My sim plot of the moment.
In a decision that could only be described as impulsive, Prowl took a posting in the remote island of Staniz of the coast of Polihex. He was not fleeing war or poverty but humiliation. He left behind a generous wage to serve as Praefectus Vigilum over what proved not to be a single island but an archipelago. His posting as Praefectus Vigilum over the Enforcers of Praxus had not been taken from him, he had left it. After catching his Conjunx Endura having an affair, Prowl had tried to continue on with his life and career in Praxus as his soon to be ex took his lover off planet, safely away from the gossips. Prowl could not just up and leave for the stars, he had responsibilities, two mechlings to raise. While he considered himself a mech immune to others’ opinions, even he had his limits. After seven vorns trying and failing to ignore the speculation and mockery thrown at his back, the Praxian opened his inbox to find a job offer from the Vilicus of Staniz. The offer came without any warning, or any application on Prowl’s part, and still he accepted the offer.
There was an odd condition in the contract he signed. Until the Island accepted him, or his five vorn contract was up, he would board with the Vilicus and his kin. Prowl packed what matter to him or his creations, and put the rest in storage, and turned his back on Praxus. He took some pleasure he the shock and dismay his departure caused within the ranks of the Enforcers and the Praxian government. They might have amused themselves with the gossip, but the austere Praefectus was an effective administrator and Enforcer. His subordinates would not miss him, nor would the politicians he had sparred with, but they would miss the results he had ensured.
Up until the moment he had stepped off the ferry, Prowl had be resolute in his decision. But the moment he stepped off, his confidence crumbled into dust. Staniz was not what he had imagined, It was not a desert like the mainland, but a tropical oasis. The streets were narrow, and more mechanisms seemed to walk than drive. Perhaps it was for the best because the thin armour they wore could hardly offer any protection in a collision. Some of these mechanisms wore barely any armour at all. One such mech stood at the end of the offloading ramp. What armour he did wear was odd, rather than made up of sheets of plating welded together, it was made up of small overlapping pieces, like the scales of a robo-minnow. The manners written on his code kept him from staring, and also from looking completely away. He was tempted to shield his optics, or those of his creations, but as he did look off down the streets he saw that this mech’s armour was not entirely unique. Could it be a Staniz fashion? Prowl had never considered himself to be a prude, but as it turned out, he was.
“Yo, Praefectus!” The mech he had been trying not to stare at stepped into his path and Prowl flared his doorwings back to keep himself from stumbling. He held tightly to Smokescreen’s servo, and he adjusted his grip on Bluestreak, who he was carrying on his hip.
“Hello...” Prowl said, stiffly.
“‘M Jazz,” the stranger explained. Primus damn it, this was the Vilicus, his host. “I realized ya had no idea what I looked like so I figured I’d better come to find ya.”
“Thank you, I anticipated looking for the precinct, we are a mega-cycle early,” the Praxian replied.
“I been watchin’ yet itinerary,” Jazz explained. “Ya been traveling. For a few mega-cycles, we’ll end home ‘n get ya fueled ‘n rested before we worry ‘bout meetin’ wit the mayor ‘n council.”
“That is...” Prowl planned to say it was not necessary, but Smokescreen tucked on his servo.
“Can you carry me, please?” His eldest asked.
“Oh,” the originator murmured. It had been an easy thing when they had been younger but Bluestreaker was no newling, and Smokescreen was no first tier sparkling.
“Why don’t ya hand me the lil mech?” the Polihexian offered. “My own are ‘bout his age.”
Bluestreak was a happy mechling, and while he was chatty with those he knew, he could be painfully shy. Prowl was ready to take him back if he kicked up a fuss, and he was so tired himself that he rested his helm on the Vilicus’ shoulder as soon as the mech held him against his chassis. He would be in recharge in no time at all. The Praxian knelt so his elder mechling could climb on his back. When Smokescreen wrapped his arms around his originator’s neck, Prowl stood, and held his mechling under his knees.
“Thank you, Vilicus Jazz,” Prowl said.
“Just Jazz, we ain’t formal here.We’ll catch a transport down to the beach,” the mech explained. “We live on one of the little islands off that away.”
