Chapter Text
Prowl felt like throwing the very table he was currently bracing himself against.
His helm felt like it was throbbing with all the numbers he was trying to churn out, his gnashed dentae were no doubt slowly testing the structural integrity of his jaw, his optics were slowly being overwhelmed by the harsh bright lights of the room, and his ventilations were coming out ragged in a manner that matched his underlying rage.
Autobot High Command meetings tended to have that effect.
Taking a quick glance around the room, he could tell that he was not the only one reaching his limit. Everybody was progressively getting more jumpy on how this would end. Wheeljack’s helmfins were flashing a bright hue and the normally genial engineer looked distressed. Likewise, Blaster was trying to avoid optic contact with everybody and seemed to be quite uncomfortable if his constant fidgeting was any indication. Ironhide had a scowl on his face but that was par for the course for the old frontliner. Rather than sporting his typical slumped position, Jazz was sitting straight with pursued derma and crossed servos. It was impossible to tell what exactly the optics behind that blue visor were looking at. Ratchet just looked tired with his helm propped up by one servo. Although, he seemed to be more focused on Red Alert, whose unease was getting worse by the klik. At some point during this discussion—though that was a polite way of describing what by all metrics was an argument—Optimus had redeployed his battlemask.
Walking through a minefield would be less likely to blow up in his face then continuing to speak. Regardless, Prowl was not one to back down.
Resetting his vocalizer and clenching his fists to his side, he said, “Optimus, as the fronts of the war continue to expand in different directions, our resources are spread too thin. Our victories and our defeats have occurred within the smallest of margins. We need to be more strategic with our placement and if that means a temporary relocation of troops currently overseeing neutral settlements, then so be it.”
With an almost indiscernible sigh, Optimus clenched the top of his nasal ridge with two fingers. “Prowl, I understand your concerns about the state of our current formations, but the lives of civilians must take absolute priority. I cannot in good conscious order the removal of troops and resources that are currently protecting those that are vulnerable.”
“You’re not listening to me,” Prowl hissed out as he felt his temper threatening to completely overtake him.
“On the contrary, I hear you loud and clear, but—”
“Exactly!” Prowl interrupted and raised his voice. He could hear Ironhide rev his engine at the affront on Optimus’s behalf. “You are hearing my glyphs, but you are not listening to what I am saying and what I am advising! Those neutrals are only alive because of our efforts! They will not have a future if we lose! If the Decepticons overtake us, then those neutrals are as good as dead! I am not suggesting a complete and permanent removal of all troops from these settlements, just a temporary shifting of soldiers as we regain an upper edge on the warfronts. I am not proposing leaving them completely defenseless either.”
“If the Decepticons, by some stroke of misfortune, were to catch wind of our relocation of troops, we very well could be putting a target on the backs of these settlements and leaving them open to attack.”
Frustrated, Prowl growled back, “There is a non-zero possibility that Decepticons may target those weak points. However, better a few neutrals be lost than our fighting forces completely decimated.” The second the words left his derma, Prowl knew he had forfeited the argument. He grimaced. The statement sounded callous even to his audials. How he hated how loose his glossa could be when angered. It was a hot flaming lash he could not properly wield and he was inevitably seared every time. His statement would no doubt be received poorly.
“I will not endanger the lives of civilians and that is final,” Optimus said sternly. And with the full authority that was to be expected of the Matrix-bearer he announced, “Consider this item on the agenda closed.”
It was unusual for the Autobot leader to use his authority to completely close an item. He would usually initiate a motion to move on to signal his mind had been made up after taking in his inner circle’s feedback and insight. The fact he had skipped that step signified that he was adamant on his proposed course of action. In these instances, his stubbornness managed to surpass Prowl’s.
Continuing to clench his servos, Prowl looked around one more time in a last minute hope that somebody else would see reason. But, he knew he would find no allies around this table, he rarely did. Ratchet and Ironhide were almost always guaranteed to take Optimus’s side. Ironhide was steadfast in his loyalty and had an almost fanatic devotion to his Prime. And if it came down to Prowl or Optimus, Ratchet had greater faith in Optimus’s judgement and sensibilities. It was not that the medic was incapable of disagreeing with Optimus, but he never did so publicly. He certainly would not do anything to undermine his authority in the command room. Any reservations he had were most likely conferred in private.
