Viruses at Play - Transformers
Viruses at Play
Author's Notes: This story was primarily written at the tail-end of a sleepover between exactly_what and LadyAnatar. (Said sleepover was in late 2012, and we have just finally finished it. While this says a lot about our organizational skills and general laziness, you have to admire our tenacity!) Needless to say, it is crack, although hopefully well-written. For anyone curious, it is also posted on LadyAnatar's FFNet account, Exactlywhat's LJ (or will be soon), and jointly on AO3. We got the idea from a plot bunny that she found:
http://tf-bunny-farm.livejournal.com/305522.html?thread=2392178
Let's face it, viruses suck no matter who (or what) you are. 'Coming down with a virus' no doubt has a totally different meaning for our dear mechs. I've seen several fics that focus on the downside of the nastier viruses. But what about some less harmful ones, perhaps forcing them all to speak only in rhyme, or to make them all subject to fits of uncontrollable dancing?
c) The virus(es) have been designed by a mysterious perpetrator to break up the monotony of space travel. Bonus points if it's not the twins or Jazz.
Kudos to the bunny maker! While we didn't include everything, hopefully we got the gist of what s/he wanted. Now, please enjoy our joint insanity.
. . .oOo.
Disclaimer: We own neither Transformers nor the plot bunny.
. . .oOo.
"Heya, Prowler! How're ya doin'?" Jazz cheered as he sauntered up to the tactician, who was standing in line waiting patiently for his turn at the energon dispenser.
"Please go away. I have nothing to say. "
Jazz stared at the other black and white as the conversations around them came to a screeching halt. "Uh... You feelin' okay, Prowler?"
Prowl turned his icy gaze on the saboteur. "I have never been better. What makes you think something's the matter?"
"Well... fer one thing, you don' usually talk in rhyme."
"Oh, congratulations, Jazz, you figured it out. Now, please tell me why these rhymes I do spout."
A grin started to spread over Jazz's face. "Not a clue. Well, aside from th' obvious: ya've got a virus. 'N thank goodness Ah don' have 't."
Prowl scowled. "I know exactly what you mean. This rhyming makes me want to scream."
The assorted bots stared at Prowl. "They aren't even good rhymes," Sideswipe interjected.
"Then let us see how you speak, with a vocalizer sporting this rhyming tweak," Prowl recited, with a murderous glare at the offending bot. He advanced, a data transfer cable snaking from his wrist. The red Twin backed up, panic clear in his optics. Prowl's glare morphed into a decidedly evil-looking smirk as the cable clicked into place in one of Sideswipe's more easily accessible dataports.
Sideswipe jumped backwards, but it was too late to avoid the uplink. The virus streamed into his processors, and he flinched as he felt something in his vocalizer click. "How dare you sir! I protest! I do think, that we have firm rules about a forc-ed uplink."
The staring optics got wider. Sunstreaker started snickering. "Nice, Sides. Haven't heard you speak like this in years."
Sideswipe glared. "Dear brother mine, how your plating does shine. But one more word out of you, and grievous damage shall I do!"
Sunstreaker snickered again, but obligingly shut up.
"Alright," Jazz said, taking control of the conversation once again, "How'd ya get that virus, anyways, Prowler?"
Prowl's frown deepened before his doorwings stiffened in a sharp V. "I became this verbal leper after meeting with Perceptor."
Dead silence greeted his statement before a loud exclamation rose from the back of the crowd. "What in the worlds has that whack-job scientist been doing in that lab of his?"
Jazz snickered. "Hey, now. Don' be pickin' on him. He's jus' bored like th' rest o' us."
At that moment, the doors sprang open, and the resident explosion-prone engineer waltzed into the room. Literally. He spun around, surprisingly light on his pedes, and scooped up a minibot as he passed their table. Gears shouted in surprise, but Wheeljack didn't stop in his mad dance around the Rec Room.
"Somebody help!" Gears called.
"Yes, please do!" Wheeljack seconded. "I haven't been able to stop!"
Just then, the medic decided to make his appearance. Wrench in hand, optics gleaming dangerously, he stalked forward.
