#sad!bitlet smokescreen

[anon-e-miss]

Broken Vows - 8

“‘M gonna go look at habs for ya when ya have a rest,” Jazz told Prowl. He avoided the glyph nap which seemed a little mocking to him. As his frame continued to integrate the delicate repairs and with a fragile self-respair systems, Prowl ran out of energy quickly and recharged off and on throughout the mega-cycle.

“Perhaps you might like to take Smokescreen with you?” Prowl offered. “He would benefit from fresh air.”

“Are ya sure?” Jazz asked.

“I trust you,” Prowl said.

“What about you and Blue?” Smokescreen asked.

“We need more rest than you, Bravespark,” Prowl told him. “I know it is not terribly fun for you when we recharge. There is a fine playground in the park your progenitor and I used to walk in.”

“I’d love to,” Jazz said. “What do ya say, Smokey?”

“Okay!”

“I’ll give ya a list o’ favourites,” Jazz offered Prowl. Prowl just shook his helm.

“I trust you and Smokescreen to select it,” he said. “You know how little I concerned myself with my habsuite.”

“A’ight,” Jazz said. “We’ll do our best.”

Smokescreen was nervous, Jazz knew. His genitor was nervous too. Jazz held Smokescreen’s servo in a firm grip as they walked down the hall and made their way to the tram that would drop them off at the metro. It was faster to drive, of course but Jazz was too nervous to drive Smokescreen and the mechling was far too young to drive on his own. Smokescreen would not have wheels of his own until he was a youngling. Sooner or later, Jazz would give him a ride somewhere but Smokescreen had already gotten lost once on his watch and he was not going to risk getting in a crash with him on their first trip off base. The media were all gone, having been chased off by the Primal Vanguard after Prime had given his speech. That did not mean there might not be opportunists who would sneak a quick shot but Jazz had a plan for that.

“I want ya to wear this,” Jazz told Smokescreen as he magnetized a small device to the collar of his armour.

“What’s it for?” Smokescreen asked.

“If anyone tries to take a picture o’ ya, this’ll scramble it,” Jazz told him. “I know yer ori don’t want yer face all o’er the news.”

“It was the same in Praxus,” Smokescreen said. “He didn’t want me in portraits. He didn’t want Blue either but he wasn’t allowed to say no.”

“‘M sorry yer Ori had to make that choice,” Jazz told him. “I’m sorry I bout’m in that spot.”

“Origin loves you,” Smokescreen said. “And it makes him sad. It always made him sad.”

“He’s got good reason, Sweetspark,” Jazz told him. “I broke his spark. I did it on purpose.”

“You were sick,” Smokescreen defended him and Jazz ruffled his helm. After everything Jazz had said and done, Prowl had excused him to their creation. It was a kindness Jazz did not think he deserved.

“Don’t make the damage any easier to live with, Bitlet,” he said.

“Hmm,” Smokescreen took a seat in the window and Jazz sat next to him. “You feel bad about it.”

“Sure do,” Jazz told him. “I didn’t know I’d kindled ya wit Prowl until I saw yer designation next to his on the casualties list. Even when I was better, I was too scared to face your Ori, even the memories o‘m so I didn’t read his letters, ‘n I lied to myself ‘bout how bad I’d behaved. I didn’t want to remember how bad I’d been. When I saw yer designation I had to face what a monster I’d been. I didn’t think I deserved to mourn ya, either o’ ya. But I needed to. I still carry the ultrasound photos he sent me.”

“Really?” Smokescreen asked. Jazz showed him the ultrasound. “I was just a blob.”

“We all start out that way.”

Jazz knew Smokescreen hoped his procreators would get back together and raise him and his brother together. It was something Jazz was a bit too scared to hope for himself. He loved Prowl dearly. With all the clarity in the world now, Jazz did not shy from this truth. The reality was, however he had hurt Prowl terribly and he had driven him away, laying the groundwork for the direction the Praxian’s life had taken. Every awful thing that had happened after could be placed at Jazz’s peds. At some point, if Prowl ever wanted to hear it, Jazz would like to apologize probably, to make sure he knew that Jazz took responsibility, that he had no excuses for everything he had said and done. He could not ask for a chance to be better for Prowl, for Smokescreen and for Bluestreak. Jazz would have to be better and to let the chips fall however they might.

“I know Origin’s originator and grandcreators were afts,” Smokescreen said. “What about yours? Origin never told me about them.”

“That’s ‘cause I never told’m,” Jazz explained. “My genitors were split-spark twins. They died in a riot in Polyhex ‘n losin’em broke my Ori ’n made ‘m go mad... sorta like I did, I guess. Me ‘n my brother, my twin split up... blamin’ different mecha for what happened. I know they’re alive but that’s all I know.”

“You got better,” Smokescreen said. “I bet he will too.”

Counterpunch had sent Jazz another of his rants that light-cycle. As always, it made no sense. There was no threat to Jazz in particular or the Autobots in general. It was just random glyphs, not even in sentences but almost just splattered across the page. Because Counterpunch did not know he had creations, because Punch had always considered his family to be his and not his alter’s, that he even had the code to the commlink Jazz had only ever shared with his family was still a bit unnerving. Talk of a mechanical spark and grinding gears, even when Jazz read it together with the other notes he had received lately, he found no meaning in it. He wondered if Ricochet got notes like these. His twin would never tell him. Ricochet had blamed Sentinel Prime for the deaths of their progenitors and the madness of their originator, in hindsight Jazz understood why. Ricochet did not forgive Jazz lending is allegiance to that prime as Jazz had blamed terrorists who had worn the Decepticon brand. Whether Ricochet called himself a Decepticon or freelanced, as had been the family business, Jazz did not know. He had not spoken to his twin in millenia and had not laid optics on him for even longer.

“This is our stop,” Jazz took Smokescreen servo and led him down the escalator and out onto the street.

It was just around the corner from Mirror’s, nearer than even Prowl’s old hab and been and a short walk to the park. There were other habsuite on his list to look at but if this one was even close to as good as the ad had suggested, he thought it would be perfect. Smokescreen, of course, would be the one to cast the deciding vote. The property manager shook Smokescreen’s servo after he shook Jazz’s and that was a point in his favour. There were lots of families in the building, or so said the manager and that was a point for the building. No one had lived in the habsuite for a while so it was a completely blank slate. Imagining how it might be set up was not a problem to Jazz. He laughed as Smokescreen ran about, checking every room. The mechling definitely needed sometime in the park to release some energy.

