One Human, One Spark 63

"Hey! Half Pint! Perfect timing. I need Raf's help."

Bumblebee halted, staring at Wheeljack who was in the thick of his science. Rather DUBIOUS science by Bumblebee's standard, but that could be why he was requesting Raf's help. After all, if his chassis was popped open and he had wires hooked to and from his spark, NOTHING good could be coming from that setup.

*Um . . . He's with Prowl right now, but uh, I can go grab him if you really need him*

Wheeljack grunted, only half hearing the scout as he carefully used tweezers to tie the cut groups of wires together so two cables became one. "Hm? What? Sure. Raf." And then, his processor suddenly caught up with what he was saying. He looked up sharply from his work, blurting, "Prowl?"

Optics shifting to the exact opposite side of the room, Wheeljack saw Raf's feet typing away on a datapad—no, backspacing. Prowl's form was both tense and uncommonly relaxed. His back was stiff, door wings equally rigid, but one leg was hiked up on the table to face the datapad lying flat on its surface so Raf wouldn't run the risks of falling. His arms were stretched out and down like wooden limbs, and his fingers were curled above the pad.

The tactician didn't even so much as twitch as Raf moved carefully over the pad so he wouldn't accidentally type something. Wheeljack watched curiously as Raf resituated Prowl's fingers over the correct keys, and it took him a second to realize that Raf was watching Prowl type on the datapad. Having memorized the keys as any typist would, it was just a matter of learning to keep his hands steadier so his hands wouldn't hover over the wrong keys. Or, if he made a typo, Raf would be there to catch it. It also occurred to Wheeljack why he had seen Ratchet with Raf so commonly on his shoulder—he had been teaching that bright little kid how to read Cybertronian all along!

Raf said something first, angling his head up to look at Prowl as he did, and the tactician responded something in kind. Apparently, Raf though it was funny because he laughed and grinned, saying something back. There was the briefest twitch of Prowl's lips as the edge of his mouth curled the tiniest fraction.

As single-driven as he was to finally get this thrice-damned holoform to work correctly, Wheeljack couldn't help but grunt and turn back to his work, saying, "Never mind, I'll worry about it later." Not too smart, given how prone Wheeljack was to explosions, but seeing a mech literally break down certainly put them in a different light for a bot.

Bumblebee twittered. *It's not problem, really. I'll hang with Prowl and let Raf help you*

Wheeljack had already focused his processor's power on his project, and thus, didn't really hear what Bumblebee had said. "What? Sure, whatever." He squinted his optics harder, zooming in on the small hole he was trying to loop two opposite wires through.

About a minute later, he heard a dubious, "Wheeljack? What . . . are you trying to do?"

"Raf!" Wheeljack scooped up the human and made him squeal, and he deposited him on the table with him and offered him the tiny wires and washer that would conduct the two together. "Great timing, kid. Loop both those wires through that washer, and make sure they're real tight, all right?

Raf's brows pinched, but he took his instructions accordingly, asking, "So, what are you trying to do? Why are you hooking up your spark to . . . whatever this is?"

"I want to FEEL the protoform," he told Raf, double-checking cable integrity in his spark chamber for the umpteenth time. As always, the wiring hadn't moved. "And if I'm going to feel Miko touching me, I'm gonna need my spark hooked up to it somehow so my consciousness is actually IN the holoform, feel me?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Good. And the only reason I'm using real wiring is because I haven't figured out how to do this thing wirelessly."

For some reason, Wheeljack felt the need to defend himself over that, though he couldn't tell you why. Instead, his optics drifted back across the room to Prowl and Bumblebee. They were talking, that much he could tell by the way he could see Prowl's mouth move periodically and hear the faint beeps from Bumblebee. Periodically, Bumblebee would tell Prowl to stop, fix a typo or two, or maybe the position of his fingers, and let him begin typing again.

"You guys are good for him."

Raf glanced up. "Prowl?"

"Who else?" Wheeljack asked on a snort. "Of course, Prowl. No one could put up with poor Tight Aft but Jazz, so he's probably dying for some company."

Raf frowned as his small fingers worked the wires the way Wheeljack had told him to. He twisted and pinched their ends together in the center. "Did he really not have any friends?"

Wheeljack snorted and crossed his arms. "Other than Jazz? Highly unlikely. They were either his associates or his superiors. Prowl's not a too touchy-feely guy, and for some completely deranged reason, Jazz took a liking to him. I don't even know how they got along, they're about as far from each others' personalities as you can get."

