechlings, it is time to return home to rest. We will come back another mega-cycle.”

“Okay,” Smokescreen said, stretching his doorwings in a tired shrug.

“And snack?” Camshaft asked.

“Yes, snacks as well,” Prowl promised.

As before, Jazz secured Smokescreen and Camshaft into his alt mode, and Prowl secured the younger bitlets in his. Vorns of experience allowed him to transfer Bluestreak into his back seat without waking the newling. He set off, with Jazz following behind. Though he was tired, and more exposed than he had been in mega-cycles, even vorns, he was less uncomfortable with that than he had expected. It was not resignation, more acceptance. How could he defend locking his creations in what amounted to being a cage when he had the opportunity to see them live free and safe? Just his outing to the park and seen them brighten up, laugh and cheer more than they had in ages. They were acting like the young mechlings they were, instead of the sage little mechs they had become. For the sake of his creations, Prowl was going to have to force himself out of his comfortable anonymity, and out into the open, on the base, and encourage them to play and to thrive.

Crosscut was nowhere in sight, had he been, Jazz would not have let Prowl deal with him on his own. But the fact that he was nowhere on the road, nowhere on the street, and the originator vented a relieved sigh. He knew he had not imagined the despised mech, and the knowledge that Crosscut was somewhere in Iacon left him with a lingering fear. But it did not feel so overwhelming as it had, now that he had shared it with Jazz and Prime. Prowl still dreaded his coming procreo cycle, only an orn away now, but he felt desperately afraid. Even surrounded by Autobots he had ultimately still been isolated with his creations. Allowing Jazz in, so completely as he had, was throwing him through a loop. It was not that he doubted his impulse, he knew this was both right and wise, but he had never trusted anyone with his creations, never. Knowing that Special Operations was involved, that mech would not get near him. Not only did the tactician have faith in Jazz, he had faith in Mirage. The Towers mech was a singularly effective agent, and his exotic frame, and deep connections within the Translucentica Heights, and High Council would draw Crosscut, there was no doubt about that.

Prowl parked in front of his building and transformed. It was a little more of an exercise in acrobatics as Skids at slipped into recharge during the drive. When Camshaft and Smokescreen had been this small, he had stumbled through the transformation, but by this point, the originator was quite familiar with the exercise. Cradling both mechlings against his chassis, he turn and watched Jazz transform. When the Polihexian had his peds, he had Smokescreen rechargine against his shoulder, and Camshaft, holding his free servo, looking as though he was about to doze off at any nanoklik. He watched Jazz adjust his hold on Smokescreen, as he knelt and picked up Camshaft. Though the second of the Praxian’s creations generally preferred to use his own peds, he wrapped his arms around the saboteur’s neck, clearly, he was ready for a good nap.

“I’ll go up wit ya,” Jazz said.

“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “They have not played quite like that for too long.”

By the time they arrived at the Praxian family’s habsuite, Camshaft was barely awake.  Prowl put Bluestreak down in his containment berth, and then tucked Skids into his little berth. Once his arms were free he took Smokescreen first, recharging like the dead, and settled him into his berth, covering him with a light blanket. Though all the others liked thicker blankets, Smokescreen ran hot, and he recharged best with only the lightest coverings. Finally, he gathered up Camshaft and put him down in his berth. Sleepily, the golden face sparkling reached for his plushie, and curled up with. If he woke enough, he would come looking for a snack, and so Prowl went to his kitchen, and put a small plate of gels together, and sat them on the end table between Camshaft and Smokescreen’s berth. He checked each mechling a final time before joining Jazz in the small great room.

“Thank you for your assistance,” the originator said. “You burned through considerable fuel keeping up with them, would you care for a cube?”

“Please,” the Polihexian replied. “They’re amazin’ lil mechs, Prowl. Ya done good wit them.”

“I feel overwhelmed much of the time,” Prowl admitted as he filled two cubes. “Still, I could not imagine being without them.”

“Y’re a good origin,” Jazz insisted, taking the cube. “Why don’t ya sit? Ya been in flight mode for vorns, looks like it’s finally catchin’ up on ya.”

“I was never good at relaxing,” the Praxian replied, but he sat, his frame almost sighed with relief. His spark was still racing, but he did not think it had stopped in vorns. “Before I bonded, when I was not serving the Enforcers, I maintained my training in Circuit-Su and Diffusion. Sometimes I drew or painted. While I was carrying Smokescreen I painted something for his nursery. Crosscut did not like it, so it did not go up.”

“‘N ya didn’t paint anymore,” the saboteur guessed. “What beef could he have wit ya paintin’?”

“My style was not refined enough,” Prowl explained. “It was not worth a battle, I still hoped we could learn how to be bonded to one and other. After I gave up on that idea, my time outside the mechlings was keeping up my training, I always hoped I could return to my function, somehow.”

“Those bitlets would love it if ya made somethin’ for their berthrooms,” Jazz suggested. “Don’t think they’d give a single frag if it was refined, Pit they’d probably prefer it if it weren’t.”

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows 7

As uneasy as the prospect of moving made Prowl, it distressed him less than the prospect of staying, wondering if Crosscut had managed to weasel his address from someone. Though he had only agreed to few the habsuite, the school and the sparkling centre, the Praxian knew it was all a just a formality. He needed his creations to be safe, for the love of Primus, he wanted and needed to feel safe. It was logical to move his residence to within the walls and guarded gates of the base. The sacrifice of his privacy was inevitable, and regrettable. Optimus Prime had expressed confidence that he could weather any criticism relating to Prowl’s enlistment, that was likely even true, but the Praxian was not confident that he could weather it himself. There would be many voices calling for Prowl to defer his service until his youngest creation was school aged, they would admonish him for his selfishness.

