Differentiation (Part 5)
Title: Differentiation (Part 5)
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Smokescreen. Bluestreak. Hound. Jazz.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Bluestreak thought his spark would stop when a ‘Con barely missed out on taking Jazz’s helm off with a lucky shot. His hands tightened on the rifle Smokescreen insisted he carry, and not for the first time, the grey mech wished he was of more use than just keeping out of the way and making the other three worry.
Hound and Smokescreen suddenly appearing nearly made him cry out in fright, and listening to the Autobots scrape together a plan had him wanting to contribute in whatever way he could. The thought came to him as he heard them talk, and before he knew it, he was volunteering to do the same as Jazz.
Are you sure you want to do this?
He chased away the flicker of doubt, and the voice subsided, only to return with the exact reasoning he needed to persuade Smokescreen to let him go alone. None of them looked too happy with having to concede that his argument was valid, but soon he was waiting at the end of their rapidly disintegrating wall, about to follow a black and white mech out into the open.
Stay calm. You need to be able to plan your route.
That voice was back.
Hunch over, like Jazz did, and keep your panels flat. You’ll be a smaller target that way.
He did so, moving from point to point as and when directed to by the voice at the back of his CPU, his uneasiness growing all the while. But whoever (or whatever) it was, it was also right, each spot that he moved to was logical in its selection and soon he was safely behind shelter once more.
Well done.
Jazz’s praise was louder than the strange whisper, but he heard it nonetheless. Thoroughly unnerved now, he looked up at the visored mech, but his half formed query died when they heard a loud noise from outside. The smoke bomb. Bluestreak waited for Hound and Smokescreen to show up. He’d get a better answer from asking three bots instead of just one. And Smokescreen was a psychologist; he’d know what was wrong with his CPU.
‘Where were they?’
Something’s wrong.
He agreed, looking out of the building with Jazz. Then the gun was in his hands and he was pointing it unsteadily out of their hiding spot.
Careful. You’ll have to do it quickly, before they realise someone’s hitting them and move.
‘But where are the ‘Cons?!’ Bluestreak thought back furiously, and the reply came, almost reassuring in its steadiness.
Observe where the shots are coming from, and track them back to their origin. There are multiple shooters. Wait until you’re sure of all of them before firing. If you miss you’ll give away your position to the rest of the Decepticons.
His processors lined up the data and calculated the figures, and then translated that information into angles and lines of fire. It was surprisingly easy; he almost didn’t need the stabilising effect of the other voice, murmuring quiet encouragement. His servos lined up the shot, his fingers found the trigger, and one after another, each weapon firing at Smokescreen and Hound fell silent.
Then Smokescreen was in front of him and holding him and safe and… and…
“There’s someone else in my head.”
= = =
Smokescreen felt his processors stall, and he turned a frantic look on the two Ops mechs with him. Both Hound and Jazz were just at a loss for words as he was, and the tactician resigned himself to an awkward conversation.
“Bluestreak. Can you explain that?”
The grey mech didn’t move from his side, and didn’t look at him either.
“There’s a voice in the back of my CPU. It told me how to get over here, and how to find the bots shooting at you. What’s wrong with me?” Bluestreak’s voice was fearful, and the blue mech shook his head.
“Nothing’s wrong with you.”
The flat look Smokescreen got reminded the tactician that Prowl had originated from the mech huddled against him. Even terrified and worried about losing his mind, Bluestreak pulled off the ‘that’s slag and you know it, start talking, now ’ look admirably.
“You have a divided personality matrix. That voice is the other part of you.” He was working blind now, all the training and case studies he’d read useless in the face of what Bluestreak was going through.
“Why is it calling itself Prowl?”
“He’s the one who got you to the Autobots when Praxus fell, and he took on the ‘Cons when they first attacked us. You made him, and you named him. Even if he wasn’t Prowl in the beginning, he is now.”
There was a pause, and grey sensor panels started to shift, fluttering in agitation before their owner exclaimed out loud.
“But Prowl can’t be all in my head! I saw him! You all did!”
“Oh, Bluestreak.” Hound moved now, dropping into a crouch next to the young mech. A confused expression met the tracker’s, and Hound sighed before a small image flickered to life, identical to the young Praxian, until its colours shifted from Bluestreak’s grey and red to black and white. Then it winked out of existence and the holographer lowered himself to sit on the floor, exhaustion clear on his faceplates.
“I’m sorry. What you saw earlier was just a hologram.”
“But… Before I met you…”
“How would Hound know what Prowl looked like?” Jazz spoke up, and Bluestreak turned startled optics onto him. “No one’s that lucky, and Hound can’t read minds, or we’d get into far less trouble than we already do. Yet you accepted his hologram without questioning.”
The grey mech was silent, plainly struggling to accept this revelation. His next words were weary and soft. “So I am glitched.”
“It’s not a bad thing. Prowl’s helped keep you alive so far.” The visored Ops bot tried, and Bluestreak only laughed, a low, choked off sound.
“Glitched and useless. I need a voice in my head to hold my hand.”
“You are not useless. Me and Hound are standing… well, sitting.” Smokescreen amended, smiling when the grey mech let slip a chuckle. “Here because of you.”
Bluestreak sighed, staring at the ground and the rifle lying just within reach. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, then looked at the three Autobots.
“I think we need to go. Even if we did scare them off, the ‘Cons might come back.”