Raf didn't comment, but he finally held the little washer up to Wheeljack. "Here you go. What do you need that for?"

Inspecting it closely to be sure it was hooked correctly, Wheeljack beamed. "Perfect! 'Atta boy. And actually, the washer is just the focal point. That way, my spark energies will go to that point right there, and I can put the force field around it. Now, since you never really know with me, though I'm hoping against my worse tendencies right now, I'm gonna make sure we don't have to end up sewing parts of you back togeth—"

"WHEELJACK! WHAT IN PRIMUS'S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

The Wrecker nearly jumped out of his protoform. Wincing when Ratchet stormed forward, he crossed an arm self-consciously over his spark, unable to close the chamber with the wires hanging out. "Doc—"

"Don't you call me that!" Ratchet snapped, so easily falling into the norm with Wheeljack that he failed to see the Wrecker flinch. "Just WHAT do you think you're hooking up to your spark? If you short-circuit yourself or manage to blow yourself up, there's nothing I can do to stitch your spark back together!"

Wheeljack cringed back defensively, glaring almost violently at the medic that towered above him. "Back off, DOC. It's my project, and I'll do whatever the hell I want."

"NOT if you're going to commit suicide in an extremely stupid way," Ratchet growled right back. "What are you doing?"

Wheeljack's lip curled. "I'm running my spark's energies out so I can get it in the holoform, all right?"

Ratchet pursed his lips. "To theoretically be able to feel the holoform yourself. Yes." Ratchet eyed the set up critically, shifting as he tried to see into Wheeljack's spark chamber. The Wrecker covered himself up more fully than before, narrowing his optics at the medic, both territorial of his work as well as not enjoying being figuratively "naked" in front of him.

The CMO gave one scathing scoff. "If you do that, you'll just short yourself out."

Wheeljack growled. "Yeah? We'll just see about that."

Ratchet flattened his lips, one edge turning sharply downwards. "Suit yourself." He snatched up Raf who had become nearly invisible beneath them, saying, "I'd rather keep Raf out of the way of the smoke."

Wheeljack growled dangerously again, plating hiking up defensively. Ratchet just took a haughty step back, waiting expectantly for Wheeljack's decision. Though he KNEW everything was wired correctly, Wheeljack double-checked his spark again and even Raf's easy part, and though he had a faint suspicion in the back of his mind because of Ratchet, went ahead and flipped the internal switch.

At first, it was perfectly fine. He felt an awkward tug on his spark and the little surge, but his sparkial energies conducted through the wiring and down to the washer acting as a focal point. Then, switching on his internal mechanism for the latest prototype of the holoform, the molecules began to gather around the washer, and the instant the energies collided, Ratchet's prediction came true.

Wheeljack didn't even get the chance to shout before the electrical surge backfired. It jolted back up through him, and there was a sharp jab of pain scorching his spark before he was completely short circuited.

Ratchet snorted when the Wrecker collapsed on the table, smoking from the chassis. Sitting Raf up on his shoulder, Ratchet turned Wheeljack over and disconnected the cables, resisting the urge to smirk at the Wrecker's efforts. Clearly, he needed a medic's touch to help merge technology with biology.

Wheeljack's optics came back on with a flicker. Seeing the hazy form of the medic above him, panic slashed violently into Wheeljack's spark. Backhanding the servo reaching for his spark, Wheeljack shoved him back, barking, "Get away from me! Don't you EVER pull scrap like that! Stay the frag away from me, got it?"

Spark hammering inside his chassis, Wheeljack fixed the medic with a gaze as threatening and dark as possible, trigger finger twitching as he tried not to pull his weapon on him. Ratchet just held up his servos and backed away, saying, "Fine then. At least let me have the deliciously smug feeling when I say this:  I TOLD YOU SO."

Wheeljack scoffed and gave one sarcastic laugh. "Yeah, cause that's mature."

"I never said it was, but that doesn't diminish how good it feels."

The Wrecker harrumphed, yanking the connections loose and letting his chassis clang shut defensively. Helpfully, Raf said, "I think the washer was too small. If—"

"The washer was too small," Wheeljack replied in a clipped tone, grumpy at Ratchet calling him out on his failure. "And something in the frequencies crossed wrong. I'll figure it out later, I've gotta pick Miko up from detention."

Raf glanced down at his phone's clock. "Oh, that's right! Detention should be out now. What'd she do this time?"

