2018-12-09 Symbolism

From Transformers: Lost and Found

Date 2018/12/09
Location Lost Light - Various Hallways
Participants Prowl, Minimus Ambus
Summary Minimus storms out of a command meeting. Prowl follows him.

Meeting adjourned. Autobot Command had decided: no Autobot insignias to be worn on anyone's person or displayed publicly within the fleet and on Cybertron. Hound and Prowl outvoted Minimus' opposition - and Minimus had left in a rush. Prowl is now pursuing, irate with his doors twisted high as he rounds the corners of the halls. "Minimus! Can we please talk about this like civilized mechs?"

Minimus is in the midst of a stalk away. He pauses for a moment, his jaw working. He turns a short, sharp glare over his shoulder at Prowl, says, “No,” and then storms onward towards the elevator.

Prowl doesn't reach the elevator in time, chest bumping into the closed doors. He'll have to wait on the next one. He'll also have to guess which floor Minimus is getting off at.

<< "Minimus, are you just going to avoid me for the rest of the cycle? Is that the grand plan here?" >> Prowl growls, finally stepping onto an empty lift.

Minimus considers not answering, as the lift hisses its way between halls on its way to his grand retreat, which — in this instance, is to the practice rooms and the potential for dummies and targets to be brutalized in lieu of his fellow commander. But finally, as the door hisses open to spill him out onto the rec deck, he says, << “You are suddenly interested in my input now, is that it?” >>

<< "I considered your input!" >> Prowl snaps. << "We just didn't agree!" >> He's finally on the rec dec when he spots Minimus' retreating figure, and sprints to catch up. He reaches for Minimus' wrist as they near the practice rooms. "Just wait one slagging minute!"

Halfway down the hall, Minimus rounds on Prowl as he sprints to pursue, and braces in a wide plant of his feet. The set of his jaw is grim, his eyes a brilliant blaze of scarlet. Prowl reaches for his wrist, and he spins and shifts, breaking the hold with casual expertise and bringing his hands up in what is obviously a combat ready stance. He says, “Well?” in a voice that can only be described as a snarl.

Prowl takes a solid step back, caught off guard. He hardens, squaring his shoulders. "I don't understand why you're so caught up on this. Aren't you at all concerned about the future of Cybertron? What factions could rekindle? It could start all over again!"

“I have worn this badge for thousands of years,” Minimus says in a very low, intense voice. “When I was no one, when I was ‘’nothing else’’, I had this. Do you think I am alone in feeling its importance? Mechs fought and died and ‘’lived for’' this badge, Prowl.” He steps forward, squaring his shoulders as he glares up into Prowl’s features. “I’m not taking it off.”

Prowl sets jaw, drawing himself straight and rigid. He meets Minimus' blazing red with his icy blue. "I know exactly how important it is. You're not nothing else anymore. You're a Commander, and you're an example, so you're going to take it off."

“I will not.” Minimus looks about as movable, here in his medium frame, as he might were he rooted to the spot, fused to the floor via the unutrium in his widely planted feet. “What you have chosen,” he says, “is to tell every single Autobot who fought wearing this badge, who protected it and dedicated themselves to it, is that everything they fought for, that the symbol is now something to dishonor and discard. And on their behalf, what I am saying is, no, it isn’t.”

"That is not what I'm telling them," Prowl says quickly, lips curling. "We won! They won! They won TWICE! You're telling me that they- that you can't bear the thought shedding what divides us, what threatens to drive us to extinction, because you couldn't come up with your own damn name? I know who I am! I'm not a soldier!"

Minimus’s hands close into fists and the seethe of his wrath is a dangerous prickle down the taut lines of his frame. The restrained violence screams from every line of his body, tight and hard and teetering on the verge of an explosion. “If our peace is so fragile it cannot bear to permit us the freedom to express who we are, we do not deserve it,” he says in a rasp of fierce heat, and he wrenches away from Prowl, once again storming in retreat. His fist cracks into his palm with a resounding slam of sound.

Prowl's anger roils in his throat and lingers there even as Minimus turns to storm off. It only wavers when he hears the smack of Minimus' fist. He doesn't follow, as much as his spark yearns to. "You have a week to come to the right decision, Minimus," he calls after him. "Use a bit of foresight!"

Prowl turns to find his own corner to brood in, muttering the entire way there.

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