“This room for Origin, because it has a pretty view,” Smokescreen pulled Jazz along for a tour. “This room’s for Blue because its right next door. This rooms for me and this rooms for my grandori and uncle when they come to visit.”

“He’s so sweet,” the property manager said. “And so well behaved.”

“His Ori gets all the credit,” Jazz replied.

“Origin’s going to love it,” Smokescreen declared as they left, key card stored in Jazz’s subspace. As Jazz was an officer in the Autobot Corp, the property manager was quick to sign the habsuite over to Jazz, even having never met the principle tenant. Security was good, it would be better when Jazz added encryptions to the lock. Smokescreen had picked a good room for Prowl, it had a few of the park. He would love it.

“He’ll love that ya picked it for’m,” Jazz said. “How ‘bout we go to the park now ‘n ya can run ‘round like a wild mechanimal?”

“Okay!”

“And who is this?” Jazz jumped. The voice was husky. He knew without looking that it belonged to a wispy femme about his originator’s age.

“Dipole!” Jazz exclaimed. He had met her when she had returned from burying her progenitor. The funds that had seen her get there had been stolen and Prowl had hunted the thief down and returned them too her.

“I’m Smokescreen, Ms Dipole!”

“You look just like your Origin, doin’t you?” Dipole said. “Mirror mentioned you stopped by, to pick up a peace offering. Than she saw the news and she’s been as close to a wreck as I’ve ever seen her.”

“Mirror makes the yummy rust sticks, right?” Smokescreen asked.

“That’s right,” the femme replied.

“Prowl’s got some more healin’ to do but he’ll visit soon,” Jazz promised.

“Mirror always thought of Prowl as something of an adoptive grandcreation,” Dipole said. “What with him being all but orphaned.”

“Can we say hi?” Smokescreen asked.

“Uh...” Jazz thought on it. “I don’t want to take the wind outta yer Ori’s sails, Bravespark.”

“Eh?”

“I thought yer Ori outta be the one to introduce ya to Mirror,” Jazz said.

“He won’t mind,” Smokescreen said. “Especially if we bring more rust sticks. And... if Ms Mirror is worried about Origin, she’ll feel better and Origin’ll feel better knowing she’s not worrying anymore.”

“He is very clever,” Dipole said.

“All credit goes to his Ori,” Jazz replied. “Okay, we’ll say hi to Mirror.”

“They were really buried for vorns?” Dipole asked, softly as they headed to the bakery.

“Yeah,” Jazz replied.

“Mirror wouldn’t look at the casualty list,” Dipole explained. “After he said goodbye, she always figured he’d come back. She said he belonged here and not in Praxus but... well he never came back and then Praxus was gone. She didn’t want to know because if she didn’t know than she could imagine he was well, wherever he was.”

“I promise he’s okay now,” Jazz said. “He thought Smokey outta get out ‘n get some exercise while ‘m ‘n the bitty rest more.”

“It’ll be good to see him,” Dipole said. “He was always one of Mirror’s favourites.”

[primergon]

KINDA ANGSTY SCENARIO REQUEST: how would the tfp bots or cons (or both if you can) be at raising their child after loosing their human conjux, how would the loss affect them and the way they take care of the kid(s)? (sorry for any grammar mistakes, English is not my first language)

A/N: Thank you for sending this in Anon! Don't worry about your english, it's really good ! I'm going to the Autobots for your ask and if a lot of people enjoy this then I'll make a part two with the Decepticons! I hope that's alright <3

1. Whether it was under the influence of the matrix or not, Optimus had always wanted a sparkling. There were stories of how the matrix encourages its bearer to create life, a survival instinct crafted by the old gods to ensure that the Cybertronian race persevered. Yet even when he was still an archivist, Orion had always wanted to raise a bitlet. Therefore, even if he grieves over the loss of his conjunx, he was still the doting father. Even if Optimus was constantly torn between his responsibilities as both a leader and a father, he always seemed to make time for both. He would teach them the alphabet and read them bedtime stories, and Optimus was an expert in balancing discipline and encouragement since he used to take young soldiers under his wing. There was a familiar ache against his spark when he realizes the baby had inherited their carrier's optic colour. Whenever the sparkling cries at night, he would scoop them up in his arms gently. Cooing and rocking the little bitlet until they fall asleep. Whenever things get too difficult for Optimus, he would always look up to wonder if his conjunx is watching them. It warms his spark to know that his little sparkling will grow up just to be like their carrier. It gives him all the more reason to win this war.

2. Your death change Bumblebee. Even after the war ended and he had his voice back, it was as if the light inside him had dimmed. He turned quiet and mostly kept to himself. If it wasn't for the little sparkling you both had together, Bumblebee wouldn't have healed properly. He pushed himself to continue for your bitlet's sake, always striving to be the best father. He often seeks Optimus for advice, and when he wasn't there, Arcee and Bulkhead were more than happy to help out. Even Ultra Magnus is open to giving the Scout advice. The war sometimes makes people forget just how young Bumblebee was. He was old enough to have children of course, but he was way too young to be widowed. And so he and his sparkling learned from one another, and parenthood was a different kind of challenge for him. But the moment the baby wraps their little hand around his finger, Bumblebee knew that all the sleepless nights were worth it. He just wished you were here to see the little sparkling fall asleep against his arm.

3. Bulkhead didn't hide his grief. He would openly talk about you to his sparkling, trying to hold back tears as he remembered all the good memories you shared. He was an excellent father, even if he sometimes doubts it. Wheeljack would often remind him that he's doing amazing, even offering to babysit the bitlet while Bulkhead gets some rest. The wrecker often gets angry at the world for being unfair, for taking you away from him, from your baby. Going as far as to punch holes into the metal walls of the base. Yet, the gentle giant made sure his sparkling would never see that side of him. Always affectionate and attentive to the bitlet that reminds him so much of you. Miko would let the bitlet sit on her lap, playing with her while Bulkhead watches nearby. He often visits your grave with the baby, talking to you as if you were there to listen - and Bulkhead knows, somewhere up there, you were listening.

