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anon-e-miss · 2 months

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A Tough of Sight - 9

Somehow, Prowl lost all concept of time. They lingered at the lunch table. The soup Punch had served a crusty loaf of energon bread to dip in it, was rich and flavourful. Prowl could not think of a time where he had tasted better fuel. It was simpler fare than he had been served in the palace and superior in every way. Perhaps his regular diet of cheap cubes had dulled his pallet but he did not believe that to be the case. Punch’s cooking was not about impressing his betters, it was about fuelling and comforting the mechanisms he fed. Bluestreak did a happy wiggle as he ate the soup and Prowl smiled as Smokescreen snickered. Though Prowl could not see Bluestreak’s face, his doorwings did not have the sensors for such fine detail, he could see his shape, see the cant of his doorwings and Prowl new he was enjoying his meal.

“Such a sweetspark,” Punch praised Bluestreak. “Did ya wanna help me wit the tapestry ‘m weavin’? O’ course ya won’t wreck it, Bitlet.”

“Bluestreak has never taken so easily to any mech,” Prowl told Jazz as he stayed at the table as Jazz cleared it.

“Except for you, Creator,” Smokescreen corrected him.

“It was really more you he was taken with, Smokescreen,” Prowl told his creation. “He was quite terrified me when you brought him to me. In fairness to him, I could not have been pleasant to look at.”

“How’d ya find Bitty Blue, Smokey?” Jazz asked. Prowl’s sparked fluttered in a funny way. It would have been unheard of for anyone to be so familiar with Smokescreen, even Prowl had been to free in their interactions. They were sweet pet-designations.

“I was looking for medicine for Creator,” Smokescreen explained. Prowl listened to the harmonics in Smokescreen’s voice, ready to hush him and to warn the Lord Inquisitor off but Smokescreen’s voice was clear and strong. “Creator doesn’t complain but he was in so much pain and he was running a fever ‘cause the burns were infected. He was resting and I wasn’t supposed to go far... but I did. I heard running energon. We hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in... forever it felt like... I thought it would help, maybe. I followed the sound into a cave. I found Bluestreak all alone sitting on the far side of an underground river. Everything before that had been scorch but the river must have stopped it because everything on his side was... perfect.”

“How long were the three o’ ya travellin’ alone for?” Jazz asked.

“A quartex,” Prowl replied. “I think. We stumbled upon a refugee camp.”

“They tried to chase us off,” Smokescreen had a sneer in his voice.

“They were scared,” Prowl hushed him.

“You were hurt,” Smokescreen countered.

“I was not the only one,” Prowl replied.

No, Prowl had not been the only injured mechanism in the camp. The stench of infection had been been everywhere Prowl had turned. There had only been one mechanism in camp with any training in first aid, a farmer’s creation who had learned to tend the ills of the sheepacron they had raised. With smoke still hanging heavy in the air, it had kept the odour of rotting sentio-metallico from fading. There had been no solvent, no coolant and no clear source of energon. Prowl had taken the mechlings away from camp in search of a few breaths of clean air. He had almost missed the faint tinkle of the wiluite they walked past. His audials and doorwings had not been so well tuned then and he had felt blindly along the ground for a while before uncovering a cluster of crystals under the broken root of a fallen tree. Another survivor had found a creek and between the two pumices and tisanes had been brewed and more of the wounded had survived thanks to these interventions than otherwise might have.

“I learned I could find crystals blind,” Prowl explained. “I did not plan to forage for our living but I learned quickly that begging is a dangerous way to try and survive. Traffickers tried to buy the mechlings from me and I knew I had to do something else lest one of these monsters snatch them from me when my guard was down. I trained my doorwings and my audials to guide my servos. We do not prosper but we do well.”

“I can see clear as crystal how well ya take care o’ these two,” Jazz said. “Ya must o’ had Blue seen by a medic.”

“There is no physical cause to his mutism,” Prowl explained. “And so nothing for them to treat. Often, even his servos are mute, his doorwings usually are. I do not know precisely what he saw but I know it was a horror because that is the story all Praxians share. Every time he becomes a little surer of his “voice” something spoils it. I am amazed at how well he has bounced back this time.”