Wheeljack grunted as he stood, still tingling a bit uncomfortably. "Her usual? Didn't do her homework, shot some spit balls, and is being a general b—" He stopped short and huffed. "Well, it's the end of the school year, and she's obviously having a mental breakdown, and apparently I'M supposed to be the one that makes her feel better. You know what I used to say to her?"

Raf shook his head.

Wheeljack scowled. "Great. That just makes my life a lot easier."

Irritably transforming down before they could speak again, Wheeljack tore out of the base with a squeal of tires.

With his processor doggedly fixed on his science, on equations and problems and biosignatures, Wheeljack had been able to distract his processor from it all. But now, now that he had nothing to divert his processor’s attention to, he found his thoughts slipping, falling back into the darkness that was lit by a fiery flash and boom that rocked through his peds, the heat that scorched his back when he flung himself away. That sinister, hissing condemnation rose up like a pox inside him.

Murderer.

Wheeljack shook it off by flooring his gas pedal, feeling his wheels slipping in the sand and sending a fanning spray behind him to bury the grisly past. But he could remember the heat of the yellow liquid pooling on the floor, full of nutrient-giving CNA, and it burned like hot blood.

His tires hit pavement, and the extra tread made him rocket forward with speed as he ran from the ghosts of his sin. His spark hammered in his chassis. It wasn’t just him. It was Ultra Magnus too. He had made the mistake of looking into the commander’s optics, and what he had seen there terrified him. He saw the reason why Ultra Magnus truly was Optimus Prime’s brother. The devastation, the guilt, the bleeding compassion. He knew the part he had shared in this travesty, and he was breaking under the weight of it, bearing his limb loss as a penance for his crimes, and still he didn’t think his sufferings were enough.

He had looked into Prowl’s optics too. Somehow, though they were blind, they seemed to cut right through him. He could see the tactician’s processor already telling himself that this was the price of war. These were acceptable losses. They had done what they could, and there was no going back, only ahead. They would simply have to deal with the consequences of their ignorance, and hope for the better.

He hated Ultra Magnus’s self-flagellation. He hated Prowl’s logic. He hated their defense mechanisms against the tragedy. But most of all, he hated his own self-defense mechanism, because he knew without a doubt the raw, naked fear Ultra Magnus and Prowl had seen in his optics.

Pure, unadulterated terror of himself.

Killer.

Madly, and without cares for his own safety, Wheeljack floored it, darting through a red light, missing cars by inches. He could feel his protoform crawling, his spark stuttering irregularly with its beats as he fled from himself, from the anguish of that voice, so enraged with despair it curdled his energon tanks.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?

Wheeljack skidded into the school in record time, cutting off several mini vans and engines idling hot in a random parking spot. He could feel his metal rattling, and his vents opened, cycling steaming air from his body.

What have I done, what have I done, what have I done, what have I done . . .!?

He rocked on his wheels, so desperate to move, to run, to distract himself, anything he could. But he was forced to wait idly as the kids departed from the school this week before finals, backpacks heavy with books for their studies. Eventually, he could see the detainees of detention filtering out—they, unlike the children who had stayed after school for later buses or extracurricular activities, had light book bags, less caring of their grades by default.

Homicidal butcher.

His engine revved loudly, straining as he lurched again, trying to contain the consternation consuming his soul. He saw pink pig tails look up and Miko waved, coming his way with an excited jog to see that he was finally starting to pick her up again. Wheeljack tried to slow his trembling, tried to hide the hysteria rising up in him, and he popped his door open for her, letting her toss her guitar and book bag in the back seat.

“Wheeljack!” She was so energetic, so full of energy, and she grinned, happy and bubbly that she got to see her guardian. The door slammed shut as she strapped in, hooting, “Let’s go! I am so OUT of this school!”

Resisting the urge to throw himself violently into reverse, Wheeljack pulled out of the parking lot as controlled as he could, albeit still quicker than prudent.

He heard her sigh and relax in her chair, slumping and stretching. “So, what are we going to do today, Jackie?” she asked as chipper as a songbird. As innocent as a flower. “How about some dune bashing! We haven’t been out dune bashing in ages!” And Primus help him, she was so wired, so full of energy, so volatile—volatile and ready to blow like a bomb, so ALIVE—

Murderer.

Wheeljack felt himself cringe inwardly, and he floored it abruptly, counting the deaths he had caused, counting the innocent lost, all twenty-four, chalking up the total to greater than it ever had been before, so many with one bomb. It was a fragging record. It was a bloody, grisly, horrible record, and the price of his actions cost the life of an entire race.

