The Invictus - Chapter XIII

[thecrazyalaskan]

Chapter Thirteen

~ Age ten ~

“Wanna come over for dinner, Prowl?” Lens, a femme a year higher than Prowl, offered as they stopped at the foot of the patch leading up to the latter’s home. “Ma’s making something really good for dinner, I know it.”

“Thank you very much, but I can’t,” Prowl politely denied. “Grandfather doesn’t like it when I just run off on a whim without telling him beforehand.”

“You’re so saddled to home!” Lens teased. “When’re you gonna do stuff for yourself?”

“I dunno,” Prowl confessed, playing with the strap on his school bag.

“I’m teasing, Prowl,” Lens laughed, play-punching his arm. “Maybe some other time?”

“That sounds good, yeah,” Prowl agreed. The pair said their goodbyes, and Lens started toward her home in the housing complex of the village. Prowl watched her until she was a speck on the horizon before readjusting the lay of his bag on his hip and started up the path.

“Grandfather, I’m home,” Prowl said as he entered the home, spending a few extra clicks to make sure the door latched properly. He hung his bag on a peg on the wall, over the emergency air raids bundles they were forced to keep by the door.

A low, pained moan met Prowl’s audios, and he felt his world tunnel for a moment. He whipped around to see from where the moaning was coming. When he got his answer, he pressed back against the door, wanting to tightly shutter his optics but too horrified to even begin to do so.

Grandfather lay, supine, on the floor in the middle of the room. His right leg was draped almost casually over the low table, his pede turned in at an unnatural angle. A shattered mug of low grade was nearby, a few of the fragments dangerously close to Positron’s helm. The elder mech groaned in pain, his servo clutching at his chestplating with a sense of desperation. “Gr… Grandson,” he rasped. He tried to turn his head in a way that he could see the youngling, but the action caused him great pain, and he cried out as he gave up.

“Grandfather!” Prowl cried, running to the downed mech’s side. He batted away the shards of mug as he knelt in the puddle of low grade. “What happened to you? What’s wrong with your ankle?”

“I felt a sudden pain—here, in my chest hull,” Positron gasped, tapping the center of his chestplating to show his grandson the trouble. “It shocked me, and I tripped over the table—ngggh… I twisted myself trying to break my fall and damaged a strut in my ankle.” Positron took Prowl’s hands in his and weakly squeezed them. “Grandson, I need you to go to the clinic and get a medic immediately—I think I am having a spark attack.”

Prowl felt his lower lip begin to tremble. “Can’t I just call a medic, Grandfather?” he whimpered. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“The wall comm—nggh!—is down,” Positron bit out. “I was attempting to repair it. Please, Grandson, you need to hurry.”

“But I don’t want to leave you,” Prowl whined softly. “What if you go offline before I get back?”

“Grandson, I will not go offline,” Positron promised. “Not if I am seen by a medic.”

“Are you gonna be comfortable?” Prowl asked.

Positron rasped out a chuckle. “Compared to the pains in my chest hull, the floor is quite comfortable, Grandson. Now please—hurry!”

Prowl kissed Grandfather’s cheek and, offering every prayer to Primus that he could utter, ran to the wall, seized his school bag once more and burst out of the door like the undead were after his very spark. He slammed the door shut behind him and slipped and slid his way down the loose gravel of the path and turned precariously onto the main road. A transport rumbled past him, kicking up dust and soil and irritating his intakes immensely, but he brushed it off as a mild discomfort. Especially compared to the pain Grandfather was in.

Praying his hardest and arms and legs pumping, Prowl ran across the road and cut through the village center, weaving in and out of clusters of noncom officers milling around the air raid bunker and the barracks and flirting with the femmes. He bumped into a few of them, and heard a lot of colorful words that made his faceplates heat for it, but he didn’t have time to apologize to every soldier whom he offended. Grandfather’s health took the utmost priority in his ten year old world.

