Chapter Text
[ERROR]
EXCESSIVE_LOSS_C18H25NO
[ERROR]
UNSTABLE_SATA_CONNECTION
[ERROR]
EXTERNAL_OVERRIDE_REQUIRED
[ERROR_–
[INITIATE SHUTDOWN?]
No.
Though tempting, he was just as quick to dismiss the prompt, gritting his teeth and skimming his system's alerts. For the fourth time in two breems, his joints stuttered and locked, urging him just as adamantly not to fight. He wouldn't– he shouldn't, yet still. He struggled against his own uncooperative protocols, lugging what he could of his frame’s disfigurement.
It remained still undetermined if the pain was an illusion, fabricated surges eliciting a mortifying burn in the deepest depths of his circuity, or if he should chalk it up to yet another new development, hand in hand with his nagging, undirected assessments. He figured it was the latter, no matter the trouble it brought, and the hindrance of affliction was bound to complicate his function further. Irritating, wholly unnecessary. He did not have time to test his theory, not beyond dismissing every ping begging him to cease operation, informing him the missions parameters had changed.
He had much, much larger concerns at hand than bending to the will of his broken coding.
As if to force him from the conflicts of his own failure-ridden networks, he felt claws plunge and shift, twisting violently as cables snapped and fluid began to build. Quick, too quick to properly register as his processor spun at the agonizing rip of wires, too-little became too much. It drowned him, the build of his own fluids with no place to go, filling his intakes him as he sputtered, coughing with a pathetic rattle of his vents. His core was exposed, tips of talons just barely scraping its outer field. It thrummed with low energy, shuddering at the near breach.
Liquid, warm and rushing in violent waves forced its way through orifices it shouldn't, bubbled in his throat and began to drip from the thin connections of his optics. Trailing down his faceplate, something different but just as wrong meeting in a pool beneath his dented knee-guards, similarly sticky where it began to dry on his metal. All sensations registered in screaming alarms no matter how he tried to deflect, another complication he couldn’t seem to shake. Even now, he couldn't run any more than before, not when his lower legs resided someplace far out of reach, torn from where the wires connected the bulk of his shin armor. Propped on his thighs with one arm shakily holding his weight, he was leaned forward against the ground, digits twitching as they curled loose beneath him. The excess parts of him lay strewn across the warehouse, resting with what remained of his unit.
It just about made him sick, purge and spew profanity like he knew what it meant to truly understand that disgust— as if he were transcribing a scene he’d seen several times before, through an unfeeling faceplate and optics that seen far more than he felt. When scenes were particularly gruesome and the enforcers needed a step back– just like this, if not tamer. He often lingered, a finalist then, too. He needed not to forgo his duties, free from the nagging emotion that bit at him now.
Currently? He felt only burdened. Another new development, something previously unfamiliar.
A pitiful final drone, functioning in liberal use of the term. He knew he could hardly keep himself online. Preservation took thoughtless priority.
He wouldn't spiral, not in sickened mourning for his squadron nor panic enough to render him malfunctioning. But he would curse, dismiss the growing list of warnings, the tower of errors that flooded his HUD. They tried to guide him, pesky arrows and urging pings, aiming to override his instinct and force him into shut-down. He knew to salvage his memory chip was imperative, that conservation of any evidence meant far more than a unit of drones who’d failed their primary mission in the form of termination. Information could live on in place of him.
But he could not help the thoughts that formed, refuting each and every self sacrificing priority burned into his very being. He was not a glorified camera, and he would not clutch his helm and see to himself terminated, too.
The specifications, exact details of his damage, were among least importance (because, if asked, every part of him would be tedious to repair, and every bit that wasn't would be in the coming moments). Far more urgently, he lacked knowledge on how to proceed, stranded entirely without instruction– which was alarming in of itself for a policing drone, even moreso when he'd lost contact entirely with his station.
He stressed, delving deep into his own processor, a desperate search on how to ease the spasms and trembles of a malfunctioning frame.
When probing for an answer, he was met with yet another error.
Improper inquiry?
Again, rewording, a second attempt then third. His request could not be fulfilled.
His databases did not contain a course of best action in a situation where he was the one in need of saving, where he was in danger and could feel his every cable glitter with the spark of torn connections.