AN ENTIRE RACE.

You slaughtered them all.

He hadn’t heard Miko’s squealing at first. But now, she was worried, true apprehension coloring her voice as her voice quavered, squeaking and shrieking with worry when Wheeljack’s speed didn’t abate.

“Wheeljack? Wheeljack, what’s wrong? Wheeljack, slow down! Calm down! What’s wrong? Wheeljack!”

They sped down the interstate, and Wheeljack found his vocalizer so fused with fear that he couldn’t respond. He couldn’t get his vocals to work. Dread had seized him at his throat, crushing his neck, stifling every word he could have ever said. Turning towards the base, he whipped into the sand, the back end of the Lancia fishtailing wildly before they managed to straighten out again.

He could hear her voice, shrieking with child-like terror. “Wheeljack! Wheeljack, stop! What’s wrong? What’s happened? Wheeljack, please! PLEASE!”

Such raw, primal fear. A child’s fear. Incoherent screaming, animalistic shrieking of dying children children children children CHILDREN—

Sparklings, just sparklings! I killed them! I killed them all! Sparklings! Oh Primus—SPARKLINGS!

When Miko’s worry escalated to sheer panic, she pierced the bubble of control he had shielded himself with. With a broken, terrified cry, Wheeljack slammed on the breaks, skidding through the sand until he abruptly transformed. Miko shrieked, sprawling across the sands as Wheeljack broke at the knees, consumed with his transgressions. He was aware he had started to scream, and his servos came up to claw at his helm as he tried to control a massive panic attack, and he trembled, hearing the unearthly screeches of the Predacon sparklings in his audios, howls of the dying, the dying, they were dying dying dying—

Control it, control it, by Primus, control yourself! Breathe! Stop it! Stop!

Miko showed him a flip side of herself. He felt her hands touch his knees, pressing there with a quiet, inner strength. Her voice, previously erratic, was now calm and reassuring, full of gentle concern and patience he hadn’t known she possessed, even though it quavered with worried tears. The wetness streaked down her cheeks.

“Wheeljack, easy. Breathe. It’s going to be all right. Focus. Deep breaths. Calm down. I’m right here, shh . . .”

Half a sob and half a swear tore from his mouth. Wheeljack rocked, terrified of himself and what he had done, but Miko exuded strength and compassion, slim shoulders capable of bearing the weight he was breaking beneath. Shaking, he dragged in desperate cycles of air, struggling to cool himself in the heat of the day and in the heat of his passions. Miko’s hand soothed over his knee, offering him the comfort he should have never received. Not while he . . . Not after he had . . .

Wheeljack shivered, audial fins pressing back as he reeled up, holding back to tumultuous feelings whipping him to and fro in his spark. He couldn’t let this rip everything he was to tattered shreds. If he did, he’d never come back the same.

Too late.

Ignoring the dark voice haunting over his memories, Wheeljack swallowed a calming vent, allowing Miko’s presence to soothe his spark and cover his wounds with a balm. The black voice cackled as it abated, and a last thrill of fear chased up Wheeljack’s back struts—

That voice sounded too much like himself.

“Shh. Are you all right? Wheeljack?”

He sucked in a nervous breath of air, still trembling slightly. He gave a curt nod, and his vocalizer finally cracked open. “Yeah,” he rasped, feeling disgustingly bogged down by his sin. “I-I’m fine.”

“Wheeljack.” Her voice was so patient, so loving, and he hated it. He didn’t deserve her love. After what he had done—no. He shouldn’t have even fought. He should have taken those claws to his spark and let the mech finish him off. “Wheeljack, let me in. Don’t shut me out. What happened?”

He shook his head. His audial fins twitched again as he gusted out a heavy breath, managing tightly, “It’s nothing, Miko. You don’t need to know.”

Miko bit her lip, continuing in her caressing of his knee. She was no one’s fool, as much as the world tried to paint her as stupid and delinquent. She had seen the signs Wheeljack had exhibited over the time she had known him. And now, more pressingly, Twin Twist. Of course she hadn’t sat back and done nothing, she had taken to the books, searching the internet for what she could regarding their violent and passionate symptoms. She could hardly find any two candidates exhibiting such extreme symptoms of PTSD than Twin Twist or Wheeljack. She knew what she was dealing with, and it frustrated her, but she knew each person had to heal at a different rate, right? She wanted to push him, but she knew she couldn’t. She bit her lip, forcing her heart to do one of the hardest things it had ever done as she looked up at her father who was suffering something beyond the realm of what she could fix.

