Rust or Gold

Chapter Four

Ironhide looked down from where he was fixing one of the windows in the main kitchen when he heard laughter. Chromia was standing next to the sink, servos buried in solvent water as she washed the cubes and pantry from the morning breakfast, humming softly. Outside, acid rain softly fell on the ground. But the crystals in these lands were sturdy, adapted to adequately survive the often falling acid rains.

He looked back, were the huge heat generator that warmed half of the household stood in the far corner, and two younglings played in front of it on a crummy rag on the ground.

"I wanna be th'sire!" Jazz said, hugging a hand-made doll close to his chest as he pouted at Prowl.

"You're the smaller one." Prowl reasoned, "That means I should be the sire and you, the carrier."

"That's stupid." Jazz said, "Size doesn't matter!"

Ironhide couldn't stop the chuckle at hearing that as he climbed down the ladder and went next to Chromia, "Ya made 'em a doll, eh?"

"I did." She said smugly without looking up from her work. "They needed something to remind them that they are younglings still." She murmured the last part.

Ironhide just went to sit on a chair, resting his aching support struts as he regarded her answer with a hum. ~Is it 'cuz of their punishment?~

Irritation flickered over the bond, showing just how displeased Chromia was about that incident, ~The mechs in the House forget that these are children they are dealing with.~

~They're not as fragile as ya made 'em seem. Kids are more sturdy than ya think.~

The feeling of irritation increased this time coupled with anger, but there was so much sadness and longing, ~I heard the conversation between Jazz and Broka last week. They thought everyone was asleep. Ironhide, the things those two younglings said…I just wanted to remind them they are young.~

Worry flooded the link as her optics locked with his, ~No youngling should have to ever say that, let alone feel it. Broka is becoming more and more aggressive, he wasn't like that when he came here; Jazz used to be this sweet little bitlet that I couldn't keep my servos off. Now he flinches every time I touch him. And Prowl… that child was already introverted when he came here, but now it has gotten so much worse to the point where it worries me. I think he's becoming aggressive like Broka, just hiding it better. And don't get me started on the other younglings…~

Ironhide said nothing. Instead he sent all the support and love he could muster though the bond. He didn't want Chromia so attached to the younglings, not when the risk of getting one sold or worse, killed, was always too high. He knew she longed for a bitlet of their own, and so did he, but neither were strong enough to witness their own brood subjected to the abuse the rest of the children here were under every orn.

His train of thought got stalled when the younglings got too noisy.

"Chromia!" Jazz stood up on his little pedes, "Tell Prowler here that size doesn't matter for ya to be a carrier!"

"It's logical!" Prowl protested. He was the one clutching the doll this time.

A fond smile came over Chromia's face plates as she walked over to the two younglings, "What are you two playing?"

"House." Prowl replied, "And neither of us wants to be the carrier."

"Cuz I'm not weak!" Jazz said, pout firmly in place.

"So that makes me weak?" Prowl shot back, wings twitching.

Jazz deflated, "Well, no but—"

Chromia chuckled, "Now, now. I don't see what the problem is when you can always trade. In this turn of the game, let's say Jazz will be the carrier, and Prowl the sire. Then next time it'll be the other way around, so it's fair." She smiled at the two younglings. That was perhaps one of the rare times they acted their age; one of the few times where they don't need to be grown up, or sad, or hurt. They were allowed to be the children they were at spark.

"I like that plan." Prowl gave a tiny smile and looked at Jazz, waiting to see his decision.

"I guess that's fair…"

Chromia's smile widened, "But Jazz is right. Size isn't a factor, Prowl. Who gets sparked is a complete random unless you're trying to intentionally do it."

"Does that mean 'Hide can carry too?" Jazz asked curiously.

"Yes. But being carrier is more fun than you give it credit for. For instance, you get to be pampered and fussed over, and you get to feel the sparkling first."

"But... he's huge!" Jazz exclaimed and looked at the mech curiously.

"Hey! Ah can be a good carrier, mind Ah tell ya!" Ironhide replied.

"Of course you will be, love." Chromia sent over the bond just how happy the thought of a sparkling made her feel, along with the sense of regret that neither would probably have the chance. "But Jazz, don't be contradicting. You just said size doesn't matter, so don't be surprised that Ironhide can carry."

Jazz nodded to himself, mind made up, "Kay, so I'll be carrier first, and then you?" He looked expectantly at Prowl, however there was a distant look on his face. Jazz knew that look, it was the one when Prowl was thinking hard on something, and it never was a good thing.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Jazz asked, "Unless ya wanna be the carrier first...?"

"No, not that." Prowl shook his helm lightly, optics focused on the make-shift doll he was holding, "This is... nice." Then lifted his gaze up to Jazz, "I like playing pretend. I never had a friend to play with before."