“This time?”

“The teacher at the temple screamed at him for not answering,” Smokescreen explained. “He knew Blue doesn’t talk but he thought we were making excuses and making him weak. I got in his face and he hit me. See? You can see the scar. Fixit said it’ll probably disappear since I’m young and healthy.”

“Did ya report the slagsucker?” Jazz asked, his tone dark and foreboding as he looked over Smokescreen’s servo. He did not apologize for his crass language. Prowl elected not to scold him.

“The medic I called did,” Prowl replied. “The priest we spoke to at the Cornerstone took issue as well. I believe the cur will be disciplined.”

“Good,” Jazz said. “If they leave anythin’ for me, I might put some licks in o’ my own.”

“You do not need to trouble yourself,” Prowl replied.

“Ain’t trouble,” Jazz replied. “Scrappin’ bullies is a pleasure.”

Prowl imagined Jazz meant it. He knew the duties of the Lord Inquisitor did not end at operating a spy network and he doubted Jazz prioritized keeping his servos cleaning when enemies were revealed, either from within Iacon or beyond its borders. The Optics of Praxus had not been so different, though Prowl could not picture Camshaft walking through markets to recruit his agents, Praxus chief spy had bloodied his servos when the situation called for it. Prowl had lived his whole life under the watchful gaze of hundreds of spies, both those employed by the Optics and those employed by any number of dukes and earls, each of them waiting for him to make a misstep and he had always thought Camshaft to be the exact same sort until the last Optics of Praxus had defied Nightstalker and abetted the escape of the sparklings of executed lords, “traitors” to the Emperor’s reign. Camshaft had paid for that act of mercy with his life. Faced with the same situation, Prowl believe Jazz would make the same choice but perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

Somehow, they visited so long with Jazz and Punch that Punch insisted they might as well stay for dinner. Smokescreen had been delighted by the invitation to help with dinner. He had never cooked, neither had Prowl, princes did not dirty their servos with such menial tasks. If a prince wished to occupy his servos, he might go hunting, write poetry or arrange crystals. Though the nobility often had greenhouses on their estates, they were usually staffed by gardeners. They might play about with propagation but they did not turn the soil or weed the garden beds. Prowl had been consider eccentric for his tending his own crystals and for dancing for them. As it had stood, many of his predecessors had been known for eccentricities and his gardening hobby had been quite mild compared to those of his ancestors, and his elder brother.

Jazz dug out a bag and marbles and showed Bluestreak how to play the game. Prowl stretched his doorwings wide and basked in moment. Smokescreen snickered at something Punch said and Bluestreak’s near mute doorwings fluttered as Jazz praised him. These were good mechs, truly good mechs. Prowl could believe Jazz did the work he did for the sake of the citizens of Iacon and not for fame and fortune. They both appeared to shun the temples and yet they were more godly mechs than any priest Prowl had known. He doubted he would be of much use of to Jazz, beyond reporting on counterfeit coin or petty scams. Apart from his time spent selling crystals, Prowl was reclusive. It was not an accident that he put his mat down well away from the corner of the market most Praxians. Though neither he or Smokescreen wore the armour of royalty, Prowl feared someone might one mega-cycle recognize them. His burns served as something of a mask and Smokescreen had largely been kept from public view but even if it was unlikely, it was not impossible that they might one mega-cycle cross paths with someone who had attended court and there was nothing that scared him more.

“Let me walk ya home,” Jazz said after dinner.

Prowl thought he should demure. He knew the market, as did his creations but Prowl knew Jazz would insist and Punch would as well. Beyond that, Prowl found he liked the Lord Inquisitor’s company. Bluestreak’s doorwings danced on his back. They did not move in a manner that “spoke” glyphs but in emotion. Bluestreak held knit lupinoid toy to his chassis. Punch had given it to him from his stock. It was now the single most precious thing in Bluestreak’s world. Smokescreen gave Bluestreak and “Woof” a piggyback ride as Prowl walked behind with Jazz, keeping his creations “in sight” in the only way he had. The air was cool on his plating but not unpleasantly so. Soon Saltus would give way to Calor and the dark-cycles would become unpleasantly hot. Such was the way of the seasons. In the next quartex Prowl would need to forage for the crystals that would disappear or go dormant during Calor, to awaken the next Saltus. He would treat them with a tincture to preserve them for sale for the quartexes to come. Prowl paused at the door when they reached his building. Jazz opened the door for him.

