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Prowl was still reeling from his illogical, inexplicable refusal to eradicate the false mech that had been born from his and Mesothulas's sins.
Was this how organics, with their strange genetic reproduction felt towards their charges? But it made sense for organics to feel protective towards their offspring. Their spawn was the result of honest biological imperatives, their protectiveness a reproductive strategy that ensured the survival of their DNA. Prowl's creation was born of the worst kind of sin and disrespect for life, and there was nothing resembling any of Primus's reproductive directives in his and Mesothulas's acts. By all logic Prowl should not feel protective towards the abomination that had sprang forth, but rather felt justified in wiping it off the face of the universe.
And so he had told himself. But his finger had trembled on the trigger. Impactor had laughed in the background, amused at his weakness. But no amount of scorn heaped on him by the Wrecker could spur him to snuffing out the bright blue light of those eyes forever. Instead he'd felt his arm fall at his side, his weapon no longer pointed at the innocent creature in front of him. Ignoring Impactor, he'd stepped forward and began disconnecting wires.
And that was how he ended up here. In a shuttle, leaving the planet Blora B75 far behind, and the medical staff who had worked to integrate Ostaros into his new body behind as well. They didn't know it, but the planet they were stationed on would fall into Decepticon hands soon, and the Decepticons had no intentions of keeping that little resource. They couldn't, not for long, and so they would glass the planet, destroying resources that otherwise would have fueled the Autobot war effort. And they would, without knowing it, be tidying up a few loose ends for Prowl in doing so. There would be no one left who had witnessed the integration of a strange exoskeleton into another Autobot's corpse, all on the hush-hush orders of a high-ranking officer.
In a few hours Prowl and "Springer" would rendezvous with a troopship on its way back to Cybertron from the Messier 51 Galaxy, and there they would part ways, Prowl heading back to High Command to hammer out the details of the newest defensive strategy Prime was employing, and Ostaros to the front lines, hopefully to die, and be one less smoking gun lying around to trip him up later.
Prowl glanced over at the new bot, barely an hour of experience online in him, but learning more every second. If Prowl was lucky—actually, Prowl didn't need to be lucky, the odds were on his side—there was an 88.7% chance that Ostaros would die within the next decacycle, despite the large and sturdy body of Springer that he was ensconced inside. Like a parasite, Prowl thought uncharitably.
If Prowl had been vaguely unnerved by the unnatural sight of Mesothulas's creation, he was now even more bothered by how normal the mech looked (other than that he was licking the side of the energon dispenser. Prowl would have to send him some of the data-files he'd been given when he himself was freshly onlined). He couldn't help but feel as if he was sending something unnatural and inimical to walk among his fellow Autobots, an enemy cloaked as a friend, a blasphemous imitation of a Cybertronian who's very unchallenged existence would anger Primus.
'Stop it.' he told himself irritably. 'That's the sort of ignorant superstition people used to hold about you and other Constructed Cold mechs.'
To the big green bot gnawing on the energy dispenser, he said aloud "Stop that. That's not how you refuel."
What kind of files had Mesothulas set him to initialize with? Had he written any for the imitation at all? Prowl pushed himself up from the deep plush captain's chair (Prowl abhorred a soft chair. A hard, uncomfortable chair was so much better for keeping a mech alert and on edge) and strode over to the newly onlined mech.
The cover story was that Springer, suffering brain-module damage, had lost a significant portion of his memory, irretrievable even by the most talented mnemosurgeon. His memory might repair itself over time. A set of total lies, although Prowl had set the process in motion to collect as many second-hand memories of Springer's life as the mnemosurgeons could find, the better to implant in Ostaros, if he somehow beat the odds and survived long enough to be a thorn in Prowl's side.
When looking for a body donor for his unholy offspring, Prowl had narrowed it down to recently KIA mechs, who had fairly unremarkable past lives, without any strange talents or specialties, and with no inconvenient conjux or amicas to fool. And then whittled it down to those whose positions made them most likely to be a casualty sooner rather than later.
So while Prowl didn't have to worry about instilling Ostaros with a deep understanding of culture or the finer points of electromagnetic physics, he did have to make sure the bot didn't act like an alien pod mech for the few days or weeks he was alive. An amnesia-stricken mech might not remember if they were onlined in the Pious Pools or Petrex, but they didn't forget how to sip an energon cube or pull a trigger.
Not unless their brain-module damage was so severe they'd need months of rehabilitation. And months in a physical rehab center, far away from the front lines and any convenient fatal sprays of bullets, but full of curious and friendly medics that would ask too many questions, was not where Prowl wanted "Springer" at all.
So for now he needed Ostaros to be able to blend in. It was a shame the full MTO download packs from High Command weren't available yet; they were months away from completion, their priority having been downgraded since their necessity had been in question; a significant portion of High Command had fought against the 10-Step Program, arguing it was a cruel and unnatural way to bring up a mech.
Prowl had noted that most of those opposing it were forged. Constructed Colds had had to learn how to live on the job, with no time to be coddled by batch proto-initiators. And while Constructed Colds' upbringing might have been more natural than mastering a downloadable education program, it was arguably more cruel, given how dangerous the work environments had been for many Constructed Cold mechs, and how dangerous any place was now that a war was on. That argument had finally won the day. They were now in development again. Till they were ready, newly-onlined mechs would learn the old-fashioned way.
