When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Tracks and the Protectobots
Written for the speedwriting prompt 2 this week; "Relocating."
Title: When Wise Mechs are Banished - Tracks and the Protectobots
Rating: T
Continuity: AU G1/Movieverse mashup
Characters: Tracks, Hot Spot, Blades, First Aid, Streetwise, Groove, Prowl, Jazz
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 2. Relocating
Tracks vented as he glanced at his... charges. Why the five bots had been assigned to him, he didn't know, though he did have his suspicions. He wasn't the most liked bot on base, after all, and he did know it.
But sticking him with five war-born younglings was a bit harsh, even for his commanders.
Not to mention they were a gestalt, and half of their conversations happened over their gestalt bond, leaving him in the dark.
Primus. A bot as good-looking as himself shouldn't have to deal with stuff like this. Stuck in a shuttle, escorting the “recovering” gestalt so some out-of-the-way base.
Heh. Recovering. They had been hit by a sonic weapon of some sort (as far as he could tell, anyways) in the last battle, and, apparently, needed time to recover. Or something. They were young, Tracks figured. Maybe they did actually need a respite from the war.
And hey, at least here, in the shuttle, he didn't have to worry about anyone scratching his paint. Or dodging bullets and blaster bolts. Or really doing anything other than sitting there.
It was pretty nice, actually. Would have been nicer if those five bots would either move their conversation to entirely vocal or entirely over the bond, but...
Well, it most definitely could be worse.
It was the silence that finally caught his attention. He blinked and focused on the five bots sitting across from him.
“Well?” one of them, the helo, said, and the largest of them shot a glare at the flier.
“What? I’m afraid I wasn't paying attention...”
“I asked why do you think they're sending us out here? None of us can agree.”
“They... They told me it was so you can recover. Or something.”
“They said the same thing to me,” the little red and white bot said, tilting his helm to the side. “But we are entirely recovered, and we're all operating at over ninety percent.”
“Mentally, maybe?”
The helo shifted again. “But why'd they send him? We don't need a caretaker.”
“Blades,” the big one hissed, and shook his helm. “It doesn't matter. We'll go and we'll stay for as long as they let us. I, for one, will be happy that nobody's shooting at you.”
Silence filled the cabin for the rest of the journey. Tracks didn't let it get to him, instead focusing on what he would do next for his plating. There was some wax that a friend... or acquaintance... of his had, and he wanted to try it out...
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Tracks had been ordered to take care of them until they were seen to by their new commander, so, when the shuttle set down, he trailed after them.
A ping sounded on his comm, and he answered it reflexively. ::Tracks, here.::
::This is the shuttle captain. Are you on board?::
::No.::
The comm clicked off, and the ramp began to rise. Tracks whirled around, staring as it closed, then the shuttle took off and flew away.
“What the frag?” he managed some time after it had exited the atmosphere.
There was a soft vent behind him. “I do apologize... I take it you were not notified of your transfer?”
He turned to face a tall, black and white Praxian. “I... No. No, they just told me I was escorting those five...”
The Praxian nodded. “I see. Like I said, I apologize... It is not kind, what they do to us.”
“'Us'?”
“Ya ain't th' only one been sent here, mech,” a cheery voice interjected, and a small, silver mech seemingly pranced out of a doorway and onto the landing pad. “M'name's Jazz, an' we've all been sent here fer one reason 'r 'nother, an' most of us didn' wanna come.”
“Indeed. At any rate, may I ask your names, ranks, and professions?”
“Tracks. I’m... I’m just a grunt, I guess...”
The black and white nodded, and turned to the five mechs. “And you?”
“Hot Spot, gestalt leader.”
“Blades, aerial support.”
“First Aid, medic. Uh, in training.”
“Streetwise, scout.”
“Groove, sniper.”
“Another gestalt, then,” Prowl hummed, looking them over. “Very well. I am Base Commander Prowl. Here at base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E, we have a rather unique command setup and a few rather special rules, which you must know to survive...”