“Ori’d expect me to see ya all the way home,” Jazz said. Prowl smiled and he supposed that was true but Jazz, for all his lack of courtly manners was a gentlemech to his core. Insisting on his originator’s behalf was simply a convenient excuse.

“If you wish,” Prowl replied. “Thank you. Your originator is a wonderful mech.”

“When he told ya to come by any time to take a meal, he meant it,” Jazz said. “I hope ya know. He’d love to see more o’ yer bitties. He’s got a hankerin’ for grandbitties and he don’t got any comin’ from me or Rico.”

“Neither you nor your twin have intendes or conjunxes?” Prowl asked.

“Rico’s sweetspark died in riot back in Polyhex,” Jazz explained. “Don’t think he’s even ready to look for someone to open his spark to again. ‘N I... guess I’ve always thought wit my work, it would be too dangerous. I got enemies ‘n I can handle’em but I couldn’t handle’m comin’ after my family.”

“Are you afraid for Punch?” Prowl asked.

“More afraid for anyone dumb ‘nough to test’m,” Jazz replied. “I learned everythin’ I know from ‘m. I thought he outta have this job ‘n not me but he’s where he wants to be.”

“He seems... happy,” Prowl said. “Genuinely so.”

“Thank ya,” Jazz sighed. “I always worry ‘m just bein’ hopeful thinkin’ the same. It was hard, real hard when my genitors died. A part o’m died wit them and he lived for our sake. I was startled to feel like he was findin’ his joy again.”

“I do believe he is,” Prowl turned his helm to “look” down at Jazz and smile. He paused as he stepped on the next stair. “Oh! Swindle fixed the lose step!”

“I may o’ had a glyph wit’em,” Jazz told him. “He knows I got ya in my... protection I guess. He won’t give ya trouble. Mech’s so scared o’ bein’ poor again he’s stingy but he’s more scared o’ me than losin’ his coin.”

“You are familiar with each other?” Prowl asked.

“He’s a useful mech to know,” Jazz replied. “Sell information, it’s usually good. I killed his conjunx so he gives me a good deal... He deserved it. Sold their mechling a creep that fancies youngling.”

“The monster,” Prowl hissed.

“I got Devcon back for’m and made’m a window so even though a scare the scrap outta him, Swindle, sorta likes me,” Jazz explained. “Was this the only suite available when ya came lookin’ for a place?”

“It was,” Prowl said. “With some many refugees, it was hard to find any place we would not have to share. Swindle is... stingy but in his defence, I never complained about the step. I wanted us to be left be he does and that’s all I really ask.”

“If ya e’er find yerself in a bind, go to ‘m,” Jazz said. “If ya can’t find me or Ori. He’ll keep ya safe ‘til I can take over.”

“Are you sure?” Prowl asked.

“100%.”

“I’ll let ya get to berth,” Jazz said. “Wit the mechlings started their new school in the light-cycle ya probably wanna get’em down quick.”

“Thank you, yet,” Prowl said. The priest we spoke to spoke some chirolinguistics. He promised the instructors would all be made aware and they provice meals to all their students.”

“Sounds like a good place for ‘em for sure,” Jazz said. “I’ll see ya soon.”

“Good dark-cycle, Jazz.”

The mechlings said their goodbyes. Bluestreak gave him a quick hug. It really had been the perfect mega-cycle. They had good fuel in their bellies and the promise of more. Fuel alone might help Smokescreen find some value in his class. Prowl had a loaf of bread for a snack as he sold his crystals throughout the cycle and Punch had told him to expect a visit around lunchtime. He would likely be well-fuelled to. It had been a perfect mega-cycle but it had been a long one. The mechlings had been gathering with him for joors before Jazz had appeared and they would normally have gone to their berth a joor earlier but none of that mattered. This would be a mega-cycle Prowl would dream about for a long time. Smokescreen crawled into berth first, followed by Bluestreak would curled up with his new toy and made a silent, blissful sigh. Prowl crawled into berth last, with doorwings uncovered, facing the door, watching the door, as they recharged.