“Did ya need me to take on of the littles?” Jazz asked. It was all moving so quickly. The suite in question was being renovated, but the renovations were nearly complete, and the Polihexian had suggested they come and see if it would suite their family. Optimus Prime had suggested meeting with the school, and sparkling centre. His reasoning was one Prowl could not dismiss, the sparklings needed their lives to normalize again. Truthfully, the originator could not carry all four of his creations in his alt mode at months, he had depended on transports for stellar-cycles, but the idea of giving one of his creations over to another mech was distressing, even if it was necessary.

“Smokescreen, will you ride with Jazz?” He asked, rather than order his eldest creations. “We have been offered a new habsuite.”

“What do ya say, lil’ mech?” The Polihexian asked.

“Ya, okay!” Smokescreen repled, only briefly hesitant, and he looked up at the saboteur with the beginnings of hero worship.

“Me too!” Camshaft exclaimed. Jazz chuckled and looked to the originator.

“If Jazz does not mind,” Prowl said.

“I don’t mind a bit,” Jazz replied.

This was how Prowl found himself following the Prime, his youngest creations secured in the back of his alt mode, as Jazz followed behind him with the elder two. It was not accidental, he realized. These two mechs, the very Prime, were guarding him. He felt a little foolish, and a little over dramatic, but also safer than he had in orns. They met with no resistance from the Vanguards at the gates, if any mech could come and go unmolested, it was Optimus Prime. Prowl followed his commander well into the base, passed the small shopping district, and headquarters, and into the not so terribly small residential sector. In each direction the orginator looked their were procreators and creations, going about their mega-cycle. They drove passed a large park, and the sight reassured Prowl a little more. Unless he wished to, there would be little need to take his creations beyond the base. He was not the only one to have spotted the park and he felt a little flutter of hope from Skids. His little one wanted to play.

Driving passed the park upset his young creation, but he murmured a promise, they would return after their business was complete. They did not drive much farther, before they came to the end of the road, and the complex of what looked like several habsuite towers. Optimus transformed first, Jazz followed shortly after, gently depositing the sparklings as he finished his transformation sequence. Once he saw his elder creations safe on the sidewalk, Prowl transformed, and with familiar ease, kept hold of his younger creations. Skids magnetized to his back, between his doorwings and peered over his originator’s shoulders as he took in this new place. Bluestreak magnetized to Prowl’s chassis, looking about with equal curiosity.

“I have never come this deep into the base,” Prowl said. He had not realized until now that the base was really a city, within the city-state of Iacon.

“The complex manager is waiting inside to meet with you,” Optimus Prime said. “I hope you don’t mind our company.”

“No, Sir,” the Praxian replied. The temptation to bolt back to his habsuite was very real, and very strong. Based on the base schematics he should have realized before how expansive it was but he had never paid any mind to the residential sector. There were many places to hide, to get lost.

“Well mechlings, did ya wanna hold my servos, or your origin’s?” Jazz asked Camshaft and Smokescreen. “It’s a new place, we wouldn’t want ya gettin’ lost, right?”

Both mechlings reached for Prowl, and he was happy to take their small servos into his. Jazz stood at his right, as as they walked, Camshaft reached and took hold of his servo as well. A mech like the saboteur should have had creations, not a mech like Prowl. Of course he did his best for them, but the Praxian was not naive enough to think his best was not substandard in many ways. He should have been thrilled to have them, thrilled to teach them to speak, to walk, to watch them develop, and to nurture every moment. Instead Prowl often felt overwhelmed, trapped, and he worked in part to take some control back. All the same, he loved them with more intensity than he never would have imagined from his spark before he had carried them.

“Prime Sir,” the manager, a yellow and red Builder said. “Jazz. You must be Prowl. You’ve got a beautiful family. I’m Neutro.”

“Thank you,” Prowl replied. “Good to meet you.”

“When we spoke you said the habsuite was nearly ready,” Prime said.

“I took a look before I came down,” Neutro replied. “It’s just the finishing touches. Damage to the suite wasn’t so bad once we got the floor up. Not to worry, Prowl. The previous tenant just flooded the place. Luckily the struts of the place are as good as ever. We’re redoing the paint before we put in new floors, easier for clean up. It’s safe to visit, so how about we go up?”

“Yes, thank you,” the Praxian said.

The building manager led the way to what to Prowl was a massive elevator. Even with the Prime, there was space. Clearly the complex had been designed with warbuilds in mind. Even a small suite would have more space than the one his family occupied now. They could use more space, some separate space where they could play apart when their tempers flared. All four of his creations were brimming over with curiosity. He had expected them to be anxious at the prospect of relocating, but at least of the moment, they were happy. It gave him the courage to be optimistic. As long as his creations were safe and comfortable, he would find a way to manage. There would be scorn, and judgment but he was already scorned, Prowl had not been popular in Praxus either. When he had taken leave from the Enforcers when Smokescreen’s carrying had advanced, some of his fellow Enforcers had cackled with delight. How did a mech like Prowl end up a broadcarrier?

“Right through here,” Neutro said.

“Up, Camshaft,” Prowl ordered lightly as he knelt. His second eldest wrapped his arm’s around his originator’s neck, as Prowl put his arm under the mechling’s aft, supporting him against his hip.

“We can each take one, if it would help you, Prowl,” Optimus offered. The Praxian almost stepped back from the Prime. He had always been on his own with his creations, always.

“Camshaft?” He asked.