They didn't so much as touch on how to salvage a shorting drone, how to solder their circuits and stop the flow of lifeblood that grew tacky on his plating. It told him only the measures of discarding, what parts to keep and what was worth no more than a single-use energon cube.
He felt his core give a shuddering pulse, weak with flickering power. A reminder of what was to come, the moment his sources would give, primary then every desperate backup.
He hoped, something foolish and dangerous and new. He hoped, that the enforcers seen him worthy of repairs.
Reassurance, a need boldened in the forefront of his mind. He needed to cure his growing dread, calm the too-fast crawl of worry— and in desperation he'd attempted a scan (though his farthest sensory wings were crumpled and half-there, hung pitifully from their base at his upper spinal strut. His optics were flooded and dim, sights littered with cracks and cloudy lenses. It was a statistical miracle they retained an ounce of function).
The activity signals of his unit were nil, each and every one a flat, dull line. When he pinged, the network remained still. He could hardly move, and his vocalizer spat static when he parted his lips. In spiteful agreement, both halves of his processor doubted his survival.
The enforcers that raided with them had long since fled, outnumbered, finding safety someplace far outside the warehouse. He, too, knew to remain would assure nothing but ugly deactivation. He knew the tactical advantage of a retreat. Could formulate an irrefutable defense of both himself and his unit. Admittedly, too, he simply wanted to run. He could feel it, in the deepest recesses of his core. A fear for his continued function.
Of course, he had been instructed to stay. Firm, unshakeable. Of course, he’d bowed his helm.
He wasn't sure what aspect of the order made him pause, about the implication that destruction was certain and he needed to be destroyed to assure those of worth got away– but it dislodged the first pebble of doubt, and of course, a landslide of uncertainty soon followed. He’d shattered his walls of obedience, signing back a meek protest, something long since accumulating. As per protocol, a drones input meant little, and he was left to get ravished by sharp claws and gnashing teeth with little acknowledgement.
But it was a realization. His first instance of action separate from his unit, of the station and its enforcers, followed soon after.
Working against rather than with is what had led him here, the finalist amidst still frames and scattered parts. He ran a background set of calculations, working to uncover the terrorcon's motivations, ideally avoid the destruction of his power module.
Just as easy as it was unfortunate, he’d come to a conclusion. Such creatures did not operate on logic.
He had nothing but their feral interest to thank, that they found entertainment in his thrashing. That the way stray light caught on his crumpled plating was enough to make them pause— not quite an intentional mercy, but catalogued as an undoubted convenience. He was nothing if not a toy, and if it meant he would get to see a better case, he would continue his pitiful show of resistance.
His systems told him they had yet to feast because he lacked a real spark, because what was nestled in his chest, between layers of easily peeled steel and false protoform, was not a pulsing orb of life, but an engineered core, built of screws and wires and carefully retained energy.
At the moment, his artificiality did not seem so terrible. And to hold out until sirens wailed over the sounds of grunts and mindless cruelty was no longer an unobtainable possibility.
__
By all means, he was a droid. Expendable, monotonous and compliant. He should not have been able to discern the panic in his power-module as the threat of deactivation loomed near, and he should not have felt a desire to live anymore than he did to serve. They lost hundreds of him an orn, and he was mass produced by the thousandths– if he displayed his erring, no matter the record, there was no more reason to keep him around than there was to cling to an outdated model, one who'd never make the mistakes or develop the faults he had. Praxus was progressive, advancing forward with every tick of a chronometer, and maybe he had overstayed his usefulness. But he still functioned, and he would not be ridden so easily.
His systems surged with power as he was summoned online. His optics cast a blue grid before him, searching the area in an automatic scan and pinging him back with an anutomated alert that read [ZERO_ANOMALIES_DETECTED].
Constructs similar to himself lined the expanse of the rooms midsection, motionless and monochrome, not quite online but on standby. Heavy cables protruded from the backs of their helms, pulsing with a constant stream of concentrated energy.
They could not run indefinitely, and without a proper charge they'd remain in an automated sleep mode— a flaw he was sure would be corrected, come the next wave of newer models.
He shook the heavy, stiff weight of nothing from his struts, the pleading of his own processor wanting the barest permission to be.