4. Angry. Arcee was upset, frustrated and so very angry. The world keeps on taking and taking from her. It broke her heart to know that her bitlet would grow up in such a cruel world. Yet, the moment she looks into their eyes and sees a reflection of you in them, Arcee made a promise to make sure that no hurt will ever come to her sparkling. It's funny how she used to tease June for being a helicopter mom because Arcee is no different. She's protective, sometimes too protective of the baby. Always worrying every five minutes even after Ratchet had ordered her to get some sleep. She doesn't trust anyone outside of team Prime with her child, and even if they wanted to hold the baby she would have to be close to keep watch. Jack would often watch over them, entertaining the gibberish coming out of their mouth. It warms her spark to know that even under all that loss, she still has love left inside of her. And she swore to give it all to the sparkling in her arms. Not a day goes by without her thinking of you.

5. Even if it wasn't his fault, Ratchet couldn't stop blaming himself for it. The memory of your death playing over and over again in his processor. It made him feel unworthy of the baby in his arms. He doesn't show his grief, but underneath that exterior, Ratchet was crushed. There was a multitude of emotions overwhelming him, sadness, regret, worry, anger, pain - so much pain. The hurt only goes away when the baby laughs. That gave him the push to pull himself together. Ratchet is naturally idealistic, he sets high standards for himself to cope with your absence. He became preoccupied with taking care of the baby, and if he wasn't, he was reading on how to become the ' best father.' Optimus has to constantly remind him that we cannot create the perfect parent out of a test tube. Every mistake made Ratchet feel ashamed, yet he accepted the fact that parenthood was all about learning. He wasn't religious, but Primus does the old mech feel blessed to have the baby in his arms.

6.Smokescreen still couldn't fully accept your death, stuck within this loop of bargaining and denial. It pained everyone around him to see Smokescreen so torn. The only thing that kept him grounded was the Sparkling. He loves how they remind him to stay cheerful, giving him hope even when he can barely smile. He remains optimistic for your baby's sake, knowing he still has so much to learn about being a sire. Smokescreen wasn't a perfect parent, mistakes naturally occur, but what makes him a great parent is that he tries to be better. He was maturing into a better person because of his child, achieving the best version of himself through fatherhood. Eventually, he knows he should move on from the grief, but just because Smokescreen decided to accept your death for the sake of your child doesn't mean he forgot about you. He knows that you'll always be in his spark. He wonders if you're proud of him.

7.Being a father was not something Wheeljack had predicted for himself. He had always seen himself as a lone mech, never grounded to one place. It was just heartbreaking to see that when he finally decided to build a home with you, the universe had other plans. Wheeljack guarded his emotions and kept to himself because he doesn't want to get hurt, so your death made him withdrew even more. He was angry at himself. Yet when he held the sparkling in his arms, Wheeljack realized that they needed him more than ever. He doubts he'll make a good father, but Team Prime was more than willing to help him. Bulkhead gave him a lot of pointers on how to care for the baby, even Ultra Magnus had offered some advice. Fatherhood helped him heal and at the same time, it made him realize that he still has a home. As reckless as Wheeljack was he's protective towards his baby. He only begins to cut himself some slack when Arcee compared him to Ultra Magnus. Wheeljack knew children were different from assembling ships. There was no manual. He struggled a lot, but through time and a lot of patience, he was happy to see that his sparkling grew into a mini version of himself. They remind him so much of you and Wheeljack wished you were there to see him now.

8.Ultra Magnus lives a life of fighting. Even before the war, he was already part of the military. As the leader of the Wreckers and the Autobot's second in command, Ultra Magnus has to make sure he has nothing to lose. He cannot afford any kind of liability that would hold him back. Therefore, when he lost you, he couldn't help but beat himself up for it. He feels responsible for putting you in such a dangerous position, even if your death had nothing to do with him. A common misconception is that Ultra Magnus doesn't feel, but in reality, he feels too much to the point where your death pushed him into drinking. Ultra Magnus has a hard time allowing himself grief, so once he does, he loses control for the first time in his life. The main reason he sobered up was that he knew he had a child to look after. He was attentive and observant, always providing for the sparkling whenever it cries or gets hungry. Yet, a baby is nowhere near one of his subordinates. Even if he's aware of this, he sometimes still finds himself stuck in difficult situations. The commander has a hard time asking for help, but thankfully those around him were more than willing to help out. Ultra Magnus was a strict parent. He often grows too protective of his child. The thought of losing someone after you was unbearable. However, with a little reminder here and there, Ultra Magnus had managed to raise a wonderful child. Ultra Magnus would often take a look at the holo-picture of you he keeps in his subspace and feel proud. He was happy to see that his child took after their carrier.

A/N : I hope this was what you wanted Anon <3

[anon-e-miss]

Hi anon it's me Blueshirezz I create another account because I completely forgot my e-mail was so uh....Merry Christmas anon

I was waiting for Jazz/Prowl fanfic update😴

sorry for asking you this question😔

I hope you don't mind?

The clans were gathering. Perhaps, Jazz should have been walking amongst them, humouring their various gifts and promises as they jostled amongst themselves in hopes of improving their positions in the hierarchy of Polihex. Straxis’ sycophants had yet to appear and in all likelihood they would not show their faces. Through infighting and Straxis’ violent paranoia, there was very little left of his once powerful clan. His allies had gone to ground, likely afraid of retribution. It was a tempting thought, but Jazz did not know if he would be able to stop. No clan had stood in support of his when Straxis had outlawed them to hamper their efforts to rescue Free Wheeler. They had feared the same treatment, and perhaps that was understandable but Jazz did not feel terribly forgiving. The blow, the failure was still too fresh.

As the Chiefs were given housing in the palace, Jazz had to put real effort into avoiding the aft-kissers. In the end, he took shelter in the harem, the place he least wanted to be, with the mech whose company he wanted the least. Jazz did not want to like Prowl. The melancholy mech was painful proper and perfectly rigid. Laughter echoed through the harem complex, but the originator of the brood never laughed at his creations’ antics. He hardly even smiled. When he did, it was tragically beautiful and Jazz recoiled from than observation.