“Well, whenever you feel like it, I’m right here. I’ll always be right here for you, Wheeljack . . . Dad. I’m always here for you. Don’t ever feel like you can’t talk to me, okay?”

The barest hint of betrayal in her voice was enough to cause jagged lacerations to cut over his spark. Filled with agony, Wheeljack bowed over close to her, nudging his helm again her as he cracked out, “It’s not your fault. It’s mine, all mine . . . And this—This isn’t the kind of stuff you need to know.”

One of her hands touched his cheek warmly, her thumb drawing little circles. “You’ve shared things with me before,” she murmured. “You told me about the torture chambers. You even told me about Pyro.”

Wheeljack flinched. “Miko, please don’t,” he rasped. His servo cupped around her, and the other one clenched into the ground, the sand slipping from between his fingers.

Her touch only became more tender. “You don’t have to, but you can tell me anything.”

A pained whine echoed deep in his gears. “Miko, don’t, please,” he whispered again, spark shivering in its casing. “Just . . . Just be there for me, okay?”

She nodded, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. “I will.”

“I just need you there . . . to . . . hold me together . . . because I can feel my soul fading every day . . . Please, Miko, please . . . Save me from what I’ve become!”

His voice broke, terrified with tears, and he vented hard, hot air gusting around her. He felt her press in close, murmuring, “Shh, I’m here. I’m here, I won’t ever let anything happen to you, I promise,” and her lips brushed against him again, soothing his unbridled fear.

He didn’t know if was crying or not. His body shuddered as he prostrated himself before her, rasping, “Please, please, save me . . . save me . . . please . . . save me from what I’ve become . . . from myself . . .”

She didn’t let him go. She whispered everything he needed to hear, and she kissed him, tenderizing his wounds and healing his spark. And he trembled, locked in an ugly war with himself.

Murderer.

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“Commander? Are you all right?”

The concern in the rookie’s voice whipped through him like a bullet. For a brief second, Ultra Magnus looked up, and Smokescreen’s door wings tipped down, wary of the shattered look before the SIC got a hold of himself, concealing the tumultuous emotions ravaging his spark inside.

“I am fine, soldier,” he replied in a clipped tone, inclining his helm stiffly. “Go about your business.”

Smokescreen bit his lip at the dismissal, shifting on his peds nervously. “I’m on my off shift right now, Sir,” he replied as respectfully as possible. “And I uh, just wanted to make sure you were all right. You looked like you were in a lot of pain. Should I get Ratchet?”

His fingers dug into his palms so tightly he felt his circuits straining, ready to pop and snap at any given moment if he didn’t relax. “The doctor has enough to worry about at the moment,” he managed. In the remains of the stump of his right hand, he felt the gears and articulating cables pull on damaged mesh and components no longer there. “I do not require his attention.”

Rocking back on his heels, Smokescreen felt his door wings twitch nervously as he toed the line that separated rank. “Sir,” he asked softly, “what happened out there?”

Ultra Magnus felt himself flinch minutely, and a soft whine echoed from his gears as he held back the suffocating guilt that crashed over him. That voice roared out, condemning his sin with fury-filled despair.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?

“Optimus has not yet debriefed you?” he asked quietly, using the pronoun collectively. Smokescreen shook his head. Energon tanks churning, Ultra Magnus resisted the bile that wanted to rise up. “Project Predacon has been terminated,” he said, spark reeling in pain. “Shockwave’s laboratory was detonated, and all the life inside eliminated.” He felt the rookie physically still across from him at the unsaid truth implied between the lines of his words, a gruesome, macabre truth that stained his servos with the energon of innocents. “A mech walked through the Decepticon ground bridge; the Predacon. Fully transformed. Fully sentient. And he proceeded to beat the living spark out of Wheeljack, Prowl, and I to avenge his fallen brethren.”

Smokescreen didn’t respond, but the horrified silence he exuded was enough. Ultra Magnus quaked on the inside, and he kept his helm down, unwilling to gaze upon the sickening look etched across the rookie’s face. “Go tell the others,” he ordered him quietly, so plagued by what had happened that he almost couldn’t speak around the misery. “And leave me alone.”

There was a short pause, as if Smokescreen wanted to say more, but he finally just nodded his helm and murmured an obedient, “Yes, Sir,” before disappearing off, leaving Ultra Magnus mercifully alone.