They were not permitted idle usage of their frames, why would they act if not instructed? It was an unfortunate normality. To not be in action with definitive instruction simply stated there was no reason for them to run. For a drone who was now painfully aware of every moment spent inactive, he wished he could speak of the hundred ways their time would be better utilized. Tragically, he followed his orders and he enacted them with dedicated haste, and that detailed the entirety of his existence.
Even if he was different now, and he had changed in ways no living mechanism could fathom.. He would not fail to acknowledge his place any more than before.
He continued to obey the restrictions that dictated his merit, play his part of drone and play it well, because that is all he is. All he had gained was more to work through, an additional hundred streams of thought to sort in his helm, complications arisen servo in servo with the simple action of existing. (Though, his understanding fell short when faced with the idea of obligation, when two halves of himself argued against want and duty, prioritizing reason. He figured his construction was flawed, and now he was dysfunctional beyond repair— but how could the possibility of such an error not be corrected? He wished it had been, and he had not been cursed with the burden of imperfection, as he dismissed another ray of irrelevant debate.)
He'd operated accordingly since his first mission, not even a vorn after he'd been shipped from his plant and assigned a station. No matter his difference, he worked adamantly to prove his worth. He had not been altered, in the optics of the enforcers.
He knew not of an alternative way to live, and pursuing any other was far too daunting a task. He was forged for this, and no troublesome development would impact his conformity, no matter the temptations that drilled into his processor when days were ruthless and respect was none, when purpose was questioned and a place outside his station was dangerously considered.
Convincing others was particularly easy, even when the gap in efficiency between himself and drones of his exact specifications was questionably grand– just part of a good batch, they'd said, and that was answer enough. He had no reason to display his processor’s change, if not to use it as a subtle means of self preservation.
He should not swell with relief at the prospect of performing well, tackling his tasks to the best of his capabilities should be his only goal– and yet still, he stood a fraction taller; wanting to thrive was not a crime.
He was valued, he had to be. And this was why he was summoned, cord dislodging from his port as the tingle of constant-supplied energy was cut short. His usefulness was what assured his function, promised he would not be smelted to scrap and discarded.
He took a step to ease into movement, stiff and mechanical, marching forward with his servos interlocked at his back. His doorwings were built to sit at a neutral position, and unlike those who walked the halls, they did not shift with each step, dip and flutter with words and mannerisms– they acted only as an extra set of sensors, motionless as they perched at an even, flat length. He could not move them even if he tried.
His trip was familiar, one of few he was permitted to make without a handler at his side. Where drones— weaponry, equipment was housed was dark and isolated, the distance standing firm between them and the main station.
It rested near the farthest edge of the building, past holding cells and one of several break rooms. He was summoned to a sector of personal offices, a hall across from a set of interrogation rooms, walls thick with soundproofing, observation windows tinted with one-way glass.
His arrival was made with haste, facing a door with an engraved nameplate bolted near the center. The indents read ‘Nightshift’, the station’s lieutenant from long before his creation. He raised a servo to knock, knuckles hitting the metal twice, granting him timely entrance.
He bowed his helm in greeting, and no glyphs were exchanged as he took the data-slug offered to him. He needed no further instruction; problem solving was part of his function, and to require additional guidance would defeat his purpose.
“...A shame we’re handing off one of our more useful assets.”
Something heedlessly mentioned, and he would've assumed it was him who was being addressed, if it weren't for the quiet buzz of an active communications link— and the fact no sane enforcer would waste their hours socializing with a piece of equipment. He had questions now, the most urgent of which involving when and why, but he knew if it was not detailed in the slug’s data then he was not meant to know.
He turned on his heel and made his return, finding his way back to the drone’s depot with no trouble.
After transferring the contents and debriefing himself on his orders, sorting through them left him more unsatisfied than before. Of course, they hadn't told him why beyond Iacon’s requests for additional combatant support, and experience told him he was not built for high-action missions (if his track record with near-deactivation was anything to go by), so, still unanswered, why?
