More Speedwriting Prompt Fills!
Title: A White Knight
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Ratchet
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 1. Setting: a waiting room
Ratchet was, perhaps, one of the most feared mechs in lower Iacon. Most of the lower class bots respected him more than anyone else. Most of the higher class bots looked down on him.
Yet everyone feared him. The former senator had an acidic glossa and a good arm, and wasn't afraid to use either. Actually, he was quite eager to use both.
Despite this, however, the waiting room for his clinic was always packed. His was a charity clinic, which was why the upper class bots looked down on him. He was a wonderful medic. One of the best. Perhaps even the best. Yet no number of credits would bribe him into becoming a noble's personal medic. Nothing had ever managed to convince him to leave those beat down, rusty, trash-filled streets. He stubbornly clung to his little clinic, surviving on donations, running it with help from volunteers.
And the people of the lower classes of Iacon loved him for it. Loved him more than the Prime. They cared for him. Everyone knew that he made no income, so they all made sure he had what he needed. None of them had much to spare, but they managed.
He repaired anyone who entered his Med Bay. Gladiators, druggies, sparklings, younglings... Mechs and femmes of every occupation and frame type.
It stood to reason his waiting room was always crowded.
He had help. There were a few regular volunteers. Wheeljack, a mech who had quit medical school and took up engineering, but still knew enough, and was a fast enough learner, to be of use.
First Aid, one member of a gestalt, who was interning in Ratchet's Med Bay in order to complete his medical certification. He had been one of many applicants, and thanked Primus every orn for being chosen.
First Aid's brothers, who were not medics, but picked up quite a bit from their brother. All of them had the inbuilt need to protect, to help. They did the little patch jobs, the heavy lifting, and the odd jobs that Ratchet, Wheeljack, and First Aid never seemed to have time to do.
Sometimes other mechs from other clinics came to volunteer as well, when they had the time. They learned quickly that Ratchet's Med Bay was not like others.
No payment was ever demanded. Ever. Quite a few medics had been kicked out on their skidplates because they had asked for a fee.
Ratchet was also the head honcho, and his word was Law. If someone defied that Law, they quickly received a wrench, or some other durable instrument or tool, to the helm.
But he was still loved. Respected. Cared for. Because he would do what no one else would. He would repair and encourage the lowest of the low. He never asked questions, save for when he suspected abuse, never turned anyone away, never demanded anything.
He was the city's healer and caretaker. Iacon's White Knight.
Title: Divisions
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1/Movieverse
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, Optimus Prime
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 2. digital divide
Note: The term “osa” is Gatekat's, and (sort of?) used with permission. And this ficlet kinda ran away from the original prompt and dragged me with it...
There was a very thin line between a drone and a preprogrammed mech. The programming the medics and engineers used to create them was much the same, only the tiniest little things marking the digital divide between a preprog and a drone.
No, the biggest difference was a spark. A preprogrammed mech had one. A drone did not.
Yet most of Cybertron didn't care. Preprogrammed mechs were mechs. They had emotions. They felt. They feared, they loved, they hated. But most sparked mechs considered the preprogs no more than drones. Smart, able to think for themselves a bit more, but drones.
Which, to Jazz, made no sense. He felt just as much as anyone. He was.
And no one would see it. He was stuck running patrol routes and processing data like any other preprogrammed Enforcer. He didn't often get the opportunity to do the things he enjoyed; singing, dancing, and the like. Sometimes, his fellow preprogs held parties - secret ones, quiet ones, hidden in the lower levels where their quarters resided. Jazz was often asked to sing at said parties, and he did so gladly.
But there were times when he feared that he would never be able to do so outside of those rare occasions.
Until the Enforcer's Station commissioned an osa, one of the sparked computers that would, could, run massive processors, keeping watch over security feeds, directing patrols, organizing shifts, doing everything a regular mech would have to do at a workstation but couldn't delegate to an AI, which would not be inventive or conscious enough to perform adequately.
Jazz was the first mech assigned to dark-cycle duty after it had been installed. The black and white Enforcer leaned back in his seat, examining the dim monitor and dark workstations with critical optics.
