Chapter VI - The Invictus
Nov. 10th, 2009 04:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecrazyalaskan
Chapter Six
~ Age Five ~
“Grandson, are you coming out today or do I have to bring out like I’m taking you to market?” Positron called down the corridor. His grandson was doing that thing where he hosed out his waking and morning routine as much as mechly possible.
“Coming, Papaw,” the little voice called back. Little footsteps followed the announcement, and soon he appeared in the doorframe.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Grandson,” Positron said with a smile. “Now go have your meal and we’ll go to school.”
Prowl nodded and went over to the table. Positron noted with more than slight concern that the little one’s gait was wobbly, and that he had trouble making the journey to the table in a straight line. He appeared almost intoxicated, but that was nigh impossible for a youngling whose caretaker kept not even a drop of high grade in the house. “Grandson, are you feeling well?” he asked, kneeling next to Prowl as the youngling started to eat.
“I’m okay, Papaw,” he answered as he poked his energon with his spoon.
Positron’s brow furrowed slightly. Prowl’s voice sounded unusually thick, slurred even, adding to the illusion of intoxication. He stood and went down the hall, poking his head into Prowl’s small room. The little one’s things were scattered all over the floor, something Positron would no doubt find himself cleaning up later on in the day. Stepping in, he started to search. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t trust Grandson; it was more Grandson’s tendencies to be over-trusting of strangers and to leave his window open enough for someone with less-than-honorable intentions to drop something harmful down to a naïve sparkling.
Nothing along the desk area or under the bed. The old mech sat back on his calves, frustrated and pondering his grandson’s apparent intoxication. He flexed his hands slightly, trying to ward off their aching.
“Papaw, I need you,” Prowl called from the main room. The thickness of his voice hadn’t changed.
“Coming, Grandson,” Positron called, pushing himself up with the aid of the bed. Cursing his knee struts for wanting to seize on him now of all the inconvenient times, he half limped out of the room.
He paused in the doorframe, checking it with his hand. “Yes, Grandson? What did you n—“ He stopped short when he was why Prowl had called out for him.
A puddle of partially digested energon and intake fluids pooled on the table and over onto the floor. It was also streaked over Prowl’s chestplates—no, it covered his chestplating, dripped down onto his legs and stained his hands. The dark youngling looked up at him with frightened optics, his lower lip quivering. “Papaw, I’m sorry,” he stammered softly.
Positron was kneeling by him before the words even left his mouth. “Grandson, what happened?” he asked gently.
“I didn’t mean to, Papaw,” Prowl whimpered. “It was an accident.”
“Shhh… I know you didn’t mean it, Prowl,” Positron consoled, stroking his head and trying to shove down a gag as the smell of the rejected energon hit him with all the gentleness of a bar fight fist. “What happened?”
“I-I dunno…” Prowl whimpered again. “I was okay and then I didn’t feel good.”
Positron pulled a cleaning rag from the closet and started to mop up the mess of the table and floor. The action stirred up the smell even worse, and the feel of the lukewarm liquid and chunks of energon through the rag made Positron want to vomit himself, but such an action was not possible. Satisfied with the field patch, he stood. “Come, Grandson—we’ll get you cleaned up,” he consoled as he stood.
Prowl stood up as well, on shaky legs and took a few steps before falling on his hands and knees. “Papaw, I’m dizzy,” he whimpered.
Positron knelt and scooped his grandson up into his arms, praying to the Holy One for Prowl’s health. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he whispered gently, edging into the washroom.
“Papaw’s getting dirty,” Prowl mumbled, pointing to the energon and fluid on Positron’s deep green chest hull.
“Shhh… It will be fine, young one,” Positron consoled, letting Prowl sit on the counter. He seized a better cleaning rag and immersed it in water. Wringing out the excess, he gently ran it over Prowl’s chest and legs, watching his black and gold armor plating peek through the pink mess covering it.
Prowl started to cry, mech fluid streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Papaw,” he whimpered, swiping at his optics and smearing some of his rejected breakfast on his cheeks.
Positron took a second, smaller rag and gently wiped Prowl’s face. “Shhh… Why are you sorry?” he asked softly. “You have done no wrong, Prowl.”