Blaster and Wheeljack both tended to only intervene when their area of expertise would play a key factor in defining their course of action, but otherwise they tended to follow the general consensus of the room. Red Alert would usually take his side in matters of handling Decepticon prisoners and increasing base security, but he was unlikely to side with him now, when he was advocating for a temporary reduction in defenses for the neutrals.
His partner was the only one who was an unpredictable factor. Depending on the circumstances, Jazz could either take Prowl’s side and together they could wring out an occasional victory against Optimus or, apparently like today, he would stand against him.
Trying to prevent the bitterness in his field from suffocating the room and with gritted dentae, Prowl took a seat. One of the major lessons a tactician learned early on in their career was to know when a battle had been lost. This did not mean he could not seethe.
His fellow officers were too near-sighted. They could not see the bigger picture. If the Decepticons broke through the current war fronts, which was 46% likely and increasing each decaorn, then both the Autobots and the neutrals would suffer heavy casualties. Why couldn’t they understand he was not trying to condemn the neutrals to death but save them? More lives would be saved in the long run if they could just strengthen their hold on the fronts. Why couldn’t they understand that they wanted the same thing?
Prowl suppressed a pitiful whine from escaping his engine by tightly grasping a datapad. He took another glance around the room. Faceplates that had previously been marred by the tension now softened in relief. There was no doubt in his processor that his fellow officers were probably sneering at him.
It was not fair.
Ratchet had the servos to heal just about every injury no matter how grievous, so much so that many lauded him as a miracle worker. Ironhide was a torchbearer in battle whose combat prowess inspired bravery from those fighting alongside him. Blaster with his tuneful voice and mastery over communications systems was a comforting voice to hear in the midst of a battle’s cacophony. Wheeljack’s continual innovative spirit always provided a promise of progress and advancement. Red Alert was an impenetrable wall of defense that faithfully sheltered the entire army. Jazz was the army’s shadow, always trailing behind to watch its back from dangers it could not perceive.
They were all always the beloved upstanding pillars of the Autobot faction. Prowl was the one that had to take on the mantle of hangman. He was the judge responsible for weighing the scales and making a verdict. He was the referee standing on the sidelines who never played but always made the calls. He was responsible for making impossible decisions. He was going to pave the way to victory regardless of the costs. He was the tactician.
He could feel his doorwings trying to twitch in agitation and frustration. In trying to suppress movement from his doorwings, he felt his servos start to tremble. He continued to clutch on to his datapad as a lifeline.
It was always like this. Of course, he always had to come off these arguments looking like the bad guy. The one who was morally reprehensible for daring to potentially endanger the neutrals, the one who always had to disagree with Optimus, the one who would shoot words more acidic than his acid rifle pellets when he was on the defensive, and the one who would gladly condemn hundreds to their deaths.
And of course Optimus always had to come out on top for being infallible. For always being the one strong enough to do the morally correct thing, for always having the right answers, for always doing his best to save everybody, for being perfect.
His doorwings caught the slight vibrations that indicated somebody was talking. That sensory feedback was washed away by the waves of rage that were crashing around in his frame, threatening to drown him in his own turmoil. His servos slowly dented the datapad he was holding. The sound of splintering glass was yet another sound relegated to the background.
Optimus was a fountain of hope that everybody was always happy to fill their cubes with and Prowl was a well of bitter hard truths that nobody wanted to swallow.
Afterall, Optimus, with the supposed endorsement of Primus, was a paragon of virtue and revered by all. All Prowl was, was a cold-constructed strategist that everybody loathed, who Primus himself was said to–
The sharp sound of shattering glass filled the room.
“Prowl?”
Momentarily pulled out of the stupor he had fallen into, Prowl turned to look at Optimus’s semi-concerned face. He could sense that all optics were currently on him. Slowly unclenching his fingers from the datapad and trying to maintain his composure in both appearance and EM field, Prowl said, “My apologies. My processor was momentarily elsewhere. Could you repeat that?”
With an uneasy look, Optimus hesitantly asked, “Is that all or was there something else to discuss on today’s agenda?”
The agenda in question was currently dented and its glass shards were all over his lap, and though Prowl had the agenda memorized, his boiling anger had simmered into an exhaustion that threatened to swallow him whole. “No, that was the last thing to discuss. Motion to adjourn.”
“Seconded.” Blaster and Wheeljack responded almost instantaneously and simultaneously. Prowl almost felt pity for them. The good-humored Communications Officer and non-confrontational Chief Scientist probably loathed sitting in these volatile meeting rooms more than anybody else.