He bowed his helm, spark shivering inside his chassis. That wasn’t even the half of it. He could let them know of the genocide. They had to know, or else they would come up with their own conclusions when there were no more Predacons.

But . . . The SPARKLINGS . . .

Sparklings . . . Oh Primus, what have I done? Murderer . . . Why?

“Ultra Magnus.”

He jumped, hypersensitive to everything around him, and he looked up to see Optimus standing before him, brows pinched with worry. And he knew with one look that this conversation was the last thing he wanted to have, but he knew his brother wouldn’t let it rest.

Stiffly, he inclined his helm towards him. “Optimus.”

Against his spark, he felt the faintest brush of compassion and the offer to listen, but Ultra Magnus felt himself clamming up, and he pulled away, trying to erect walls between them. Optimus had enough problems. The least he could do was bear his on his own.

He heard the sighing vent release from Optimus’s body. Taking a seat on the berth with him, Optimus reached out, laying his hand gently over Ultra Magnus’ stumped limb. “Brother,” he murmured gently. “Please, don’t shut me out.”

A tremble ran up Ultra Magnus’s back. The Predacon sparklings had awoken too early. They hadn’t yet reached full maturity, and he could remember the image of them all waking up in their pools of CNA, jerking and thrashing, literally drowning in the life-giving substance until the pod drained enough for them to breathe; a similar affliction Ultra Magnus had felt when he was first pulled out of stasis on Earth.

“My crime is beyond redemption,” he finally said tersely. “I am no better than a Decepticon if my actions as a leader cannot be distinguished between Autobot and Decepticon.”

He could feel that insufferable compassion pressing against his spark, trying to soothe his guilt. Ultra Magnus stubbornly pushed it away, feeling undeserving as he shook his helm. “Do not try to defend my actions, Optimus,” he almost snapped before he could open his mouth. “My ignorance does not protect me from the energon staining my servos. I was the one who gave the order! I sanctioned the killing of innocent sparklings without so much as a second thought!”

He looked up into his brother’s optics, consternation overflowing from his wounds like pus, dirtying him, disgusting him. “Sparklings, Optimus. Fully sentient, Cybertronian life. Sparked from science or not, sentient or not, they were alive, and they were innocent, and I KILLED them.” He could feel his plating trembling beneath the weight that slowly crushed him beneath his sins.

Twenty-four casualties were the cost of being an Autobot. No, of his own mistake. One, grisly, horrible mistake that cut him open twenty-four times and let his viscera bleed onto the floor. He had condemned an entire race before it even had the chance to live.

Optimus gently pressed against his spark again, offering his comfort and companionship, and his compassion surged feeling his brother’s energies exuding raging pain and shame. The taste of bitter guilt stung his glossia, and he reached out again, this time putting his servo on his shoulder, intending to bring his older brother into his arms. “Ultra Magnus—”

“Stop it,” he rasped. He turned his helm stiffly away, refusing to take the empathy he didn’t deserve. “I—I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your mercy, and I don’t want your forgiveness.”

He felt his words cut into his brother’s spark. For a moment, Optimus didn’t say anything, but merely let his servo drop from Ultra Magnus’s shoulder. He rose from the berth, and he moved to stand directly in front of Ultra Magnus. Taking his shoulders, he forced him to turn towards him, and he took his chin, coercing his face upwards when he refused to look at him.

Fathomless azure optics looked into the depths of his guilty spark. “Regardless of what you do not want from me,” Optimus told him softly, “you will always have my love. And once you have settled your regret, come back to me, and I will welcome you with open arms.”

Ultra Magnus closed his optics when Optimus retreated, his spark receiving one last embrace from the younger before he disappeared to catch up with the long string of work Ultra Magnus’s inactivity and Prowl’s recent handicap was causing. And in a sick, twisted way, Ultra Magnus wished for Prowl’s handicap. He wanted to be blind. He didn’t want to have to see those sparklings struggling in their cages, hitting the glass, screaming to be set free, screaming for help, a grisly shriek that marked his audio receptors like a tattoo, forever ingrained on his soul. He didn’t want to see them, everywhere he looked, everywhere he turned, like ghosts haunting his spark, their spirits thrashing in his sights, drowning, dying, caged, innocent sparklings.

He offlined his optics trying to erase the spectral visions from his sight. But even with his optics offline, he could still see them, forever stitched into his processor, unable to be forgotten or forgiven.