Prowl was not like the god of hearth and home, the serene, beatific originator. While he was quiet, there was no serenity to him. While he was dutiful and gentle with his creations and Jazz’s as well, it felt less faintly and more like martyrdom. Not that Prowl complained. He never complained and he never protested. Jazz imagined he cared so well for the Twins out of duty, but he showed them the same devotion he showed his own newling. If he felt any resentment for their added burden, it was well hidden.  Jazz knew he needed to find a wetnurse to provide for the Twins, so that Prowl could go... Go where. Somewhere else. Jazz was not ungrateful, Prowl and his creations would be provided for ‘til the end of his cycles. Through Punch’s adoption, they were Jazz’s clansmecha and they would be treated as such. Still, Jazz wanted distances. Maybe later they could become friends, after Jazz’s wounds had calloused.

Jazz cooed over his yellow creation as Prowl put Smokescreen through a math lesson. Ori had brough a load of datapads in from the library. Prowl had used them to come up with some quite of education plan. He was wickedly smart. The datapads were mostly written in Polihexian Neo Cybex but Prowl had already deciphered the texts enough to make use of them. Smokescreen wrote out his coursework on a tablet, Punch had given him for the purpose. When Prowl had to pause their lessons to tend to one of his siblings, he kept his helm down. Jazz almost missed the tension in his jaw. He had to have been used to this. That did not mean it would not be hard for him. In a matter of quartexes, the sparkling would be a youngling. His needs were going to expand. Was Prowl ready to help him on this next step of his development. Strongarm, Streetwise and Flash fussed, a sure sign it was time for a nap. Prowl told Smokescreen to continue his work as he settled his siblings. Bluestreak protested, as he always did, when he was set down in the little basket. Jazz opened his arms to take his second creation, and Prowl disappeared back inside with the trio of cranky sparklings. Flash yelled, no nap! Prowl’s response was too quiet for Jazz to pick up.

“Aren’t you going to designate them?” Smokescreen asked, looking up from his work.

“I gotta work harder at it, don’t I?” Jazz replied. “Free Wheeler must ‘o had designations for ‘em but I’ll never know. It feels wrong to call ‘em anythin’ else.”

“In Praxus, the nursery designation is just what the origin calls the bitlets. They earn real designations when they leave the nursery and learn to be real mechs.”

“So Smokescreen’s just yer nursery designation?” Jazz asked.

“Mhm.”

“Are ya thinkin’ ‘bout what ya’d wanna change it too? Won’t be long before yer upgrades.”

“I don’t want to change my designation. I don’t want upgrades. I don’t want to leave Origin.”

“Leave?”

“Younglings don’t stay in the nursery. Either they get a mentor or their progenitor mentors them and they learn to be proper mechs.”

“Ya don’t gotta leave yer origin. This ain’t a nursery.”

“But Origin can’t leave.”

“Sure he can, Smokey. The door ain’t locked.”

“It doesn’t have to be locked. The nursery wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Origin couldn’t leave. He did. We did. When I was around Downshift’s age, we escaped. We hid with a friend of his from before. Then my progenitor offered a reward for our return and that “friend” sold us out.”

“‘M sorry, Smokescreen.”

“I asked him why we didn’t try again, a little while before my progenitor died. He said he couldn’t. Not with a bitty on his well and another in his forge. It didn’t matter if the door was unlocked. He would never leave again. He wouldn’t get far. But I would. I will. They think I’m going to be contributive, but Origin said if they turned out to be wrong, I needed to runaway. I shouldn’t hide it like he did. I should runaway.”

“Ya don’t gotta runaway here,” Jazz promised and he understood a little better Prowl’s melancholy. He had escaped, he had been betrayed and his captor had ensured he would never escape again by ensuring he was always gravid or fuelling a bitlet. Crosscut was a monster. “Ya don’t gotta leave yer origin, ‘n ya don’t gotta change yer designation. We don’t lock up origins here. We don’t take younglings from their origins.”

“Straxis botnapped Free Wheeler and the bitlets in him.”

“He was a monster. Every frametype has its monsters.”

“My progenitor was a monster. Road Rage was a monster. My origin saved their lives and they made him a breeding slave.”

“No one’ll do that to yer origin again. I swear on my life. He’s free. Y’re all free.”

[anon-e-miss]

OMG, that was such a sad mama!Prowl... poor thing I hope at some point you write a happier follow up to that fic. I hate seeing Prowl and Smokey so sad... I also look forward to this coming week! I hope you enjoy it.

Crosscut and Road Rage were dead. As much as Prowl loathed these mechanisms with every fibre of his being, he could not celebrate their demises. He remained in the nursery, the collection of rooms that had made up his existence for fifty-six vorns. Nothing had changed here, not yet. His elder creations needed help with their school work while their younger siblings needed support and attention as they learned numbers and shapes and speech. They did not appear to notice the loss of their progenitors but then Road Rage had never visited the nursery or seen the femmeling she had sired on Prowl, and Crosscut had come maybe four times in Smokescreen’s entire life. When he had deemed it time to put another newspark in Prowl, it had been Prowl who had gone to him. Those dark-cycles were the only times Prowl had left the nursery since kindling with Smokescreen where he had been bred in Crosscut’s berth and then sent on his way.

There was no relief in the knowledge that he would never go to that berth again. Prowl adjusted Bluestreak against his chassis as his newest creation lost his latch and complained bitterly for it. His protoform was still thin and soft. Prowl had only given him emergence the previous quartex, only an orn before he had learned of Crosscut and Road Rage’s deaths. He was reading the younger sparklings, Flash, Streetstar and Strongarm a story as the elders worked on their coursework. Smokescreen was a good help with Camshaft’s math and Downshift’s reading. He had become a singularly dutiful brother and creation and Prowl felt guilt for depending on him. It would not be much longer now. When he received his youngling upgrades, Smokescreen would leave the nursery, and he would not come back. The grand door opened and Prowl’s mouth  went dry. Smokescreen was still a six quartexes from his emergence-cycle. He still had six quartexes in the nursery.

Prowl recognized one of the mechs, Sideways was his brother in law. He suppressed a shiver of revulsion. Crosscut’s ownership of Prowl’s fertility would have been passed to his brother by Praxian inheritance laws. They had met before Prowl had been bought and sold, during that brief period of Prowl’s life when his path had been his to choose. Sideways had been the model for every negative stereotype one might have of an enforcers, and Prowl doubted anything had changed. Though he actually did not know. Crosscut had never shared gossip with him. His time in Crosscut’s presence had served one and only one purpose. There had hardly been any talking. The things said had not been things Prowl had wanted to hear. Just demeaning scrap that had filled Prowl with impudent hate.