They had drones built to resemble burly tanks, a healthy array. Drones with specialized guns, modded blades and transformable parts, those who better resembled soldiers than he ever could. They even had a number of designated field drones, newer models who had yet to see action outside of their lockup. In comparison, he didn't have so much as a weapon built into his frame, let alone an up-to-date offensive competence. He could form a strategy, command as the head of a unit, but that was the extent of his capabilities. He was not meant to act he was meant to plan, gather and formulate.
Troublesome.
He would take it upon himself to right their wrongs, reason insisting his involvement in Iacon was a mistake needing correction. Quickly, at that, because his deployment was fast approaching and he had no desire to be faced with definitive termination once more.
As was soon proven, hacking (or rather, thoughtfully nudging himself into) files that outranked his personal status was easy, especially when no one was on the lookout for a drones intrusion. A piece of non sentient equipment could not cause a data leak, every mech knew that. Firewalls did not so much as direct him elsewhere as he searched through records, an extensive collection of neatly filtered info at his disposal.
It was approximately two kliks before he discovered its presence under a list of more recent archiving inputs, and he delved in with swift curiosity. The text itself was short and concise, gathering all he needed in no more than a breem.
His first discovery was the request's origins, jarring as he flickered over the designation of Iacon's prime. To see it was not warriors requested in their search came second, and that should have been answer enough. But he wanted– he needed to know more. Not to fulfill is selfish curiosity, no, for the sake of his assignment.
He and his record could confidently attest for his abilities outside a battlefield, and even if he could hold his own against a common criminal, he was no combatant. His honest duties detailed tactical work, and emerging as a sole survivor in the midst of a terrorcon horde was apparently the perfect testament to his tactical genius (as it stands, this was the largest mission he'd been assigned to since. They either had such grand faith that they'd preserved him until now.. or they valued his ability to take a beating and remain functioning.)
What brought him to a pause was his lack of an escort, where their name should have been detailed was entirely blank— neither designation nor pending input. Had they yet to be chosen, or had they intended to release him to Iacon solitarily? His transport was set to leave in not even a decacycle, and any enforcer would have been entitled to at least a metacycle’s time in preparation– especially for a mission outside of Praxus.
The inherent strangeness of his mission was not lost to him, as he retreated from the archive and settled into his place between two inactive drones.
His revelations were as follows:
He was meant to work beneath Optimus Prime and tend to any militarily stratagem. He will fulfill tactical work and planning, hopefully keeping him off any battlefields and reducing his chances of needing another full-frame replacement.
There will be no real mechanisms attending in place of his dedicated company. Iacon did not utilize drones in the ways his home city did, not with their already too-compact population. He was, presumably, their first encounter.
Though not written in paper, he was inclined to believe his usefulness would help solidify a positive, autobot-leaning relation between Praxus and their current neutral affiliation– and with a heavy spike in decepticon-speculated crime, it was a benefit.
Humming in thought, he slipped the cord to the port at his neck, beginning his defrag as he cycled into sleep mode. The next time he was permitted online would most likely be to escort him to his transport, and from then he would be thrown helm-first into unfamiliar territory.
He would love to sit and strategize how, how to assure his secrets remained his own, how to act his part when he was not spending most of his time powered down– but his every nanosecond online was logged and recorded. Any more stalling and it'd raise suspicion, suspicion entailed questions he shouldn't be able to answer.
His systems ran themselves to a stop in predetermined order, his vision being one of the first to flicker offline. Even among the dim pixels of his fleeting sight, he'd witnessed a stream of fluorescent light paint space before him.
Amidst the final phases of his shutdown, he'd felt something nudge its way into the small gaps of his armor, snapping into place between the socket of his upper arm and his shoulder pauldron.
__
He was not unfamiliar with bugs, neither small, barely-visible trackers nor violent, sharp-legged implants meant to drill into another mech and override them from the inside out. Even if his outer scan identified it as a chunk of debris, nearly forgettable if not for his ability to think outside of his protocols, something was there.
A swift once-over revealed an electronic current huddled near to its outer shell, internals neatly compact in a tiny, deeply-colored chip; it was no more than an inch in length, and if he had to guess, it had no offensive capabilities– observation and logging, strictly.
He'd weighed his options, running them through his tactical systems one by one.
