#but ended up being bluestreak or someone else (based on different accents)

[puraiuddo]

Transformers One: Prowl Cameos I could point him out for you, but where's the fun in that?

[Bonus Bluestreak]

[anon-e-miss]

Shaken 2

So... I forgot I had this written... My bad.

Snippets of vorns’ worth of horrors cycled through his processor. No hope, no peace, always waking, never rest. He was... tired. He was... confused. He was... free? The idea might have made him laugh, it was so ridiculous. But he felt, and was alone was absolutely bizarre. Slowly, the sensors in his frame were responding, slowly they were sending signals to his processor. It was small at first, air moving over his doorwings, arms wrapped around his midsection. Then there was sound. First there was someone speaking, and it was terrifying. Somewhere, he remembered someone speaking, explaining what was being done to him, terrible hideous things. But this was a different voice, and he felt relief, intense relief. Bit by bit the speech made sense, and he understood.

He was free. A strange, heavily accented voice crooned at him, promised he was safe. It was impossible to believe, but arms were wrapped around him, a spark was humming in the chassis beneath his helm. His own spark pulsed in time with that of his rescuer’s, and in an act of considerable will, he brought his optics online for the first time in vorns. The mech holding him was mostly black and white, and something about that comforted him. He turned up his helm as his optics were finally able to focus, and the first thing he saw was his rescuers face. A black helm, blue visor, and a strong silver jaw with a full mouth. That visor would allow the mech to hide a great deal. Mouths lied better than optics. At that thought, the image of an empurata, a single bright gold optic filled his processor, in a reflex of fear he curled his servo.

“I got ya,” the mech said, in a deep and warm croon. “Y’re safe.”

Safe. He was safe. Wonder. Absolute wonder. When he had last thought, when had last thought consciously for himself, it had been only horror, only grief. There had not been even the smallest flicker of hope in his spark. But he was safe, he was actually safe, and he was free. The world felt smaller, now that he was no longer wired into the planet’s network, and he was both claustrophobic, and agoraphobic as his he gained full clarity, and fully understood what had happened to him. Through that network he had seen so much ugliness, and he understood, caused so much of it, if against his will.

“What’s y’re designation?” His rescuer mech asked.

Designation? He reached into his processor, and found his servo empty. Confusion. When he thought of himself there was nothing, no images of a life. Fear. Who was he? What was he? There had been something before, and as he struggled to find some fragment from the past, there was only a vague memory of pain. A new grief, a new fear. They had already taken everything, had they taken him too? Increasingly frantic, he reached into the emptiness of his memories, clutching nothing but air. A wail swelled in his spark, but his vocalizer did not click on.

“That’s alright,” the mech comforted him. As he grasped at the shattered fragments of his memory, shying from those great empty chasms, a single piece of data stood out. This mech was a Polihexian. “I’ll just call ya Prowl for now.”

Prowl. And this mech was called Jazz. In the vorns that he had been hooked into the grid the empurata had used him to try and trap this mech. He had never been successful, and Prowl, because thinking of himself by that token designation was easier than thinking of himself as nothing, was very grateful for his failure, for their failure because holding himself responsible for what all that had been done was too much. Jazz had saved him, and Jazz was holding him, humming to him as you might to comfort a sparkling. The strain of digging for memories, the horror of finding nothing of true significance was draining, and Prowl drifted. With a soft vent, he rested.

He came awake again to voices. As it had before, he... Prowl could not immediately decipher what was being said, and he was afraid. They could have found him again. They could be taking him back to that lab. What had been the point of repairing his frame, replacing his crushed legs when they were only going to strap him to that slab, and to wire him to that living Pit? Servos lightly rubbed his side, and one of the voices became clear. Jazz. Relief so powerful surged through him and Prowl could not process it. Something inside him snapped, and his processor went blank.