The clinic had never looked more welcoming. Prowl burst into the waiting area and nearly cried out his thanks to the Holy One when he saw the room was empty but for a few volunteer nurses. He ran past them and into the working area, the spark and soul and guts of the clinic, down three sectionals to the right—Starcatcher’s office. “Starcatcher, Grandfather’s having—“

He stopped, chestplates heaving and warnings flashing across his visuals that he needed to cycle air. The mech who sat in Starcatcher’s desk was not Starcatcher, but a green and grey mech who looked older than Primus himself. Prowl knew such a thought was blasphemous, but Grandfather was dying. The new mech looked at Prowl with something akin to distaste over the edge of his spectacles. “Can I help you, youngling?” he asked slowly. His voice rumbled in Prowl’s audios… almost ominously.

“Where’s Starcatcher?” Prowl asked. He hadn’t bowed yet. Such an action (or lack thereof?) was another sacrifice for the benefit of—

“He’s been transferred to southern Iacon for an orbital cycle,” the verdant mech coolly informed him, “to aid the casualties there. Is there something with which I may help you?”

“M-my name is Prowl,” the dark youngling announced, bowing a little. “My grandfather is Positron. We live one quarter hic from the temple. My grandfather sent me to get a medic for—“

“He could not come himself?” the medic questioned.

Prowl ground his dental plating together. “My grandfather thinks he is suffering a spark attack,” Prowl seriously intoned, “and could not come himself—he’s laying on the floor at home in pain and is in urgent need of medical attention.”

The medic stood and shouldered past Prowl, who scrambled to follow him. They stepped outside the clinic, and the medic transformed into a different form of carrier vehicle than Positron’s build. “Will you be transforming?” he groused at Prowl.

Hands shaking, Prowl subspaced his school bag and shakily transformed. He never claimed to be good at it yet, given that it was a brand new skill for him, but he succeeded in taking his sleek racing form and revved his internal propulsions to indicate he was ready.

The medic grumbled something in a Kalisian dialect, something Prowl couldn’t understand, and took off. The black and gold youngling followed, mentally urging the medic on faster between his prayers to the Holy One.

They arrived at Prowl and Positron’s home quickly, but it felt like the short journey took forever and a solar cycle. The medic and the youngling transformed, and Prowl quickly opened the door, instantly rushing to Positron’s side.

The elder mech was still online, but in great pain. He moaned slightly, and his optics flickered on and off as he struggled to remain conscious. “Grandfather, I got a medic for you,” Prowl reassured, squeezing his grandfather’s hand.

“St-Starcatcher?” Positron called weakly. “Are you there?”

“Starcatcher has been transferred for the time being,” the medic announced (rather coldly, to Prowl’s young audios). “I am Ginrai, his replacement.”

“I would bow, Medic Ginrai,” Positron replied, “but I am—ngh… Quite incapable of doing so at the click.”

The green and gray medic grunted in acknowledgement of Positron’s quip and knelt next to him, shooing Prowl away. The youngling felt his spark clench—he couldn’t comfort Grandfather? Mech fluid pricked at the back of his optics at the notion of being banned from holding Grandfather’s hand.

Positron offered him a shaking hand to clasp, and Prowl seized it. “It’s alright, Grandson,” Positron whispered in their rural dialect. “I will come out of this as unscathed as before.”

“No talking, please,” Ginrai scolded, looking Positron over. “What happened?”

“I fear that my spark is—“ He paused to wince and squeeze Prowl’s hand—“rebelling against me. I felt strong pains in my chest hull, and they knocked me over. I-I tripped over the table and twisted a strut in my ankle as a fell.”

The medic glanced down at the damage in the ankle. “Nothing too pressing there,” he observed coolly. “How long has your spark chamber been in pain?”

“Ahh… I cannot guess,” Positron confessed. If he could have sweated, he would have wiped some from his brow.

“Perhaps you’ll humor me,” Ginrai deadpanned.

“I had just fallen before Gr—ngh!—before Grandson came home,” Positron reasoned out. “I would say no more than half of a megacycle, from the time he arrived to now.”

“Time lost,” Ginrai grunted. “We’ll just have to work around it.”

“Understood, sir,” Positron nodded. He offered Prowl a reassuring if pain-laced smile.