Optimus nodded his head and with a small clap of his servos said, “I declare this meeting adjourned. Thank you all for your time and as this orn slowly approaches its end, I wish you all a good evening. I will see you all tomorrow.”
Usually he would stay behind to organize his notes and answer any lingering questions, but today’s meeting had drained him dry. With a speed that would put Blurr to shame, Prowl was the first one out of his seat and would hopefully be the first one out of the door. He did not even bother to clean up after the mess he had made. As he stood, small clinks could be heard as shards of glass fell onto the floor. He could see Ratchet looking at him from the peripheral of his vision. He hurried his pace as he would prefer to avoid the medic’s attention at the moment. He was fine.
He let his leg struts carry him through the halls of the base. He was not sure where he was going, but his office was off limits. It would be the first place anybody that bothered to look for him would think to search to find him. There were not too many other options. The Rec Room was bound to be filled at this time of orn and the thrum of a crowd would make matters worse.
It was not that he did not enjoy the company of others, so much as others did not enjoy his. Admittedly, he tended to stumble through social interactions. Casual conversations required a certain tact, whereas he favored bluntness.
He often considered his aloofness a self-fulfilling prophecy. He knew many did not welcome his presence, so he willinging avoided heavy traffic areas to prevent any unwanted interactions. Given the confined space of military bases, this meant he spent more joors than normal working in his office. In the process, he only further reaffirmed his seclusion, which only made others want to avoid him more
A degree of separation from the troops was only proper decorum from the Second-in-Command is what he told himself. Indeed, it was much better to maintain distance, for the sake of all of them. He never knew when he would have to issue an order that would inevitably be taken personally. And because of the cruelty of war and the impartiality of his position, it was a “when” not an “if”.
While he was partially to blame by the unfortunate means of simply being himself, he could not help but resent the descriptors he had amassed throughout his tenure. Impersonal, indifferent, apathetic, cold, sparkless, drone. The latter few carried connotations that he had hoped would have been buried under the rubble of war.
At that sudden thought, his frame was twitchy. His tank felt upset, and his vision was simultaneously blurry and perfectly clear.
Trusting his legs to carry him to a sanctuary while his processor was preoccupied elsewhere, he made his way through the labyrinth of the base’s hallways. Every time he turned a corner he held his breath dreading who he would encounter.
There was a wide array of reactions as he passed the soldiers under his command. After turning one corner, he found Hound waiting idly with his back to the wall. (52% chance he was waiting for Mirage). Upon laying his optics on his commander, the gentle green-plated bot offered a polite smile and a salute, which Prowl acknowledged.
A couple breems later he heard the rapid falling of pedes as he caught a glimpse of red and yellow. Sideswipe was hauling Sunstreaker by the wrist as they hurried across the hallway. (22% chance they were headed to the Rec Room; 18% chance they were off to cause mischief; 42% chance they were late to their shift). With a wide grin on his face, the red twin offered a lazy salute while his scowling yellow brother offered a small nod. This is how Prowl knew he was jaded because he did not even bother to chastise the twins for their hurry.
As he neared his destination, he turned the hall to see Cliffjumper. (32% chance he was on his way to meet-up with Bumblebee; 20% chance he was on his way to the shooting range). The red minibot was one of the only ones with the bearings to be upfront in his disdain for the tactician. Neither acknowledged the other.
As they passed each other, Prowl felt his earlier paranoia and apprehension return.
His processor wandered over to the meeting he had just fled from.
Had it always been like this? Had Optimus and he always clashed so frequently? His TacNet was rapidly pulling every recollection of a command meeting from his memory banks and trying to pick them apart for clues. It was churning to find an explanation for the sudden corrosion of their working relationship.
It came as no surprise when the TacNet hypothesized the change to take place at some point after his appointment as Optimus’s second. He had not been a popular appointment amongst the rank and file, but nobody could argue with his outcomes. If any of his fellow officers had objected to his promotion, they never made it known publicly. He was the best strategist the Autobot ranks had to offer. He knew it. They knew it.
Surely, Optimus and him must have been amicable once. Had Optimus changed? Had he changed? Had they both changed? Pit, he was not sure what to make of his relationship with Optimus. He had no clue why the invitation to stand by his side was still proffered.
The walls of the halls felt like they were closing down on him. The silence that he had been trying to seek now felt too loud. The lights were blinding. He picked up his pace.
He needed to get out.