Discard of the receiver himself (highest possibility of success in preventing any potential informational leaks), report his compromised status to Nightshift (which could very well delay his deployment, and set his current plans off-course enough to need another full cycle to repair), or proceed to Iacon knowingly tapped (this course of action did not need his tactical systems to determine its effectiveness. Even with all but one offline, it was in the single digits. He was intruiged, a dangerous feeling when he’d only recently developed a need to utilize self control.)
It should have been an easy decision, and in an earlier scenario it would have been. But their inclination to hide the true nature of his tasks left him hesitant, among selfish curiosities that he would never dare acknowledge as they were; what if this, too, was an unnamed segment of his mission? It was easily concluded that the culprit was first granted entrance to the station itself, and making way to the drone’s sector was only so difficult–
A sharp reminder pinged him, scrambling his processor’s aggregations. His chronometer informed him of the breem of free time he had remaining, noting that he'd cycled online approximately five kliks prior. Waiting any longer would cut far too close to his time of departure, and he had yet to have his frame properly recalibrated, one of the necessary prerequisites for a drones involvement outside of their home city. He filed away his thoughts for later, booting up properly now that he was not stuck in a loop of self debate.
Power cord dislodging from his port, he rose to his full height, cables tense from the awkward half-hunched posture of his stand by mode. He was actually not opposed to his full-frame inspection, especially one as brief as this would be. The dust collecting on the pale plating of his shoulders was a testament to his need.
He would be retuned and sent on his way shortly thereafter, he knew it was proportionally more cosmetic than a review of his intervals— not when there was no more than a joor blocked into his schedule for recalibration. There was not nearly enough time to dig into his processor and reveal the broken connections, the corrupt code steering his frame.
As his peds met the floor in a confident trail of steps, he'd concluded not to reveal knowledge of his wiretapped status. He would be alone in a transport for the better half of two orns, until his arrival at Iacon's capital– there was more than enough time to overhaul his decision at a later time.
—
As he moved to dock himself at a rickety, hastily installed charging station, he couldn't help but feel relieved. All had gone smoothly, the cycle relatively uneventful, leaving no room for complications to develop and scramble his tight schedule. His body moved with an added ease, gleamed with a half-obnoxious finish, and he could relate his novelty to that of his first time online post terrorcon mission; when his brain module was the only bit of his frame that was not recently rebuilt. His few scratches were buffed, and his two-toned paint was retouched where his hinges met the most abuse– he looked as if he were new, recently purchased and scarcely deployed. If Praxus wanted to push a picture of pretentiousness, shipping the Prime himself a drone who'd seen hardly any action, then they were doing remarkably well.
Once settled, he'd sectioned himself off about two joors of idle runtime, no stressing to meet demands nor hurried shutdown sequences to douse suspicion. He was online, and his only true task was to sit and twiddle his digits. Of course, he had a mountain of things to settle before his arrival in Iacon, and so his time was not spent unwisely.
He first tackled the most alarming; the bug had weaseled its way past his inspection, and it was still humming with life– it was perpetually active, though it would have gathered nothing but the whir of his frame and his overview with a mechanic thus far. To have a signal strong enough to transmit clearly and constantly between cities was impressive, and he felt more curious than he did worried. He was almost positive he would be in possession of no overtly meaningful information, and treating this as more of an isolated experiment did not seem entirely unappealing. His conclusions remained similar, the receiver would remain intact until he was given reason to step in. He'd file it under evidence gathering.
Now that he'd settled the most dire of his issues, he had no real reason to spend the remainder of his travels strictly online. But he had a desire to exist in his own right, and so that he did.
Boredom did not take him as quickly as he presumed, and when permitted to do as he pleases, self entertainment came easily. He'd even gotten in some sight-seeing, in the form of a small, compact window just across from his power station. As he departed from Praxus entirely, spires of towering crystal and the hum of the city's inhabitants were long since replaced by unfamiliar terrain, blurred by movement as he traveled. He'd even caught sight of flora, tall enough to rival servo-built structures, peaking just above the windows metal sill.
He played a game of identification, stabilizing what he could of his optic’s shaky snapshots and working to cross match them with existing botany in his databases. It did more than keep him busy, it was fun. A vent of fresh air, amongst files of petty crime scenes and criminal mugshots.