When he woke yet again, Prowl’s thoughts seemed more orderly, and more clear.  He opened his optics, and looked up at the high ochre ceiling. That was an odd colour choice. Praxus favoured cooler tones, no. No, Praxus had favoured cooler colours, Praxus was gone. There were no memories of Praxus, beyond that he had lived there, beyond that it was gone. Prowl could not picture the buildings, but he remembered the colours. Before he could linger to long on the anger and the grief, he heard pedsteps, two pairs. Based on the sounds of their steps, one mech was larger than the other. Prowl turned his helm.

“Well y’re lookin’ better,” Jazz said, smiling wide.

“Yes,” Prowl replied. His voice sounded some foreign to his optics, rough and raspy, but it was the first glyph he had spoken in vorns. The last he had said had been in screams.

“Vocalizer will clear up as you use it,” the second medic, taller and broader as Prowl had thought, was painted red and white. “I’m Ratchet, Autobot CMO. I’ve been taking care of you. Mech with me is...”

“Jazz,” he said. “I know his face.”

“Don’t know if I should be scared or honoured,” the Polihexian said.

“They considered you the greatest single threat,” Prowl explained. The Autobots looked at each other.

“How much of do you remember?” Oddly it was the medic, not the operative that asked that question.

“Pieces,” the Praxian, because that’s what he was, replied. “I do not remember anything before, and only pieces of after. The mech who built the contraption I was bound do was an empurata.”

“Shockwave,” Jazz said. “That sick piece of scrap. Don’t remember y’re designation yet, eh?”

“No,” Prowl replied. “I do not believe I will. I have the impression that my memories were corrupted, or erased when it was installed. You called me Prowl.”

“I did... What is it?” The operative asked.

“Battle computer with relays to link up with that computer you sent to the Pit, Jazz,” Ratchet replied. “I’m sorry, it’s thoroughly integrated with your logic computer. I don’t know if I can remove it without catastrophic consequences. As it is, it’s causing you some complications. You may not remember, you crashed earlier.”

“I have crashed before,” he said. “As a youngling I had a glitch.”

“Looks like the set up exacerbated it,” the medic revealed. “It’s manageable. And I think’ll settle to a degree.”

“I understand,” Prowl replied.

“Anything else ya remember?” Jazz asked, gently. He and the medic looked guarded. Prowl understood why.

“I know Praxus was destroyed,” he said. “I know I was there. I know my frame was severely damaged, and the mech you called Shockwave repaired me before hooking me into the grid. They had tried drones before, but it needed a living spark.”

“The demands on your frame caused extensive wear and tear,” Ratchet replied. “And a real strain on your spark. You’re coming along nicely but you aren’t going to see anything outside medbay for a while.”

“I understand,” Prowl said, and he thought he sounded like a drone. But there was an odd rightness to that.  He was not a drone but... maybe he was not... expressive?

“We got a Praxian on the roster outta Psych that’d like to meet ya,” the Polihexian revealed. “When y’re feelin’ steady enough. Smokey’s a bit at loose ends.”

“I would be pleased to meet him,” the Praxian said. There had never been many of his framekin outside of their city. There would not be many left at all. What had Shockwave said? That the damage was complete. He had been... pleased. Prowl had been helpless.

Ratchet chased Jazz off after that. The medic remained. Vorns of immobility had left the components of Prowl’s frame tight and immobile in parts, and more than just replacing burnt out sensors or wires, much of the Praxian’s treatment plan focused on physiotherapy. There were other medics that could have taken it on, but the CMO helped Prowl through the exercise. He had taken personal responsibility over his care, his own admission, and though Prowl caught other medics and other mechanisms peering into his treatment room, none ever entered, none interrupted the chief medical officer. Prowl was glad for it. While he liked Jazz, felt safe with him, and Ratchet, he did not wish to be a sideshow attraction, or an outlet of sanctimonious pity. He was not a patient mech, Prowl thought of himself, not with other mechanisms. Had this always been the case?