Title: When Wise Mechs are Banished - Tracks and the Protectobots
Rating: T
Continuity: AU G1/Movieverse mashup
Characters: Tracks, Hot Spot, Blades, First Aid, Streetwise, Groove, Prowl, Jazz
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 2. Relocating
Tracks vented as he glanced at his... charges. Why the five bots had been assigned to him, he didn't know, though he did have his suspicions. He wasn't the most liked bot on base, after all, and he did know it.
But sticking him with five war-born younglings was a bit harsh, even for his commanders.
Not to mention they were a gestalt, and half of their conversations happened over their gestalt bond, leaving him in the dark.
Primus. A bot as good-looking as himself shouldn't have to deal with stuff like this. Stuck in a shuttle, escorting the “recovering” gestalt so some out-of-the-way base.
Heh. Recovering. They had been hit by a sonic weapon of some sort (as far as he could tell, anyways) in the last battle, and, apparently, needed time to recover. Or something. They were young, Tracks figured. Maybe they did actually need a respite from the war.
And hey, at least here, in the shuttle, he didn't have to worry about anyone scratching his paint. Or dodging bullets and blaster bolts. Or really doing anything other than sitting there.
It was pretty nice, actually. Would have been nicer if those five bots would either move their conversation to entirely vocal or entirely over the bond, but...
Well, it most definitely could be worse.
It was the silence that finally caught his attention. He blinked and focused on the five bots sitting across from him.
“Well?” one of them, the helo, said, and the largest of them shot a glare at the flier.
“What? I’m afraid I wasn't paying attention...”
“I asked why do you think they're sending us out here? None of us can agree.”
“They... They told me it was so you can recover. Or something.”
“They said the same thing to me,” the little red and white bot said, tilting his helm to the side. “But we are entirely recovered, and we're all operating at over ninety percent.”
“Mentally, maybe?”
The helo shifted again. “But why'd they send him? We don't need a caretaker.”
“Blades,” the big one hissed, and shook his helm. “It doesn't matter. We'll go and we'll stay for as long as they let us. I, for one, will be happy that nobody's shooting at you.”
Silence filled the cabin for the rest of the journey. Tracks didn't let it get to him, instead focusing on what he would do next for his plating. There was some wax that a friend... or acquaintance... of his had, and he wanted to try it out...
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Tracks had been ordered to take care of them until they were seen to by their new commander, so, when the shuttle set down, he trailed after them.
A ping sounded on his comm, and he answered it reflexively. ::Tracks, here.::
::This is the shuttle captain. Are you on board?::
::No.::
The comm clicked off, and the ramp began to rise. Tracks whirled around, staring as it closed, then the shuttle took off and flew away.
“What the frag?” he managed some time after it had exited the atmosphere.
There was a soft vent behind him. “I do apologize... I take it you were not notified of your transfer?”
He turned to face a tall, black and white Praxian. “I... No. No, they just told me I was escorting those five...”
The Praxian nodded. “I see. Like I said, I apologize... It is not kind, what they do to us.”
“'Us'?”
“Ya ain't th' only one been sent here, mech,” a cheery voice interjected, and a small, silver mech seemingly pranced out of a doorway and onto the landing pad. “M'name's Jazz, an' we've all been sent here fer one reason 'r 'nother, an' most of us didn' wanna come.”
“Indeed. At any rate, may I ask your names, ranks, and professions?”
“Tracks. I’m... I’m just a grunt, I guess...”
The black and white nodded, and turned to the five mechs. “And you?”
“Hot Spot, gestalt leader.”
“Blades, aerial support.”
“First Aid, medic. Uh, in training.”
“Streetwise, scout.”
“Groove, sniper.”
“Another gestalt, then,” Prowl hummed, looking them over. “Very well. I am Base Commander Prowl. Here at base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E, we have a rather unique command setup and a few rather special rules, which you must know to survive...”