"Ratchet, help!" the engineer and minibot duo pleaded.
Ratchet scowled. "Who's been planting viruses?" he rumbled.
Prowl stepped forward. "I believe the mech you seek, the one who gave me this rhyming tweak, is known to us as Perceptor. Would you like his personal vector?"
Ratchet's glower (after a moment of stunned surprise) morphed into a positively deadly glare. "As a matter of fact, I would like nothing more than that."
Before Prowl could respond, the doors once again whooshed open. Five bots poured through the opening. It wasn't an odd occurrence. The Protectobots traveled together more often than not.
What was odd about this particular time was the fact that First Aid was dragging all four of his brothers along, looking worried. "Ratchet! Ratchet, thank goodness I found you! There's something wrong with them!"
Blades snickered, and the four brothers opened their mouths and broke into song.
"Nothing~"
"Nothing~"
"Nothing~"
"Nothing~" they chorused, one at a time, before harmonizing together. "Nothing is the matter at all!"
Jazz tried to stifle his laughter. Ratchet growled and lifted his wrench. Prowl blinked, then frowned. "What is this insanity? Today is a calamity!" the tactician practically growled, then moaned. As the words poured out of his mouth, the barbershop quartet of Protectobots started giggling. The giggles soon grew into all out laughter, which prompted the laughter of the bots watching.
"Heh," Jazz chuckled, before talking over the din. "Hey! Due t' everyone's inability t' keep from laughin' at th' rhymes, Ah'll be talkin' for mah bondmate 'till this gets fixed."
Applause greeted his announcement, and the now voluntarily mute tactician shot glares at the troublemakers.
Sunstreaker chuckled as well, despite the death glare he was receiving from Prowl. "Same goes for me and Sideswipe. I don't think anyone could take much more of that outdated lingo he's using."
Sideswipe, sitting next to his brother, straightened indignantly and opened his mouth. "I beg your pardon, but-" he started, but was promptly cut off by his brother's hand over his mouth.
"Shut up, Sides."
The red frontliner glared at his brother and swatted the hand away, but did not speak, following directions for once.
Then Sunstreaker yelped as he looked at his hand where Sideswipe had slapped it away. He stared in horror for a long moment before screeching, "Ratchet! Help!"
"If you're calling me over because of a scratch-" the medic rumbled as he started over. Sunstreaker shook his helm and vaulted over his brother, frantically trying to reach Ratchet.
"Ratchet, Ratchet! Look at this! What's happening?" he babbled, doing a good impersonation of Bluestreak as he shoved his hand under Ratchet's nasal plating.
Ignoring the hand (which was too close for him to see anyways), Ratchet stared at the yellow frontliner. Well... he wasn't yellow any more. A lavender hue was spreading over his plating like a bad infection of cosmic rust.
Frowning, Ratchet answered. "I would think it was obvious. You're changing color."
"But why!" he practically wailed, and the medic's frown deepened.
"How should I know?! I haven't had time to actually examine you! And, I don't know if you've noticed, but you aren't the only one affected by... whatever this is."
Being helpful, Sideswipe reached forward, yanked his brother back and looked at him sharply. Obediently opening his mouth, the now-lavender frontliner spoke for both brothers. "We're going to our quarters. When you figure out what this is and how to stop it, please call us."
The two brothers walked out of the room, Sideswipe towing along his rather shell-shocked brother. The bots watching didn't mention to the lavender frontliner that he wouldn't be lavender much longer - a starburst of lime green was spreading from the center of his back.
As they passed the doorframe, an urgent message pinged through Ratchet's internal comm.: a written message, asking him to report to the Prime's office immediately. Then a large, red and white mech pushed through the door, which seemed to be opening too slowly for him.
"Ratchet!" Inferno gasped as he stumbled in. "Red Alert - he... He's changin' colors!"