“Hey,” he finally said, and one of the screens brightened.
“Greetings, Enforcer J422,” a soft tenor responded. “I am PR0.W13.R.”
The black and white mech shook his helm. “Jazz, mech. Only the sparked mechs call me J422.”
“... Jazz? Why would you call yourself as such, Enforcer J4... Jazz?”
“Because it's a mech name. A real one. I’m a mech. Not a drone. Drones get numbers. Mechs get names.”
The screen flickered for a moment. “I... understand?”
Jazz shook his helm. “No ya don't. Not yet. You will, though, when your spark starts to tweak coding. When your emotions start to develop. Trust me.”
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
It was a groon later when the osa tentatively established a comm link with Jazz while the Enforcer was off-duty and lounging in his berth.
::Jazz?::
::Finally dropped the “Enforcer”?::
::I... I believe I understand, now,:: the osa said, emotion infusing his electronic voice, and Jazz smiled faintly.
::Cool. Chose a name?::
::I was hoping you would be able to help with that. I am unable to decide on anything.::
::Sure, mech. I'd love to help. Lessee... PR0.W13.R... Pr... Prowler? The glyphs are similarly shaped, like with my name.::
::You are suggesting I take a name that signifies a thief that sneaks into others dwellings? However, you do have a point... Is Prowl sufficient?::
::Sure, mech. That sounds great. But I think I’ll keep calling you Prowler.::
::... Why?::
::Because that's what friends do. They call each other by nicknames.::
::Do they? Why? And how is that a nickname? It is longer than my chosen designation?::
Jazz grinned up at the camera in the corner, knowing the osa was most likely watching him. ::Because it's something private between us. Because it's got meaning. Because you'll know whenever I call you by it, that I care.::
::... I do not understand.::
::You don't need to, mech. Not yet. You'll learn. Trust me.::
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
For vorns, PR0.W13.R, Prowl, served the Enforcers of the Lower Polyhexan Enforcer's Station of District 14. He watched security feeds far more closely and intently than any mech at a monitor station could or would. He organized everything with a precision unseen by most. He even made tentative friends with some of the other Enforcers.
Then war began brewing, and Sentinel Prime made an unusual request.
“What're you saying, mech?” Jazz asked, red optics narrowing.
“Sentinel Prime has requested that I be transferred to one of your walking frames so that I may aid the war effort. Or rather, the effort to prevent war.”
“Prowler, that makes no sense!”
“Actually, Jazz, it does. I am an osa in a lower section of a poor city. I am... while I am of use, I... they do not see it that way. They believe you can function without me. And you can.”
“Mech,” Jazz said, slumping down in his seat. “This is... I know we can, but... Primus, Prowler! We've... you're part of the team!”
“I know that. But I am in no position to deny Sentinel Prime's demands. The medics are coming in two orns time.”
Jazz choked out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a laugh. “Prowler...”
“I am sorry, Jazz.”
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Jazz wasn't even there when they did the transfer. He was out on patrol, and when he got back, Prowl was gone.
There was, however, a little flashing alert at his monitor, signaling a message left for him. It was a small file, with only a small note and an image file.
Jazz,
I thank Primus for you. You taught me all I will ever need to know about truly living. I regret that I am unable to tell you this in person. I am sorry I cannot tell you goodbye one last time, for I know that I will be taken away as soon as the transfer is complete.
However, my friend, my beloved (for I believe that, had I been in a walking frame from my sparking, we would have been much more than friends), I am able to give you one last thing before I am taken away. Attached is an image file, one taken with one of my cameras of my new frame, before they started the transfer. I pray that someday, sometime, somehow, we will meet again.
All my love,
Prowler
Jazz let out a strangled sob and folded in on himself, curling his knees to his chassis and resting his helm in his palms. After a few long breems of sitting this way, he slowly lifted his helm and rather reluctantly opened the image file.
Because once he saw that frame, it would be true. Prowl would be gone. He would never light the monitor banks, never be on the other end of the comms directing a mission or a drug bust, never again be there to talk to on those lonely nights when everything else in the world seemed to be conspiring against him.
