Divisions: Chapter 7: Small Steps
Yay! Bunnies!
Don't get too used to the updates, though, because this amount of time on my hands is very unusual. :-/
Chapter 7: Small Steps
Jazz wasn't there when they did the transfer. Prowl made sure of it. It wasn't something he wanted his friend to see. It was painful enough even for him. He would never wish that pain on someone close to him.
So Jazz was out on patrol, in a far sector of the city, when the Prime's medics came. Prowl watched them as they talked to the chief, then walked toward his main terminal.
It was only when he saw the dull, dead frame on the hover-stretcher that he started to panic.
He was leaving. Leaving. Probably for good.
Where was Jazz? Why didn't he keep his friend here? Why-? He couldn't say goodbye! A comm was possible, but... that wasn't how he wanted their last talk to go. Not at all.
So, instead, he opened a message and frantically wrote. And as he wrote, he realized.
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
His spark chamber was moving, up, forward. Thought-threads were being forcefully shut down. Everything was fading, darkening, narrowing.
He sent the message, and the last thing he was aware of was the confirmation signal.
Then everything went dark and silent.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
He onlined slowly, systems checking in and clicking on one after another.
It was the strangest boot up he'd ever experienced, mainly because, before, he had only set sections of himself into recharge at a time. He had never before in his existence been completely turned off.
So onlining was eerily reminiscent of his first awakening, all those vorns ago.
His audials flicked on with the barest hint of static, and voices became clearer. The sound was strange, though. He could hear perfectly well, but... there was something off. Something odd about the way he was hearing.
His optics came on next, and that was even stranger. It wasn't a compound view, made up of hundreds of different cameras positioned all over Polyhex and the Enforcer's Station. It was simply the feed from two optical receptors, and, while they were very good optics, able to see more than five times the spectrum as an average mech's optics, Prowl felt blind.
Then more sensors came online. The sensors in his doorwings, his processor reported, and he felt a little less blind. He could sense where mechs were, sense their systems running, sense what was around him. But it was still different, odd, and he didn't really like it.
“PR0.13W.R,” a voice called, and the osa - former osa - focused sharp optics on the speaker. It was a medic. That much was made plain by his red and white coloring. Ratchet, his processor supplied. “How are you feeling?”
Prowl took a moment to respond, carefully feeling his way through his vocalizer coding. “Strange,” he said after the pause. “Blind.”
Ratchet nodded. “That's understandable. Can you try moving for me?”
For a moment, Prowl simply blinked. Move? But...
Oh. Right. He wasn't an osa anymore. He could... move.
As soon as he thought it, protocols sprang to life. He could move.
First, he twitched his fingers. It was so alien, the feel of movement, of gears and pistons and tension lines shifting at his command, that he froze again. He tried to start up a thought-thread devoted to working out this solution, and...
A new sort of panic started rising in him. His processor. He hadn't noticed before now, but... He... His processor...
It was so small! So limited! He wasn't watching cameras anymore. He wasn't monitoring incoming data or outgoing data, wasn't in contact with neighboring osas, wasn't directing patrols, wasn't reading through reports, wasn't keeping tabs on reports from citizens or newscasters.
He... he was so... it was so... He needed more!
His processor was shutting down. Cascading, tumbling. Data was piling up. Things were falling into each other and crashing together, and-
Everything was, once again, black.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
The first thing he noticed when he came back online was Ratchet's voice.
“Let's try this again,” the medic was grumbling.
Prowl opened his optics again and stared up at the ceiling. Everything was just so wrong. His sight, his hearing, his sense of touch, even the way he thought.
It was wrong
He wanted Jazz.
“PR0.13W.R.” The sharp tone snapped him out of his thoughts. Then there was a quiet mutter. “There's gotta be something better to call you.”
“Prowl,” he answered immediately. “My designation is Prowl.”
The medic glanced at him strangely, then shook his helm. “Fine. Prowl. Errors?”
“None.”
“Want to try moving again?”
“Not really,” he said, but initiated the protocols again, and twitched his fingers.
It still felt so strange, but it did not cause a cascade of misplaced data. Hesitantly, he tried moving other parts of his frame, little bits at a time. Fingers, hands, elbows, feet, legs. His doorwings created the strangest sensation as they brushed against the berth, but all it caused was a sharp twitch.
“Alright, everything's looking good,” the medic said after a moment. “Let's try getting you vertical.”
The hands on his shoulders made him flinch, the touch of something else so alien and wrong that he instinctively tried to get away, but the medic didn't let go, and continued lifting the former osa.
Sitting was even stranger than moving. So many little calculations running in the back of his processor, just for sitting. Just for keeping him balanced. Too much. Too much like his background thought-threads, but not similar enough.
Everything went black.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
“I told Sentinel this was a bad idea, that an osa wouldn't be able to acclimatize to a mech frame, but did he listen? Of course not! Because I’m just the medic! What do I know?”