Seeing Sideways exhausted Prowl. He found himself mentally cursing at the prospect of laying under this mech and bearing him creations with even more fervour that he had Crosscut. For all he had hated that mech, he had been the devil he had known. Now Prowl was in the merciless servos of fate and he did not enjoy it. This was not the life he wanted, to be passed on to the beneficiary of Crosscut’s estate, and perhaps then on to the next. Prowl had take great care to hide his receptive status from the moment he had learned of it. If he had never been shot, the medic would never have had cause to look and Prowl’s life would still be his own.

“Start packing,” Sideways said. No greeting, no exchange of sympathy. None of that was especially startling, but the order was.

“Why?” Prowl had never learned to stop asking questions. He had never learned to serenely embrace his fate. It did not matter how many times his ownership changed servos, Prowl did not believe he would ever know that kind of serenity.

“You’re being passed to the Warlord of Polihex to pay my brother’s energon debt. Pack up whatever you can transport. The caravan will here in three mega-cycles.”

“What about my creations?”

“They’re going with you,” Sideways sneered. “I sure as Pit don’t want them.”

***

This would have been the perfect opportunity to make his escape, but Prowl looked around the opulent trailer letting his optics fall on each of his creations. He had not wanted to carry even one of them, yet he could not imagine leaving them. Even though he had struggled to bond with Bluestreak as he had carried him in his forge, Prowl could not imagine pulling the newling from his line and jumping from their transport and fleeing across the dunes. The love he had for them was a cage he could not break free from. Acknowledging the reality only depressed Prowl further. He stared out at the dunes as he and his creations were carted off into the unknown.

It was a long journey, and his sparklings grew quickly tired of their confinement. Their whole lives had been the nursery, and the little high walled garden off of the patio. But this trailer was a fraction of the size of their nursery had been and they were chomping at the bit to be freed. They would not be free until they were grown, and even then the course of their lives would be written upon the reading of their sparks. That at least would have been the case in Praxus. Perhaps Polihex, a land of brigands and nomads, offered mechanisms more freedoms, or perhaps their receptive mechanisms spent their entire lives in red tents.

As the sun set and the moons rose Prowl watched as their caravan rolled up to another with carpets spread out over the sand, tents set up in a ring,  and a great many fires burnings. His creations all but covered him. They had fought and they had cried but eventually they had become too tired and too bored to do anything but recharge. The trailer rolled to a stop. His sparklings stirred but remained in recharge. Prowl crained his helm to look out the window. He watched as mechanisms rose up from the carpets and spoke with the caravan’s driver. Fireflight cast interesting shadows on the faces of the mechanisms who had been disturbed from their rest.

Tent flaps were thrown open and a newcomer approached. Everyone inclined their helms to the yellow and blue mech. Prowl turned his helm as Smokescreen sat up, and then knelt on the bench to look out the window with him. When he looked back, he locked optics with the newcomer. A klik later the doors to the trailer were thrown open. The sparklings woke with a start. They clung to him as the newcomer stepped into the trailer. Prowl rumbled his engine in a low decimal level in hopes of soothing them without drawing unnecessary attention. The yellow and blue mech stared at him.

“How many o’ these bitlets were stolen from their origins?” The mech asked in thickly accented Neo Cybex.

“None,” the driver said with surprise. “The prize is the origin.”

“Ya adopted any o’ these bitlets?” The newcomer asked.

“No,” Prowl replied. Faintly surprised that he himself had been asked the question. “I carried each of my creations.”

“Six” The mech said after he counted the mechlings. Then he corrected himself. “Seven... That is... something.”

Prowl did not flinch at the mech’s tone though he bristled internally at the judgment in it. Bearing seven creations had not been his choice, and he did not appreciate being spoken down to for this lot. At Prowl’s side, Smokescreen’s doorwings twitched up and Prowl rumbled his engine again. The low octave tone still at a soothing effect on Smokescreen. Would it after he got his upgrades? Prowl did not know. It was all he could do to hope he would have the opportunity to find out.

“Lord Straxus was real excited ‘bout that,” the driver revealed. “He only e’er sired the one off his harem ‘n that wasn’t for lack of tryin’.”

“Of course,” the newcomer sneered. “Well, get up. Easier to recharge if you stretch your legs a bit.”

“This one’s run before,” the driver argue as he stretched out his arms to ensure Prowl did not get by him, not that he made any attempt. “Straxus don’t wanna lose’m to the dunes.”

“Straxus is dead,” the yellow and blue mech replied. “Jazz is Warlord now, let’em off.”

“But...”

“Are ya really gonna tell me ya think ya know better what Jazz would want?”

“No... no Punch.”

“That’s what I thought. Come on, off, the lot of ya. Let’s get some fuel in ya.”

Prowl did not know who Jazz was but he sounded infinitely better than Straxus. Though that could have been nothing but a naive hope. The nap his sparklings had taken would make it difficult to get them down again, some exercise would do them could, some fuel as well. They had not been given energon for a few joors; the driver did not like stopping so the sparklings could relieve their waste tanks so he was sparing with fuel.  Smokescreen picked up Flash. The youngest of Prowl’s sparklings was too wild to be trusted. Prowl cradled Bluestreak to his chassis and extrended his servo to Camshaft. Camshaft held Downshift’s servo, and Downshift, Streetstar’s and Streetstar, Strongarm’s. Prowl watched as the mech the driver had called Punch helped Smokescreen down. Though Prowl was anxious to do it, he allowed Punch to lift each sparkling down, after he told them to stay close to Smokescreen. Their optics were all wide and owlish. They would likely have stayed close even without Prowl’s instructions.

“Watch yer step,” Punch cautioned Prowl. “Y’ll sit wit me by the fire.”

It was a command rather than a request. Prowl acquiesced because he was much too happy to be out of the trailer to argue with Punch. A new fire was lit by the carpets stretched out in front of the tent Punch had left. Before they could even reach it, a mech left a trailed filled with fuel on the carpet. There were no plates, Prowl imagined they were meant to share. Certainly it was different than anything that would have been tolerated in Praxus but Prowl was not inclined to judge the Polihexians for it.  He was grateful for this small taste of freedom, to sit on a carpet in the wilderness without a single wall around them. It would only be a brief reprieve but it was more than he had had in vorns.