“Up, I want up, up, up!” The golden-faced squealed as he clung his arms loose from his originator’s neck and stretched them out to the Autobot Commander.

“I’ll help wit that,” Jazz said, and he took Camshaft from Prowl, and handed him over to Optimus. The mechling cheered with unabashed delight. Once Camshaft was secure, Jazz crouched beside Smokescreen. Under his originator’s watchful optics, his first emerged climbed onto the Polihexian’s back without ever a nanoklik’s hesitation.  Jazz hooked his arms under Smokescreen’s legs, and smiled back over his shoulder. “Ya good, lil’ mech?”

“I’m good!” Smokescreen replied.

Prowl was not, in fact he was absolutely terrified. He was terrified that one or both of the mechs would drop his creations. His peds felt as if they had been bolted to the floor. For a mech that pride reason over emotion, this level of paranoia was very unsettling. Originator protocols ran rampant in his processor, worse than they had since Tyger Pax. With his free servo, Optimus reached down, and clasped Prowl’s shoulder. The pressure steadied the tactician. These mechs were not strangers, they were allies, even friends, they would not drop Camshaft and Smokescreen, especially with the natural magnetic grip both sparklings still possessed. Finally, Prowl felt some of the tension in his frame release, and he nodded his helm. Neutro led them through the door.

Just the great room was bigger than Prowl’s entire habsuite. The construction team was absent, some of their tools were left behind, but set out of the way. Still, he was relieved to be holding, and to have his creations held during the tour. Prowl did not understand how he was expected to afford this. Unless base housing was cheaper than he had appreciated. His current habsuite took up every credit of his housing allowance, but to be fair it was in an expensive building, due to the high level of security. It was smaller than Crosscut’s habsuite, but even without flooring it felt more welcoming than that place had ever been. The tactician had always thought of the habsuite he had lived in for vorns. It had never been a home, never. Every furnishing, ever colour and design had been selected by his former Conjunx Endura, to suite the sometimes business mech’s, sometimes ambassador’s aesthetic. Despite having no part in the upbringing of the mechlings, Crosscut had designed the nursery. Rather than a warm, nurturing space it had been dull and formal. Even in the nursery, he had not been particularly comfortable letting the mechlings really play, and in their habsuite in Iacon, there was just not enough space for them to truly enjoy.

“It is massive,” Prowl murmured, as he absorbed the space.

“It’s one of the larger units,” Neutro confirmed. “Three berthrooms, two washracks. The great room, an open kitchen and dining room. Large enough to fit warframes comfortably enough. It’ll fit your mechlings family perfectly.”

“Prime. Sir,  my housing allowance would cover this?” The Praxian asked.

“It would,” Optimus confirmed. “And before you ask, without any special exemptions. Base housing it based on need, and to some degree rank. You have both.”

“’M just a couple floors up,” Jazz said. “’N I wrote the buildin’s encryption, ‘cause I ain’t gonna trust someone else for it.”

They made a strong case. Prowl realized it was foolish to feel so hesitant. He said nothing, instead he walked through the great room, and wandered down the hall. The doors were locked in the open position, and the Praxian had an unobstructed view of both washracks, and finally the berthrooms.  All four of his creations could fit well enough in any one of the berthrooms, not nearly so crowded as they were now. If he put the oldest two and the youngest two in separate rooms, they would have really room to spread out, a piece of personal space for each mechling. Instead of what amounted to being little more than a closet worth of space, the master berthroom was large enough not only for a full berth, when he could budget for it, but there was a perfect alcove for a desk and workstation.

“What this?” Skids asked, his back.

“Berthrooms, shyspark,” Prowl replied. “A new home. Would you like it? Space to run without tripping over your brothers?”

“You too?” The early first tier sparkling asked.

“Of course,” the originator promised. “You, Bluestreak, Camshaft, Smokescreen and myself. All together, and only a short distance from that park you saw.”

“Oooh,” Skids said. They had not been to one since the near miss with Crosscut. Prowl had not felt safe enough to step out of the habsuite alone, let alone with all his creations. They had been, not lethargic, but quiet and uncertain, feeding off their originator’s anxiety.

“When we have finished here, we will got to that park,” Prowl promised.

Bluestreak babbled excitedly at that declaration, drawing a smile from his originator. Prowl kissed his helm as he returned to the waiting mech. Camshaft was now on the Prime’s shoulders, stretching his arms to the ceiling, though he was metres away from reaching it. He caught the last nanoklik of Jazz swinging Smokescreen around in his armsm and heard the glee in his eldest creation’s voice. Of all of the mechlings, Smokescreen had been most affected by Prowl’s anxious mood. But then he had seen Crosscut, and had far clearer memories of his progenitor than his brothers. While Crosscut had never laid a servo on Smokescreen, the mechling had witnessed part of the interface that had led to Bluestreak’s kindling, and he had heard the angry threats Crosscut had voiced to gain Prowl’s compliance.

The memories of that dark-cycle had largely faded in his creation’s processor, but they remained a clear in Prowl’s as if they had only just occurred. In a physical fight, Prowl had always been capable of overpowering his unwanted Conjunx Endura, and that last interface he had pushed Crosscut away. Even after three carryings, and vorns out of service, the former Enforcer still remained a formidable amount in servo to servo combat. But the last had been on that mech’s side, and when threatened the humiliation and arrest, Prowl had submitted. As he had lain under Crosscut, limp and helpless to stop another kindling, he had seen Smokescreen in the doorway, likely drawn by their argument. And he had tried to stop Crosscut, just long enough to tuck his, their eldest mechling back in his berth, but his Conjunx Endura had not seen fit to, and he had rutted into Prowl even as the originator had called for Smokescreen to return to his berthroom. As a receptive mechanism, his frame had not been his own under Praxian law, it had belonged to the state, to the contributive spark he had been paired with, and the newsparks burned off his spark. Under the laws of the Functionalists, Prowl had held no right to refuse.