Prowl gave him a small smile in return, lightly kissing his grandfather’s cheek once more. This time he didn’t withdrawal as Ginrai tried to shoo him away again. He refused to do so, in fact.

“Can you stand?” Ginrai questioned. Prowl balked at the words—Grandfather, stand with a damaged ankle strut and in the middle of a spark attack? No such thing should have been considered! He needed rest, he needed comfort, he needed medic—

“I believe so,” Positron grunted, turning himself with more than a little difficulty onto his side. He pulled himself to his knees, his optics brimming with yet-to-be-cried tears of mech fluid. “Help me up, Grandson.”

Prowl took his grandfather’s arm and helped his stand. Positron winced and moaned and let a few tears of pain slide down his cheeks as he stood, cradling his chestplates and favoring his right ankle. The youngling had trouble helping Positron maintain a vertical stance, but refused to let it show. Better him than Ginrai and his cold personality programming that bordered on the distaste.

“If you can make it to the doorway, I will transport you to the clinic for care,” Ginrai was telling Positron.

“I will not be going to the clinic,” Positron politely denied. “Until Starcatcher returns, I will remain at home for my treatment.”

“Sir, there is no way around this,” the medic observed with the slight beginning of an edge to his voice. “You must receive treatment at the clinic—“

“I will do no such thing,” Positron answered hardly, wobbling on his single pede. “I was sparked in this home and have received medical attention in this home, and I will go offline in this home if have such an option. This information is—ngh… in my file at the clinic, which you may consult if you do not believe me.”

“Why won’t you go to the clinic?” Ginrai questioned.

“If I leave, Grandson will be left alone,” Positron answered levelly. “He is not old enough to care for himself alone for an extended period of time.”

“Can’t he stay with someone—“

“There is no one else,” Positron snarled. Prowl almost jumped back at the rage pulsing just below the surface of Positron’s words. “My bondmate is offline these ten stellar cycles, my daughter his mother is training in the Elite Guard and is father is, for all I care, offline in a gutter in Kaon. Now, Medic Ginrai, unless you want me to drop into a fatal stasis lock, you will attend to my medical needs in my quarters or you will find a medic who is willing to do so.”

Ginrai grumbled in his Kalisian dialect before replying, “Where are your quarters?”

~*~*~*~

A few megacycles later…

“What happened was that three of the key energy conductors in your sparkchamber,” the medic explained, wiping the energon from his minor, literally in-house surgery on Positron’s chest hull, “were worn down, probably due to age. I have repaired them to close to their original condition.”

Positron nodded his understanding. “I see,” he replied simply from where he lay on the berth. “Will this happen again?”

“There’s a possibility,” Ginrai mused, starting to pack up his tools, “but given the high quality work in your chest hull, it is doubtful.”

Prowl clenched his fists, biting back a snarl. Banished to the other side of the room for the duration of the repairs, he added overly patronizing and too big for his aft plating to the many reasons he hoped the medic got a huge snootful of his own attitude when he went back to his Kalis posting.

“And the ankle strut?” Positron went on.

“Easily repaired,” Ginrai replied, waving his hand dismissively. “It will be fully repaired within two decacycles.”

“Thank you very much for your hard work and aid, Medic Ginrai,” Positron said sincerely, dipping in his in a sort of modified bow and waving Prowl back to his side. The dark youngling quickly joined his grandfather, taking his hand to spite the medic as he bowed. “Grandson and I are indebted to you and your skills.”

The medic grunted in acknowledgment. “And if I could have a word with you, sir?” He barely glanced at Prowl as he added purposefully, “Alone.”

Prowl’s grip on Positron’s hand tightened, and he considered putting up a fuss that would be heard from there to Crystal City. “Of course, Medic,” Positron agreed before turning to Prowl. “If you would not mind stepping out for a click, Grandson?”

Prowl had to listen to Grandfather. He always listened. It was what made him a good grandson. He bowed slightly and kissed his grandfather’s cheek before edging past the medic and stepping into the outer corridor, quietly closing the door behind him. He may have been banished like a guardian fallen from grace, but he was not to be deterred. Prowl pressed his audio to the door and listening, keeping still and silent.