A loud snort.
Prowl didn't want to open his optics.
This wasn't real. Couldn't be. He was in some sort of stasis for some reason or other, and was experiencing one of those things Jazz called recharge fluxes. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be.
“PR- Prowl. I know you're online. Turn on your optics.”
Reluctantly, Prowl did as ordered and gazed up into the frustrated optics of the Prime's medic.
Ratchet's expression immediately softened. “I'm not mad at you, youngling.”
“You are mad at Sentinel Prime.”
“Yes,” the medic snarled. “He shouldn't have taken you from your frame. I tried to explain. How your spark was made specifically for the stationary frame, how you were sparked for the work you did and the processors you ran, but... He was set. I am sorry for the part I played in-”
“Medic Ratchet, I understand that no fault is yours. Like myself, you were just carrying out the orders of a mech that cannot be stopped.” Prowl closed his optics again and ran a few deep drafts of air through his vents. “He is the very thing he proclaims to defend against,” the former osa murmured. “And we have both been called by him to serve exactly the thing we have sworn to fight.”
His optics opened again, and he looked back up to the medic. “I was not made for this frame, but I will learn, so that I am able to stop what is happening. I ask your assistance.”
Ratchet blinked, then grinned. “I like the way you think. Whatever it takes, eh?” he said, sticking out a red hand.
Prowl, well aware of the habits of mechs, even if he had never experienced them himself, slowly, carefully, reached his own white hand to clasp the medic's forearm.
A smile was shared between them. A vicious one, perhaps, but that was a trait that none would protest against applying to the two mechs. With that grin, Ratchet pulled, and Prowl went willingly to his feet.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
It took a decaorn of work. Ten orns of grueling movement, crashes, and victories.
Prowl was ready to face Sentinel Prime.
The massive red mech practically rumbled into the room, his stride an arrogant swagger. “Where is he?” he demanded with a wide grin.
Prowl resisted the urge to twitch. He was very obviously standing right in the middle of the Med Bay. Not to mention Sentinel had seen his frame before he had been transferred into it.
“Here, sir,” he said, in as monotone a voice as he could manage. He allowed his golden optics to narrow slightly.
“PR0.13W.R!” the Prime practically crowed, beaming widely.
“Prowl, sir.”
Sentinel raised an optical ridge. “'Prowl'?”
“My designation, sir.”
Another wide grin. “Well, welcome to the Autobots, Prowl.”
The former osa once again had to resist flinching.
Don't get too used to the updates, though, because this amount of time on my hands is very unusual. :-/
Chapter 7: Small Steps
Jazz wasn't there when they did the transfer. Prowl made sure of it. It wasn't something he wanted his friend to see. It was painful enough even for him. He would never wish that pain on someone close to him.
So Jazz was out on patrol, in a far sector of the city, when the Prime's medics came. Prowl watched them as they talked to the chief, then walked toward his main terminal.
It was only when he saw the dull, dead frame on the hover-stretcher that he started to panic.
He was leaving. Leaving. Probably for good.
Where was Jazz? Why didn't he keep his friend here? Why-? He couldn't say goodbye! A comm was possible, but... that wasn't how he wanted their last talk to go. Not at all.
So, instead, he opened a message and frantically wrote. And as he wrote, he realized.
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
His spark chamber was moving, up, forward. Thought-threads were being forcefully shut down. Everything was fading, darkening, narrowing.
He sent the message, and the last thing he was aware of was the confirmation signal.
Then everything went dark and silent.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
He onlined slowly, systems checking in and clicking on one after another.
It was the strangest boot up he'd ever experienced, mainly because, before, he had only set sections of himself into recharge at a time. He had never before in his existence been completely turned off.
So onlining was eerily reminiscent of his first awakening, all those vorns ago.
His audials flicked on with the barest hint of static, and voices became clearer. The sound was strange, though. He could hear perfectly well, but... there was something off. Something odd about the way he was hearing.
His optics came on next, and that was even stranger. It wasn't a compound view, made up of hundreds of different cameras positioned all over Polyhex and the Enforcer's Station. It was simply the feed from two optical receptors, and, while they were very good optics, able to see more than five times the spectrum as an average mech's optics, Prowl felt blind.
Then more sensors came online. The sensors in his doorwings, his processor reported, and he felt a little less blind. He could sense where mechs were, sense their systems running, sense what was around him. But it was still different, odd, and he didn't really like it.
“PR0.13W.R,” a voice called, and the osa - former osa - focused sharp optics on the speaker. It was a medic. That much was made plain by his red and white coloring. Ratchet, his processor supplied. “How are you feeling?”
Prowl took a moment to respond, carefully feeling his way through his vocalizer coding. “Strange,” he said after the pause. “Blind.”
Ratchet nodded. “That's understandable. Can you try moving for me?”
For a moment, Prowl simply blinked. Move? But...