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Typing doggedly, too stubborn to give up, Prowl steadily plucked at the datapad, Bumblebee across from him to help. Raf soon came back too, Wheeljack heading out to pick up Miko from detention, and Prowl was uncertain yet whether he appreciated him being there. He liked the young human, he even liked Bumblebee, but . . . right now, he would rather be alone in his misery than here with them.

What he couldn’t come to a conclusion to was why he couldn’t ask them to leave him alone.

His calculating mind wouldn’t stop, no matter how he tried to flood his databanks to solely focus on typing up this report. Twenty-four Predacon sparklings. He had let Ultra Magnus make that order, allowed Wheeljack to carry it out, and he did not speak up once about the moral ambiguity—no, the WRONGNESS of killing the sparklings. He had merely taken a back seat and allowed the doomed tragedy to happen.

Twenty-four Predacon sparklings.

Twenty-four innocents.

Twenty-four murders.

Twenty-four sins.

Twenty-four ways for Prowl to mutilate his spark with guilt—

“Prowl?” It was Raf’s voice that suddenly piped up. “Are you all right? Your hands are shaking.”

Snapping back to the present, Prowl felt the tremors up his arms, and he quickly came to the same conclusion Raf had. Forcibly controlling the shakes, he managed in a clipped tone, “I am fine.” He made a small show of stretching his arms. “An articulating cable was pinched.” He brought his servos roughly back to the same place as before, and he felt Bumblebee’s servos take his and move him the tiniest motion to the left.

They fell back into silence, sensing something was wrong, and Prowl blinked his optics, trying to dispel the image of the transformed Predacon, a mech, with a sneer of loathing hatred far beyond what Prowl had even known. Then, the quick jab of his helm forward and pain, the shattering of glass, blindness.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?

Prowl thought it out logically in his mind as his servos moved of their own accord, the typing becoming a background program as his processing power ran rampant with panic. There was no way they could have let the Predacon sparklings live. They were too dangerous. There was no way they could possibly let them live and allow Megatron to use them to destroy humankind, and then, the rest of the Autobots. If one Predacon sent them running, twenty-four of them would decimate them. If they hadn’t nipped Project Predacon at the bud, the war would be lost.

But they were sparklings, weren’t they? They posed no threat yet.

Even if they HADN’T been fully grown at the time when Shockwave released them from their incubation, they would grow. And after they had dealt with one Predacon that utterly wiped the floor with them in nearly every encounter, there was no way they could let Megatron have a group weapon of mass destruction at his disposal. Sparklings or not, they would have been Decepticons.

But what if they hadn’t been Decepticons? What if, since they were so young, the Autobots could have taken them in, taught them right from wrong, gave them a just conscience unlike the Predacon’s mech corrupt views?

Prowl’s processor warred with itself angrily. His spark bogged down with twisted regret, at odds with what was morally right and what was logical. Even if the Autobots had tried to take them in, what was the chances that these Predacons would have listened to them? What was the chances that their higher intelligence overcame their base instincts? Even if they had saved them, brought them under their wing, there was no place to keep twenty-four unruly sparkling Predacons, there weren’t enough people to look after them, there weren’t enough resources to keep them all alive when the Autobots struggled to even find enough energon to keep themselves functioning.

*Prowl,* he heard Bumblebee say softly with a clear of his vocalizer. *You . . . You’re writing . . . Um . . . Ultra Magnus had Smokescreen tell us all what happened. And . . . Well . . .*

He trailed off, not knowing what to say. Prowl felt his servos begin to tremble again. That was right. They had to know about the genocide. It was the only way to explain why Project Predacon was no more. Terminated with one grenade, Primus, only ONE grenade to kill twenty-four sparklings. He had never hear of a number like that being documented before, twenty-four murdered with one grenade, just one order, one grenade, one mistake.

Raf glanced between them, biting his lip. “Prowl . . . What did you guys do?”

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?

His question was too close to those words that were haunting him. His fist slammed down on the datapad before he could stop it, snapping, “What was necessary!”

His words whipped between them like a bullet. He ground his dentures harshly, servos curling into tight fists as he looked away, his fractured sight shifting radically with the movement, threatening to give him an even bigger processor ache than before.

A hand laid on top of his. *We know, Prowl. It’s okay—*

“Not it is not!” he bit out angrily, and he yanked his servos away. His logic chips fritzed and his spark rolled over in turmoil, so at odds with himself he was sure he would be ripped in two. “I am the tactician! I should have spoken up, told Ultra Magnus how wrong our actions were and should not have let Wheeljack hurl that grenade.”

