Secrets of the Groundbound Kind [Part 4]
Title: Secrets of the Groundbound Kind [Part 4]
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Jazz came online almost instantly, a side effect of his Ops programming. Keeping his visor off, he did a quick sensor sweep and called off his defensive programming when he recognised the med bay and the mech beside him. Visor lighting up, the Porsche attempted to rise from the berth, only to be stilled by hand on his shoulder plates. A familiar voice murmured his name, and he grinned in response.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Prowler.” A quick check of his chronometer told the Ops mech he’d been offline for a few days. Keeping his tone light, Jazz purred at the tactician. “Were you here all this while, fretting over me?”
“Hardly, Jazz. Ratchet told me when you were to be brought online, thus my presence by your side at this time.”
The visored mech huffed air resignedly at Prowl’s sensible reply. “Of course. So, can I get up?”
“Slowly. Our CMO tells me some of the welds should not be stressed until your self repair can strengthen them.”
“Right. Where’s Ratch’?” Said Jazz as he did as told, shifting to a sitting position.
“With Bumblebee and Mirage.”
“Something wrong with them?” Alarm coloured the Porsche’s tone, and Prowl moved to reassure him. “They were concerned about you and might have incurred Ratchet’s wrath in the process.”
Jazz snickered briefly, but he was still on edge. “I notice you didn’t say there was nothing wrong.”
The tactician sighed. “That would be why I was waiting for you to online. I would prefer to discuss the matter in private, can you stand?”
“Whoa, will Doc be okay with you pulling me out of medical?”
“I’ve cleared it with him. As long as I put you back where I found you and don’t damage anything, he won’t mind too much.”
“And they say you don’t have a sense of humour.” The Ops mech grinned weakly and cautiously got off the berth, holding onto its edge while his gyros stabilised. “Welp, I’m good to go. Where to?”
“My office would be the best, can you make it there?”
Jazz frowned, calculating the probabilities. “We can try.”
= = =
As it turned out, Jazz couldn’t make it to Prowl’s office, and they had to detour to the Porsche’s quarters instead. Somewhere along the way, the tactician had wordlessly slipped under the visored mech’s arm, providing some much needed support for the rest of the journey. As he sank gratefully down on his berth, his systems working furiously (because of his current weakness, really), an energon ration was offered to him. He glanced up in surprise to see Prowl holding the glowing cube out with an understanding look.
“Ratchet also said you’d need this once we got to wherever we ended up.”
Chuckling softly, Jazz took the cube and sipped from it. “Ol’ Hatchet would know our limitations the best. So, you were going to tell me what happened to my Ops team.”
“Yes. Once you’ve finished that ration.”
Valiantly resisting the urge to stick out his glossa at the tactician, Jazz only sighed and slowly finished the cube. As the container emptied, Prowl sat across from him, a contemplative look on his faceplates.
“Spill, Prowler. How are my mechs?”
“Your team are perfectly alright, physically. Ratchet has been rather thorough in that respect.” The tactician began, and Jazz couldn’t help but wish that Prowl would get to the point already.
“However, their behaviour ever since you were injured and offline has been erratic. With physical causes ruled out, we believe that there might be a programming influence at work.” The Ops mech was instantly alarmed.
“You think their CPUs are compromised?”
“… I am not sure. I know of no missions in the logical timeframe that would have placed them at such a risk, and you have not brought up that concern to me, Optimus or Red Alert in that same time. However, a processor scan would be the best way to determine the issue, and for that we need your authorisation.”
“How are they acting?”
“Normal, for most part. However, they are exhibiting heightened protectiveness and a reluctance to leave you, and each other, out of their sight, all signs of a newly formed bond.”
Jazz bolted upright, and Prowl winced in sympathy when he saw how the mech’s intakes stuttered from the resulting protests his fresh welds tendered. “What?! That’s not possible!”
“As was our conclusion when Ratchet examined them. However, there is another option to consider.” A tilt of a black helm to indicate that the tactician should go on, and Prowl continued.
“The behavioural patterns also fit that of a seeker triad in the very initial stages of the bond. Our Ops team might be affected by one of them, unknowing of that aspect of his heritage, unconsciously trying to form the trine bond with mechs he is understandably close… to…”
The Datsun trailed off when he noticed how tense Jazz had become. “Jazz?”
“… No. That… isn’t possible. It can’t be.”
“Smokescreen seems to think it is, even as he believes that of one of our Ops mechs being seeker-based is highly unlikely.”
Jazz laughed, and Prowl found himself growing concerned over the strange quality of the sound. “Jazz, what is it?”
“Smokey ought to quit gambling.”
Very concerned.
“Jazz, did you know?”
“Know? Yeah. Course I did.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“… What was I supposed to do? Go up to you and say, ‘Hey, Prowler, sorry ‘bout this, but I’ve been hiding something from you and the Autobots for a long time and…” Jazz reached up for his visor, pulling it off. Prowl’s intakes caught at the sight of dim, cracked optics. Optics that were glowing a faint red.
“ I’m actually a seeker from Vos.’?”
Notes (again, placed here to avoid giving things away): Jazz's optics and elements of his backstory are influenced by huntingospray's fic, Windows on the soul.