Eventually, he'd dislodged from his terminal, wandering about the open space of the transport’s cabin. As Cybertron's suns began to dip below the horizon, he found himself lying flat across the floor, doorwings stiff beneath his weight as he angled to the ceiling and stared. He could feel the rumble of movement beneath him, vibrations of spinning tires and imperfect grounds. He'd soon calibrated the receptivity of his sensors, they'd nearly made his back-strut go numb.
Laying without direction, the familiarity of uncertainty overtook him. As would become known, avoiding his more pressing issues was simple when he spent the better half of his time in the emptiness of his own inactive processor, when all else was dictated by whoever summoned him online. His shaky relationship with a title of drone always pushed its way forward when presented with the opportunity, when he was not nearly quick enough to drown it out with calculation and duty.
His first thoughts always tried to put a number to his worth, his value when not monetary. If he were not equipment to be used to his fullest extent, if he'd been presented with an opportunity to flee alongside fellow enforcers, if the core in his chassis was prioritized above anything else.
Even if he feigned debate, he knew.
He understood that to treat something unfeeling with any more benignity would end in complications, monumental loss; he understood that, to them, he was replaceable. He was inclined to agree, reassure their stance with a simple once-over, side with the portion of himself that held the belief he was nothing more than a tool– at that, frustration bubbled quicker than he cared to stop it. Even if he had been glitched with the error of free will, his components were worth no more than the dozens of droids he was housed beside back in Praxus. They would treat him accordingly.
The same part of him that protested then, argued now, that one else could feel and think and experience in the ways he could– no one who wore the title of drone, at least. Did his unit share his doubts, too? When their cores were pierced and their energon grew cold in its puddle beneath them? They could not have. He himself had hardly managed to harbor his secrets of conscience so far. And maybe, they would have ran sooner. They would have fled where he chose to stay.
Was he meant to exist as he was? Dance the line between awareness and insentience? It was not a matter of want, it was a matter of obligation– and he still owed the entirety of himself to Praxus and its enforcers. Even still, Iacon was someplace new. They did not know him above files that detailed his serial number, his designation of TID-011 and an image that described a faceplate, one that was hardly unique, not even his own.
Would they know if he were to play the part of enforcer, and not dutiful drone?
Bits of broken coding spoke, pushing forth weak protests at the idea of deception. He was meant to serve, not question. And yet still, obedience in its entirety did not appeal him as it should.
Choice, no matter how dizzying a concept, was something he had been granted.
—
His arrival was estimated between 0600 and 0800 joors, his transport coming to a halt at a quarter past 7. He was escorted off the ramp by a pair of similarly built soldiers, blasters in their opposite servos as they urged him forward, positioned close enough to hover inches from his back.
The taller of the two, though barely, wore a mean, distrustful expression, focused more on him than their surroundings. He'd bumped a heavy shoulder against his doorwing, making no move to apologize as it was knocked askew. The clink was hardly audible, though the one to his right gave a huff, helm shaking as he clicked his tongue.
“Come on Sunny, this is supposed to be a punishment, remember? You can't be mean until after we bring him back,” The one who spoke wore vivid red paint, accented with deep black and dull white. His voice held little seriousness, and his opposite did not react.
“..Ehhhh, sorry about him, he's just mad ‘cus we gotta babysit."
When Prowl did not immediately respond, the soldier took it as a show of irritation, and when he did not move to readjust his doorwing, he tried to fill the silence with suggestions that might please him. (Their trip should take no more than two breems, and to have a complaint filed against them the moment they stepped ped back at headquarters would not reflect well.)
"Let's get you outta here already, yeah? Must've been a real boring trip. We've got plenty to do back at base though," he'd encouraged.
"You alright with walking? Pretty sure we'd get ticketed if we drove on the sidewalk, and we can't really afford to get in trouble again yet."
The mech looked to him expectantly, and only then did he respond.
“.. Yes, that is alright. I found much enjoyment during my travels.”
He would have assumed the two were in a hurry, if it weren't for their mostly-casual demeanor, their steps heavy and unreasonably quick.
“Did you? Nah, looked pretty empty in there. No datapads or anything. Unless you're some kinda weirdo like Magnus who thinks holovids are a waste of time? That'd be a real shame. We don't need any more of those.” Although their laughter was lighthearted, he had paused all the same.