“…advise coming to the clinic for post-treatment,” Ginrai was saying.

“As I said before,” Positron answered, “I will stay here, where I am most comfortable.”

“Sir, it would be in your health’s best interest—“ Ginrai protested.

“I am not looking out for my own interests,” Positron cut off, “but those of my grandson. As I stated earlier, which I seem to have done quite a bit in Starcatcher’s absence, there is nowhere else for my Grandson to go if I am placed in the clinic. I know he will not be allowed to stay there with me. He is only ten stellar cycles old—he cannot care himself for more than a stellar cycle—you stated that my recovery would last a full orbital cycle.” Positron shook his head sadly. “No… I cannot leave my grandson alone for that long. I will not have his health placed on the line like that—not while I still function. It would be no different than sending him to the front lines of the war.”

The tone in the medic’s voice reeked of indignation. “My good sir, that surely is an exagg—“

“Medic Ginrai, how many younglings and young mechs and femmes have you lost to the wars, in and out of combat?” Positron asked, his voice polite but with a slight hard edge. Prowl cheered internally at Ginrai’s lack of response.

“So noted, sir,” he said tartly. “What will I tell the other medics when I—“

“Tell them Positron is being his old, stubborn self,” Positron dismissed. “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to rest after my ordeal.”

“Of course,” Ginrai bristled. “But tell me this, sir—you will berth ridden for some time until you heal over, with the possibility that you’ll need constant attention for the rest of your function. Who will provide that for you? To whom will you turn when you can’t leave your berth?”

The pause Prowl heard was not one of hesitation, but of him weighing the words very carefully. “I have the utmost faith in my Grandson,” he began slowly. “I have placed my health in his hands twice now—today, and once last stellar cycle—and he has done far beyond what I had expected both times. I know he can care for me when I cannot.”

Prowl pulled away from the door, his internal gyros spinning. Me? Take care of Grandfather? Such a daunting task! He pressed his audio to the door again.

“I would advise against that as well,” Ginrai warned. “Because he’s so young, as you stated, he might not be able to provide—“

“I have faith in grandson, and know him better than any mech in this village can even dream to claim,” Positron dismissed easily. “He is intelligent and a fast learner.”

“But given his age, I would advise against forcing him into something for which he may not be ready.”

“Well, there is only one way to make this decision, is there?” Positron paused to call through the door, “Grandson? Could you come in here, please? I need to ask you a question.”

Prowl slipped back into the room, walking past Ginrai and kneeling next to Positron’s berth. “Yes, Grandfather?” he asked softly.

Positron patted the edge of the berth. “Sit up here where I can see you, Grandson,” he requested. Prowl complied, and Positron took his hand in his. “I am going to be okay, Grandson, but I must ask you a question.”

“Okay, Grandfather,” Prowl said slowly.

“I will need… extra care from time to time,” Positron explained. “I will need someone to care for me, like you do when my legs seize—bring me my meals and tea and help me move about the house.” He lowered his voice to a simple, humble tone, respecting the youngling’s ability to say no. “Would you be willing to do that for me, Grandson?”

“Of course, Grandfather,” Prowl replied instantly.

“It might not be easy, Grandson,” Positron gently warned. “I might be in pain sometimes, and I might need constant attentions because of my spark—it’s not as good as it once was…”

“I don’t care, Grandfather,” Prowl answered with conviction that swelled from the core of his spark outward. “If you want me to help take care of you, I will.”

“Honestly, Grandson?”Positron whispered, stroking the youngling’s helm. “You’re not saying that to appease your old grandfather?”

“I’ll always take care of you, Grandfather,” Prowl replied softly, “if you ask me to.”

Positron smiled sincerely. “I thank you, Grandson,” he whispered, kissing the youngling’s forehead, “from the very bottom of my spark.” He turned to the medic. “You may leave my medications and your instructions with my grandson. I will be resting until my evening meal.” He leaned back on his berth, effectively ending the conversation. Prowl hopped off the bed and dutifully covered him with his blankets, making sure he was well-covered and would not become chilled.