The straights were too narrow for ferries, and there were no bridges, Prowl wondered how they would cross. Perhaps there were tunnels under the ocean, certianly the mech could not expect them to swim. Jazz waved down a transport, not a Convoy as Prowl was familiar with, but an Tagonian hauling a low trailer, with crude seats. This struck the Enforcer as a terrible idea. At least it had a forcefield, and seat belts. Their host hopped into the trailer with ease, and set Bluestreak down before he turned back around to life Smokescreen from Prowl’s back. Prowl though the mech made a face, but it was difficult to tell, he was wearing a visor over his optics. When Smokescreen was situation, Jazz turned back again and offered Prowl his servo, the Praxian took it, but climbed in for the most part under his own strength. He heard the smaller mech vent. At least the mech was polite enough to comment on his weight. Compared to him and nearly all those around them, Prowl may as well have been a tank.
“Just to the beach, ‘Breaker,” the Vilicus ordered.
Prowl did not think he had ever known a single Convoy’s designation, though he had never used the same one twice. The population of Staniz was far smaller than Helix, a small town, versus a bustling metropolis. It took Breaker only a few bream to reach the shore, opposite from the port where the ferry had docked. Smokescreen had not perked up over the ride, and his originator carried him on his back, again, as he followed their host down to small dock lined with odd looking boats. The solar canoes had what looked like arms over the sides of the hull, brushing against the water.
“Outriggers,” Jazz explained. “They help wit balance. Mine’s over here. Seataxis run between some o’ the islands, but not to mine. It’s just my kin on it by rite.”
“Rite,” the Polihexian corrected as he led the over to a solar outrigger with a deep blue sail. “My origin’s the chieftain of the shoal.”
“Shoal?” The Enforcer asked.
“Tribe o’ finmechs,” Jazz explained, he fussed with the sail, adjusting it’s angle. “We’ve shared these islands wit the landmechs for millenia.”
“I did not realize there was a population here,” Prowl said. He knew these mechanisms existed. Like Predacons and other beastformers they were often reclusive, running into conflict with more common frametypes.
“Reason I wanted to hire ya was ‘cause ya were from outside,” the Vilicus replied. “We get into it wit the landmechs sometimes... more in recent vorns than before. Been a lot more crime, more than such a small population outta have, they ain’t gonna respect the law comin’ from the glossa o’ one of my framekin, ‘n we don’t respect it from them. So an outsider was the ticket.”
“I would be a landmech,” the Praxian said, would I not?”
“If the Island accepts ya,” Jazz explained. “Ya got none o’ the old scores or history the landmechs got. I think ya can put us right. Sit tight.”
They were off. The sail caught the sun and leapt across the sea. Jazz controlled it with ease. Prowl wondered how he was meant to cross himself. Would he be expected to learn how to operate one of these things. It made his fuel tank clench. He was going to have to cross the strait ever mega-cycle, with his luck he would fall overboard and sink to the bottom his very first try. Feeling uncertain and wholly out of place, Prowl held Bluestreak on his lap an Smokescreen close to his side. There was little he could do with either if they fell in. Of course, their host could go after them, the mechlings not him, the Praxian was fairly certain he was too heavy for the mech.
Sunlight sparkled off Jazz’s scale like armour. It made sense that he would wear as little as he did, heavy armour would only weight and slow him own when he swam. It occurred to Prowl that he likely had no vehicle mold, like a Predacon, his alt-mode would be a beastmode of sorts. That might explain why so many in the town walked, rather than drove. Though the finmech was a skillful sailor, and he manipulated the sail and the vessel with small, precise motions, Prowl could not relax. He was not meant for the sea. It was a relief when they reached the shore. Though the ride over had only made him tenser, the breeze had invigorated the mechlings, though it would only be temporary. Smokescreen bounded up the hill after Jazz, brimming with excitement. Though Bluestreak had perked up, he was content to be carried, which was good because Prowl had no intention of letting him loose. The island was covered in crystal outcrops and serpentine palms. It would be all too easy to lose him.
“Looks like they go a feast goin’,” the Polihexian... finmech observed. Prowl jerked his helm up with horror.
There were a ring of low stools around an energon fire. A couple dozen mechanisms loitered about. One of the mechanisms stepped through a pair, and towards them. He was blue and yellow, with scale-like armour. Though looked nothing like Jazz, Prowl knew this was his originator, the chieftain of the finmechs. It was the way he walked, the predatory confidence. Prowl felt a little like a robo-fish on a hook. Bluestreak seemed to have a similar feeling and he turned around and buried his helm in his originator’s neck. The Praxian ran his digits along his creation’s back, between his doorwings, comforting both of them. Smokescreen stood next to Jazz, his doorwings flitting about.
“Ya made good time,” the chieftain said. His voice was deep like his creation’s, His cerulean optics were shroud, and uncovered. “Glyph got ‘round that the Praefectus was arrivin’ ‘n this happened.”