What did he like?
“No. The trip was brief, I was not provided with such.”
Already lagging, he fell into a light jog, watching as they transitioned from root-mode, engines revving and tires screeching. Though there was hardly any verbal exchange, they'd seemed to easily communicate their desires– leaving him thoroughly stunted and far behind.
“Excuse me–,”
They'd disappeared around a corner and he had no choice but to break into a sprint, just barely catching sight as they drifted curves in a blur of red and yellow.
Working through an unfamiliar city, debating whether they'd gone left or turned right and politely pushing passed any unfortunate mecha in his path, he found himself venting heavy against a fence.
It encircled a temple, land dotted with a few less extravagant buildings, stretching far behind the centerpiece.
With one servo propped against its bars and the other on his thigh, his engine gave a cough. His frame burned warm with activity and though he was tired he did not feel entirely unpleasant.
Through deep, untrained exvents, his helm perked at nearby voices.
“What do you mean you lost it?” Said the first, words bitten with disbelief.
“What part of escort didn't ya understand? Primes, I told ‘em we shouldn't send you half-bits out together anymore, but do they ever listen to me? No!” The second exclaimed, frustration palpable.
His optics began their search.
“Well, how is it our fault we lost him? C’mon, Ironhide– if he doesn't know how to get to the big fragging temple in the middle of the city, maybe we oughta send him home!”
This one was familiar, and he deduced it was the failure of a guide he'd been tailing.
“It's a drone, Sideswipe! They don't just ‘find their way’, you need to command them! And it sure as Pit isn't going to have a map detailing Iacon when it's from Praxus!”
He'd found them arguing beside a small check-in counter, laid near to the gate's main entranceway. Troublemaker #1 used his arms to gesture as he shouted, while the second had his helm bowed, optics focused elsewhere. Across were mecha he didn't know, and if he had to assume, they were their superiors.
“Well– well– he didn't seem like one! Jeez, sorry if I can't tell the difference.” He'd grumbled, words tapering off as he, too, lowered his helm in defeat. The pink one continued to scold him, jabbing a digit in his direction as if to hammer her words into the mech's processor.
He was not far, and it took only a few steps for him to approach. The red one, Sideswipe, was the first to notice, and the stretch of silence that had grown between them was broken in an instant.
“See!” He'd pointed, exclamation loud enough to make him wince. “He got here safe and sound! Now you can't say we didn't do our job.” His servos met his hips, and he seemed to beam with newfound victory.
“You two didn't do anything, he got here himself.”
An argument left his voicebox sputtering, lips parting with a shout. “Arcee–!,”
“Sideswipe, drop it.” The yellow one– Sunny, presumably– had finally spoken. That was four, and he'd filed their designations away in his memory bank.
“I am here–,” He raised a servo, waving stiffly. He had little practice with speaking out of turn, and so when four pairs of optics met him, he felt a tightness in his throat. “–and I don’t want my arrival to be a point of conflict, if it can be helped.”
“Ah,” Arcee, he'd recalled, had moved to rub a servo along the back of her neck, looking almost flustered.
“Sorry about that. Really, these two glitchheads don't know when to stop. If they caused you any trouble, any at all, just let us know– they aren't getting out of this one, I can tell you that much.” She wore a smile, and when Sideswipe moved to talk, her servo met the back of his helm in an audible clank.
“We’d better get you inside ‘nd properly debriefed, can't have you prowlin’ around the city unaccounted for. What was it, again? Files didn't say we'd be gettin’ a real mech, your name ain't anywhere that I've checked.” Ironhide, donning plating that was a shade deeper than Sideswipe’s, had moved to press a servo against his shoulder, ushering him past the gate. “Where's your lil’ helper, too? We've got plenty on the drone.”
It took conscious effort not to freeze.
He'd already acted out of line, and to say he was the drone would interfere with the plan he'd already set in place. They'd come to a mutual understanding that, as Sideswipe claimed, he did not act entirely dronely– and therefore, he must not be. Indecision stunted his words on his tongue, and his processor sorted through that orn's interactions in a desperate search for something.
He was quiet for longer than he would've liked, and Ironhide's optic ridges bunched in concern.