“I made a mess on the table and you hafta-ta clean it up.” He was crying little harder now, making his respiratories hitch a little. “A-and I’m gonna m-miss school now ‘cos I’m gonna be l-late and—“
Positron laid a single finger on his lips, silencing the distraught youngling. “It’s okay, Grandson,” he consoled. “No one will be angry with you for taking ill.”
“Y-You’re not mad at m-me?” he whimpered.
“No, Grandson,” Positron comforted. “I am not mad at you.”
“And T-Teacher won’t be mad at me?”
“No, your teacher will not be mad at you.” Positron tried to envision the proctor’s response to this situation, had it occurred after Prowl had been in school. For all his kindness and willingness to leave his cities for the rural villages, he looked like the squeamish type. Positron had to turn his head away to conceal his amused chuckle at the thought.
Prowl weakly grabbed at his Grandfather’ hands. “Papaw, I’m gonna throw up again,” he whimpered.
Positron gently scooted his grandson along the counter and angled him toward the wash basin. He hardly had the time to tap the rim of the basin as a wordless instruction before the little one was rejecting more of his breakfast. He started to cry again, more openly; his tears mingle with the flecks of energon and intake fluid that jump up to make their homes on his cheeks.
Positron gently patted his back, supporting his forehead with his free hand. Prowl had, in all his short life, never really liked being talked to as he rejected and purged his intakes, so the only sounds in the wash room were the sounds of retching and weeping.
Prowl continued to weep bitterly as he coughed up the remains of his purging and his grandfather wiped his face clean again. He threw himself into his arms and cried into his chest hull. “I don’t feel good, Papaw…!” he cried.
“I know, Grandson,” Positron whispered, rocking him a little.
“I want m-my mama!” he wailed.
If words could have taken a mech offline, Positron would have died a thousand agonizing deaths just then. Oh, Grandson, if only I could give that to you…! “My poor little Grandson,” Positron murmured, lifting him off the counter. “Come—we’ll go to the medic.”
Prowl sniffled and whimpered a little as Positron carried him out of the wash room and into his quarters. He lay as limp as a doll when he was laid down on the bed and wrapped in his blankets. Positron softly chanted a lullaby to the little one as he swaddled him and lifted him up, holding him securely against his chestplates. As an afterthought, he knelt to pick up a toy for him—a small, faceless doll. “Do you want your doll, Grandson?” he asked gently, offering him the toy.
Prowl nodded and accepted the toy, hugging it to his chestplates. Positron gently kissed his cheek and carried him out of the bedroom, and then the house in turn. Securing the door behind him, Positron started to walk, as quickly as he could without hurting himself or jostling his quick-to-purge grandson, toward the village clinic.
The roads were quiet. In fact, the whole village seemed quiet—excepting the military training in the village’s center. Positron turned his head away from the drills, gently nuzzling his grandson.
Prowl looked over at the platoon of mechs. “W-wassat, Papaw?” he asked softly.
“Those are soldiers, young one,” Positron gently explained. “They are training.”
“What’re they holding, Papaw?” Prowl asked softly.
Positron didn’t need to look to see the rifles and firearms in the soldiers’ hands. “Those are weapons, Prowl,” he explained. “The soldiers are training to fight.”
He buried his face in his grandfather’s neck. “Scawed, Papaw,” he intoned. “Soldiers scawy.”
“These soldiers won’t hurt you, Grandson,” Positron consoled.
“Papaw, soldiers scawy,” Prowl whimpered, writhing uncomfortably in his blankets.
“Shhhh… Don’t worry, Grandson,” Positron consoled. “The soldiers won’t hurt you. We’re just going to the clinic to make you feel better.”
Prowl buried his face in his shoulder and neck again, seeking comfort and protection. Positron patted his back and continued to walk. Past the air raid bunker, past the cluster of housing units and finally up the path to the clinic.
The building was short and squat with a low-hipped roof and gunmetal grey walls. A few bleak windows dotted the walls and allowed a glimpse inside. Positron could see a few underpaid and overworked volunteers passing between the berths of the ill and wounded. He found himself praying to the Holy One that Grandson wouldn’t be among them by the time the day was over.
“At the cwinic, Papaw?” Prowl mumbled into his shoulder.
“Yes, Grandson,” Positron gently confirmed. “We are at the clinic.” He cradled his grandson to his chest hull and stepped through the door into the waiting area.
