Archive of Our Own ^beta

Death is universal unless you’re Optimus, Megatron, Bumblebee, or a lucky mech with god, luck, and science on their side. It wasn’t fair how the main players of the war always had their second chance—why not you?

Prowl finds it funny how out of all the mechs he’d known throughout the war, you’d be gone in such a fashion; not death by honor and glory; not by passion and justice—

Termination via rapid spark bursts/schematic spark disease. The mech has heard of it before, recalling his time on earth. Human medics termed it heart attack. Such disorder was caused by unhealthy lifestyle, genetics, and environment.

But Prowl had known you before the war—a fellow Petrexian who worked beside him after Tumbler became Chromedome. Being forged gave you the necessary life benefits the council provided. You were far from being unhealthy considering he made sure you were up and par with him. Most of all, he had known how you lived, deeming you the least likely to betray him. Earning you a position akin to a close confidant (he listens to your input but values his own decisions).

His circuits overheat from pondering. That was not you. A mere sickness wouldn’t be enough. If he had your frame, he’d waste no time and issue a full autopsy, suspicious if there were any foul play involved.

It’s probable that being one of his officers most likely gave you a target behind your back—a fair share of dislike amongst those he tactically controlled (you didn’t like the word manipulation). It doesn’t help that you were not a stranger to gray areas of morality. Your servos—dedicated and stained of energon—to keep his clean.

That he appreciated yet never voiced out. The gratefulness was received. You figured dirtying your hands for the sake of a new Cybertron would be worth it; Prowl said so, and you followed him for a reason.

Your relationship with him was neither casual nor too formal—at least per his assessment. He was perplexed at first when you volunteered to be in his department, later found out that working alongside you certainly led him to think he was with an extension of himself. You and him were quite alike in the sense he valued logic above all. Meanwhile, you supported him with your efficiency and bluntness.

Most times, you tried to lessen his notoriety among Autobot gossips—balancing the crude and hateful opinions of the faction towards the tactician. He knew of that yet silenced his thoughts. Let the mechs have something to entertain themselves. Peace for a while, he said.

Somehow, the rumors got twisted which ended up on you being the end receiver of Autobot malice instead of him. Prowl knew you had something to do with it. As much as he valued information, he trusted your work. If you did it, then it was for a reason.

But now you’re gone, floating among the stars. He’ll never know of your regrets and intentions.

You—a pandora’s box. Him—who lacked Schrödinger’s cat.

Ratchet was the one who delivered him your status. Yes, they’ve worked together back on earth, he had been a patient of the medic in the past, too. However, it didn’t lessen the blow. Prowl was taken aback to know he was the last to receive news of your demise aside from the Lost Light’s crew. What right did they have to withhold your information from your ex-commander?

“Believe me, Prowl. They are—“ he ex-vent, the blue of his optics wavered as he said, “—were thinking of you.”

“Get out.”

The ex-CMO took it as his cue to leave the very much perturbed Prowl to his own being. Outside his office, he heard shushed voices, pedesteps slowly drown further until he was utterly alone.

Along Ratchet’s words were some of your belongings. He doesn’t want to take it, still wrestling with bitterness and shock in his system. Anything that carried your presence signals a churn in his tanks and his circuits tensed.

He was seething. Turns out, you had requested it. You had ask the Lost Light to not spread your deactivation should it come to that tragedy.

You broke his stern words. He remembered strategizing an agreement within his division.
After Tarantulas’ ‘talk of alliance’ with Prowl, he concluded that you and Prowl were security risks; that should either of you be gone in such a similar manner, others should immediately put your retrieval in utmost importance—whether you be dead or alive. Functional or impaired.

He will never know why you denied him of your condition. Much so he’ll be forever in the dark of your growing emotions for him.

If only he knew you’d thrum your last sparkbeat aboard the Lost Light—aboard with mechs you barely knew much less be under the command of the most irresponsible bot he knew—he would’ve planned—persuaded you to stay by his side. Help him win the real war for Cybertron. Oh, how he reprimanded himself for not calculating the risks and losses if you ever were to leave his command.

He gripped the edge of his work table, stacks of datapads in disarray contained a detailed report of your life prior to your…

Prowl revved his engines. He couldn’t comprehend this. Why did you even leave in the first place? Why leave him when you’ve been with him for most of the war? Slag. He really wants to scream through your audials—punch you for the hole you caused. But this loss was different. You were not just another comrade…but something close to a friend, it could’ve been more.

You gave him true grief.