The Invictus - Chapter VIII

[thecrazyalaskan]

Chapter Eight

~ Age nine ~

“Grandfather? Are you awake?” Prowl called down the corridor. He’d woken on his own and stepped into the kitchen, expecting a smiling grandfather and a warm breakfast to combat the chill of the weather beyond the house’s walls. When he found neither, he waited.

 

And waited…

 

And waited…

 

But neither Grandfather nor breakfast miracle themselves into his presence. Intakes grumbling their complaint, Prowl went down the corridor and stood outside his grandfather’s cracked door. “Grandfather, are you awake?” he asked again. “Come on—I have to go to school.”

 

“Ahh… one moment, Grandson,” Positron called out to him.

 

Prowl crossed his arms and waited once more, his narrow pede tapping out the beginning of an irritated staccato. He stopped when he heard his grandfather thump back against the berth with a grunt of frustration. “Grandfather, are you okay?” he asked through the door.

 

“Y-Yes, Grandson,” Positron called back. “Just… one more mome—ngh!” He moaned in what sounded like intense pain. “Oh, Primus, no…!”

 

Forgetting his manners and lessons about respect of another bot’s personal space, Prowl burst into the room like a shot from a rifle. “Grandfather, what’s wrong?” he cried.

 

Positron looked over at the distraught youngling. “Ah, Grandson,” he said softly. “I-It’s nothing—just go back to the table and I-I’ll join you. I-I’m very sorry I didn’t—ngh!” He tilted his head back at a seemingly unnatural angle and clenched his teeth in pain.

 

“Grandfather, what’s wrong?” Prowl asked, climbing up onto the bed to kneel next to Positron. “What hurts?” He laid a hand on his shoulder.

 

“M… my legs are seizing up,” Positron gasped. “I haven’t—ngggh—taken my medication for them in a few nights… Ohhhh, frag!”

 

If Prowl was surprised by his Grandfather’s callous swear, the first he’d ever openly uttered in the youngling’s presence, he made no such indication. “What’s seizing up mean?” he asked urgently.

 

“L-Look,” Positron bit out, looking down at his legs. Prowl followed his grandfather’s gaze. The elder mech’s legs, from hip joint on down, were unnaturally stiff, as unbending as an energy conductor.

 

“C-Can you stand up?” Prowl asked nervously.

 

“I cannot,” Positron gasped. “My knees refuse to bend—fraggit!”

 

“You gotta get up, Grandfather,” Prowl whined, shaking his shoulder.

 

“Grandson, I cannot,” Positron insisted. “Not until my legs quit seizing up.”

 

“Do you want me to get a medic for you?” Prowl asked, holding onto his grandfather’s hand.

 

“N-no, Grandson,” Positron denied. “I-I need my medicines for my legs. C-can you get them for me?”

 

“Where are they, Grandfather?” Prowl asked quickly.

 

“They are a pill,” Positron explained, “the size of a tenth credit. There is a bottle of them in the washroom—the bottle is clear green glass as tall as my palm is wide, near the wash basin. Get them and a cup of low grade—don’t bother to heat it. Go—nggggh—please hurry, Grandson.”

 

Prowl leapt off the bed and scrambled out of the room and into the washroom, scanning the counter. He easily found the bottle to which his grandfather referred and seized it before running out into the main room.

 

He could hear Positron’s moans and curses from where he stood, which only fueled his panic and sense of urgency. He laid the bottle on the counter and jumped up, seizing the edge with both hands and using his feet to give himself the leverage he needed to pull himself up onto the counter. Standing on his knees, he jerked open the cabinets before finding a cup and pulling it out. Snapping the cabinet back shut, Prowl reached over and grabbed the pitcher of low grade; he filled the cup with shaking hands.

 

The youngling set the cup aside, mindful to not spill any of the precious low grade, and slid off the counter. He turned and grabbed the cup in one hand and the pill bottle in the other and sprinted for all he was worth back to his grandfather’s quarters. “I brought them, Grandfather!” he cried as he burst back in.

 

Positron was arching and gripping his blankets with shaking servos. His face clenched in pained rhythm; twin streams of mech fluid tears flowed freely down his face. If such an action was possible for a Cybertronian, his face would have blanched and been slick with sweat. His whole upper body writhed in white hot agony as a fresh wave of pain broke over him.

 

And then he screamed—an open, raw scream that nearly scared the medicine and low grade out of the youngling’s grip. His back arched at an unnatural angle and he threw his head back and cried out as loudly as his strained voice would allow. The tears flowed more openly, in rivers now as he was overwhelmed with… what? A desire for the pain to end, for the sweet nothingness of a stasis lock or of death?

 

“Grandfather, don’t cry!” Prowl cried, scrambling to get to his grandfather. “Look, I have your medicine! Please don’t cry!”

 

“G-give me pills, Grandson—just one,” Positron gasped, barely coherent.

 

With shaking hands, Prowl tipped a pill into his hand and gave it to his grandfather. “N-now the lo—ohhh, Primus, end me now!—the low grade, Grandson.”

 

Prowl handed him the cup and watched nervously as Positron threw the pill into his mouth and swallowed the entire cup in one swallow. With speed that belayed his pain, he snatched Prowl in a tight hug, weeping into Prowl’s neck and shoulders. “Grandson… ohh Grandson…” he gasped.

 

Prowl awkwardly hugged his grandfather in return. “Please don’t cry, Grandfather,” he quietly consoled. “Y-you had you medicine so you should get better now, right?”

 

“The pain will pass, Grandson,” Positron gasped into his shoulder. “Just… let me hug you a little more… It makes it hurt so much less. So much less…”

 

Prowl hugged him again, letting Positron rock him and cry away the pain. They stayed like that for about a megacycle when Positron finally slipped into recharge’s maternal embrace, his head bowed against his chestplating.