The file opened quickly, and Jazz felt like his spark was shattering into a million pieces. The frame was wonderful. The colors were dull, muted, as were all unSparked frames, but it was still beautiful. The white and black contrasted wonderfully. Broad, sweeping doorwings were splayed against the gurney it was lying on. A sharp, wide, yet still sleek chevron crowned the helm, the red standing out brightly even though it was dull and dusty. Everything about the frame was sleek, streamlined, yet full of a subtle brand of power that very few mechs possessed.
It was perfect for the osa.
Yet, he would never see it full of life, never see those colors vibrant and shining, never see the optics shine with that subtle mischief Prowl had shown on occasion.
Jazz stayed curled on his chair, gazing with unseeing optics at his monitor for the rest of his shift.
The next day, he was gone, disappeared without a trace.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Jazz stood stiffly in the Prime's office, red Enforcer optics dim under the blue visor, silver plating held tightly to his frame. He was here to meet the new second in command. Had been ordered, really. He had heard little of the mech. He was a stick-aft. A drone. So full of rules that if someone broke one, he crashed. Never did he smile. Never did he show any emotion other than disapproval. He had two expressions; blank, and frowning.
“Ah, Jazz, you are already here. Good,” a deep, bass voice said, interrupting his staring contest with the wall. The saboteur turned around to face the red and blue Prime and froze.
Optimus smiled behind his mask, but Jazz, normally attuned to the mech's moods, was blind to it.
For beside and slightly behind the massive mech, stood a stiff frame. Black and white plating shivered. Broad, graceful doorwings spread beautifully behind a white helm, which was crowned in turn by a sleek, red chevron. Brilliant amber optics, bright with emotion, glowed beneath the chevron.
It was such a familiar frame. So familiar.
“Jazz, I would like you to meet my new Second in Command-”
“Prowler?”
A smirk spread over faceplates that usually remained passive. “J4- Jazz.”
A moment later, Prowl was holding a trembling silver mech in his arms. The Praxian-framed mech's doorwings shivered, and he bowed his helm. “Jazz, Jazz, Jazz, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Never got t' say goodbye.”
“Oh, Primus... Jazz...”
“Prowler...”
Unnoticed by both, Optimus Prime slipped out of the room, leaving the two to reunite, smirk hidden by his battle-mask.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Title: Object
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Wheeljack
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 3. Task: tell a story from the perspective of a nonsentient object (a datapad, a gun, etc)
The object, for that was what it was - even it had a hard time identifying itself, had a very short existence. It had been pieced together by confident, gray hands, every wire and fragment lovingly attached.
It resided on a tabletop. Accompanying it were various bits of wire, metal, tubes, and other miscellaneous scraps, as well as multiple tools and devices, many of which had been put into use in making the object.
Hat it been able to think and know and understand, it, perhaps, would have been frightened for its continued existence. For this object, whatever it was, had been built, was being built, by a certain Autobot inventor and engineer.
But it was unable to think, unable to know, unable to understand. And it was unable to feel, to fear, so it did not fear its death. It did not even know what ending was. What it would be, what it would mean.
So, a few moments later, when a wire was welded on and Wheeljack muttered, “Oh, slag,” it did not fear.
Barely a klik later, the object did not exist any longer. All that remained was a blackened spot on the table, the smallest fragments of shrapnel, and a the sharp tang of smoke hovering on the air.
Title: Call
Rating: K+
Continuity: Movieverse
Characters: Optimus Prime, OC human (for the sake of the plot!)
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 4. Phoning it in
The soldier stared at the massive, gray frame of Optimus Prime, shocked. Optimus Prime... dead.
This particular human, one Corporal Jim Davis, hadn't interacted much with the Prime. He had conversed with the massive robot once, when they had been flying out to a suspected Decepticon location. He had been one of the men in the Prime's C-17. One of three, actually. The other two were dead now. But the Prime had talked with them, his voice deep and even, tone calm.
The Corporal never forgot that day. His first contact with the enemy. It had been his confidence in the Prime, spawned by the Prime's own confidence that had kept him alive.
And now, Optimus was dead. Deactivated. Gray and still and quiet...