Ratchet vented. He knew it. He knew he should have stayed in his berth. It was one of those days. "Alright. First Aid! Go to Red Alert. Make sure it's the same thing Sunstreaker has, and that it's not dangerous. You four!" he said as he turned to face the rest of the Protectobots, "Go to your quarters. Wheeljack, put the minibot down and go... play with the Dinobots or something. Prowl - uh, I mean, Jazz. Send out a ship-wide alert. Anyone showing odd symptoms is to send me a message, then return to and stay in their quarters. I'm initiating a quarantine for all affected bots. We don't want this spreading any further."
"Will do, Ratch'!" Jazz called, and turned to Prowl. Jazz sent out the message, summarizing what had happened and what the doctor had ordered, then dragged his bondmate out of the room and toward their quarters. The rest of the bots followed slowly. Wheeljack spun out of the room, leaving a dizzy Gears in the hands of his fellow minibots; the four Protectobots filed out, humming in four-part harmony as First Aid followed behind, then split off from the group once they were out of the Rec Room. A few bots remained, but the room seemed too quiet, and they soon left as well.
. . .oOo.
"What did you do this time?" Ratchet vented as he pushed through the doors to the Prime's office.
With an embarrassed expression, Ironhide opened his mouth and began to speak. "We have a situation," he squeaked in a high-pitched voice suited more to a sparkling with a vocalizer glitch than a full grown warbuild.
The Prime nodded in agreement. "Yes, we do, and so do Elita and Chromia," he chirped, voice almost higher than his bodyguard's.
Ratchet stared for a full breem, making the two large bots rather uncomfortable, before bursting out in raucous laughter. Of all mechs to get stuck with this problem, it would be the two with the deepest voices of all. After a very long time filled with Ratchet's laughter and the others' silence, the medic's laughter died down to snickers, then an occasional snort.
"You ain't the only ones with a problem. I've got half the base acting... rather crazy."
Then a ping on his external comm device interrupted. "Ratchet?" a pleasant, familiar voice called.
"Ratchet here. What do you need, Skyfire?"
"Difficulties verbal... some experiencing are fliers the of all."
Ratchet blinked. "Say what?"
He could hear the smirk in Skyfire's answer. "Difficulties verbal experiencing are fliers the all, said I. Flier a am I. Difficulties same the experiencing am I. Aerialbots the and Powerglide as well as."
"Well. This is just perfect. Skyfire, are you all together?" he asked, catching the fact that the Aerialbots and Powerglide were also tangled up in this particular mess.
"Together all are we, yes. Vid-" his voice cut off for a moment, before another familiar voice broke through.
"Ratchet, awesome this isn't? Cool so is this!"
"Off get, Air Raid! Ratchet, sorry am I. Stubborn is he. Well as mischievous and reckless."
Ratchet was silent. His CPU whirled, trying to flip the words and make sense of what was going on. "Um... That's fine, Skyfire. Just... stay where you are, and I'll get to you when I can. You aren't the only ones, you know."
"Ratchet, problem no. Message the got we. Later you see will we and, you thank."
Venting heavily, Ratchet turned back to the Prime and the bodyguard. "As you just heard, you aren't the only ones. Prowl and Sideswipe are stuck rhyming. Wheeljack can't stop dancing. Sunstreaker and presumably Red Alert-" he paused to look at his messages, then continued. "definitely Red Alert, are randomly changing color. I'll need to get scans of you and everyone else, then go over them with Perceptor - who's apparently at fault for at least the rhyming virus."
After taking a couple quick scans, Ratchet paused in the doorway and looked back. "Hey, Prime? I want a vacation."
Optimus Prime blinked, then laughed a high, squeaky laugh. A message pinged on Ratchet's internal comm. "Of course, old friend. Once this has blown over, please take as much time as you need. Or perhaps less. We do seem to need you rather desperately."
Ratchet snorted. "Don't I know it," he muttered as he turned and left.
As he walked down the hall, he received another frantic comm from Hound. "Ratchet, help!" he called, and the medic mused at how that seemed to be the phrase of the day.
"What is it, Hound," the medic said, and it wasn't really a question. He was too frustrated for that.
"Uh... Well, we were walking down the hall, and-"
"Who's 'we'?" Ratchet interrupted.