 

Trying not to wake Positron, Prowl slipped out from his hold and stepped out into the corridor. Leaving the door ajar, he slipped out into the main room and went to the comm. radio on the wall by the door and tapped in the clinic’s frequency. He tapped his pedes in irritation as he waited for the call out to connect.

 

Finally—Village clinic, Starcatcher.

 

“It’s Prowl, Positron’s grandson,” Prowl told the comm. panel and the medic beyond.

 

Hey buddy! Is everything okay over there?

 

“Grandfather is hurt,” Prowl answered solemnly. “Can you come see if he’s okay now?”

 

How bad is he hurt? The concern in Starcatcher’s vocals was far from subtle.

 

“His legs were messed up earlier—can you come look at them?”

 

Yeah, I’ll be right over there. Stay put and let me in when I get there. So saying, Starcatcher severed the link.

 

Prowl flopped down and waited for Starcatcher. He sighed—this was a bum way to spend his morning! Suddenly, his intakes growled at him. Prowl crossed over his abdominal plating, looking around the room for something to satisfy his hunger until Starcatcher came.

 

He went back to the counter and lifted himself up, in the same manner as he did earlier. Balancing on his knees, Prowl reached into the cupboard and broke off a small piece of energon for himself. He perched on the counter, his long legs dangling off the edge, and nibbled at the energon, listening for someone to come up the pea gravel and sand pathway or for sounds from Grandfather’s room.

 

The glowing pink sustenance was bland. Prowl looked around the counter for something to improve the taste. A shaker of nickel caught his interest, and he sprinkled a little on the energon. He took a bite; it was much better that way. As he waited, he continued his pattern—sprinkle, eat, sprinkle, eat…

 

 “Prowl?” a voice from outside the door asked a few cycles later. The disembodied voice pounded on the door. “It’s Starcatcher—can you let me in, please?”

 

Prowl trusted the sound of the voice and unlocked the door and opened it. His trust was sound, and Starcatcher knelt down to his visage. “Hey, little guy,” he greeted gently. “Where’s your grandfather?”

 

“He’s in his quarters,” Prowl answered as he closed and locked the door behind Starcatcher.

 

Starcatcher seized his medic pack and walked briskly down the corridor and into Positron’s quarters, the black and gold youngling on his heels. “Positron, are you awake?” he asked, stepping into the room and sitting on the edge of the berth. Prowl supervised from across the room.

 

Positron lifted his head from his chestplating. “Hmm…? Ahh, Starcatcher,” he breathed, his systems still working to get fully online again. “Is Prowl—“

 

“He’s fine,” Starcatcher reassured. “He was the one who called me here. Sounds like you had some trouble with your legs this morning?”

 

“It was nothing too horrible,” Positron began. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

 

“Grandfather was crying,” Prowl cut in.

 

Starcatcher fixed Positron with a look. “Is that true, Positron?” he asked.

 

“It is,” Positron sighed with resignation. “By Primus, Starcatcher… the pain made my vision blur.”

 

“Why didn’t you call anyone?” Starcatcher gently scolded, scanning his patient’s legs.

 

“I didn’t want to alarm Grandson more than I needed to,” Positron whispered back. “Was it not bad enough that he heard me scream?”

 

Starcatcher mildly scolded Positron for not calling a medic and for not taking the pills, but delivered a positive prognosis. “Just stay off your legs for the rest of the day, and maybe get some more platinum in your system.”

 

“I would, but we don’t have any here,” Positron protested, easing one of his legs up onto the berth.

 

“I can run to the market to get it for you,” Starcatcher offered. “Business at the clinic is slow—they can spare me, and Primus knows you need it.”

 

“A-are you sure?” Positron asked as Prowl came over and helped him get his other leg onto the berth. “I couldn’t even consider putting you out.”

 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Starcatcher easily dismissed. “I need to get out of that clinic anyway.”

 

Positron chuckled as he laid back. “Alright then,” he agreed. He reached between his berth and the small end table and produced a small box, as long and wide as his hand and as thick as the book of holy texts in temple. Positron carefully opened the box and produced three half-credits. “I hope this will be enough to cover the costs,” he said softly.

 

“This will be more than enough, Positron,” Starcatcher reassured. “You just take it easy and I’ll be back—“

 

“I wanna go, too!” Prowl cried suddenly, appearing at Starcatcher’s knee. “Can I go too, Starcatcher?”

“I don’t know, Prowl,” the medic answered slowly. “What if your grandfather needs you?”

 

“He may go, Starcatcher,” Positron gently cut off. “I’ll be fine while you two are gone to market—I’ll just stay put, like the old mech I am.”

 

“Oh hush, Positron,” Starcatcher teased. “You’re not that old.”

 

“I am old enough to be your father, if you were the youngest of my sparklings or I sparked you late in my function,” he joked.

 

“Whatever,” Starcatcher retorted before growing serious again. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Positron nodded once. “You remember my personal call frequency?”

 

“Epsilon, epsilon, seventy-four—yes, I recall it,” Positron dutifully recited.

 

Starcatcher smiled softly before kneeling to Prowl’s level. “Wanna go to the marketplace with me?”

I swear to the writing gods, Starcatcher is starting to chew up the scery. x_x

Comments

Chapter Eight

[lunaeshark.livejournal.com]

Oh, no, Positron! Please be okay.

Primus bless you, Starcatcher.

Re: Chapter Eight

[thecrazyalaskan.livejournal.com]

That's what I said when I wrote this chapter-- Positron took it somewhere far darker than I'd ever planned. I think it turned out great, don't get me wrong, but it surprised the slag outta me.