The Corporal stared, throat feeling like it was full of cotton, eyes stinging, heartbeat audible in his ears. That deep, confident voice would never ring out through the base, prompting whoever he asked to do exactly as he asked, then and there, and screw whatever they had been doing before.
His heavy weight would never make the lights flicker as he took a step, never make the walls rattle, never make a human feel like their teeth were going to shake out of their heads.
He would never look on a human with those wise, glittering optics, so full of sadness and weight and optimism.
Never again...
But it was time to call it in. He was a soldier. Their commander might have been down, but... there were others. And maybe they would never see Optimus walking from hangar to hangar, massive feet settling gently on the tarmac, lest he crack it, but...
They could avenge him.
The Corporal lifted his radio, swallowing a couple times before he could manage a word. . “Corporal Davis here, Colonel Lennox... I have... Optimus... Optimus is dead...”
Title: Bad Influence
Rating: K+
Continuity: Movieverse
Characters: Sam Witwicky, Bumblebee
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 5. Corrupted
“Slagging piece of scrap!”
Bumblebee blinked. “Sam?”
“My iPod keeps fritzing! What the frag is wrong with it?”
The Autobot blinked again. “What?”
“Stupid, glitching, piece of trash,” the boy hissed as he tossed the iPod touch on the counter.
“Sam?”
“Ugh. Waste of metal. What, Bee?”
“When... When did you start cursing like us?”
The boy blinked. “Huh? Oh. I dunno. Maybe after I started hanging around on base more. Or when I started taking repair lessons?”
“Oh, dear Primus, Ratchet has corrupted you.”
Sam snickered. “Now that is a very likely possibility...”
Title: Make Believe
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1
Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Bluestreak
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 6. Pick one line from this song and use it to inspire a story. Lyrics here
Make believe that it's fine again
Sunstreaker was intimately aware there was a war going on. How could he not be? His brother had just been released from a week-long stay in the Med Bay, and he himself was riddled with countless dents, scrapes, and patched leaks. His paint job was slagged.
But at this moment, he just wanted to forget. Sideswipe was curled up on the berth, back against the wall. Sunstreaker was lying on the other side, back facing the room. Bluestreak was curled up between them, doorwings curled around Sideswipe, helm tucked neatly under Sunstreaker's chin.
From his position, Sunstreaker could see the long, shiny weld line along the gunner's wide doorwing. Courtesy of a certain Skywarp.
In retaliation, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had torn the purple Seeker's wings off. His trinemates, in turn, did their best to destroy the Twins, and had partially succeeded with the red half.
Sunstreaker could see the wide expanses of new, silver metal spreading over Sideswipe's side. His left arm had been destroyed, and had had to be completely reconstructed. Most of his left leg had been melted to slag. He had been in the Med Bay for a week, and would have still been there had Ratchet been any other medic. However, their CMO knew the value of a familiar berth and familiar sparks, and often allowed mechs to go back to their berths as long as they submitted to wearing a monitoring device. Sunstreaker could see that, too. A bulky, black box attached to Sideswipe's shoulder. The Twins were familiar enough with those to have gotten over the discomfort they caused.
No, the yellow Twin knew very well that there was a war going, that any moment, he, Bluestreak, Sideswipe, could be called back into battle. Knew that he and his Twin were one of the strongest lines of defense between the Autobots and Decepticons. Knew they risked their sparks every time they went out to fight.
But at the moment, he didn't care. He wanted to make believe that nothing was wrong, that they were simply an ordinary family, sleeping comfortably in their berth. That there wasn't a risk of an alarm blasting them out of recharge at any moment. That he and his brother and their lover didn't risk their frames, their sparks, their lives every week, every day.
He wanted to make believe that everything was good, that everything was fine. Venting heavily, Sunstreaker pulled Bluestreak tightly to him and reached over, settling gentle fingers on his brother's shiny side.
Make believe.
No war.
No battles.
Here, now.
Safe, comfortable, happy.
With a vent, Sunstreaker closed his optics. The illusion would be shattered when he woke up, but for now, he was content. Happy, in his little world outside the war.