“Feast pop up ‘round here,” Jazz explained. “Ya don’t plan’em, they just happen. It’s our way, we share fuel, stories. Let’s get ya three seats so ya can fuel up. They’ll be dancin’ all dark-cycle but no one’ll expect ya to stick ‘round. Origin barely makes an appearance.”
“He’s not wrong,” his originator said. “‘M Punch, since it looks like the manners I tried to teach’m didn’t take.”
“Prowl,” the Praxian replied. “My eldest is Smokescreen, and my youngest is Bluestreak. Thank you for your hospitality, Chiefain.”
“Punch’ll due most o’ the time,” the mech in question replied. “‘M gonna make my appearance, ‘n my escape. Don’t keep’em up late, Jazz.”
“Don’t plan on it, Origin,” the Vilicus replied. “O’er here, Prowl. I see my brother ‘n the Twins.”
Twins, that would make sense given what little the mech had already said of his creations. Mechlings Bluestreak’s age came running towards them, shrieking with delight as they bypassed the better part of the mechanisms gathered. Like Smokescreen with his doorwings, the mechlings’ audials were almost comically too large for their slight frames. Their progenitor scooped them up all at once and spun the around. They roared with laughter. It was the laughter that convinced Prowl’s own mechling to look up from his shoulder. Jazz did not put his creations down but carried them over to Prowl and Bluestreak.
“Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, this is Prowl, ‘n his bitlet Bluestreak,” Jazz explained. “I told ya they’d be comin’ to live wit us for a bit. Say hi?”
“Hi!” The little mechling with red, scaled armour waved. His brother, with yellow armour of the same style waved more solemnly. Bluestreak wiggled his doorwings.
“He is shy,” Prowl explained.
“Sunstreaker’s ‘bout the same,” the finmech replied. “Hey Ric, can ya plate us some fuel?”
“Sure thing,” his brother replied. They looked very similar, apart from the colour of their faces and optics. Their helms were identically shaped, though Ric’s was white and not black like Jazz’s.
“Sit down ‘n relax,” Jazz said, gesturing to a padded stool. “Smokescreen, why don’t ya drag one a lil close to your origin?”
Ric returned with fuel, Prowl did not care how it was sourced, he took it, and ate it with gratitude. His creations shared his inclination. As they fueled, Jazz’s mechlings inched closer, Sideswipe was clearly the leader here. With their progenitor sitting to Prowl’s left, both twins felt confident enough to come over to Blue, who was sitting on his originator’s lap. Sideswipe help up a sphere, and pushed it into Bluestreak’s servos. Bluestreak looked from it to the finmech sparklings looking up at his with bright anticipation.
“Ya throw it!” Sideswipe ordered. Bluestreak flicked his doorwings and did as he was told. The finmechlings both chased after it, for his part, Prowl’s bitlet was at least intrigued. They returned with the ball and Bluestreak through it again. By the time they return, the Praxian mechling had wriggled off his originator’s lap to join the game in full.
Soon dark-cycle had fallen completely. It was not dark. There were crystal torches throughout the courtyard and the energon fire glowed. Ricochet came and took the Twins to their berths, Bluestreak curled up on Prowl’s lap. Jazz whispered that he would show them to their rooms, and he stood. Before he could take a step, before Prowl could stand, other finmechs broke from the festivities and walked towards them, carrying odd looking rods. His host made a bemused sound as the rods were tossed towards them. He had no difficulty catching them.
“Yer forgettin’ somethin’,” one of the mech’s said.One closer inspection, he was not a finmech but a landmech, still Polihexian in build.”
“Dance ‘n fuel are the biggest parts of our culture,” Jazz explained to the Praxians as he turned back around. His originator stepped out of the crowd gathering to watch. “We got a dance for everythin’, since we do got a feast goin’, I outta give ya a proper welcome.
Finmechs or Polihexians closer to the energon fire played drums, a slow, easy rhythm, Jazz spun the rods in his servos, flame shot out from them, Prowl vent a sharp gasp. No one noticed, the finmech turned lithely on his peds as he twirled and twisted with the flaming staffs. Once the initiating shock faded, the Praxian relaxed to watch the display, Smokescreen clapped, off to the side, Punch did as well. Soon, Prowl was clapping along as well. It was a remarkable feat of dexterity and grace. A cheer went up from the shoal as Jazz lowered the rods and their flames went out, and he bowed. He smiled at Prowl as he straightened.
