(no subject)
Dug these out going through old files.
"... and send Hoist to help. Ping me when they're online. Get Blaster on the horn, see if we can borrow Steeljaw. Patch every method of egress that they find. I want it so that not even the native Rodentia can tunnel in."
Everyone comes back different after 'enjoying 'Con hospitality'. Granted, you're no exception, but you've changed for the worse. No one's saying it but everyone's thinking it. And while everyone's thinking, there's some here that know it. And they're hurting over it.
'Course, no one says anything out loud. What goes on in the officer ranks stays there. None of our business to pry, that.
"Yo Prowl, Ratchet's got some requisition forms that you need to sign. Was on my way, said I'd send them to you. He also said to tell you to fuel up and rest up after you're done, or I quote verbatim, "By Primus I'm going to crack that idiot Datsun open and reassemble him around a terminal'. Hey, Hatchet's words, not mine. See ya, buddy."
But pry we do because, by the Pit. I don't know why but we like you. All of us do. Somewhere in a spark. That's why it worries us especially when you still keep coming back, sounding like that sparkless half-clocked twelve-bit junkbot.
You're not Shockwave. You're not Soundwave. You're logical and cool but I wish - I wish you could see that you're all heat and not liquid nitro.
When you're insisting that Sunny pulls harder, marks you, hits harder, when you shudder underneath his hands, when you're insisting that we mark you; it hurts. It really does. We might be idiots and maniacs and 'crazy sons of glitches' like Hatchet likes to say; and if you'd wanted this we would've been willing, but by Primus! I'd do it if you wanted me to, if you wanted it, too. Not because you've some something hanging in the back of your stupid processors saying you deserve it - you're just doing this because you think you deserve it. Out of some dumb sense of 'I've wronged them so I must let myself be punished by them' - for someone so smart, you sure are stupid as the Pit, Prowl.
"Mark me," you say. I know what kinds of images are frittering around in your processors. I know you're thinking of human pain, human hurt, the marks left on organic skin, the welts and the heat that hard punishment brings up. I know you think it's the only thing that's going ease your self-recrimination, but guess what?
It doesn't touch you. It doesn't touch you. That's human punishment, Prowl, by humans for humans. If that's the only way you can feel, by losing yourself in a fantasy - Primus, I don't understand it.
... You know what? Slag this. I'm telling Ratchet.
--------------------------
"Kiss me, down by the broken tree house, swing me, upon its hanging tyre... Bring, bring, bring your flowered hat - Oh, good, y're conscious. C'n ya 'ear me, Prowl? Prowler? Heh, tha' lil' warble was cute but talk to me, mech. Set m' spark at ease, c'mon now. How ya feelin'?"
"Nottt s0o - loudd," the tactician rasped out, optics dimmed. Jazz hummed a bit of a laugh, sliding his arm around the Nissan's shoulders to guide him into a sitting position, . Prowl could feel a high-powered scan slide over him, knew that Jazz read elevated core temperatures. "Wha - what -"
"Y'were hardlinked to the console, an' I figure some outside source musta tried ta slip ya a virus o' some sort," Jazz murmured, flexing his mag-field and running it over aching joints, between doorwings that were hot to the touch, held stiffly away from floor and frame alike. Jazz guessed that they were hypersensitive to touch right now. "Ya gotta see Ratchet, Prowl. Please. Lemme take ya to 'im."
"No, I'mm - suuure I'll b'fiinne -"
"Y'ain't fine," snapped the Solstice, backstruts tense as he cradled the Nissan closer to him. Damn. It felt like Prowl was overheating. "Your speech is slurring badly, Prowl, an' you're really hot. 'Kay. Dassit. Y'ain't goin' to Ratchet, fine. 'e's comin' to ya."
"No! Don't neeedd - "
"Shuttup, Prowl. Y're in real bad shape. Keep quiet and try rerouting some a' the coolant flow to your subdermals."
Prowl vented hot air, feeling the drain on his systems as he fought to contain the virus. If he could handle this virus by himself, there was no point in drawing away Ratchet's attention from other matters...
--------------------------
"Let's go to RFD."
A black helm lifted, grunted over at almost-dozing silver Solstice, who had his arms crossed.
"Ran that last week. Pick something else."
"Scarlet Monastery?"
"Prime's pally isn't up to scratch yet, and I ran Ratch through that yesterday."
Jazz whistled, long and low, visor gleaming momentarily.
"Prime's sure taking his own sweet time. Oh-kay. Stocks, then."
"Stocks it is. Go round up a couple others. I think Trailbreaker's been working on a warlock, so take him. Get Prowl in for dps, too."
"You main tanking again?"
"I could do that. You could do the heals."
"Aww, why I gotta do the heals, man? Let medic over there settle the heals, he's made for it. I wanna go melee, and I got new gear on my druid - "
"Fine, fine, you off-tank," grumbled the Topkick, pushing to his feet. Jazz still lounged in the rec room, all kicked-back laziness and casual ease. "When you want to run?"
"Innabit. Got patrol with Prowler, so I guess we'll run when we get back. 'Bee coming along? He can backup heal."