He almost stumbled back when he saw how crowded the room was—was that why the streets seemed so empty, because every mech and his brother was at the clinic? He searched over the crowded room, trying to find a medic or a nurse. No such luck, leaving Positron the choice of going home or fighting his way through the crowd to get help.
He almost turned around and walked back home when Prowl whimpered and coughed into his shoulders. He felt the youngling writhe in his blankets slightly before whispering to his stone doll, “Papaw gonna make it better. Papaw can make everyfing better.”
It was Prowl’s way of comforting himself, comforting his toy, but it was also Positron’s shove to action. Readjusting the way Prowl lay on his chest hull, Positron started to, as politely as he possibly could, push his way through the crowd. Prowl whimpered as they were jostled, but made no indications he was going to purge again. The old mech’s eyes swept the crowd, still searching for a nurse or a medic.
Finally, he spotted a nurse talking to a femme with a damaged wrist strut. Positron edged over to her and, when her patient walked away, he stepped up. “My grandson is ill,” he said with little in the way of preface. Something had to take a backseat, and quite frankly Positron would much rather manners take lesser priority than Prowl’s health.
“How bad is it?” the nurse asked, tugging back the impromptu hood of Prowl’s blankets.
“Purging his tanks—rather violently at that,” Positron explained, stroking Prowl’s processor, “and dizziness. It’s very sudden—just this morning.”
“All I can say right now is to take a seat, sir,” she said with more than a hint of regret. “I’ll tell the medics what’s going on and we’ll try to get to him as quickly as we can.”
Positron nodded his understanding and went to sit along the wall—no seats were left and no one offered him theirs. He grunted softly as he dropped the last few inches to the floor and drew his aching legs into a modified lotus position. “Just a little wait now, Grandson,” he consoled. “The nurses are getting a medic for you.”
Prowl whimpered and slid down into his grandfather’s lap, curling into him and playing with his doll. Playing quickly turned into comforting the doll, rocking it and patting its unfeeling back. “Papaw, sing Doll a lull’by,” Prowl requested, lifting the toy into Positron’s field of vision. “Doll don’t feel good either; he wants a lull’by.”
The way Prowl requested things for himself through the plaything was both horribly depressing and oddly endearing. “So your doll wants a lullaby, yes?” Positron asked. Prowl nodded. “What kind of lullaby would he like? A poem, or a ballad, or—“
“A pwetty one,” Prowl “translated” after listening to the doll’s silence for a beat. “A lull’by you sang to Mama.”
Positron considered all of the lullabies he’d sang to Diamond when she was little, and chose the little mech’s mother’s favorite, about a warrior who sought the aid of the heavens and the winds to win the spark of his princess. Admittedly it was more of a ballad than the requested lullaby, but it did the trick—Prowl drifted into an uneasy recharge, occasionally clutching his doll to his chest.
Positron hugged him loosely, chanting a soft prayer to the Holy One. The chant made a lulling white noise for Prowl, and took the edge off some of his unease in his sleep.
“Positron?” A voice cut into the old mech’s prayer, and he lifted his head to look up at a young mech—probably a third of Positron’s age—with a kind royal blue faceplate and a medic insignia.
“Ah, hello, Starcatcher,” Positron greeted. “Pleasure to be seeing you again so soon.”
“Your sense of humor still hasn’t changed since the last time I looked you over, I see,” Starcatcher chuckled, kneeling to Positron’s level. “What are you doing here? I said that if you needed me to call the clinic and I’d—“
“If only it were me, Starcatcher,” Positron politely cut off. “It’s Grandson—he took ill in the night, and he took ill badly.”
“What happened to the little mech?” Starcatcher asked, laying a gentle servo on Prowl’s helm as he stirred awake.
“He purged his tanks twice this morning—very violently and very suddenly,” Positron explained, rocking Prowl a little. “And he’s complained of dizziness—he can’t even walk a straight line.”
Starcatcher nodded seriously. “I’ll have a look at him,” he said, reaching his arms out for the youngling. Positron started to lay him in the medic’s arms, but his rapid, high-pitched whine made Starcatcher quickly hand him back. The medic stood and offered Positron his hand. “I’ll pull you up.”