Crosscut could not come for him here. He would not be welcomed through the gates, and he would not been nearly skillful enough to crack encryptions written by Autobot Jazz. They could live here, he could live here, free from the spectre of his creations’ progenitor. That settled the decision for Prowl. The lack of privacy would bother him, fear of a scandal still sat heavy in his spark, but all that was bearable when he considered the security, and space this relocation would give his family. Next cycle he would formally withdrawn Smokescreen from his school, and make arrangements to enrol him one on base. After wards, he visit the sparkling centres and select whichever one suited him best for his younger creations to attend. His creations would be exposed to new younglings, make friends. How could he possibly not make this change?

“Thank you, Neutro,” he said as he joined the other mechs. “We will be happy to take the habsuite.”

“We’ll adjust all the counters and fixtures for your frame size as we finish up the renovation,” the manager replied. “You can move in the beginning of next quartex.”

“That is acceptable,” Prowl said. Their move would fall precisely at the end of his proceo cycle, and perhaps that was ideal. If Crosscut could not be deterred, the end of that damnable cycle would likely see him return to his business off world, at least the Praxian could hope.

“’Spose makin’ appointments wit the school ‘n centres gonna be next on yer list,” Jazz said, as they left the suite.

“I will make appointments for next cycle,” the originator said. “After I formally withdraw Smokescreen from his current school. I promised Skids a visit to that park. I do not believe the walk is too far. Prime Sir, thank you for your assistance. I am sure you have business that is better owed your attention.”

“Sine you’ll be on base, after you’ve finished with your tours, come by my office, whatever time,” Optimus ordered, and he lowered Camshaft to the ground. Though he had clearly enjoyed his ride on the Prime’s shoulders the glyph park had the mechling race over to his originator. “There’s a project I’d like to go over with you.”

“Yes, Sir,” Prowl replied.

“Would ya mind company, Prowl?” Jazz asked, still holding Smokescreen. The mechlings still happy to be held. “When they’re tired out, I can help ya get’em home.”

“I would not mind,” the Praxian replied. It was foolishness, but the promise of an escort put him at ease.

“Great!” The saboteur grinned down at Camshaft. “Up or down, Cam?”

“Up!” The mechling declared.

“Y’re the boss,” Jazz said. He knelt and Smokescreen climbed onto his back, and magnetized into place. Once the eldest mechlings was secure, the Polihexian picked up the younger, and neatly climbed to his peds. Even with all his practice Prowl did not think he managed the manoeuvre with nearly as much grace. “We could drive but I thought ya been cooped up for orns, a walk might be good for ya.”

“A walk is welcome,” Prowl replied. “You have gone out of your way to help us. Thank you.”

“Ain’t like I had to do much,” the Polihexian said, as they set off. “Ya do good work Prowl, I’d hate to see ya go, so ‘m glad to do my bit to make sure Iacon’s safe for you ‘n your bitlets.”

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows 5

Sooner or later Prowl was going to have to return Smokescreen to school, and return himself to his duties on base. Realistically, it needed to be sooner, on both counts but the tactician could not seem to build either the courage or the resolve. It was not his approaching procreo cycle that kept him homebound but fear. At one point, before he had carried Smokcreen, Prowl would have scoffed at the idea that he would ever be paralysed by fear. The will power and emotional control he had once prized had been stripped away.

His creations knew something was amiss. Though he tried hard to keep it in, the originator suspected they could teek his fear with their juvenile fields. He did not want them to be afraid. Iacon was went to be a safe haven, this habsuite a secure fortress but his sense of security was gone. This habsuite no longer felt safe or secure. Prowl could not dismiss the idea that Crosscut had his address. It was only matter of time before he would charm one of the neighbours and slip passed the security drone.

Smokescreen cuddles into his side and Prowl was distracted from his anxious strategizing. He pulled his eldest closer and leaned in to nuzzle his small helm. Though all his creations sensed something was off, only Smokescreen had become somber. His brothers enjoyed their unexpected break from the sparkling sitter, and happily playing, mostly innocent, and unexpected by the looming threat. Smokescreen had been unable to shed his fear, and he would not venture far from Prowl, and when he did join his brothers in a game he seemed hyper alert, and it was no accident when eldest brother positioned himself between his brothers and the door. He was their protector.

Prowl kissed Smokescreen's helm and chirred softly. His little brave spark. Bluestreak tottled over, and climbed up onto his originator's lap, tired of the game. He smiled so sweetly up at Prowl before nuzzling at his chassis. Instinctively, the Praxian let the plating slide, and revealed his nozzle to his hungry creation. The newling was showing no signs of weaning just yet, and Prowl could not say he was disappointed. This was one of his favourite parts of being an originator, and the tactician thought he would miss it when Bluestreak eventually grew too old.

Maybe there would be another, Prowl thought as he cradled his ever developing newling against his chassis, and cuddled his eldest sparkling to his side. Not now, and never with Crosscut, but maybe there would be another, vorns from now, with a mech he wanted. The Praxian slowly shook his helm, this train of thought had to have been a symptom of his upcoming cycle. He had four creations, that was already more than most. Still, it was a romantic notion, creating out of love, not out of duty. Such a thing seemed so unlikely because not only would it require him to fall in love, but or the sentiment to be returned, and it would require that mech to embrace four creations he had no part in creating, and was a particularly romantic, and unlikely idea.