"Yeah," Jazz smiled, "But you have one now! And it's awesome. We can be anything. I'm the Lord of kingdom far away, where everyone is happy!"

Prowl nodded, wing perking up slightly, "In my kingdom there are no slaves."

"In mine too!" Jazz added, excited. "And instead of credits the tax will be home-made goodies!"

It felt so good to not care. To forget where they were. What they were.

"That's not tax." Prowl looked at Jazz curiously.

"Well, in my kingdom it is!"

Chromia couldn't help but smile at the imagination only a youngling could have. Just hearing them talk made her spark feel content. She felt amusement slip from Ironhide's side of the bond and looked towards the door, where a couple of more younglings and sparklings were peaking through, asking to join the game. Jazz of course, was enthusiastic about it while Prowl shied away, but luckily he had Jazz next to him to make him feel at ease. In the end, it turned into a big game where Prowl and Jazz were the creators and the other younglings and sparklings were their creations. The small kitchen felt warm with the laughter filling it.

"Hey Broka, come and join us!"

Jazz's gaze lifted up to look at the lone youngling at the edge of the door. Broka had one hand pressed gently against it, the other clenched in a fist. He was looking at Jazz, expression unreadable. The room suddenly quietened, watching for a reaction. Would there be another fight? Even Ironhide and Chromia stood at the ready to intervene if something happened.

In the end, Broka only asked one thing: "... What did you call the doll?"

The room was silent when Jazz answered calmly, "Nymph."

Broka's face became pained and he simply turned around and left. Prowl looked at Jazz after the bigger youngling retreated and couldn't read his expression.

"Jazz?" Prowl asked.

"...The thing 'bout pretend, Prowler?" Jazz started quietly, "In the end, it is still just pretend." He looked down at the doll he had named Nymph. Jazz felt tears return to his optics as the other younglings muttered between themselves uncomfortably and was glad for his visor.

And suddenly, Coco, the youngest sparkling they had to date said, breaking the awful stillness, "An' she grew up to be a beautiful princess!"

Jazz blinked his blurry optics, completely surprised at that little comment. "What?"

"And she was very happy!" Another youngling added.

"And loved!" Piped in someone else.

"She'll be the most awesome princess in the kingdom!"

"Of course she will." Prowl spoke, surprising everyone. "After all, Jazz is her creator. It's not logical for her not to be."

And he said it so calmly, with such certainty, that it seemed almost absurd for someone to correct him. In fact, he said it in such a manner that Jazz almost believed him. The visored youngling smiled gently, wistfully.

"Yeah... she would've made an amazing femme."

It was much later that orn; some of the younglings were doing their evening chores, while others had retreated to rest. Jazz was part of the second group, recharging tiredly curled up in their little bed. However Prowl wasn't there. And neither was Broka.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

Broka looked up from scrubbing the corridor floor to the only Praxian slave the house had. Prowl's gaze was unreadable as always, optics burning in their cold yellow light.

Broka glared, "Cuz it's my job to clean this corridor, idiot. I thought you were the smart one."

Prowl's wings gave a sharp twitch, "I meant, why do you keep bringing up that femme up?"

The reaction was instintaious. Broka stood up, trying to loom the Praxian, but failed, "First, because it's his fault that she is dead. He deserves it. And second, it's none of your stupid business, Praxian!"

"I did not know her and Jazz refuses to speak about her, but it is clear she means a great deal to him. And he hurts. So I'm asking you, stop hurting Jazz or I will hurt you back." Prowl said. And the words sounded out of place form the mouth of someone so young.

"Funny thing to say from a youngling who still cowards behind Jazz. Go ahead." Broka motioned with his hand, "You can't do nothing that I haven't already experienced." He had been beaten, and whipped and tormented. There was nothing Prowl could do that would hurt him more.

"...That." Prowl said, "That is the thing I don't understand about you. You are beaten and trashed the same way as us, yet you insist on being a bully even when you endure the same harshness."

"Pretty big words, for a youngling who likes to play with dolls." Broka glared.

"Because I am a youngling still."

"No Prowl, you are not." The non praxian said gravely, "None of us are."

Prowl didn't say anything, just watched as the youngling returned to the floor to resume his cleaning. "Things aren't simply black and white like you. We weren't given the choice of staying younglings or grow up – no matter how hard Jazz may try to fight this and ignore our reality. There are no younglings here. Only mechs in different frames."

Prowl was silent as he studied the mechling in front of him before he spoke, "Perhaps, that is the one thing you and I agree on. However, I will not forgive you for causing Jazz pain."

"I don't want your forgiveness Praxian." Broka scrubbed harder.

"But you do not want my wrath either."

With that, Prowl turned around and left, leaving the other youngling alone with no one to hear his little cries. The Praxian returned to the barracks, climbing on the crummy make-shift berth next to Jazz and studied his tired face-plates before pressing close. And before Prowl fell into recharge, he felt a hand pull him close.