It didn’t take long before Positron slipped into recharge. Prowl nodded with satisfaction before turning to the medic. “Grandfather said for you to leave your instructions and his medicines with me,” he announced seriously, his tone the tiniest bit smug. He was so sorely tempted to tack on a Nyaaaah at the end.

Ginai grunted in acknowledgement. “We’ll talk in the main room,” he grumbled, opening the door. Prowl let him out before dimming the lighting in Grandfather’s room and closing it slightly—just enough to offer Grandfather his privacy, but open enough to allow him to call out if needed something.

The medic was tart as he explained the subtleties of mixing the medicines for Positron—straight liquid boron with nickel powder, stirred into simmering low grade and brought to a rolling boil, and quickly cooled with a solution of bleach and arsenic. “Can you handle that?” he asked condescendingly.

“I can,” Prowl said easily. Arsenic and bleach? He’s asking a ten year old to handle arsenic and bleach?! “What else?”

Ginrai ran through the gauntlet of treatment—as little preservation in the energon as possible (So expensive that kind will be…!), constant rest and peace, slowly re-adding physical activity to his routine. “Are you sure you can handle this?” he asked again when he finished.

Prowl looked up from the data pad on which he’d been writing the instructions. “I can,” he answered certainly, “no worries—if I need help, I can call Starcatcher.”

The verdant medic bristled again. “Of course,” he droned. “Did you have other concerns?”

“No, sir,” Prowl replied, bowing. “Thank you for your aid to my grandfather.”

Ginrai nodded tartly and grumbled his reply before leaving the house without a backwards glance. Prowl watched him transform and all but tear down the path onto the main road in a cloud of dust as tall as the hoodoos on the most distant horizon. He growled and shook his fist a little before closing and locking the door tightly and starting to gather the ingredients for Grandfather’s medicines.

The hardest part was waiting for the low grade to simmer, and then to boil. His hands shook a little as he put a few drops of the arsenic and bleach into the mug of boiling fluid. Instantly, the low grade stopped boiling and went as still as a stone. Very carefully, he wrapped his hands around the mug and picked it up. It was chilled, in spite of the fact that it had been boiling angrily a few clicks prior. Amazed at the medicine’s transformation, Prowl took the medicine into Positron’s quarters.

“Grandfather?” he whispered, setting the mug on the low table next to the berth. He lightly shook his shoulder. “Grandfather, wake up. I have your medicine.”

Positron’s optics flickered online and took a moment to readjust his visuals to accommodate the dim lighting. “Is he gone, Grandson?” he whispered. “The medic—he has left, yes?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Prowl replied. “He’s been gone for a while.”

“Good,” Positron said aloud as he started to sit up. “Self-righteous buffoon.” He uttered an oath in his own grandfather’s language, one that sounded very callous to the audios of a ten year old. “What did you bring for me, Grandson?”

“I brought your medicine,” Prowl replied, laying the cup in his grandfather’s worn hands. “It’s low grade with boron and nickel, and arsenic and bleach.”

Positron started at this announcement. “Arsenic and bleach, Grandson?” he repeated. “You made this without harming yourself?”

“I did, Grandfather,” Prowl said softly.

“Thank you very much, Grandson,” Positron said sincerely. “Just do me a favor and please be careful with the arsenic and bleach.”

“I will, Grandfather,” Prowl promised.

Positron smiled and took a small of the medicine. She coughed and sputtered as he swallowed. “Foul tasting scrap,” he coughed.

“I’m sorry…” Prowl mumbled.

“It’s no fault of yours, Grandson,” Positron reassured. “This medicine the foulest I have ever had to consume.”

“That’s ‘cos the other medic gave it to you and not Starcatcher,” Prowl reminded with a grin.

Positron laughed before taking another sip of the toxic-tasting brew. He easily laced his fingers with Prowl’s as he drank, and they discussed their day and told stories as if the last few megacycles had never happened.