A blue and red and white Praxian appeared on Prowl’s third mega-cycle on reliable awareness. He was a young mech, far younger than Prowl. By now the recently liberated Praxian was sitting up in his medberth, supported by the berth. When the newcomer dipped his doorwings, silently asking Prowl’s position to entered, it took some effort for Prowl to convince his doorwings to dip in turn. The mech gave him a broad smile, and started to enter. Before he could cross the room to Prowl however, a smaller mech raced up behind him, and caught his arm. No, not a smaller mech, more of a mechling. A youngling. A Praxian youngling.

“Blue, you’ve gotta stop sneaking out,” Smokescreen said. “They’re going to blame me!”

“He is welcome,” Prowl said, a bit selfishly. He wanted to see the mechling, desperately wanted to see him.

“Thanks,” the mech said. “I’m Smokescreen, Jazz said he mentioned me. I sort of coast between his department and psych. This is Bluestreak... We found him in Praxus.”

“Chrr,” the youngling said, just a quiet, meaningless sound. His doorwings danced wildly on his back.

Binary. Prowl locked his optics on the youngling doorwings. This was the right move, because Bluestreak bound up to him, doorwings never slowing. He was speaking, or signing so quickly it was almost incomprehensible. But Prowl was somehow able to understand. Where the knowledge came from, and why he had it, the Praxian had not the slightest idea but he understood, and this was all that mattered for the moment. As the youngling poured his spark out, Smokescreen dragged over two chairs and lightly nudged Bluestreak into one before taking the other. That he made not attempt to shush the mechling, or to browbeat him for communicating in binary rose him considerably higher in Prowl’s esteem. It was obvious that Bluestreak had been badly traumatized by his ordeal, and the trauma had not exactly come to an end. Eventually, the youngling tired himself out, and his doorwings dipped. He looked sheepish.

“No apologies, Bluestreak,” Prowl said. “Thank you for speaking with me.”

“You understood?” Smokescreen asked. “All of that. I catch a bit but I wouldn’t call myself fluent.”

“I am,” the elder of the Praxians said. “Why I cannot say, but I understand. You are his advocate.”

“I try but I’m not the best voice,” the tri-coloured Praxian explained. “I’ve got a minor in counselling but my major is in forensics. Plus, I’m fresh out of school.”

“I do not know how well I can assist,” Prowl replied. “But if I am permitted, I will translate for him.”

“Did you take him without signing him out?” Ratchet asked as he loomed in the doorway. Smokescreen, and Bluestreak winced almost in unison.

“I believe the youngling followed on his own,” Prowl said. “He has done no harm.”

“He’s supposed to be in therapy,” the medic replied, and to the flinching youngling. “Skipping out, Bluestreak?”

“He does not care for his physician,” the Praxian patient said. “In fact, he will not speak to him.”

“Did you tell him that, Blue?” Smokescreen asked. Bluestreak nodded his helm and his doorwings quickly.

“You speak binary chirolinguistic?” Ratchet asked.

“Apparently,” Prowl said. “He is afraid of the medic assigned to him.”

“Highbrow?” The larger mech asked.

“He is a Seekerkin,” the elder of the Praxian’s explained. “Bluestreak is terrified of Seekers. He hides from the medic because he is afraid. Rather, he is terrified, especially when he is left alone with the mech.”

“Well, Bluestreak I guess I can see about trying you with a different councillor,” Ratchet said, and he knelt at the youngling’s side. His joints creaked. Typical of medics, Ratchet was behind on his own frame maintenance. “Would you like that?”

Bluestreak nodded his helm very quickly. Tears bubbled out of his optics, and he leapt out of his chair. He did not go far, only far enough to crouched at the side of Prowl’s berth, his helm on the cushioned surface, next to Prowl’s arm. His whole frame shook. Smokescreen slid out of his chair, and comforted the mechling. Little rasps broke from his vents as he sobbed. The medic did not interfere, Prowl would have cautioned him against it, thought he did not know why he would have expected the medic to listen to him, he was Ratchet’s patient.

“He is afraid of you as well,” Prowl said. “He is afraid of most of the mechanisms here.”

“He’s skittish, to be fair I don’t blame him,” Ratchet said. “We don’t have any Praxian councillors with the expertise to help him.”