An alert from from the security drone downstairs sent Prowl’s spark into a frantic spin. Though he felt like he was suffocating, the Praxian forced his intakes to keep an easy and even pace. When he thought he had avoided a meltdown, or a crash, Prowl actually read the message. Two mech had arrived looking to see him at his habsuite. One identified as Jazz. The other identified as Optimus Prime. There were only two possible responses to the message, yes or no. Might Jazz have knews on Crosscut already? Why was Prime here. Prowl looked down at the floor where Skids and Camshaft were building an elaborate fort, with every cushion and blanket and plush toy they could find. He looked down at Bluestreak as he suckled on his nozzle, and then to Smokescreen who remained quiet, curled there against his side. The place was a disaster, certainly not fit for the Prime, but what could he really do?

“Let them in.”

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows 6 (the ficlet previous referred to as Stupid Muse)

Smokescreen was looking up at Prowl when he finished with the alert. He was afraid, his little brave spark was terribly scared. The originator stroked his mechling's small helm and filled his field with reassurance. Bluestreak curled into him, suckling robustedly, benefiting from his originator's open field more than Prowl might have expected. The room really was a mess but there was no time to tidy up. Optimus Prime and Jazz would be up in a matter of kliks and the act of tidying would only distress Skids and Camshaft who had been hard at work on their little fort. He would also have to unlatch Bluestreak and that would leave the newling bawling with hunger.

Prowl made no move to rise from the couch. What few kliks he had to prepare for their arrival, he was better off using them to steady himself. Optimus Prime would not have come with Jazz if the Ops mech was only sharing information on Crosscut or looking for answers. If the Prime was on his way up, there had to be something else. They would not be returning him to Praxus, though that fear did churn in his spark and tactical system, there was no way. Not only were these two good mechanisms, Jazz fiercely loyal, and Optimus Prime a passionate abolitionist, neither would send Prowl and his creations to what would amount to being his death. There had to be something else, and the prospect of the unknown made the tactician very nervous. He fought to keep his field reassuring, to keep his own anxieties locked inside. His creations did not be afraid.

“We have company, mechlings,” Prowl said at last. “Jazz, Smokescreen you did not meet him, but I believe Camshaft told you the story, he is on his way up to speak with me, as is Optimus Prime. You do not need to be afraid of them. They are friends to us.”

“I remember Optimus,” Smokescreen replied, softly. Patchy memories of Tyger Pax must have been coming to the forefront of his processor because the sparkling shivered with fear. “He kept us safe...”

“We are safe here,” the originator promised. But the mood had changed in an instant as Camshaft and Skids sensed their brother’s anxiety. They forgot their game and piled onto the couch, just as their eldest brother slipped down. Camshaft took his place as Skids slid over, lay over him, with his helm in their originator’s lap.

“I’ll answer the door,” his eldest declared, and he marched to the door. That was Smokescreen, he was afraid, and so he was stubbornly determine to face it.

A ping came, a nanoklik later, and Prowl was unexpectedly relief to see it came from Jazz. Really, he had not doubted the security drone, but perhaps he actually had. Without raising a digit he sent a command to the door, and his lock disengaged.  Prowl watched Smokescreen press his servo against the door, and it opened. The defensive protocols engaged within him, and he had to stop himself from bolting up, and lunging for the door, weapon drawn, as he saw the two adult mechs tower over his creation. Before he could call Smokescreen over to him, or address his guests at all, Prowl saw Jazz kneel, and extend his servo to his sparkling.

There was a flutter of something in the Praxian’s spark that he could not explain as the saboteur introduced himself to Smokescreen, treated him like a mature mech, not the sparkling he was. Clearly feeling tickled at this treatment, Smokescreen bounded back into the living room, leading the visitors in. Despite how often he had interacted with the Prime, he seemed that much bigger compared to Smokescreen, compared to all of them. Jazz looked harmless standing next to him, but that would have been a lie. Once again Prowl hesitated. It would have been appropriate to stand, to greet his guests.

“Don’t disturbed the little ones,” Optimus Prime ordered. “They’ve developed so much since I saw them.”

“It is something new every mega-cycle, Sir,” Prowl replied. “Mechlings, you remember Jazz? And Optimus Prime?”

The younger sparklings nodded shyly. Both a little awed and intimidated by the two guests. Even as it occurred to Prowl, Jazz simply dropped crossed legged on the floor, and Optimus Prime, of all the mechanisms followed his lead. Both mech took care not to disturb the fort, and for some reason that mattered so much to Prowl. Smokescreen mimicked their guests and sat at his originator’s peds. Slowly, Camshaft and Skids loosened up, and perked up. They did not leave the couch and Prowl but they sitting up, doorwings swept up in an open posture of curiosity, not sharply pointed in a gesture of fear.

“What can I do for you, Sir?” The Praxian asked. “Jazz?”

“Sorta more what we can do for ya,” Jazz replied.

“There is a family habsuite that’ll be available shortly in the complex on base,” Optimus explained, and Prowl felt his tank twist. “I understand you have concerns about the status of your family being revealed. I respect them, but I think you will be safest, and they will be safest within the base, and known to our brother and sister Autobots. There is a school on base, staffed by Autobots or the kin of enlisted mechanisms, and there are multiple youngling and sparkling centres, all staffed by thoroughly vetted caretakers. They will be guarded, nurtured and safe. You will be safe.”

“Autobots will judge you for allowing me to enlist,” Prowl said, softly. “You will be pressured to put me on leave.”