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Ratchet
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 1. Setting: a waiting room
Ratchet was, perhaps, one of the most feared mechs in lower Iacon. Most of the lower class bots respected him more than anyone else. Most of the higher class bots looked down on him.
Yet everyone feared him. The former senator had an acidic glossa and a good arm, and wasn't afraid to use either. Actually, he was quite eager to use both.
Despite this, however, the waiting room for his clinic was always packed. His was a charity clinic, which was why the upper class bots looked down on him. He was a wonderful medic. One of the best. Perhaps even the best. Yet no number of credits would bribe him into becoming a noble's personal medic. Nothing had ever managed to convince him to leave those beat down, rusty, trash-filled streets. He stubbornly clung to his little clinic, surviving on donations, running it with help from volunteers.
And the people of the lower classes of Iacon loved him for it. Loved him more than the Prime. They cared for him. Everyone knew that he made no income, so they all made sure he had what he needed. None of them had much to spare, but they managed.
He repaired anyone who entered his Med Bay. Gladiators, druggies, sparklings, younglings... Mechs and femmes of every occupation and frame type.
It stood to reason his waiting room was always crowded.
He had help. There were a few regular volunteers. Wheeljack, a mech who had quit medical school and took up engineering, but still knew enough, and was a fast enough learner, to be of use.
First Aid, one member of a gestalt, who was interning in Ratchet's Med Bay in order to complete his medical certification. He had been one of many applicants, and thanked Primus every orn for being chosen.
First Aid's brothers, who were not medics, but picked up quite a bit from their brother. All of them had the inbuilt need to protect, to help. They did the little patch jobs, the heavy lifting, and the odd jobs that Ratchet, Wheeljack, and First Aid never seemed to have time to do.
Sometimes other mechs from other clinics came to volunteer as well, when they had the time. They learned quickly that Ratchet's Med Bay was not like others.
No payment was ever demanded. Ever. Quite a few medics had been kicked out on their skidplates because they had asked for a fee.
Ratchet was also the head honcho, and his word was Law. If someone defied that Law, they quickly received a wrench, or some other durable instrument or tool, to the helm.
But he was still loved. Respected. Cared for. Because he would do what no one else would. He would repair and encourage the lowest of the low. He never asked questions, save for when he suspected abuse, never turned anyone away, never demanded anything.
He was the city's healer and caretaker. Iacon's White Knight.
Title: Divisions
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1/Movieverse
Characters: Jazz, Prowl, Optimus Prime
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 2. digital divide
Note: The term “osa” is Gatekat's, and (sort of?) used with permission. And this ficlet kinda ran away from the original prompt and dragged me with it...
There was a very thin line between a drone and a preprogrammed mech. The programming the medics and engineers used to create them was much the same, only the tiniest little things marking the digital divide between a preprog and a drone.
No, the biggest difference was a spark. A preprogrammed mech had one. A drone did not.
Yet most of Cybertron didn't care. Preprogrammed mechs were mechs. They had emotions. They felt. They feared, they loved, they hated. But most sparked mechs considered the preprogs no more than drones. Smart, able to think for themselves a bit more, but drones.
Which, to Jazz, made no sense. He felt just as much as anyone. He was.
And no one would see it. He was stuck running patrol routes and processing data like any other preprogrammed Enforcer. He didn't often get the opportunity to do the things he enjoyed; singing, dancing, and the like. Sometimes, his fellow preprogs held parties - secret ones, quiet ones, hidden in the lower levels where their quarters resided. Jazz was often asked to sing at said parties, and he did so gladly.
But there were times when he feared that he would never be able to do so outside of those rare occasions.
Until the Enforcer's Station commissioned an osa, one of the sparked computers that would, could, run massive processors, keeping watch over security feeds, directing patrols, organizing shifts, doing everything a regular mech would have to do at a workstation but couldn't delegate to an AI, which would not be inventive or conscious enough to perform adequately.
Jazz was the first mech assigned to dark-cycle duty after it had been installed. The black and white Enforcer leaned back in his seat, examining the dim monitor and dark workstations with critical optics.