They glanced at each other, then nodded, rising purposefully to leave.
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Smokescreen. Bluestreak. Hound. Jazz.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Bluestreak thought his spark would stop when a ‘Con barely missed out on taking Jazz’s helm off with a lucky shot. His hands tightened on the rifle Smokescreen insisted he carry, and not for the first time, the grey mech wished he was of more use than just keeping out of the way and making the other three worry.
Hound and Smokescreen suddenly appearing nearly made him cry out in fright, and listening to the Autobots scrape together a plan had him wanting to contribute in whatever way he could. The thought came to him as he heard them talk, and before he knew it, he was volunteering to do the same as Jazz.
Are you sure you want to do this?
He chased away the flicker of doubt, and the voice subsided, only to return with the exact reasoning he needed to persuade Smokescreen to let him go alone. None of them looked too happy with having to concede that his argument was valid, but soon he was waiting at the end of their rapidly disintegrating wall, about to follow a black and white mech out into the open.
Stay calm. You need to be able to plan your route.
That voice was back.
Hunch over, like Jazz did, and keep your panels flat. You’ll be a smaller target that way.
He did so, moving from point to point as and when directed to by the voice at the back of his CPU, his uneasiness growing all the while. But whoever (or whatever) it was, it was also right, each spot that he moved to was logical in its selection and soon he was safely behind shelter once more.
Well done.
Jazz’s praise was louder than the strange whisper, but he heard it nonetheless. Thoroughly unnerved now, he looked up at the visored mech, but his half formed query died when they heard a loud noise from outside. The smoke bomb. Bluestreak waited for Hound and Smokescreen to show up. He’d get a better answer from asking three bots instead of just one. And Smokescreen was a psychologist; he’d know what was wrong with his CPU.
‘Where were they?’
Something’s wrong.
He agreed, looking out of the building with Jazz. Then the gun was in his hands and he was pointing it unsteadily out of their hiding spot.
Careful. You’ll have to do it quickly, before they realise someone’s hitting them and move.
‘But where are the ‘Cons?!’ Bluestreak thought back furiously, and the reply came, almost reassuring in its steadiness.
Observe where the shots are coming from, and track them back to their origin. There are multiple shooters. Wait until you’re sure of all of them before firing. If you miss you’ll give away your position to the rest of the Decepticons.
His processors lined up the data and calculated the figures, and then translated that information into angles and lines of fire. It was surprisingly easy; he almost didn’t need the stabilising effect of the other voice, murmuring quiet encouragement. His servos lined up the shot, his fingers found the trigger, and one after another, each weapon firing at Smokescreen and Hound fell silent.
Then Smokescreen was in front of him and holding him and safe and… and…
“There’s someone else in my head.”
= = =
Smokescreen felt his processors stall, and he turned a frantic look on the two Ops mechs with him. Both Hound and Jazz were just at a loss for words as he was, and the tactician resigned himself to an awkward conversation.
“Bluestreak. Can you explain that?”
The grey mech didn’t move from his side, and didn’t look at him either.
“There’s a voice in the back of my CPU. It told me how to get over here, and how to find the bots shooting at you. What’s wrong with me?” Bluestreak’s voice was fearful, and the blue mech shook his head.
“Nothing’s wrong with you.”
The flat look Smokescreen got reminded the tactician that Prowl had originated from the mech huddled against him. Even terrified and worried about losing his mind, Bluestreak pulled off the ‘that’s slag and you know it, start talking, now ’ look admirably.
“You have a divided personality matrix. That voice is the other part of you.” He was working blind now, all the training and case studies he’d read useless in the face of what Bluestreak was going through.
“Why is it calling itself Prowl?”
“He’s the one who got you to the Autobots when Praxus fell, and he took on the ‘Cons when they first attacked us. You made him, and you named him. Even if he wasn’t Prowl in the beginning, he is now.”
There was a pause, and grey sensor panels started to shift, fluttering in agitation before their owner exclaimed out loud.
“But Prowl can’t be all in my head! I saw him! You all did!”
“Oh, Bluestreak.” Hound moved now, dropping into a crouch next to the young mech. A confused expression met the tracker’s, and Hound sighed before a small image flickered to life, identical to the young Praxian, until its colours shifted from Bluestreak’s grey and red to black and white. Then it winked out of existence and the holographer lowered himself to sit on the floor, exhaustion clear on his faceplates.
“I’m sorry. What you saw earlier was just a hologram.”
“But… Before I met you…”
“How would Hound know what Prowl looked like?” Jazz spoke up, and Bluestreak turned startled optics onto him. “No one’s that lucky, and Hound can’t read minds, or we’d get into far less trouble than we already do. Yet you accepted his hologram without questioning.”
The grey mech was silent, plainly struggling to accept this revelation. His next words were weary and soft. “So I am glitched.”
“It’s not a bad thing. Prowl’s helped keep you alive so far.” The visored Ops bot tried, and Bluestreak only laughed, a low, choked off sound.
“Glitched and useless. I need a voice in my head to hold my hand.”
“You are not useless. Me and Hound are standing… well, sitting.” Smokescreen amended, smiling when the grey mech let slip a chuckle. “Here because of you.”
Bluestreak sighed, staring at the ground and the rifle lying just within reach. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands, then looked at the three Autobots.
“I think we need to go. Even if we did scare them off, the ‘Cons might come back.”
They glanced at each other, then nodded, rising purposefully to leave.