Chapter Text
Prowl was starving because his last meal was three days ago. Or four days ago? With his mind controlled by Bombshell, it took a lot of work to keep track of time. For sure, it was a couple of days; he knew from the gnawing feeling in his Energon reservoir and the pinging of drained systems.
Rage coiled in his empty tank. All the mechs except for HIM in the Autobot camp could get Energon from the dispenser. Prowl arrived late to the queue; unfortunately, when it was his turn, no food was left. The mech in charge declined to open a new canister just for him and told him to wait until morning. The Tactician knew better than to complain loudly and make a fuss because the Autobots were wary of him. A year of mind control took a toll on his relationships. They probably thought he was still under the influence of Decepticons. It didn't help the matters that a combiner team he was forced to be a part of, the Constructicons, decided to follow him.
There was crusted Energon on his upper lip and his temple. 40% - Prowl's fuel tank pinged, but he dismissed the notification. His systems initiated auto repair, and he was aware that it would burn more energy. Prowl retreated to a makeshift wall in a dour mood and attempted to plan things ahead to live through the long night. He leaned on it for a long moment, cheek pressed against the rusty surface, dejected and exhausted in a way that rushed straight to his spark. There was a constant dull ache at the bottom of his skull, making him lost and muddled. He slumped against the barricade and folded his arms. He had to conserve energy. There was nothing else to do.
Thinking was difficult as his empty tank constantly diverted his attention. The Autobot reached into his subspace, searching for a snack bar. Right. Prowl had eaten it an hour ago, but his stomach felt just as empty as before. He noticed a trace of pink on the ground. It was a shiny piece of plastic, but his gaze kept darting around it from that moment on. A ping popped up on his HUD. He dismissed it.
The sunset was beautiful, but he did not care. Instead, he huddled, ignoring the need and distant ache in his internals. It was the worst feeling. The first time, the Praxian combined felt like a knife tore through his optics, blinding Prowl. Whatever calm darkness Devastator had to offer was long gone. Deep, visceral pain ebbed long after the separation, leaving Prowl covered in a cold sweat, clutching his abdomen. His protoform was burnt, cut, scraped and bruised from what it did to him.
Now, it just hurt. A mindless, neverending pounding ache crawled around his cables and neural network. The ex-SIC remembered Constructicons, who were in far better shape than him. In fact, they seemed thriving. Sparkly optics and grins plastered over their flushed faces as if they had just had the time of their life. The Praxian could sense the hot blast radiating from their fans, the air sopping with excitement.
Another pop-up. A cramp struck his silicone fuel tank. Prowl grimaced as his stomach turned, wrapping his arms around himself, failing to ease the pangs within it. When the sun set, he needed to find a place to recharge, but walking felt like an unnneesarry effort. It wasn't as if he'd never slept in trenches or some hole in a wall, so the prospect of staying here wasn't that big of a deal. He'd been through worse.
The Autobot thought about the Constructicons. Green idiots must have been in the camp somewhere doing Primus know what. Maybe they had fuel and were willing to share... Prowl was losing the thread. As time went on, the surges of hunger rolled in and out. Instead of notifications, his systems started sending alerts; his auto repair had only exacerbated the issue. Prowl folded into a ball-the rubber tank seemed to pull in on itself, emptiness cutting it like a razor. Primus, he was so hungry. So, so hungry.
There was an impulsive whir of dizziness in his processor. Prowl's head hurt; his face settled into a grim frown. The headaches he suffered from were extreme at times. He had to take a painkiller as soon as possible, but first, he had to eat something...
30%- his systems warned him, and he felt momentarily disoriented. He was nearing the threshold where his frame could initiate an emergency shutdown at any moment. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus. The hunger was eating at him, consuming his half-formed thoughts.
Suddenly, the alerts ended, leaving him feeling empty and confused. An itch in his nose, too strange to ignore. Jolts of pain travelled down his neck and spine, setting them on fire. He drew a shaky hand up to rub his faceplates. The Tactician's face contorted at the sudden intense prickling sensation in his nasal cavity then he heaved and produced a dense clot from his nose. His vision swam.
The tumultuous feeling in his guts began to rise, finally escaping from his mouth in the form of yellow fumes. Startled, Prowl choked and began thrashing. He soon could not see anything, but his voice rang in his audio. Then, in his fading awareness, his mind played a movie about Tumbler, Mesothulas, Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Impactor, Ultra Magnus, and Springer. The Ex-SIC was dying, and he welcomed this fact with a twinge of disappointment.