“Jazz thinks your pretty,” Smokescreen said as he made himself comfortable.

“Oh I do not believe that at all,” Prowl’s intakes flexed and his glossa felt thick and awkward.

“He couldn’t stop looking at you and smiling with googly optics,” Smokescreen replied.

“He has a visor,” Prowl said. “I know the shape.”

“Doesn’t stop googly optics.”

“Silly mechling,” Prowl huffed. Smokescreen snickered as they all snuggled together under their one blanket. Prowl drifted down to recharge with Smokescreen’s glyph repeating in his helm. He rarely dreamt in colour but this dark-cycle he saw his processor’s imagining of Punch’s shop and all the colourful things Bluestreak had been delighted by. There was laughter in the kitchen as Punch prepared a treat with the mechling. He imagined one of the laughs as Bluestreak, sweet and innocent. Jazz pulled him towards a private corner. Prowl threw off the blanket as he broke into a coughing fit. It was too hot. The air was heavy with acrid smoke. He walked towards the door and felt a wall of heat too intense to pass. Prowl heard it crackling. Fire.

“See the demon burns? See? See?” Prowl heard his crazed old neighbour yelling a mechanisms that were not there. “Yes... Yes... I will’ll be transformed.”

“Aiiiiiie!”

“Creator!” Smokescreen called out, coughing as he did.

“To the window!” Prowl ordered, between coughs. “There is no other way out!”

#anon-e-miss writes #maccadams #valveplug #tf prowl #tf jazz #tf punch #A Touch of Sight

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anon-e-miss · 2 months

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Touch of Sight - 11

A Cornerstone’s bells rang out calling the faithful to worship. Prowl lay on his belly, face buried in his pillow and listened to them ring. There was no mistaking the call of lesser temples for that of a Cornerstone. Minor temples had only a single bell in their bell towers, where Cornerstones had three octaves at least of bells that were not rung haphazardly, but in a score written by some ancient temple musician. He should not have been able to hear them at all, tucked away as he was in the market. Might the wind be blowing in just the right directions? With the haze of recharge still thick in his helm, Prowl listened. It was odd, he had never heard a Cornerstone’s call so clear and yet they sounded one dimensional, flat. There was something missing. Prowl stretched out his doorwings to “hear” a little better, only to realize he could not “hear”, could not “feel”, could not feel his doorwings, could not move them at all. He was blind, truly, completely blind. Imm. His audials heard his strangled cry as he tried to push himself up, digits clawing at the berth under him. He tried to reach behind himself but Prowl was not strong enough to hold him even partly upright.. His whole frame ached and his arms trembled. His voice was hoarse as he keened. A gloved servo brushed his helm and Prowl collapsed back down on the berth, the keen fading into a weak sob.

“Shh,” it was Jazz. Prowl felt the berth sag as Jazz sat on the edge. Prowl could almost feel tears wet his face, but he had no optics. He had no tears. Jazz’s gloved servo left his helm and covered Prowl servo. It took a long time before Prowl realized Jazz was writing glyphs against the back of his servo, only then did the panic roar fade in his help enough that Prowl could actually hear and understand. “Y’re okay. Y’re doors got burned in the fire. Ratch, my medic friend’s lookin’ after ya. He turned off yer relays so ya don’t gotta feel as yer sensors heal.”

“Fire...” Prowl frowned as his whispered the glyph, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded and how raw his voice felt. He remembered. The madmech, he had set fire to the apartment, set to killed them all, to kill him, the mech he had declared a demon. “My mechlings?”

“Are perfect,” Jazz promised and Prowl prayed he was true. “A bit o’ smoke was all they got, Ratch made sure their intakes are good. Got’em in class. Ori thought it was important for’em to have a lil normalcy.”