Oh. Right. He wasn't an osa anymore. He could... move.
As soon as he thought it, protocols sprang to life. He could move.
First, he twitched his fingers. It was so alien, the feel of movement, of gears and pistons and tension lines shifting at his command, that he froze again. He tried to start up a thought-thread devoted to working out this solution, and...
A new sort of panic started rising in him. His processor. He hadn't noticed before now, but... He... His processor...
It was so small! So limited! He wasn't watching cameras anymore. He wasn't monitoring incoming data or outgoing data, wasn't in contact with neighboring osas, wasn't directing patrols, wasn't reading through reports, wasn't keeping tabs on reports from citizens or newscasters.
He... he was so... it was so... He needed more!
His processor was shutting down. Cascading, tumbling. Data was piling up. Things were falling into each other and crashing together, and-
Everything was, once again, black.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
The first thing he noticed when he came back online was Ratchet's voice.
“Let's try this again,” the medic was grumbling.
Prowl opened his optics again and stared up at the ceiling. Everything was just so wrong. His sight, his hearing, his sense of touch, even the way he thought.
It was wrong
He wanted Jazz.
“PR0.13W.R.” The sharp tone snapped him out of his thoughts. Then there was a quiet mutter. “There's gotta be something better to call you.”
“Prowl,” he answered immediately. “My designation is Prowl.”
The medic glanced at him strangely, then shook his helm. “Fine. Prowl. Errors?”
“None.”
“Want to try moving again?”
“Not really,” he said, but initiated the protocols again, and twitched his fingers.
It still felt so strange, but it did not cause a cascade of misplaced data. Hesitantly, he tried moving other parts of his frame, little bits at a time. Fingers, hands, elbows, feet, legs. His doorwings created the strangest sensation as they brushed against the berth, but all it caused was a sharp twitch.
“Alright, everything's looking good,” the medic said after a moment. “Let's try getting you vertical.”
The hands on his shoulders made him flinch, the touch of something else so alien and wrong that he instinctively tried to get away, but the medic didn't let go, and continued lifting the former osa.
Sitting was even stranger than moving. So many little calculations running in the back of his processor, just for sitting. Just for keeping him balanced. Too much. Too much like his background thought-threads, but not similar enough.
Everything went black.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
“I told Sentinel this was a bad idea, that an osa wouldn't be able to acclimatize to a mech frame, but did he listen? Of course not! Because I’m just the medic! What do I know?”
A loud snort.
Prowl didn't want to open his optics.
This wasn't real. Couldn't be. He was in some sort of stasis for some reason or other, and was experiencing one of those things Jazz called recharge fluxes. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be.
“PR- Prowl. I know you're online. Turn on your optics.”
Reluctantly, Prowl did as ordered and gazed up into the frustrated optics of the Prime's medic.
Ratchet's expression immediately softened. “I'm not mad at you, youngling.”
“You are mad at Sentinel Prime.”
“Yes,” the medic snarled. “He shouldn't have taken you from your frame. I tried to explain. How your spark was made specifically for the stationary frame, how you were sparked for the work you did and the processors you ran, but... He was set. I am sorry for the part I played in-”
“Medic Ratchet, I understand that no fault is yours. Like myself, you were just carrying out the orders of a mech that cannot be stopped.” Prowl closed his optics again and ran a few deep drafts of air through his vents. “He is the very thing he proclaims to defend against,” the former osa murmured. “And we have both been called by him to serve exactly the thing we have sworn to fight.”
His optics opened again, and he looked back up to the medic. “I was not made for this frame, but I will learn, so that I am able to stop what is happening. I ask your assistance.”
Ratchet blinked, then grinned. “I like the way you think. Whatever it takes, eh?” he said, sticking out a red hand.
Prowl, well aware of the habits of mechs, even if he had never experienced them himself, slowly, carefully, reached his own white hand to clasp the medic's forearm.
A smile was shared between them. A vicious one, perhaps, but that was a trait that none would protest against applying to the two mechs. With that grin, Ratchet pulled, and Prowl went willingly to his feet.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
It took a decaorn of work. Ten orns of grueling movement, crashes, and victories.
Prowl was ready to face Sentinel Prime.
The massive red mech practically rumbled into the room, his stride an arrogant swagger. “Where is he?” he demanded with a wide grin.
Prowl resisted the urge to twitch. He was very obviously standing right in the middle of the Med Bay. Not to mention Sentinel had seen his frame before he had been transferred into it.
“Here, sir,” he said, in as monotone a voice as he could manage. He allowed his golden optics to narrow slightly.
“PR0.13W.R!” the Prime practically crowed, beaming widely.
“Prowl, sir.”
Sentinel raised an optical ridge. “'Prowl'?”
“My designation, sir.”
Another wide grin. “Well, welcome to the Autobots, Prowl.”
The former osa once again had to resist flinching.