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Jazz came online almost instantly, a side effect of his Ops programming. Keeping his visor off, he did a quick sensor sweep and called off his defensive programming when he recognised the med bay and the mech beside him. Visor lighting up, the Porsche attempted to rise from the berth, only to be stilled by hand on his shoulder plates. A familiar voice murmured his name, and he grinned in response.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Prowler.” A quick check of his chronometer told the Ops mech he’d been offline for a few days. Keeping his tone light, Jazz purred at the tactician. “Were you here all this while, fretting over me?”
“Hardly, Jazz. Ratchet told me when you were to be brought online, thus my presence by your side at this time.”
The visored mech huffed air resignedly at Prowl’s sensible reply. “Of course. So, can I get up?”
“Slowly. Our CMO tells me some of the welds should not be stressed until your self repair can strengthen them.”
“Right. Where’s Ratch’?” Said Jazz as he did as told, shifting to a sitting position.
“With Bumblebee and Mirage.”
“Something wrong with them?” Alarm coloured the Porsche’s tone, and Prowl moved to reassure him. “They were concerned about you and might have incurred Ratchet’s wrath in the process.”
Jazz snickered briefly, but he was still on edge. “I notice you didn’t say there was nothing wrong.”
The tactician sighed. “That would be why I was waiting for you to online. I would prefer to discuss the matter in private, can you stand?”
“Whoa, will Doc be okay with you pulling me out of medical?”
“I’ve cleared it with him. As long as I put you back where I found you and don’t damage anything, he won’t mind too much.”
“And they say you don’t have a sense of humour.” The Ops mech grinned weakly and cautiously got off the berth, holding onto its edge while his gyros stabilised. “Welp, I’m good to go. Where to?”
“My office would be the best, can you make it there?”
Jazz frowned, calculating the probabilities. “We can try.”
= = =
As it turned out, Jazz couldn’t make it to Prowl’s office, and they had to detour to the Porsche’s quarters instead. Somewhere along the way, the tactician had wordlessly slipped under the visored mech’s arm, providing some much needed support for the rest of the journey. As he sank gratefully down on his berth, his systems working furiously (because of his current weakness, really), an energon ration was offered to him. He glanced up in surprise to see Prowl holding the glowing cube out with an understanding look.
“Ratchet also said you’d need this once we got to wherever we ended up.”
Chuckling softly, Jazz took the cube and sipped from it. “Ol’ Hatchet would know our limitations the best. So, you were going to tell me what happened to my Ops team.”
“Yes. Once you’ve finished that ration.”
Valiantly resisting the urge to stick out his glossa at the tactician, Jazz only sighed and slowly finished the cube. As the container emptied, Prowl sat across from him, a contemplative look on his faceplates.
“Spill, Prowler. How are my mechs?”
“Your team are perfectly alright, physically. Ratchet has been rather thorough in that respect.” The tactician began, and Jazz couldn’t help but wish that Prowl would get to the point already.
“However, their behaviour ever since you were injured and offline has been erratic. With physical causes ruled out, we believe that there might be a programming influence at work.” The Ops mech was instantly alarmed.
“You think their CPUs are compromised?”
“… I am not sure. I know of no missions in the logical timeframe that would have placed them at such a risk, and you have not brought up that concern to me, Optimus or Red Alert in that same time. However, a processor scan would be the best way to determine the issue, and for that we need your authorisation.”
“How are they acting?”
“Normal, for most part. However, they are exhibiting heightened protectiveness and a reluctance to leave you, and each other, out of their sight, all signs of a newly formed bond.”
Jazz bolted upright, and Prowl winced in sympathy when he saw how the mech’s intakes stuttered from the resulting protests his fresh welds tendered. “What?! That’s not possible!”
“As was our conclusion when Ratchet examined them. However, there is another option to consider.” A tilt of a black helm to indicate that the tactician should go on, and Prowl continued.
“The behavioural patterns also fit that of a seeker triad in the very initial stages of the bond. Our Ops team might be affected by one of them, unknowing of that aspect of his heritage, unconsciously trying to form the trine bond with mechs he is understandably close… to…”
The Datsun trailed off when he noticed how tense Jazz had become. “Jazz?”
“… No. That… isn’t possible. It can’t be.”
“Smokescreen seems to think it is, even as he believes that of one of our Ops mechs being seeker-based is highly unlikely.”
Jazz laughed, and Prowl found himself growing concerned over the strange quality of the sound. “Jazz, what is it?”
“Smokey ought to quit gambling.”
Very concerned.
“Jazz, did you know?”
“Know? Yeah. Course I did.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“… What was I supposed to do? Go up to you and say, ‘Hey, Prowler, sorry ‘bout this, but I’ve been hiding something from you and the Autobots for a long time and…” Jazz reached up for his visor, pulling it off. Prowl’s intakes caught at the sight of dim, cracked optics. Optics that were glowing a faint red.
“ I’m actually a seeker from Vos.’?”
Notes (again, placed here to avoid giving things away): Jazz's optics and elements of his backstory are influenced by huntingospray's fic, Windows on the soul.