Positron held Prowl close and gripped Starcatcher’s hand as tightly as he could. On the count of three, the younger mech pulled his senior counterpart vertical. Positron felt his knee and hip joints crackle and pop with static as he stood. “Oh, scrap, I fear I’ve grown old in my old age,” he teased.
“I have a pill that’ll delete that feeling like a line of bum code,” Starcatcher replied with a laugh as he clapped Positron on the shoulder. “Come on—I have an exam table with his name written all over it.”
“But… what of the other patients?” Positron asked softly.
“Positron,” Starcatcher said seriously. “He’s the sickest one I’ve seen so far, and he’s little. Besides—” He searched the old mech’s eyes with fondness—“you’ve been a friend of my family for stellar cycles. I’ve taken care of you ever since Arcana joined the Well, Primus keep her, and I’m just as much your grandson as Prowl is. You’re family to me, and I take care of my family.”
Positron bowed his head, touched by the truth in Starcatcher’s words. “From the very bottom-most reaches of my spark, Starcatcher… thank you,” he whispered.
“Consider this my thanks for covering my aft when I broke Old Man Ferak’s window playing stick ball when I was a youngling,” Starcatcher replied with his unchanged-by-time boyish grin as he lead them into a small exam room.
As the young medibot prepared to examine Prowl, Positron laid his grandson down on the table. The room was crowded with shelving and medical supplies and medicines with barely enough room for the trio, but it would have to do for time being. The dark youngling whimpered as he was separated from the comfort of Papaw’s arms, but fell quiet again when he felt Positron’s hands around his.
Starcatcher came over, a simple med-scanner in his servos. Working with swiftness that never failed to amaze Positron, he calibrated the scanner for Prowl’s age and build and ran a series of scans over his small body. Prowl whimpered a little, but remained still. Positron loosely held his wheat and black hand, praying his hardest that the youngling would be okay.
“Okay, I think I have it,” Starcatcher announced after a moment.
“What is it?” Positron asked, watching the medic walk around the berth. “Will Grandson be okay?”
“Look at this,” Starcatcher said as he knelt next to Positron. He tilted the scanner to let the older mech read the results. “His internal balancing mechanisms are a little off. Has he hit his head or fallen before today?”
Positron powered down his optics a little. “Ahh! A few days ago, his teacher said he fell on the school grounds—hit his head a little but he seemed okay after that. He said that Prowl just ogt up and went back to playing with his classmates.”
“That did it—he jut scrambled his circuits a little,” Starcatcher reassured. “Nothing too lasting, it happens to sparklings of this body type a lot. He’ll certainly live to tell the tale.”
Positron let out the breath he didn’t even notice he’d been holding. “Thanks be to the Holy One,” he whispered, looking down at his grandson. Prowl had fallen still, but was still functioning—his pede would twitch in his sleep, as it was doing now.
“Exactly,” Starcatcher agreed, rifling through a cabinet for a few things. He juggled a few jars and closed containers and a mortar and pestle before spilling them all onto the counter and starting to mix and add things like a chemist or a showy chef in a city restaurant. “Now, what I’m making him is just a mix of boron and nickel, with a little bit of copper for taste—he likes copper, right? Good—and you’ll mix it in with his low grade, just a spoonful. Give it to him every… let’s call it three or four megacycles.”
He laid three small pouches of the medicine in Positron’s hands. “Do that until you run out and if he’s still dizzy or purging, come here again. If he purges more than three or four times in a megacycle, call me immediately—it’s a sign things are a lot more serious than that scanner let on, or that he’s allergic to the boron.”
Positron carefully subspaced the precious medicine. “I understand, Starcatcher,” he said solemnly. “Does Grandson need other attentions?”
“Just the same things you’ve been giving him since the day he was sparked—your love and affection,” Starcatcher reassured. “And maybe…” He reached into a dish and pulled out a handful of energon sweets. “Some of these—no, Positron, please take them. They’re on the house. They’re for the younglings, anyway, and I can’t think of a youngling who deserves them m—slaggit, Positron, it’s not charity. It’s a gift.” He closed the mech’s fingers around the sweets. “It’s a gift from me. Please… I’ll take it personal if you don’t give them to him.”
Positron looked down at the candies in his hand. “I suppose I should take them, if it means so much to you,” he said, tucking them next to the powder.
Starcatcher clapped Positron on the shoulder once more. “There ya go,” he said with a smile. “Need anything else?”