“Hey,” he finally said, and one of the screens brightened.
“Greetings, Enforcer J422,” a soft tenor responded. “I am PR0.W13.R.”
The black and white mech shook his helm. “Jazz, mech. Only the sparked mechs call me J422.”
“... Jazz? Why would you call yourself as such, Enforcer J4... Jazz?”
“Because it's a mech name. A real one. I’m a mech. Not a drone. Drones get numbers. Mechs get names.”
The screen flickered for a moment. “I... understand?”
Jazz shook his helm. “No ya don't. Not yet. You will, though, when your spark starts to tweak coding. When your emotions start to develop. Trust me.”
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
It was a groon later when the osa tentatively established a comm link with Jazz while the Enforcer was off-duty and lounging in his berth.
::Jazz?::
::Finally dropped the “Enforcer”?::
::I... I believe I understand, now,:: the osa said, emotion infusing his electronic voice, and Jazz smiled faintly.
::Cool. Chose a name?::
::I was hoping you would be able to help with that. I am unable to decide on anything.::
::Sure, mech. I'd love to help. Lessee... PR0.W13.R... Pr... Prowler? The glyphs are similarly shaped, like with my name.::
::You are suggesting I take a name that signifies a thief that sneaks into others dwellings? However, you do have a point... Is Prowl sufficient?::
::Sure, mech. That sounds great. But I think I’ll keep calling you Prowler.::
::... Why?::
::Because that's what friends do. They call each other by nicknames.::
::Do they? Why? And how is that a nickname? It is longer than my chosen designation?::
Jazz grinned up at the camera in the corner, knowing the osa was most likely watching him. ::Because it's something private between us. Because it's got meaning. Because you'll know whenever I call you by it, that I care.::
::... I do not understand.::
::You don't need to, mech. Not yet. You'll learn. Trust me.::
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
For vorns, PR0.W13.R, Prowl, served the Enforcers of the Lower Polyhexan Enforcer's Station of District 14. He watched security feeds far more closely and intently than any mech at a monitor station could or would. He organized everything with a precision unseen by most. He even made tentative friends with some of the other Enforcers.
Then war began brewing, and Sentinel Prime made an unusual request.
“What're you saying, mech?” Jazz asked, red optics narrowing.
“Sentinel Prime has requested that I be transferred to one of your walking frames so that I may aid the war effort. Or rather, the effort to prevent war.”
“Prowler, that makes no sense!”
“Actually, Jazz, it does. I am an osa in a lower section of a poor city. I am... while I am of use, I... they do not see it that way. They believe you can function without me. And you can.”
“Mech,” Jazz said, slumping down in his seat. “This is... I know we can, but... Primus, Prowler! We've... you're part of the team!”
“I know that. But I am in no position to deny Sentinel Prime's demands. The medics are coming in two orns time.”
Jazz choked out a strangled sound, something between a sob and a laugh. “Prowler...”
“I am sorry, Jazz.”
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Jazz wasn't even there when they did the transfer. He was out on patrol, and when he got back, Prowl was gone.
There was, however, a little flashing alert at his monitor, signaling a message left for him. It was a small file, with only a small note and an image file.
Jazz,
I thank Primus for you. You taught me all I will ever need to know about truly living. I regret that I am unable to tell you this in person. I am sorry I cannot tell you goodbye one last time, for I know that I will be taken away as soon as the transfer is complete.
However, my friend, my beloved (for I believe that, had I been in a walking frame from my sparking, we would have been much more than friends), I am able to give you one last thing before I am taken away. Attached is an image file, one taken with one of my cameras of my new frame, before they started the transfer. I pray that someday, sometime, somehow, we will meet again.
All my love,
Prowler
Jazz let out a strangled sob and folded in on himself, curling his knees to his chassis and resting his helm in his palms. After a few long breems of sitting this way, he slowly lifted his helm and rather reluctantly opened the image file.
Because once he saw that frame, it would be true. Prowl would be gone. He would never light the monitor banks, never be on the other end of the comms directing a mission or a drug bust, never again be there to talk to on those lonely nights when everything else in the world seemed to be conspiring against him.