“Where am I?” Prowl asked. His sentio-metallico still prickled with anxiety as the panic ebbed. He was blind, wholly blind but he was not alone. Still, his spark continued to race. How was he supposed to live on like this? How was he meant to care for his creations?

“The Celestial Temple,” Jazz replied. Prowl felt the scarred sentio-metallico of his face strain to stretch as he raised his brow ridge with surprise.

“Why?” He asked. His spark pulsed out of control and he trembled with fear. Had Smokescreen said something? Had they discovered who they were, who they had been? The Celestial Temple was not just a Cornerstone, it was the Prime’s residence. Why would paupers be brought here for medical treatment?

“It’s sorta Ratch’s home base,” Jazz replied. “He runs other clinics but his apothecary is here. My home base too. Seemed like the best place to put ya were ya could be safe.”

“There is no more danger,” Prowl replied. He rested his helm on the pillow. How had he ever mistaken it for his own? It was far too luxurious and its cover too soft against his scarred sentio-metallico. “The voices haunting that mech told him to jump into the flames.”

“Sounds like ya feel a lil sorry for ‘m,” Jazz said.

“His processor was broken,” Prowl replied. He was tired. He had only just woken up but he was so tired. “He genuinely thought I was a demon. He genuinely thought Primus and the angels were telling him to cleanse me. He never should have been let out of the sanitarium. Let me guess, they deployed mnemosurgery, erasing the voices from his memory and declared him fit?”

“That’s right,” Jazz replied. “How’d ya guess?”

“Because that is what they do,” Prowl said. “They address the symptom without searching for the cause.”

“Sounds like ya got some history with mneumosurgeons,” Jazz replied.

“I have a processor glitch,” Prowl explained. “Every time I would crash, they would erase the thought or feeling they thought triggered it. It took until I was a mech grown and could refuse the mneumosurgeons that I was actually able to learn to manage my affliction. I do not know what would have helped that mech, but I know mneumosurgery was not it.”

“Y’re a wise mech,” Jazz replied.

“Mm,” Prowl hummed. He turned his servo around around to touch Jazz’s palm. It was not gloves Jazz was wearing. His servo was covered it gauze. “What happenened?”

“Servos go burned climbin’ the buildin’,” Jazz explained.

“You were hurt saving us,” Prowl said, feeling a mix of gratitude and guilt. “Punch... he tried. The sheets I tied, they tore. He said he was going to try the stairs.”

“He did, they’d collapsed, he didn’t think he could make the jump,” Jazz replied. “If I hadn’t gotten there when I did, I think he woulda gone back in ‘n risked it anyways. Y’re bitlets are worth it. So are ya.”

“I am sorry you were hurt,” Prowl said. “I am sorry Punch was in danger because of us.”

“It was nothin’ ya did,” Jazz told him. “I’m just glad Swindle put more into that place than I thought. Fire didn’t spread near as fast as it coulda and when the floor collapsed, the walls still held.”

“I think he invested in the struts of that building and not the facade,” Prowl replied. “If he had done the latter, he could have charged more for the habsuites and no one would have thought any of it.”

“He did good,” Jazz said. “‘N I told’m that. He was there, when the fire was goin’. Helped me wit yer mechlings. He’s terrified o’ poverty. ‘N I understand why, since we come from the same corner o’ the Pit. Sometimes he makes bad choices but he’s a decent mech o’erall.”

“Are you bothering my patient?” A new voice, rumbled. Prowl flinched. He had never been easy to sneak up on. It had become even harder since he had been blinded, when his doorwings had taken the place of his optics. Was this how he was to live for the rest of his life? It felt unbearable.

“Smokey wasn’t bout to leave’m alone, ‘n rightly so,” Jazz replied. He did not sound as if he felt any fear towards this new mech. “I stepped out for half a klik to speak to Hide ‘n he was awake ‘n right terrified.”

“Fine... what did I tell you about using your servos?” The medic asked.

“They’re fine,” Jazz replied. “Ain’t putting pressure on’em or nothin’.”

“I have no faith in you,” the medic said. “I know better.”

“Ya wound me, Ratch,” Jazz replied, with a chuckle in his voice. “Ratchet’s the best medic on Cybertron, Prowl. He’ll want me outta the way to look at yer doors. Mind if I sit at yer peds.”