“I’ve been judged for worse,” the Prime replied. “I won’t bow to pressure. I understand you need to serve your function. The best way for creations to grow happy and healthy is even their originator is.”

“’M in the same complex,” Jazz added. “There are lots o’ young families, plenty o’ single ‘creator families. It’d be easy for ya to put in half-cycles. There’d be plenty o’ sparklings for them to play with. It’d be good for all o’ ya.”

“I wonder who built this fine fortification?” Optimus said.

“We did!” Camshaft exclaimed and he tugged Skids along as he dove off the couch, excited to show off their work. Optimus climbed to his peds, more graceful than a mech his size ought to be.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” The Prime suggested. In that instance, Prowl was completely abandoned by his creations, save Bluestreak, even Smokescreen went over to the fort. The originator’s spark flared. Smokescreen had not felt save to leave his side in ‘cycles.”

“Can ya tell me ya feel safe here?” Jazz asked softly as he sat down on the opposite side of the couch.

“No,” Prowl replied, truthfully.

“I got ‘Raj on the fragger, he ain’t gonna move ‘round Iacon without that mech on his tail,” the Polihexian revealed. “But we both know that ain’t enough. Ya aren’t gonna be able to convince yerself to send Smokescreen back to that school. Ya ain’t gonna be able to walk ‘round this district without lookin’ over ya shoulder. It’s a lousy way to live. We’ll pass it off as a transfer, might even through Crosscut off for a bit if he’s gotten sweet on someone in the school’s office.”

“I hate this,” the Praxian sighed. “I feel like a turbofox chased into a burrow.”

“Burrows are okay, so long as ya got a second exit,” Jazz said. “Complex has plenty. I’ll ya all o’ them... What do ya say, neighbours?”

“Neighbours,” Prowl replied. When all was said and done, there really was no other answer.

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows 3

As the dark-cycle came, and his creations were tucked into recharge in their berths, Prowl did not seek out his own berth, instead he moved a chair to the window, and sat, and watched. He watched the dark, empty street for any sign of Crosscut, or any out of place mechanism. The joors passed slowly as the Praxian sat as sentry. This was Iacon, not Praxus, and he was not helpless, forced to his knees by Functionalist laws, but still Prowl felt helpless. If Crosscut had tracked him to Iacon, was there hope that the tactician and his young family could just live free in any corner of Cybertron? As long as the spectre of that much maligned mech haunted him, Prowl did not think he could ever feel secure, ever feel safely letting his creations out of his sight. Crosscut had funds, far more than his former Conjunx Endura had ever had access to, and he could have hired any number of spies, paid for untold gossip, and intelligence from any number of Autobots.

If the ambassador asked the right mechanism, he might well uncover Prowl’s address, if his presence so close to Smokescreen’s school was the dire omen the Praxian took it to be, Crosscut already knew what school their eldest creation attended... The school had Prowl’s address, and that mech had a silver glossa befitting his post, if he charmed the right mechanism... He needed help. Exhausted, not just from lack of recharge, but from the burden of fear, Prowl realized that not only did he need help, help, in a way, had already been offered. It took all of his willpower to drag himself from the window to find the datapad on which he had recorded Jazz’s commline. As Commander of Special Operations, intelligence was the Polihexian’s forte, and if Prowl wanted to learn what had brought Crosscut here, if it was something innocent, or him as the tactician rightly feared, Jazz could learn. Entering the twenty digit commline id into his own comms, the Praxian returned to his chair and waited for his ping to be acknowledged.

-“What can I do for ya, Prowl?” Jazz voice sounded in the tactician’s helm.

-“I need your help,” Prowl replied, mental voice far more strained that he had intended.

-“Are ya safe?” The Polihexian asked, smooth voice taken a steely edge.

-“I... yes...” the tactician said. “For now at least.”

-“At your habsuite?” Jazz asked.

-“Yes,” Prowl replied. He felt... foolish, but not enough to overpower the anxiety.

-“I’ll be there in a coupla breams,” the saboteur said. “Ya can tell me what’s spooked ya when I get there.”

Spooked. It was an accurate enough glyph. Prowl was indeed spooked. Breams, so much could happen in two or three breams. That was all the time it had taken to see Bluestreak emerge, too quick for any medic to attend him, not that one had been called. The originator had been alone, expect for his too young creations, recharging in their berths, and he had been far tpo preoccupied with the frighteningly quick progression of emergence to make any calls. They had both been unharmed, at least. Prowl had been declared to be hail and hardy, though he had felt indescribably tired, and at utterly brittle. He had been hardy enough to gather his creations, from clever Smokescreen to tiny Bluestreak on a have orn later and disappear into the dark-cycle, buying passage to Tyger Pax under the guise of joining his Conjunx Endura.

In truth the terms of separation had been submitted against Crosscut a full stellar-cycle before Bluestreak had even emerged. Only a mega-cycle after Prowl had emerged Bluestreak he had received the Hall of Justice’s ruling, which had given him both the incentive and the legal freedom to flee. Crosscut had not answered the address of the Magistrates, and they sided with Prowl. In all likelihood Crosscut had not received the summons, he tended to roam well outside of traditional communication range, and he had never bothered to purchase long range comms at least, if he had he had never given them to Prowl.  The Magistrates had not taken such a thing as any excuse, either. It may have been the receptive spark’s duty to kindle, but it was the contributive spark’s duty to contribute, something Crosscut had failed to do. He had gone from Cybertron immediately after it had been confirmed that Prowl had kindled again, and the slagtard had not returned even once. The strain of creation had been left entirely on Prowl’s spark, as it largely had been for all but Smokescreen’s carrying. If he were asked, the tactician would admit he had preferred his berth empty, and his spark and frame unmolested, but the excess strain of solo carryings on his already over burdened spark had been very frightening.