“They do not need to be Praxian, but they need to be smaller,” the Praxian said. “Prior to the event, he likely saw no other frametype but ours. Praxus was reclusive as best, but none were so well guarded as the young. Decepticons terrorized him, Ratchet. He did not survive the bombing out of some perverse good fortune. He was not there.”

“Where do you think he was?” The medic asked.

“Up,” Prowl replied. “Seekers held him, he did not describe more than that. But he watched them destroy the youngling centre he had been assigned to first.”

“Damn it,” Ratchet snarled. “How do we help him, if we don’t understand him. Highbrow had the best chance, and the mechling doesn’t even twitch a wing in his direction.”

“Allow Smokescreen to translate, he may have an imperfect grasp on the language but he understands enough,” the Praxian said. “He needs to feel safe. He will breakdown his walls if he feels safe. He feels secure with Smokescreen.”

“Bluestreak, will you look at me?” Ratchet asked gently, kneeling and then sitting so he towered less over the young mech. The youngling looked up at him, with tear stained faceplates. “You can have Smokescreen with you for every session. I know you don’t exactly trust us, right? But we want to help, okay? Just like we want to help Prowl. We’re going to figure out how to listen to you until you’re ready to speak. Okay?”

The youngling nodded. He leaned against Smokescreen, not exactly at ease, so far as Prowl could see his frame, but less tense. Bluestreak had become burdened with hopelessness. But youth were adaptive and resilient, and Prowl thought he could break free of the anxiety that had taken his voice. When he had steadied himself a little more, the youngling stood back up, and he reached across Prowl’s berth to give him a tight hug. The gesture surprised Prowl, enough to feel a little pinch in his processor, not a crashing but a warning. Despite the awkwardness he felt, he did not push Bluestreak away. By speaking up for him, Prowl had made himself the mechling’s ally and it seemed counter-intuitive to breech his trust this early on.

“I’ll take Bluestreak back to the centre,” Smokescreen said, when Bluestreak finally released Prowl. “We’ll stop for some oil cakes, okay?”

“I’ll take care of the paperwork,” Ratchet said. “You can come by when you like, okay Bluestreak? Whenever you want to talk to Prowl.”

“It was good to meet you, Bluestreak,” Prowl said. The young Praxian dipped his doorwings and fluttered them quickly, voicing his own good wishes. He was excited for the oil cakes, and the time with Smokescreen. Bluestreak waved one final time, and the door closed behind the Praxian pair.

“The only mechanisms I know usually fluent in binary chirolinguistics are sparkling councillors and Enforcers,” the red and white mech said once he was alone with Prowl. “I doubt you were a councillor. Protoform shows mounts for artillery.”

“I suppose that sounds... plausible,” the Praxian said. “It feels... right, but it may be wishful thinking.”

“The general feeling has been that Smokescreen has too many questionable hobbies to let him mind the youngling, whatever Bluestreak would like,” Ratchet said. “His best interests intended or not, he probably felt like he was being isolated from the only mech he felt secure with.”

“I do not know if Smokescreen is prepared for the role of caretaker,” Prowl replied. “But he can be a mentor, and a shield.”

“It’ll do them both good having you around,” the medic said, as he scanned Prowl’s frame. “It’ll do you good too, a bit of a distraction.”

“I was pleased to be useful,” the Praxian replied. “And to stop thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking too hard?” Ratchet asked.

“I have been questioning how much I feel is me, or remnants of Shockwave,” Prowl explained. “I do not have an answer. I do not know what me is. Realistically, I know I will not online and remember.”

“But it’s a difficult situation,” the medic said. “It’s normal to get upset, Prowl.”

“I would rather not crash,” he said. “And I would rather not dwell. But I cannot forget I have this foreign thing in my helm and it wants to operate.”

“Operate?” Ratchet asked.

“To run strategy simulations, to analyze data,” Prowl explained. “I cannot stop it, it is there in the background. I try to ignore it, but it is not really possible. So rather than dissect my helplessness, I need to put it to work. Bluestreak’s arrival, and his issue was... rather convenient.”