“Take whate’r ya like,” Punch ordered. “There’s lots to share”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Prowl said. “We have not left the trailer for more than a few kliks in many mega-cycles.”

“Y’re welcome,” Punch said. “Will ya tell me yer designations?”

“I am Prowl. My eldest is Smokescreen. These two beside me are Camshaft and Downshift. My twins are Strongarm and Streetstar. My little one is Flash and my newling is Bluestreak.”

“Ya have a strong spark to carry so many, and close together at that.”

“I suppose.”

Smokescreen served as gopher for his siblings and origin. He handed out gelled fuels and candied crystals before he took any for himself. The sparklings ate, they were hungry as they had the right to be. They took their time, distracted from their fuel to some extent by the strange sights and smells. When Smokescreen looked up at the stars and say transfixed at the sight of the constellations, Punch told him what the Polihexians called them. The younger sparklings followed Punch’s digit as he pointed up at the sky and told them stories. Bluestreak woke and immediately went for his origin’s well, Prowl bared it for him.

As his newling nursed, Prowl listened to the stories. Some of the constellations had different names in Prowl, but he had never seen them this clear. It was pleasant to sit back and listen to the stories. Though Bluestreak could not possibly see the constellations, Prowl cradled him so that he could star watch like his siblings once he had drunk his fill. Shrill cries broke their peace. Punch rose quickly and returned to his tent. The sound had Prowl’s chassis throb and his drained fuel lines fill. It was a familiar sound.

Punch returned a short time later, two newlings similar in age to Bluestreak in his arms. He seemed weary as he cradled them on his lap and tried to convince them to latch on the nozzles of bottles filled with pink fuel. In the glow of the fire they seemed ashen to Prowl, sickly and weak as they waved their servos and cried. Punch crooned at them in a dialect that Prowl did not understand. He sounded anxious to Prowl, though he could not be certain. With each passing klik they refused the bottles, and Prowl’s chassis became painful full.

“They do not like bottles?” Prowl asked, tentatively.

“Less the bottles ‘n more the machadron energon,” Punch replied. “But it’s all we got for ‘em. Their origin was dead before I found’m. Straxus didn’t get’m a medic when the evacuation went wrong. Rust took’m. Or that’s what the guards told me when I found’m.”

“I am sorry.”

“That’s why Straxus’ dead. Because he botnapped Free Wheeler ‘n let’m die. Jazz is half mad as it is, I don’t wanna tell’m I couldn’t save his bitties too.”

“Give them to me,” Prowl said, laying Bluestreak in his lap. “I have fuel enough in my well.”

“Please,” Punch replied. “No one in the camp has a drop to give’em. Mine dried up vorns ago.”

Gingerly he gave the sickly newlings to Prowl, one at a time. It took surprisingly little effort to convince the first, a red mechling to latch, though only weakly. As he suckled, energon flowed through Prowl’s nozzle and into the newling’s mouth and he suddenly suckled harder. Prowl took the second. This was had no use for him, but Prowl was patient. He rumbled his engine in that low octave purr he had learned with Smokescreen, and as the yellow newling’s temper was soothed he started to suckle, and energon flowed into his famished little frame. As they nursed, Prowl stroked their helms and crooned softly at them, and patiently endured their frantic suckling.

“Y’re a miracle from Primus,” Punch declared. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Tell me what you know of Jazz?” Prowl asked as he glanced up from the newlings. His sparklings crawled over to look at the strange newlings. The sight of their origin nursing a newling was common place for them, but the newlings had only ever been their siblings. Smokescreen took Bluestreak from Prowl’s lap so he could relax a little more and rocked his littlest brother. He looked to Punch as Prowl asked the question. His answers would affect all of them.

“He’s a good mech,” Punch replied. “I see why ya’d have a need to know. I spose ya were promised to the Warlord, ‘n not just Straxus himself.”

“I was told I was being given to the Warlord of Polihex to pay restitution for Crosscut’s misdeed. I never heard a designation mentioned. I do not know that Sideways would have bothered to know it.”

“This Crosscut was yer Conjunx.”

“We were not bonded,” Prowl replied. “Crosscut owned my fertility, that is all.”

“I don’t understand,” Punch said.

“Bondings are reserved for receptive mechanisms who accept their duty. They are afforded some freedoms, the ability to walk the streets, to visit shops and theatres. I forged my medical records, and hid that my spark is receptive for many vorns. My deception was uncovered and my fertility was bought and sold. As I needed to be compelled to do my duty, I was not afforded the dignity of bonding.”

“‘N they call us savage,” Punch hissed. “Love, ya won’t be caged here. That ain’t our way.”

“You cannot speak for Jazz.”

“Oh, I can, to a point. He’s my bitlet ‘n I know his spark as only an origin can.”

“You are his origin? You run this caravan?”

“Bein’ receptive, bein’ an origin don’t cost ya yer freedom here, Prowl. Payment or no, ya won’t be a breedin’ slave to my creation. That ain’t our way, ‘n it ain’t his way.”

[anon-e-miss]

Jazz did not recharge for a long time. He laid in the berth in the alcove next to the one holding Prowl and all the sparklngs and newlings, and listened. The newlings never cried. Throughout the dark-cycle Jazz heard whimpers and whines but never cries. Prowl seemed to have been tuned to them, or maybe he was having a hard time recharging as well. It would have been fair; he might have guessed what this place had been. No, he had probably guessed. Maybe he was waiting. Surely he would have known that Jazz would not come for him as the bitlets recharged, but maybe not. Apart from Smokescreen, the sparklings seemed perfectly guileless and innocent. But then, if all they had known was their origin being used it would just be normal to them. He dimmed his optics, that was an ugly thought.

Every time Jazz started to cycle down into recharge, he pictured Free Wheeler, and imagined his fear and his pain. Tears in his optics, Jazz rolled onto his side. Staniz had probably been in this berth more than a few times over the vorns. Not with Free Wheeler. He had been smart enough to never take him to Staniz or Darkmount were Punch’s allies and clansmech had been lying in wait. Though Staniz was the capital of the Polihexian frametype, it was not their only city, not even close to it. Straxus had ferried Free Wheeler from this stronghold and that for a nearly a vorn. Free Wheeler had suffered his entirely carrying on the road, on the run. To his last intake he must have been praying Jazz and their clan was coming. Too late. They had come too late.