The prospect of going through it again was that much more frightening. Crosscut would know his cycle was coming, would know when the next ten or more were scheduled. He had no right to Prowl, not under Iaconian law, not even under Praxian law, but he was the silver glossaed ambassador, and the tactician knew better than to think Crosscut did not pose a serious threat so long as he was in Iacon. It would have been the expectation of Praxian culture that Prowl would have taken his creations and returned to his progenitor’s home for a new match to be made. He had not done this, in fact he had not spoken to his progenitor in vorns. Returning to his habsuite had never been part of Prowl’s plans. Some procreators would have been aghast and Prowl’s treatment by Crosscut, Prowl’s progenitor would hardly have been bothered, he had treated his own Conjunx Endurae the same way. Bishop was no ally to his eldest creation.

Prowl physically jerked at the sound of his door’s ping as Jazz announced his arrival. The Praxian’s plating was still clattering when the saboteur entered his habsuite. He should have said something, offered Jazz energon, or just explained himself, but Prowl found himself unable to speak, and unble to stop to stop his frame shaking. Jazz said nothing. His lipplates were curled down in a frown, his visor was bright and expressionless as he crossed the threshold, and made his way to the him. It was pathetic, how Prowl was behaving, but it seemed his formidable self-control had bled dry. A long digited, black servo rested on the Praxian’s shoulder as Jazz leaned over him a little to look out the window. Prowl looked too, there was nothing.

“Why don’t ya come over to the couch?” Jazz suggested as he straightened. “I left optics on the street, y’ain’t gonna have any trouble this dark-cycle.”

“I am sorry for troubling you,” Prowl said, voice tight and almost inaudible. He stood, slowly. If Jazz had left an operative on the street, it was safe enough to end his watch. Despite this knowledge, it was inordinately difficult for Prowl to pull himself away, and to go and sit on his considerably more comfortable couch.

“Yer bitlets all rechargin’?” The Polihexian asked.

“Yes,” the tactician confirmed. “Bluestreak may or may not online to fuel...”

“That’s fine,” Jazz said. “Why don’t ya tell me what happened, ‘n I’ll see how I can help.”

“I saw Crosscut, the progenitor of my creations,” Prowl explained. “Only blocks from Smokescreen’s school. Smokescreen spotted him first. I do not know if he saw us, I ran as soon as I saw him.”

“Any reason for him to be in Iacon?” The saboteur asked.

“He is an ambassador, and businessmech,” the Praxian said. “He focus has always been off world. I have never known him to visit other city states. However, he was never in the habit of explaining his whereabouts to me. I did not bother to ask.”

“Ya think he’s lookin’ for ya,” Jazz observed.

“I am not fond of coincidences,” Prowl replied. “The school is in a residential area, there is nothing to attract his interests, except the school itself, if he is looking to identify our location.”

“Do ya think he wants the bitlets, or you?” the Polihexian asked.

“Me,” the tactician said. “I have not doubt. My creations are just... things to him, symbols of status or virility. His first Conjunx Endura never kindled, and I understand he was mocked for it by competitors when upon dissolving their bond, that mech went on to kindle almost immediately with another mech. Each newspark he burns off of me makes them eat their glyphs.”

“And slowly kills ya,” Jazz concluded. “Any idea why now? Just luck?”

“It is possible that he only now received intelligence regarding my locations,” Prowl replied. “I am also only orns from another procreo cycle, he has them recorded in his HUD. He never missed one.”

“He ain’t gonna touch ya, or yer bitlets,” the saboteur swore. “I’ll find out why he’s in Iacon ‘n see about encouragin’ him to frag off.”

“Thank you,” the Praxian said.

“Ya don’t need to run,” Jazz replied. “Y’ain’t on yer own now. Ya got Ops, ‘n Bots, ‘n we take care o’ ours.”

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows 2

Despite what he had told Jazz, Prowl did fear Crosscut would find them. The fear had been growing, building in the last quartex until it felt as though the tactician might choke. He would be entering a procreo cycle in half a quartex. It would be the first since his escape, the first since he had been paired off where he was alone, the first where he ought not to dread Crosscut coming to his berth.. But Prowl felt no relief, however, in fact as his procreo cycle drew closer, the fear only grew. Crosscut would know the cycle was approaching, the slagtard kept a detailed calendar listing all of Prowl’s scheduled cycles for millenia a head into the future. Could this be the incentive that would see the mech come for Prowl, come for the mechlings? Iacon was large, and the tactician’s habsuite was only known to three mechs, but that fact offered Prowl very little comfort.

The primary reason he had courted Special Operations, and rather the main branch of the army was the anonymity offered to the operatives that was not offered to Autobots at large. While his designation was known as the mech who single handedly saved Optimus Prime and Tyger Pax (an over simplification, for certain), his faceplates were not, and no one actually knew where Prowl now served, though it was a wildly believed rumour that he was serving as an advisor to Ultra Magnus in Altihex. Though his commanders in Tactics, and all Special Operatives all knew he was stationed in Iacon, you did not last long in Special Operations if you spoke too freely. He was not the only Praxian in Iacon, or the only one serving the Autobots so his irregular presence at the base did not attract any real attention.