It irritated Prowl to waste any time on a lost cause like Ostaros, but there was no reason to be cruel to the mech simulacrum, no matter how creepy and uncanny-vallyish he had been before he'd taken up hiding in Springer's shell. A thorny knot of guilt gnawed at Prowl, although he would never have let it turn him aside from doing what needed to be done. Ostaros would die and the last piece of his mistaken partnership with that lunatic Mesothulas would die with him. That was all that needed to be said. Still, Prowl couldn't stop himself from setting aside the datapad he'd been working on, and unfolding an energon cube from the stack next to the dispenser.
The big green mech next to him gaped, his bright blue eyes shining in wonder.
"Here, you use it like this." Prowl explained, pressing a button on the dispenser. Springer crowded next to him, sticking his face inches from the lurid pink stream.
Prowl huffed in irritation, and handed the half-full cube to Springer. Who promptly began trying to stick his face into the cube. Prowl seized him by the helm and pulled back. He could feel a processor ache coming on.
"No, you just sip at it. Like this." Prowl tilted the cube slightly forward, Springer oohing as he watched the liquid sliding forward. Prowl took a small swallow of the energon, and then passed it to the green mech next to him.
Springer promptly imitated him, although he did not have millions of years of experience drinking from a cube, or even a single time he'd done it before. He got the motion down right, but over-tilted without drinking quickly enough, and pink energon splattered on his chest.
Prowl shook his head, irritated. He withdraw a cloth from his subspace, and began wiping up the mess from Springer's chest. Springer beamed at him happily.
After Prowl was done, he sat down on the bench next to the energon dispenser, unspooling a cord from his wrist. "Come here, I have a few data files for you." he said.
Springer moved towards the nice mech who had helped him refuel. He didn't understand what the mech wanted, but he had no reason to fear him. Prowl guided him to the seat next to him.
Springer, ignorant of the damage that could be done by baring his processor if the mech connecting should have malicious intentions, made no objections as Prowl grabbed his wrist and plugged in.
Prowl examined Springer's files. It was largely autonomic functions, a few conditionals, and some advanced learning algorithms. The mech could learn through observation and teaching, but had no pre-existing data library of experiences or explanations to work from. He was a perfectly blank slate, other than a few deductions gathered during Mesothulas's lab tests and from his short time since escaping the lab with Prowl.
Prowl quickly collated a folder of basics—how to refuel, how to hook into a recharge berth, images of several common berth types, assembling, caring for, and firing various weapons, how to change his waste filters, the complete Autobot Code, and the facial expressions associated with important emotions and some behavioral warnings to heed when they were spotted.
He did not have a unified language file but was able to scrape through his own huge treasure trove of remembered conversations, in order to come up with the 5,000 most common words in Neocybex. His logic processor analyzed and spat out the grammar and syntax rules for the language. The real Springer had been fluent in the Primal Vernacular as well, but Prowl was not, so he could not give that to the new Springer.
He transmitted these to Springer, with a mental command to the mech to begin unpacking and integrating all the files. Here, mind to mind, they did not need a common language.
Seeing the mech doing as he ordered, Prowl unplugged himself and respooled the cord. He checked the ship's radar. The troop transport was an ever-faster approaching blip. It wouldn't be long before contact.
A whining noise drew his attention away from the display screen, and back to the mech he'd left on the bench.
Judging by the twisted faceplates and tears welling in the eerily bright blue eyes, Springer was experiencing processor pain as he tried to rapidly integrate the huge files Prowl had sent him.
Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose. And he had tried his damnedest to keep it simple, to only send what was absolutely necessary for the imitation-mech to get by. He should have sent the files one by one. It would make for a less confusing and overwhelming experience. He had carelessly erred, and now this innocent mech was suffering for it.
Prowl sighed. There was no way to end or speed up the process now. He sat himself next to Springer, and began offering what comfort he could. He patted lightly on the mech's tires.
"There there." He said lamely.
He wasn't expecting it to help much, but his comfort must have worked better than he thought, because Springer snapped out of his whimpering daze. The big green mech looked down at the smaller black and white mech, the only person he knew, and seized him.
Prowl was lifted off the bench by the force of the hug, as Springer pulled him to his chest. Prowl tried waiting it out (when was the last time he'd been hugged anyway? By Mesothulas, during happier times?) but the embrace only got tighter, and his doorwings were beginning to cramp.
"Urk. Springer— you're blocking my vents." he said, trying to wriggle away.
But the mech would not. Let. Go.
It was another joor before the troop transport pulled up and began docking procedures. And Springer was still clutching him for dear life when the security forces kicked down the shuttle door to see why he was refusing to answer hails or begin docking procedures. (Because he was locked in place by a giant green idiot, obviously).
The soldiers lowered their weapons when they spotted the two mechs on the bench, locked in an embrace.
"Err....Sorry to interrupt. We'll just be going, then..." the commander stuttered out. "Come on, men." the soldiers headed out, some casting speculative looks over their shoulders.
Prowl's processor ache intensified. He was never going to live this one down.