"Oh, that's me, Mirage, and Trailbreaker. We were walking, and suddenly I crashed into TB, then Mirage crashed into me, and now we can't get apart. We're, like, magnetized or... Oh, Mirage says we are magnetized. Um. What should we do?"
Ratchet looked at the ceiling. "Primus, why do you hate me?" he lamented, before returning to his comm. "Head to the Med Bay, if you can."
"Uh... that... could be a problem."
"Can't Trailbreaker carry you? I know he's strong and big enough."
"Well... I'm sort of magnetized to his legs... and Mirage is stuck on TB's back... Uh... I don't think we're moving anywhere anytime soon."
Ratchet felt like hitting his helm against the wall. It would be a less painful way of deactivation. "Alright. I'll be there shortly."
"Alright. Uh. Hurry. And thanks!"
Ratchet rolled his optics and started walking.
. . .oOo.
It had been a long day. Fortunately, there had been only two new cases of viruses turning up in the form of Bumblebee and Beachcomber, who both exhibited the same symptoms as the Protectobots. Namely, every time they tried to say something, they sang it instead.
Perceptor had insisted that he had absolutely nothing to do with the viruses at first, but when shown the coding, he had been surprised to find that the coding for the rhyming and dancing viruses were practically identical to the anomalous data Red Alert had sent his way the orn before. He admitted that he may have mixed up his datapads, which would explain how Wheeljack got his virus. There was limited space on the ship, and the three resident scientists, though all experts in different fields, shared one lab, and often some of the more generic equipment, including datapads.
It also explained Prowl. Perceptor had given a report to the tactician earlier that orn regarding the science team's research into a new solar energon converter. They couldn't, however, figure out how the virus had been transferred from the infected datapad to the datapad that contained the report, especially since the report had been placed on a 'pad that had been wiped of its memory, and Perceptor was showing no symptoms of any of the viruses.
Then Ratchet decided it would be a good idea to scan the scientist anyways.
Lo and behold, Perceptor seemed to be carrying the coding for every one of the viruses save for the one that magnetized Hound, Mirage, and Trailbreaker and the virus that made the Prime, Ironhide, and the two femme commanders back on Cybertron sound like the glitchmice that always inhabited the little cracks and corners of a Cybertronian city.
Skyfire was actually the one who came to the correct conclusion concerning Perceptor's lack of symptoms. "Programmer and microchemist a he's. Thing of kind this to resistant be to programmed he's. On them passed and viruses the carried just he, symptoms showing of instead," the massive shuttle had stated. "Place first the in viruses the got he where is now out find to need we what."
The scientists, Ratchet, First Aid, and Red Alert sorted through various data for almost an entire day before finally giving up for a time. They knew they wouldn't be able to keep everyone cooped up until they came up with antiviruses, so they let everyone out, on the condition that they would link with nobody and nothing. Chaos reigned. Prowl's speech was relegated to rhymes, and though the main troublemakers were out of commission and there were no major pranks, things were still insane.
The fliers, all of whom were speaking as Skyfire was, found that they could understand each other easily. They spent the orn together, the Aerialbots, Powerglide, and Skyfire (he had spent barely ten minutes in the lab before the other mechs had kicked him out; translating his backwards speech was too difficult and confusing to do while sifting through coding at the same time), and discovered that they actually got along rather well. Unfortunately, whenever they entered the Rec Room, or were around any of the other mechs, the other mechs would undoubtedly end up with processor aches.
The barbershop quartet of Protectobots became quite popular in the Rec Room. They were surprisingly good singers, and most enjoyed the harmony they were constantly spouting. Beachcomber and Bumblebee joined them for a time, as they were also stuck with singing everything they wanted to say, but the two minibots preferred sticking to their own group.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe stayed in their quarters, only venturing out to get energon. Sideswipe was the Twin seen most often, as Sunstreaker was still prone to random changes of color. Sideswipe had told those in the Rec Room that his personal favorite color pattern so far had been when his brother's armor had turned a brilliant neon pink spattered with rainbow polka dots. Of course, this had all been said in verse.