But as the mega-cycles ticked closer and closer to the start of his cycle, Prowl adjusted his schedule so that he was telecommuting the entire time. He reasoned if Jazz need him, he knew where to come, otherwise the tactician always replied to messages over the datanet within the joor, and comms within the nanoklik. Working from his desk in his small berthroom, or from the couch in his living room was almost as efficient as it was working from his office on base, and he spent considerably longer that his dutyshift at work. So far as the Praxian was concerned, his telecommuting served the Autobots quiet well.

It did not, however put him any more at ease. What he was doing might have been called nesting except that was absolutely not what he was about. During his procrea cycles, the Praxian felt no different than he did during any other orn. He had no increased drive to interface, despite how the shanix-special stories romanticized it. The only reason he ever knew it was a different orn was because his status reports informed him of the changes. As the orn grew closer, physically, the tactician felt no different, but mentally he was a wreck.

Prowl was hyper aware of every sound, and every sight as he escorted Smokescreen to school. The temptation to pull his creation from his classes for the remainder of the quartex was almost too much to resist, but he did resist. Smokescreen’s education need not suffer due to his originator’s paranoia. That did not mean that Prowl’s mood was not rubbing off on the eldest of his creations, on the contrary, he saw Smokescreen was mimicking his watchfulness, and keeping uncharacteristically close. As a rule, the sparkling was maddeningly independent, but he had been outright clingy this past orn. The observation wracked the originator with guilt. His creations should not have been hostage to his moods.

“Origin!” Smokescreen exclaimed, tugging him into the shadowed lane a block or two from the sparkling’s school.

“Smokescreen, what is that matter?” Prowl asked, but even as the last glyph slipped out, he knew. Panic coursed through his circuits, but the tactician kept his helm. He gathered his sparkling in his arms and darted deeper into the shadows.

What was Crosscut doing here of all places, so close to Smokescreen’s school. Student records were sealed, there was no way for him to know that their sparkling attended here, but Prowl did not believe in coincidence. Still moving, he sent a comm to the school excusing Smokescreen from his classes, and  exited the lane the next street over. Though their habsuite was only a short walk away, the originator transformed, urged Smokescreen into his cab and raised for home. As he drove, Prowl kept his sensors hot, tracking every vehicle that moved around him, watching, searching for any sign that he had been followed. Thankfully, he found no evidence of any tails. When they arrived at the tall complex that held their habsuite, Prowl let Smokescreen out and transformed again. Again he swept his sparkling into his arms and quickly made his way inside. The drone that served as doormech did not react. It had a record of the spark signatures of all those welcome in the building. Crosscut would not be one of them, he would not let the white and red Praxian in, regardless of whether or not the mech asked for Prowl by his designation. This complex housed mostly Autobot families, and their security was taken seriously. This added security accounted for the higher housing costs, but the small space was an acceptable trait off, especially now.

“It’s okay, Origin,” Smokescreen said, servos reaching up to Prowl’s faceplates. Only when the sparkling wiped away a tear did the originator realize he was crying. He was fully and completely overwhelmed. “We’ll be okay. The Autobots will protect us.”

“Yes, yes, you are correct, Smokescreen,” Prowl replied as his spark constricted. His brave little creation. Only Smokescreen knew Crosscut’s faceplates, only he understood at all that he was dangerous, though he did not know why. “We will be playing hooky today. We will all watch vids and eat treats together. Does that sound appealing?”

“Yes!” The sparkling exclaimed. “Can I cuddle with you?”

“Of course you can,” the originator promised.

He only put Smokescreen down when he re-entered his habsuite. The sparkling-sitter he had on contract gave him an odd look but accepted his lie that Smokescreen had become unwell and was more than happy enough to leave for a free day at full pay. At his elder brother’s announcement of a mega-cycle of holovids and snacks, Camshaft ran into the cramped berth room he shared with Smokescreen and Skids, and came out with each of their warming blankets. Soon Prowl was buried under blankets and chirring mechings. Smokescreen claimed his left side, Skids and Camshaft claimed ins right, and Bluestreak claimed his lap. As the first holovid began to play his creations were quickly absorbed, and Prowl let his processor drift to his work.

No mech questioned the change in his schedule, only Optimus Prime was directly alerted. With no meetings schedule, Prowl had no issue running his tactical systems and analyzing the most recent data from Operatives stationed throughout Cybertron. When one of his subordinates pinged him with a question regarding a developing plan, the Praxian answered immediately. No one would look for him in his office, no one did anymore, all had realized that they got their answers quickly without ever leaving their stations, without having to face down their stern officer. Prowl’s severe countenance was not accidental. He did not want to be approachable, he did not want his subordinates to get too comfortable with him. Keeping them at a distance may not have been fantastic for moral, but as long as he responded to their concerns quickly, and fairly, no one seemed concerned enough to complain.

Eventually, the younger mechlings grew restless and left the couch to play some games. Prowl kept an optic on them, even as he considered whether a direct assault or one to the left would be preferable when addressing the liberation of Kalis. Smokescreen remained glued to Prowl’s side, and guiltily, the tactician thought that this was more for his comfort than that of his creation. He leaned down and nuzzled his eldest mechling’s helm. As much as Prowl loved him, and his brothers, he could not bare the thought of creating again, and again, of existing for nothing but emerging newlings. The Praxian was grimly aware of what that would mean for him, what it had meant for his own originator. His spark had already been forced to carry four newsparks in quick succession, even one more meant the very real risk of Prowl’s spark snuffing out under the strain. Beyond even his desperate desire to make use of his skills, and his processor, what the originator wanted most at this point in his life was to be allowed to live to see his creations mature. If Crosscut got a hold of him again, Prowl knew he would not be left alone until he had been used up, and burnt out.