The file opened quickly, and Jazz felt like his spark was shattering into a million pieces. The frame was wonderful. The colors were dull, muted, as were all unSparked frames, but it was still beautiful. The white and black contrasted wonderfully. Broad, sweeping doorwings were splayed against the gurney it was lying on. A sharp, wide, yet still sleek chevron crowned the helm, the red standing out brightly even though it was dull and dusty. Everything about the frame was sleek, streamlined, yet full of a subtle brand of power that very few mechs possessed.
It was perfect for the osa.
Yet, he would never see it full of life, never see those colors vibrant and shining, never see the optics shine with that subtle mischief Prowl had shown on occasion.
Jazz stayed curled on his chair, gazing with unseeing optics at his monitor for the rest of his shift.
The next day, he was gone, disappeared without a trace.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Jazz stood stiffly in the Prime's office, red Enforcer optics dim under the blue visor, silver plating held tightly to his frame. He was here to meet the new second in command. Had been ordered, really. He had heard little of the mech. He was a stick-aft. A drone. So full of rules that if someone broke one, he crashed. Never did he smile. Never did he show any emotion other than disapproval. He had two expressions; blank, and frowning.
“Ah, Jazz, you are already here. Good,” a deep, bass voice said, interrupting his staring contest with the wall. The saboteur turned around to face the red and blue Prime and froze.
Optimus smiled behind his mask, but Jazz, normally attuned to the mech's moods, was blind to it.
For beside and slightly behind the massive mech, stood a stiff frame. Black and white plating shivered. Broad, graceful doorwings spread beautifully behind a white helm, which was crowned in turn by a sleek, red chevron. Brilliant amber optics, bright with emotion, glowed beneath the chevron.
It was such a familiar frame. So familiar.
“Jazz, I would like you to meet my new Second in Command-”
“Prowler?”
A smirk spread over faceplates that usually remained passive. “J4- Jazz.”
A moment later, Prowl was holding a trembling silver mech in his arms. The Praxian-framed mech's doorwings shivered, and he bowed his helm. “Jazz, Jazz, Jazz, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Never got t' say goodbye.”
“Oh, Primus... Jazz...”
“Prowler...”
Unnoticed by both, Optimus Prime slipped out of the room, leaving the two to reunite, smirk hidden by his battle-mask.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Title: Object
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Wheeljack
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 3. Task: tell a story from the perspective of a nonsentient object (a datapad, a gun, etc)
The object, for that was what it was - even it had a hard time identifying itself, had a very short existence. It had been pieced together by confident, gray hands, every wire and fragment lovingly attached.
It resided on a tabletop. Accompanying it were various bits of wire, metal, tubes, and other miscellaneous scraps, as well as multiple tools and devices, many of which had been put into use in making the object.
Hat it been able to think and know and understand, it, perhaps, would have been frightened for its continued existence. For this object, whatever it was, had been built, was being built, by a certain Autobot inventor and engineer.
But it was unable to think, unable to know, unable to understand. And it was unable to feel, to fear, so it did not fear its death. It did not even know what ending was. What it would be, what it would mean.
So, a few moments later, when a wire was welded on and Wheeljack muttered, “Oh, slag,” it did not fear.
Barely a klik later, the object did not exist any longer. All that remained was a blackened spot on the table, the smallest fragments of shrapnel, and a the sharp tang of smoke hovering on the air.
Title: Call
Rating: K+
Continuity: Movieverse
Characters: Optimus Prime, OC human (for the sake of the plot!)
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 4. Phoning it in
The soldier stared at the massive, gray frame of Optimus Prime, shocked. Optimus Prime... dead.
This particular human, one Corporal Jim Davis, hadn't interacted much with the Prime. He had conversed with the massive robot once, when they had been flying out to a suspected Decepticon location. He had been one of the men in the Prime's C-17. One of three, actually. The other two were dead now. But the Prime had talked with them, his voice deep and even, tone calm.
The Corporal never forgot that day. His first contact with the enemy. It had been his confidence in the Prime, spawned by the Prime's own confidence that had kept him alive.
And now, Optimus was dead. Deactivated. Gray and still and quiet...