He heard a small click from Bumblebee and the shutter of his vents. *Prowl, you didn’t know—*

“Do not coddle me, Bumblebee!” he said harshly, and he fisted his servos, glaring to the side. “I am not to be excused for my mistake. Regardless of if I knew they were sentient sparks or not, they should have never been terminated. We have become inured to the horrors of war. We have allowed our sparks and processors to be deteriorated to a depraved degree, becoming no better than the Decepticons. This genocide—this calamity has been wrought by our own hands, and we will bear the price of our transgressions.” He lifted his hand, closed his optics, and touched his broken sight with energon-stained fingers. “This is the price I pay. And by it I suffer.”

Soft, warm fingers pressed on his side, and his stomach flexed reflexively, not expecting the human’s touch. “Prowl . . .” he said softly, but he didn’t say anything more. COULDN’T say anything more. A tender hug pressed to his side.

*Prowl* His audials perked at the sound of the scout’s modulated voice, but he didn’t look up, just stared into the shattered glass of his existence. *Ratchet is going to fix another visor for your optics, and I don’t want you to turn his hard work down because of guilt*

Prowl’s lip curled. “You don’t understand anything,” he hissed to the young scout, painfully aware that he had killed younglings even more adolescent than him.

*You’re right* Bumblebee said honestly. *I don’t understand. But what I know, and what you know, is that we need you. We’re too far in this war to go on without your strength and skills, Prowl. You wanted so desperately to be whole again. Ratchet isn’t going to let him down, and you can’t let us down either. We need every hand we can get, and yours are too valuable to keep in disuse*

Bumblebee paused, and Prowl felt the mech’s servo rest on his shoulder. *Prowl, regardless of what happened out there, things happen in war. We all know it. Some things are controllable, some uncontrollable. Sometimes we’ll make the biggest mistakes in our life, but we have to learn to work through them, learn from them, grow stronger from them*

Prowl gave one flat, bitter laugh. “You have no idea, Bumblebee,” he replied cynically. His wings twitched, a shudder running down his back in the remembrance of those sparklings thrashing in terrified ignorance inside their caged pods. “You have no idea of the horror I helped commit . . .”

That servo on his shoulder squeezed. *Then tell me. You might remember me as a youngling, but I’ve grown up. I can handle it, Prowl. What happened? Don’t shut me out*

He turned stiffly away, dislodging the scout’s touch. He shifted on the berth, trying to remove Raf’s touch from his side. “No. Things like this aren’t meant for audios like yours. Now leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about this.”

There was a pause between the scout and his human partner, and Prowl could feel the wordless conversation passing beneath his nose. Finally, he heard Raf say softly, “Well, we won’t leave, but we don’t have to talk about it. We’ll just keep you company.”

Prowl felt his spark cry out in frustration. He didn’t want their company! He didn’t want their pity! He just wanted to be left alone to wallow in his misery . . .

“Do you want to finish your report?”

It was Raf again. With a shaky vent, Prowl stiffened his shoulders and carefully held out his servos, a silent entreaty to distract his mind from the dark path it was on.

*Hold on, you’ve made some spelling errors*

Bumblebee said it quickly but as nonchalantly as he possibly could. Preoccupied in his own anguish, Prowl didn’t notice the underlying misgivings in his vocalizer. For once, Bumblebee was glad Prowl was blind. He began to backspace the words, spark clenching tight as he erased them from existence. At least his blindness afforded him this one brief reprise of just another laceration to his already wounded spark.

Murderer. Twenty-four sparklings. One grenade. What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

The words slowly disappeared. Bumblebee felt his servos tremble just as much as Prowl’s did as he erased the words of the tactician’s guilt, but was unable to erase the guilt of his very actions.

Murderer. Twenty-four sparklings. One grenade. What have I done?

Raf bit his lip, his silent tears having gone unnoticed by the Prowl since he couldn’t see them. He was using a tissue from his backpack to hold back his sniffles, revulsion spread across his features along with fear and heartbrokenness.

Murderer. Twenty-four sparklings. One grenade.

Such words seemed so harmless, but they were emblazoned on his very spark, on his soul, on his mind, over everything he was. Even unknowingly, he had prostrated his regrets out on paper, had poured more out to the young boys than he was willing to.

Murderer. Twenty-four sparklings.

Bumblebee didn’t say anything, allowing Prowl to keep his anonymity. He could tell them, by his mouth, on his own time that the genocide was more than just that, but an misguided slaughter of sentient sparklings.

Murderer.

Until then, his words were erased from existence.