“If you have business to attend to, do not delay it on my behalf,” Prowl said.

“I got nothin’ goin’ on,” Jazz said. “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be more important than this.”

Prowl could not help but believe him and it was a strange. He should have been nothing but a potential new minion to this mech and yet, Jazz had brought him and his creations home to his originator, not just for a meal but for friendship and... for Punch’s approval. Rather than discourage any attachment from Punch, his originator, Jazz seemed to encourage it and... Smokescreen glyphs echoed in Prowl’s memory banks. Though he had denied it to his creation, the observation felt like a peculiar truth. When Jazz had all but danced with him in the field, there had been pleasure and warmth in his field. It made no sense. Prowl was not a beauty. He had been... simply unremarkable before the blinding where Nightstalker had been the beauty. Their procreators had called him the Jewel of Praxus. Prowl, he had been an udder disappointment. How could Jazz look had him now, with a mottled face with two empty pits and feel anything like attraction? Pity did not explain it. Heavy pedsteps signalled the medic’s approached as Jazz moved to sit at Prowl’s peds.

“I’m Ratchet, Prowl,” the medic formally introduced himself. “I’m sure the miscreant told you but both your mechlings are in good physical health. It’ll take them some time to process the fear and trauma. I think they were both brought back to the Cataclysm, especially your little one.”

“What do I do for them?” Prowl asked.

“What you’ve always done,” Ratchet replied. “Love them and listen to them. It’s done wonders.”

“I have not been able to help Bluestreak find his voice,” Prowl countered.

“Traumatic mutism is difficult for anyone to treat,” Ratchet said. “You gave him a voice with chirolinguistics. You’ve done more than a lot of medics would think to with that alone. You haven’t focused on his spoken voice. You empower him by adapting to his needs.”

“Ya done right by them,” Jazz told him.

“I’m going to change your bandages,” Ratchet said. “Despite your sensory grid being offline, you may still feel pain.”

“I understand,” Prowl said. He remember the agony when the farm’s creation cleaned his infected burns and applied dressings. Every dressings change had been a renewal of that agony, pain that had been worse than the original burn.

There was a throbbing pain across his back as Ratchet pealed away the bandages. It was unpleasant yes but nothing compared to what he had already endured. Jazz would be suffering far more with his treatments and Prowl felt guilty. He was relieved as Ratchet disposed of the used dressings, he smelled medicinal ointment, not festering metal. The odor of his facial burns had been a terrible thing and something he still smelled in his memory-purges. It felt more like an itch he could not place, that bounced all over his frame. Jazz brushed his bandaged sevo over Prowl’s ankle and it was grounding. Prowl smelled the ointment Ratchet took out to apply to his burns and distracted himself in separating the smells and narrowing down what crystals he believed had been used in the blend.

“It’s looking good,” Ratchet told him. “No infection. Luckily, you only suffered partial thickness burns. Most of your doorwing sensors should heal to within normal parameters. You may have some holes in your perception but your processor will fill those in so you don’t even notice.”

“That is a relief,” Prowl sighed. “I could not imagine how I would live completely blind.”

“Ya woulda found a way,” Jazz reassured him. “For the mechlings.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said.

“Are you hungry at all?” Ratchet asked.

“A little,” he replied.

“Good,” Ratchet said. “Punch took it upon himself to make a melon soup. He thought you’d be up this cycle.”

“Ori’s got good instincts,” Jazz declared. “Not feelin’ too banged up?”

“I am fine,” Prowl asked. “Sore. Just sore and tired.”

“Ya fell through the floor,” Jazz explained his concern. “Maybe it was a good think the smoke already had ya in stasis ‘cause ya was relaxed when ya fell ‘n that helped ya not too get too hurt.”

“I do not remember that at all,” Prowl said. “The last thing I remember is giving Bluesatreak to you.”

“Probably not a bad thing to forget,” Jazz said. “Important thing is ya made it out.”

#valveplug #maccadams #tf prowl #tf jazz #anon-e-miss writes #mechpreg #tf punch #a touch of sight

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