The Corporal stared, throat feeling like it was full of cotton, eyes stinging, heartbeat audible in his ears. That deep, confident voice would never ring out through the base, prompting whoever he asked to do exactly as he asked, then and there, and screw whatever they had been doing before.
His heavy weight would never make the lights flicker as he took a step, never make the walls rattle, never make a human feel like their teeth were going to shake out of their heads.
He would never look on a human with those wise, glittering optics, so full of sadness and weight and optimism.
Never again...
But it was time to call it in. He was a soldier. Their commander might have been down, but... there were others. And maybe they would never see Optimus walking from hangar to hangar, massive feet settling gently on the tarmac, lest he crack it, but...
They could avenge him.
The Corporal lifted his radio, swallowing a couple times before he could manage a word. . “Corporal Davis here, Colonel Lennox... I have... Optimus... Optimus is dead...”
Title: Bad Influence
Rating: K+
Continuity: Movieverse
Characters: Sam Witwicky, Bumblebee
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 5. Corrupted
“Slagging piece of scrap!”
Bumblebee blinked. “Sam?”
“My iPod keeps fritzing! What the frag is wrong with it?”
The Autobot blinked again. “What?”
“Stupid, glitching, piece of trash,” the boy hissed as he tossed the iPod touch on the counter.
“Sam?”
“Ugh. Waste of metal. What, Bee?”
“When... When did you start cursing like us?”
The boy blinked. “Huh? Oh. I dunno. Maybe after I started hanging around on base more. Or when I started taking repair lessons?”
“Oh, dear Primus, Ratchet has corrupted you.”
Sam snickered. “Now that is a very likely possibility...”
Title: Make Believe
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1
Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Bluestreak
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 6. Pick one line from this song and use it to inspire a story. Lyrics here
Make believe that it's fine again
Sunstreaker was intimately aware there was a war going on. How could he not be? His brother had just been released from a week-long stay in the Med Bay, and he himself was riddled with countless dents, scrapes, and patched leaks. His paint job was slagged.
But at this moment, he just wanted to forget. Sideswipe was curled up on the berth, back against the wall. Sunstreaker was lying on the other side, back facing the room. Bluestreak was curled up between them, doorwings curled around Sideswipe, helm tucked neatly under Sunstreaker's chin.
From his position, Sunstreaker could see the long, shiny weld line along the gunner's wide doorwing. Courtesy of a certain Skywarp.
In retaliation, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had torn the purple Seeker's wings off. His trinemates, in turn, did their best to destroy the Twins, and had partially succeeded with the red half.
Sunstreaker could see the wide expanses of new, silver metal spreading over Sideswipe's side. His left arm had been destroyed, and had had to be completely reconstructed. Most of his left leg had been melted to slag. He had been in the Med Bay for a week, and would have still been there had Ratchet been any other medic. However, their CMO knew the value of a familiar berth and familiar sparks, and often allowed mechs to go back to their berths as long as they submitted to wearing a monitoring device. Sunstreaker could see that, too. A bulky, black box attached to Sideswipe's shoulder. The Twins were familiar enough with those to have gotten over the discomfort they caused.
No, the yellow Twin knew very well that there was a war going, that any moment, he, Bluestreak, Sideswipe, could be called back into battle. Knew that he and his Twin were one of the strongest lines of defense between the Autobots and Decepticons. Knew they risked their sparks every time they went out to fight.
But at the moment, he didn't care. He wanted to make believe that nothing was wrong, that they were simply an ordinary family, sleeping comfortably in their berth. That there wasn't a risk of an alarm blasting them out of recharge at any moment. That he and his brother and their lover didn't risk their frames, their sparks, their lives every week, every day.
He wanted to make believe that everything was good, that everything was fine. Venting heavily, Sunstreaker pulled Bluestreak tightly to him and reached over, settling gentle fingers on his brother's shiny side.
Make believe.
No war.
No battles.
Here, now.
Safe, comfortable, happy.
With a vent, Sunstreaker closed his optics. The illusion would be shattered when he woke up, but for now, he was content. Happy, in his little world outside the war.