Also this is for the Day 12 entry
Prompt: Saudade (Portuguese) – a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist.
Summary: He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, or if he’ll ever find it.
Closing the door to his apartment home, he sighed. Another orn, another incident. And another distraction – a new partner, to arrive the next orn, whose designation was Jazz according to his file. Something in his processor wistfully whispered that perhaps this time they would become partners in truth. Prowl ignored it with long practice. All of the others had been provisionally accepted, this one would be no different. ‘And no different in his departure’, thought his traitorous mind.
Logic dictated that the truth never be denied, so he did not immediately dismiss it. With his time split between the Tactics Unit and Station rotations, he worked with probabilities, and with the previous- ‘record’ –data to draw upon, it seemed highly likely.
His ‘partners’ had never lasted more than a decacycle, always asking to be transferred at some point. Prowl didn’t know why, but presumed it to be in response to the ‘cold attitude’ his colleagues spoke of. Though how an attitude could be cold, he didn’t recognise. He just left his emotions at the door of the station, as they all were supposed to. Within that place, and doing his job, he never let feelings impede the flow of the law.
Outside of that, however, was a different matter. Unlike many of his colleagues, who frequented the bars at any opportunity, he avoided the bars and lower entertainment district as a matter of course when off-duty – he’d grown up in that area (and had enough of it to last him a lifetime), and could probably hold his highgrade better than many of his fellow officers. He had nothing against it personally – but his carrier had worked himself to the bearings to get his small family out of that sphere, and Prowl felt it a show of respect for the effort that freed his creators and himself that he never entered those places except as his job required.
Instead, Prowl painted in his free time, and donated many of the resulting works to various places – sometimes to raise money, sometimes not. His apartment was still full of his pieces, despite this. He also made confections that he took ‘round to the local crèches for snack time (his ‘partners’ could never figure out why he was so loved when they went to the ‘job fair orn’ at the local college every megacycle).
He was coming up for 30 vorn in this career – a long time by some’s standards, he supposed. He was still a young mech, but had earned each and every one of his promotions, and didn’t really see himself doing anything differently.
There was something in him, his spark, that longed for something. A sensation of missing a piece of himself was with him everywhere he went, in everything he did. He wanted. What he wanted he didn’t know. Just something. Possibly someone.
A gasp left his lipplates as his spark tugged. In his processor, a fragment slotted into place. He was missing a someone. Someone to see him, like his creators had. To talk to him, to just be with him. That understood his quirks, and liked him for himself. A friend, a companion, maybe more; he didn’t know.
This longing had been with him so long, he couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t had it in the back of his mind, gently nudging him now and again. Though a bit more defined now, it was still amorphous and intangible.
Remembering his parents, and the way they matched each other in all things, Prowl smiled sadly, and withdrew from the window he’d been gazing from. He doubted that anyone like that existed for him. And there was no reason to believe they ever would.