“Hey, it's gonna be fine. We can give your superiors a call ‘nd get it sorted–”
“No.” he'd protested, words sharp and conclusive.
Ironhide’s expression morphed from worry to amusement, and he was thankful he read no anger. The burly mech clapped the back of his shoulder pauldron, giving a heavy chuckle. He stumbled forward at the force.
“Alright, alright, no need ‘ta be bossy about it. We'll get things sorted inside, that okay with you?”
He tried to reciprocate, though the corners of his intake upturned in nothing but a shaky smile. He'd need to work on that, too, soon filed away with an indicator that read moderate urgency. Mecha did not take too well to their friendly advances being met with flat faceplates and silence.
“Yes, that is fine.. Thank you.” He'd tagged on, after a nanoklik.
He followed behind Arcee with Ironhide to his right, his ‘guides’ all but pouting behind him. To his surprise, they did not enter the temple, they simply maneuvered around it, moving instead to one of the larger, secondary buildings that occupied the plot within the fencing.
It was sparsely populated, but diversity was something he was quick to note. Foreign frame types typically equated trouble in Praxus, though no two mechanisms thus far had looked even remotely similar. Uncertainty began to make itself clear, one of the more prominent emotions in the face of his processor.
If he had to approximate, the building housed roughly 36 unique mechs, and there were about 17 currently inhabiting its space– including himself and his welcoming committee. His optics dimmed in concentration as he upheld a subtle, active scan, mapping the halls best he could as they walked.
They'd eventually made way to a pair of double doors, sliding up with a hiss of dissipated pressure as Arcee punched in a code.
“Pretty sure this is where you're going to hang when you're on duty. And off duty. And.. anything else. My advice? Get used to it, not sure how you’ll find time to be anywhere but here.” A loose shrug. “It's our tactical unit– but, if I'm being honest? You're probably gonna end up picking up slack for every division. Plenty of visitors.” At his blank expression, Arcee chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, some of our mechs just.. need a little guidance.”
She gave dismissive grin.
“You're not alone, though. You've got twooo… no, three! Other strategists backing you. The numbers aren't too high, but hey, that's why you’re here.”
Despite its minimal total there were more than three mechs already present. Two spoke at a console, gesturing to figures on a holo-monitor displayed from one’s wrist. A third sat near a table, data-pads sprawled before them, deep in thought with their optic ridges bunched. A dozen were gathered at a corner, a count of six– mostly unfamiliar, if not for the duo he could have sworn was behind him. When exactly they slipped away, he didn't know, but Sideswipe was laughing and Sunny didn't look terribly troubled– so his peds moved, guided by curiosity.
He thanked Arcee with an incline of his helm, approaching the group slowly. He'd intended just to listen, inclusion was the least of his desires– but the one seated upon a console, a smile spread wide across his features, had chosen otherwise.
“Ah-hah! New one already?” They'd helpfully identified, and he was unsure if he'd ever regretted a decision as quickly as this one. He took a step back and turned in preparation to leave, but the mech slid from his seat and moved to follow.
“Hey, wait– I was just messin’ with you, come back!”
His frame paused at the command.
He was not sure what part of it urged him to turn and stay, but he did. He was stiff with uncertainty as he faced him, optics shuttering twice.
“Sorry, sorry. I got a little excited, that one's on me. Can you blame a mech?" He apologized, visor bright as he brought up a servo. "Last rookie was here for… What was it?” He'd turned to face the mini-bot at his side, who shot up a hand displaying a set of fingers.
“Three joors! He actually didn't even technically make it on base but he made it to Iacon so–”
“Yeah, there you have it! You're already holding up better than the last one. Good on you, really.” With the hand previously raised, he gave it a gentle wag, and it took shamefully long to recognize it was a handshake he wanted. Interlocking their digits, he'd guided his optics elsewhere.
“Jazz," the mech introduced, pulling away after a good few shakes. When silence followed, his lips parted again, words humored and urging. “..And who exactly do we have here?”
“...Prowl.” He returned, glyph feeling foreign on his tongue. With no guidance on how to proceed, he ended off with a small, stiff smile, only a fraction more practiced than what he’d offered Ironhide.