"Works for me."
"... and send Hoist to help. Ping me when they're online. Get Blaster on the horn, see if we can borrow Steeljaw. Patch every method of egress that they find. I want it so that not even the native Rodentia can tunnel in."
Everyone comes back different after 'enjoying 'Con hospitality'. Granted, you're no exception, but you've changed for the worse. No one's saying it but everyone's thinking it. And while everyone's thinking, there's some here that know it. And they're hurting over it.
'Course, no one says anything out loud. What goes on in the officer ranks stays there. None of our business to pry, that.
"Yo Prowl, Ratchet's got some requisition forms that you need to sign. Was on my way, said I'd send them to you. He also said to tell you to fuel up and rest up after you're done, or I quote verbatim, "By Primus I'm going to crack that idiot Datsun open and reassemble him around a terminal'. Hey, Hatchet's words, not mine. See ya, buddy."
But pry we do because, by the Pit. I don't know why but we like you. All of us do. Somewhere in a spark. That's why it worries us especially when you still keep coming back, sounding like that sparkless half-clocked twelve-bit junkbot.
You're not Shockwave. You're not Soundwave. You're logical and cool but I wish - I wish you could see that you're all heat and not liquid nitro.
When you're insisting that Sunny pulls harder, marks you, hits harder, when you shudder underneath his hands, when you're insisting that we mark you; it hurts. It really does. We might be idiots and maniacs and 'crazy sons of glitches' like Hatchet likes to say; and if you'd wanted this we would've been willing, but by Primus! I'd do it if you wanted me to, if you wanted it, too. Not because you've some something hanging in the back of your stupid processors saying you deserve it - you're just doing this because you think you deserve it. Out of some dumb sense of 'I've wronged them so I must let myself be punished by them' - for someone so smart, you sure are stupid as the Pit, Prowl.
"Mark me," you say. I know what kinds of images are frittering around in your processors. I know you're thinking of human pain, human hurt, the marks left on organic skin, the welts and the heat that hard punishment brings up. I know you think it's the only thing that's going ease your self-recrimination, but guess what?
It doesn't touch you. It doesn't touch you. That's human punishment, Prowl, by humans for humans. If that's the only way you can feel, by losing yourself in a fantasy - Primus, I don't understand it.
... You know what? Slag this. I'm telling Ratchet.
--------------------------
"Kiss me, down by the broken tree house, swing me, upon its hanging tyre... Bring, bring, bring your flowered hat - Oh, good, y're conscious. C'n ya 'ear me, Prowl? Prowler? Heh, tha' lil' warble was cute but talk to me, mech. Set m' spark at ease, c'mon now. How ya feelin'?"
"Nottt s0o - loudd," the tactician rasped out, optics dimmed. Jazz hummed a bit of a laugh, sliding his arm around the Nissan's shoulders to guide him into a sitting position, . Prowl could feel a high-powered scan slide over him, knew that Jazz read elevated core temperatures. "Wha - what -"
"Y'were hardlinked to the console, an' I figure some outside source musta tried ta slip ya a virus o' some sort," Jazz murmured, flexing his mag-field and running it over aching joints, between doorwings that were hot to the touch, held stiffly away from floor and frame alike. Jazz guessed that they were hypersensitive to touch right now. "Ya gotta see Ratchet, Prowl. Please. Lemme take ya to 'im."
"No, I'mm - suuure I'll b'fiinne -"
"Y'ain't fine," snapped the Solstice, backstruts tense as he cradled the Nissan closer to him. Damn. It felt like Prowl was overheating. "Your speech is slurring badly, Prowl, an' you're really hot. 'Kay. Dassit. Y'ain't goin' to Ratchet, fine. 'e's comin' to ya."
"No! Don't neeedd - "
"Shuttup, Prowl. Y're in real bad shape. Keep quiet and try rerouting some a' the coolant flow to your subdermals."
Prowl vented hot air, feeling the drain on his systems as he fought to contain the virus. If he could handle this virus by himself, there was no point in drawing away Ratchet's attention from other matters...
--------------------------
"Let's go to RFD."
A black helm lifted, grunted over at almost-dozing silver Solstice, who had his arms crossed.
"Ran that last week. Pick something else."
"Scarlet Monastery?"
"Prime's pally isn't up to scratch yet, and I ran Ratch through that yesterday."
Jazz whistled, long and low, visor gleaming momentarily.
"Prime's sure taking his own sweet time. Oh-kay. Stocks, then."
"Stocks it is. Go round up a couple others. I think Trailbreaker's been working on a warlock, so take him. Get Prowl in for dps, too."
"You main tanking again?"
"I could do that. You could do the heals."
"Aww, why I gotta do the heals, man? Let medic over there settle the heals, he's made for it. I wanna go melee, and I got new gear on my druid - "
"Fine, fine, you off-tank," grumbled the Topkick, pushing to his feet. Jazz still lounged in the rec room, all kicked-back laziness and casual ease. "When you want to run?"
"Innabit. Got patrol with Prowler, so I guess we'll run when we get back. 'Bee coming along? He can backup heal."
"Works for me."