“You’ve done more than enough for Grandson and I,” Positron said sincerely, bowing deeply.
Starcatcher returned the bow, deeper than Positron out of respect for the elderly mech before him. “Tell the little guy I said hi when he wakes up,” he requested.
“I will, Starcatcher,” Positron replied as he gathered Prowl up and held him close to his spark chamber. “Thank you for seeing us so soon.”
“Don’t worry about it, Positron,” Starcatcher said gently, leading the pair out into the waiting area. “Don’t think twice about calling on me again if you need anything—or even if you don’t! You don’t need to be such a slagging stranger.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Positron chuckled as they stepped into the unstuffy air outside the overcrowded, understaffed clinic.
The pair said their final goodbyes and parted ways: Starcatcher back into the fray of the medical profession, and Positron back to home, cradling and rocking his sleeping grandson the whole way home. Not even the military drills seemed to bother him this time around. Damn the war to the Pit, but with Prowl’s good health on the horizon like a sunrise he had no place to be unhappy.
Positron slipped back into the house and shut the door behind him. The light in the room was that of mid morning as he went into Prowl’s room. He laid the youngling down on his berth and carefully closed and latched the window. Satisfied with the latch’s hold, he carefully pulled the blankets away from Prowl and laid his stone doll aside. Working carefully, he laid Prowl out on the berth and tucked the blanket around him like a precious cargo. Even though he wasn’t being transported, he was a precious thing. Returning the youngling’s doll to him, he stood and left the room, dimming the lights as he went.
The stepped into the kitchen and poured a small pot of low grade and waited impatiently for it to heat. As he waited, he pulled out the envelopes of medicine and the energon sweets. He considered the envelopes and pulled out a small, shallow cup; working very slowly and carefully, he spooned a little of the powder into the cup, taking a small sniff. It smelled overly sweet, and even oddly musty, but he trusted Starcatcher to give Prowl the medicines he needed.
The low grade was finally warm enough, and Positron poured it into the cup, stirring the powder and the fluid together. Satisfied with the concoction, Positron carried it into Prowl’s bedroom and knelt next to his bedside. “Granson, wake up,” he whispered, gently shaking the youngling’s shoulders.
“Ngh… Papaw?” Prowl whined, powering on his optics. “Papaw, I better now? I fell asweep at the cwinic.”
“You’re almost better, Grandson,” Positron said gently, stroking the little mech’s helm. “Do you remember Starcatcher?” Prowl nodded a little. “He took care of you—Starcatcher gave me some medicine for you to have.”
“I gotsta take medicine, Papaw?” Prowl whimpered, clutching his doll to his chestplating.
“If you want to get better,” Positron explained. “It’s just a spoonful, and it’s in some low grade—Starcatcher even added copper, just for you to make it taste better.”
Prowl grinned a little. “Okay, Papaw—I take my medicine,” he announced seriously.
Positron smiled and handed the cup to Prowl, very carefully, and watched him drink it all down. “Very good, Grandson,” he said sincerely. “Now lie back down and get a little rest. I will give you more later.”
“Papaw, will you stay?” Prowl asked softly.
“I don’t see why I cannot,” Positron said with a gentle smile.
Prowl offered his grandfather an innocent grin. “Oh-tay—but Papaw has to sit on the bed wif me,” he said, delivering his ultimatum with the utmost seriousness.
“Understood, Grandson,” Positron replied with a solemn nod as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Now lie down so your medicine can work and make you better.”
The youngling complied. “Papaw lay down wif me?” he requested.
Well… what was the harm in that? Positron carefully lay down on the bed, on top of the blanket, feeling joints creak and protest before he finally settled down. He reached out and gently took Prowl’s fingers in his hands, smiling reassuringly and waiting for the little one to slip back into recharge.
It didn’t take long before Prowl was sleeping again, his fingers still interlaced with his Grandfather’s. A few cycles later, Positron followed Prowl’s suit and slipped into recharge.
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Chapter Six
Date: 2009-11-17 04:49 am (UTC)Re: Chapter Six
Date: 2009-11-17 05:08 am (UTC)Re: Chapter Six
Date: 2009-11-17 05:23 am (UTC)Re: Chapter Six
Date: 2009-11-18 03:08 am (UTC)