When Jazz had heard the Blackjack had been killed he had not felt a shred of vindictive joy but dread. He had known that Straxus would be that much more determine to beget himself heirs, or claims the newsparks within Free Wheeler as his. Straxus would have insisted on “contributing” at every opportunity.  The tears blinding Jazz fell and he covered his face with his servos. Ugly thoughts circled through his helm. If Straxis had received Prowl sooner, he might have forgotten about Free Wheeler. He would have been too preoccupied with the Praxian’s fertile spark. Jazz was disgusted with himself, but he could not chase the thought away. On the other side of the wall someone whined, and someone murmured though he could not quite hear the glyphs. He rolled over onto his back and covered his face.  The mech had saved the Twins with the fuel in his well, and here Jazz was wishing that he had been raped in Free’s stead.

There was no question Jazz could not stay if Prowl remained. He could not look at the mech, and think of Straxis. It would make him turn bitter and cruel. Ori was right, unfortunately. When Jazz had taken Straxis’ helm he had taken his crown, and the traditions of Polihex as well as the rifts between the various clans ran deep. Their clan had learned who their allies had been when Straxis had outlawed them and made them scatter into the sands. If more of their “friends” had stood alongside them, Free Wheeler might not be dead. All these what ifs were killing him. How was he supposed to look those chieftains in the optics and humour their aft-kissing scrap? Everyone of them had let down Free Wheeler. Not one amongst them was innocent.

Though Jazz did not especially want to be around the Praxian, Prowl was still fostering the Twins. They depended on the energon in his well to survive. Jazz would not avoid them in order to avoid their wet nurse so when Jazz woke to the sound of laughter he dragged himself out of his borrowed berth and followed the sound. Borrowed. Technically the berth was his. Everything in the palace was his until he lost his helm to some ambitious afthole. He hated every scrap of it. Jazz followed the echoing laughter out onto the balcony. Down in the too perfect garden the sparklings were playing. They had baskets of crystals they had picked. Straxis would have been enraged, and the thought pleased Jazz.

Where was their origin. His question was answered when the femmeling called out “Ori” and ran beneath the balcony. Jazz paused for a moment before he caught sight of his origin walking with the older mechlings. As if Punch could sense his creation’s presence, he looked up and their optics locked. Ori nodded his helm after the femmeling, then looked back down to answer the golden faced mechling’s question. He had called himself Camshaft, but Ori had called him Cam. Already with the nicknames, but that figured. Their family was fond of then. Jazz watched his origin with the mechling, and watched as another, toddling more than walking at this stage, came over and stretched up his arms. Punch picked the colourful mechling up and held him on his hip. Fond of the already. Bonded to them already. The observation made Jazz frown.

Turning his back to the scene, Jazz walked back into the harem, and over to the stairwell. He stopped at the base of the steps as he saw Prowl sitting on a thick pillow, cradling all three newlings to his chassis. His femmeling was showing him her favourite crystals. Jazz studied his profile, the slop of his doorwings, his almost expressionless face. There was a heaviness to the mech that could not be missed; it showed in the slop of his shoulders. With just the brief interactions, Jazz was inclined to believe what Punch had told him; he had no doubt Prowl had been badly abused. It grieved Jazz in a detached way. His spark was too burdened feel more than feel a muted sympathy.

“Strongarm, come see!” Jazz did not see which of her brothers called to her, but the femmeling took off. Prowl watched after her go, the barest of smiles on his lipplates. He looked down at the newlings, the smile vanished.

“Do ya mind if I join ya?” Jazz asked as he stepped into view. He watched the doorwings flit up and then down.

“No,” Prowl replied. If it was a lie, Jazz could not tell. His voice was smooth but without inflection. No anger, no sadness, but also no joy. “I imagine you would like to hold them.”

“I don’t think I’d make a good impression on ‘m if I cut their breakfast short,” Jazz replied. Prowl looked up from the newlings. His expression was as unreadable as his voice.

“Only this one is still fuelling,” Prowl said, pausing to tickled the red twin’s ped. Jazz heard the sound of suckling increase as the bitlet curled his digits around the line he was drinking from. It slowed in a klik and Prowl tickled his ped again.

“Why are ya doin’ that?” He asked, as he settled onto the pillow next to Prowl.

“He is a lazy fueller,” Prowl explained. “He falls into recharge on my line before he gets his fill. Tickling helps him stay awake without irritating him.”

“Clever.”

“If you can take him,” Prowl said, lightly tapping the other twin’s back. “You are welcome to hold him. My servos are full.”

“Of course,” Jazz replied.

He rose halfway and then knelt in front of Prowl. The mechling, with his broad audial fins, drew his servos up to his face as Jazz took him from Prowl’s shoulder. Prowl’s newling made a soft sound and dug his digits into Prowl’s collar. His originator slowly stroked his back with his long, narrow digits. Jazz was careful as he lowered himself back down to the cushion. The bitlet did not stir.  Staring down at his creation Jazz felt dears pooling in his optics again. It did not feel real. Reverently, he stroke his thumb against the dozing newling’s plump cheek, hardly ventilating as he feared he was going to wake up only to find this was all a memory flux, and that he had failed to save not just Free Wheeler but their twins as well.

“He is finished for now,” Prowl said after a bream or two.

Jazz looked over to see him setting his own creation into one of the woven baskets his framekin traditionally used for bitty berths during their travels. The Praxian newling wriggled a little with discontent but his origin stroked his chassis and he soothed him. He recharged. With his own creation safely settled, Prowl knelt up, and turned and placed Jazz’s second creation into his arms. Even in recharge the Twins sensed each other, and they reached out theirs and cuddled together in their progenitor’s arms. Splitsparks, Ori had figured that much out already. They needed designations, Jazz thought as he stared down at them, but he could not set his processor on the task. Free Wheeler must have had designations in mind for them, but Jazz would never know what they had been. It felt wrong to call them anything different, but they could not go unnamed forever.

Suddenly there was a sharp cry. Prowl’s helm jerked up, Jazz’s as well. The oldest mechling scooped the crying sparkling from the ground where he had fallen, looking like he had tripped over his own peds. A mantra of “Ori, Ori, Ori’gin” echoed through the garden. Prowl opened his arms as his eldest approached, carrying his brother. It was the mechling twin, Streetstar, who had taken a tumble. He wrapped his arms around his origin’s neck and cried. As Prowl closed his arms around his creation his engine made this low, almost inaudible rumble. Smokescreen cast Jazz another wary look and then jogged back out in the garden, chasing after another of his far younger siblings. Whether it was Prowl’s purring engine or his gentle embrace that soothed Streetstar, Jazz did not know but in a couple of kliks the mechling gradually stopped crying. Those his intakes still hiccuped he was steady enough to let his origin take his servos to look at his scraps. Prowl kissed his creation’s palms. Jazz’s spark clenched.

Strongarm appeared and she offered her twin a pretty red crystal she had picked. Streetstar took the crystal with a thank you and a sniffle. The femmeling joined her twin in their origin’s lap for a cuddle. She made a contented little sound as she rested her helm on her origin’s chassis. Her twin made a similar sound as he leaned into their origin’s arm. Both were in recharge in a matter of kliks. That pleasing, purring hum subsided. Ori walked over to them, the youngest sparkling on his hip. As soon as he set the mechling down on the carpet, the little one toddled over to his origin and climbed into his already full lap, quite literally into his sister’s lap. In her recharge, Strongarm wrapped her arms around her brother. Prowl’s engine softly rumbled again and the third sparkling was soon in recharge.

“That’s a neat trick,” Jazz observed as he watched Prowl lovingly hold his creations.

Lovingly, Jazz was certain this was the right glyph. Maybe he was not beaming, and you could not describe the heaviness that seemed to forever hang over him as a glow, but there was a soft turn to the Praxian’s mouth, and a gentleness to his hold. Stoicism might have muted the appearance of love but there was no question it was there. Prowl looked over to him and ever so slowly dipped his doorwings. Jazz had heard stories about the language of doorwings and wondered how many of the rumours surrounding the frametype were true, and how many were romanticized scrap.

“It started as an unintentional tic when I was in the middle of my first carrying,” Prowl explained. He looked out into the garden where his eldest three were running amongst the rows of crystals. “Overtime it became less of an impulse and more of an intentional tool.”

“‘M gonna go to the kitchen in bring ya both some fuel,” Punch said.

“Thanks, Ori,” Jazz replied. Prowl dipped his doorwings.

“I’ll bring some gel for Streetstar’s servos,” Punch added, looking to the sparklings in Prowl’s lap. “It won’t be the last scrape.”

“No,” Prowl agreed, his doorwings dipped again. His voice softened, and Jazz tried to understand the deeper meaning to his tone. “Very likely not the last this mega-cycle.”

He watched Punch go back inside before he looked back out to the garden as his elder creations played a funny version of Tear ‘n Chase. Jazz watched them too, or he watched their origin watching them. There was no less than a six vorn difference between Smokescreen, the eldest, and Camshaft, his closest sibling in age. The gap between the younger sparklings was significantly smaller, less than vorn vorns each time. Each time after Camshaft Prowl had been carrying again before his last newling had upgraded to sparklinghood.   There had been a newling or two on his well when he had been growing heavy with the next.  Jazz could not help but wonder what had prompted the change, still it was not for him to ask.

“The way they’re goin’ they might be goin’ down for a nap too,” Jazz observed. He watched Prowl tense, and the watched his doorwings droop.

“They have never had space like this to run,” the Praxian explained. “I could not let them run too wild in the camp after Punch took custody of us. The desert felt too dangerous to let them go too far out of reach.”

“Ya ain’t wrong,” Jazz replied. “It’s easy to get lost in the dunes. Easy to get overheated.”

“Punch said as much.”

“The driver that took ya into the desert didn’t warn ya?”

“There was no need for him to. The trailer was kept locked save for a bream here and there when we got off so we could void our tanks. I imagine he was afraid of what Straxis would do if he happened to lose me.”

“Killed him, not question,” Jazz said. “We got lucky the driver got turned ‘round lookin’ for the Triggercons.”

“Triggercons?”

“Straxis’ favourite goons. He mighta outlawed my clan but that was still our lil strip ‘o desert ‘n he wouldn’t o’ want his... ya to fall into Ori’s servos.”

“We got lucky,” Prowl said. “Your originator has been kind.”

“Of course.”

“No. Before I heard your creations, before I offered them fuel, he was kind. He took us off the trailer and gave us fuel. He was kind.”

“I figure ya’ve paid ‘m back a thousand times.”

“I will always be in his debt.”

“‘N us in yers.”

[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]

Inspired by but Not Spicy AU

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH YEEEEEEESSSSSSS THE ANGSTTTTT (and cute bitties and smexy fun timez) 💖💕💗

Very cute bitty Smokey. He's having a hard time with his motor control and he's so sad he can't play his cyber-violin anymore. Jazz hopes on the first flight to Iacon after he gets the results. If they need more, a sample of his spark, his sentio-metallico, he wants to be available. He's in the air when Prowl is alerted to the match. He's at the transport hub when Prowl messages him expressing his gratitude for submitting his sample. Prowl promises him he won't petition for sparkling support, he just wants his bitlet to get what he needs to get better.

Jazz asks him if he can get him anything, bring him anything. In the post updates Jazz saw Smokey was getting worse and he figures Prowl's probably at the medicentre with his bitlet. Prowl is surprised by the offer, surprised that Jazz is in the area. He is so tired and so stressed and so isolated. He asks if Jazz wouldn't mind bringing him energon from a particular cafe, triple boiled. Jazz gets him the energon, so sweets and a plushie for Smokey.

Smokey is tired of getting poked and when Jazz comes in he is having a meltdown in Prowl's arms as he's forced to endure another cycle of treatment. It feels like burning and he hates it. Jazz comes in and rather than be put off by Smokey's snit, he's a little in love. Smokey has no idea who this stranger is but he is happy to cuddle the... whatever soft thing Jazz buys, as he's hooked up to so many cables and tubes and Prowl rocks him and coos at him.

They don't get a chance to talk because when Jazz confirms to the medic he is who they think he is, he's whisked off to have samples taken. Why the time he gets back Prowl is in recharge, his helm resting on Smokescreen's berth. He hasn't seen a berth in ages. He doesn't live in Iacon. Prowl got Smokescreen admitted to the medicentre in Iacon because Praxus didn't know how to treat him. The debts he's accumulated to do so are scary but Prowl doesn't care. Of course he doesn't care. Smokey is the only thing that matters.