Finally though, to everyone's great relief, the researchers found a breakthrough.
Well, technically, Perceptor accidentally noticed a breakthrough.
. . .oOo.
Perceptor stared at his mate in shock. They had developed an evening ritual consisting of sharing their daily activities over a link. The ritual reassured both of them immensely, which is why they were temporarily ignoring the ship-wide orders.
"Blaster, why didn't you check yourself over for viruses after everything that has been going on?"
Blaster peered down at his smaller mate in surprise. "Ah did, love. Ah don't have any."
"You most certainly did. Granted, your extremely durable Communications Programing effectively nullified it sometime yesterday, but according the link, you recently dismantled the rhyming code that currently affects both Prowl and Sideswipe."
"Huh," The cheery red mech pondered thoughtfully before ex-venting with a wry half-smile. "Guess this means Ah'll have the berth to mahself again. Unless they don't need you for tonight, Percy?"
Flattered by his mate's understanding and despondency, Perceptor confidently answered, "I believe that my illustrious companions can survive without my presence for a single evening. Simply let me comm. them, and I'm all yours."
Swiftly sending off the message, Perceptor smiled as he lay down on top of his mate.
. . .oOo.
"Alright," Ratchet growled. "So we know how Perceptor got the rhyming virus. Now we just have to figure out how and where Blaster got it, and we might actually get somewhere."
"Wait a minute, Ratch, we might have something." Gently swaying, Wheeljack had nevertheless managed to join his comrades. "I got it off of a datapad. Perceptor said that the virus code that I have is identical to two samples that Red Alert found somewhere on our computer mainframe. For the record, I think his and Sunstreaker's colour glitch is the other line of code. And finally, Blaster spends almost all of his normal work-shift going through the mainframe and investigating it for foreign and/or malicious entities. Well, that's what he's ostensibly doing; I think most of it is he's just bored. Anyway, a minor little thing like a rhyming virus isn't going to ping on him. It's irritating as Pit, but not actually dangerous. What if all of the viruses running amok have just been sitting happily throughout the computers?"
Ratchet stared at his friend. "Wheeljack, that's brilliant. Let me send out another comm. asking everybody what they accessed before catching their viruses. If Prowl and Sideswipe are anything to go by, the symptoms can show up pretty darn fast. Or take longer, such the case with the colour-changing."
As the medic prepared a base-wide comm., Ratchet quietly mumbled a prayer. He wanted that vacation, fraggit!
. . .oOo.
Happily for everyone's sanity, Ratchet soon got his vacation. Armed with Wheeljack's hypothesis, the gang of scientists had shanghaied every infected mech and managed to ascertain where every virus originated.
The "glitchmouse vocalizer" virus proved the easiest to track down, primarily because it had affected not only Optimus Prime and Ironhide, but Elita-One and Chromia on the other end of the line. Needless to say, the virus had been hunkered down in the long-range comm. equipment. (No other femmes had become infected, and once the equipment had been cleaned, Ratchet had personally ensured that the femme medic had properly healed the lovely ladies. Or else.)
Red Alert had accidentally found the "maniacal dancing" virus in a file about organic cephalopods. Upon being asked why the frag he had been researching cephalopods, he had just grinned disturbingly and mentioned something about possible future security measures based off of that particular body type. No one, not even Inferno, had been brave enough to ask him for details.
Arguably the most irritating of the viruses, the "Backwards Talking Fliers" virus had been rooted out by Skyfire. They had simply watched an old vid of Fireflight's choosing, and the seven of them had all managed to catch it through simple, constant contact by the time the vid finished. Happily, two positive things had come from the experience: first, Skyfire was credited with finding, mapping, and naming a new virus; considering how much science already knew of, that was a rare honour indeed. Second, the Aerialbots now had two much-needed parental figures.
Coincidentally, two of the other viruses had originated from entertainment files as well. Mirage had accidentally gained the "bodily magnetism" virus while choosing another film, and he had promptly given it to his lovers while they watched the movie. Unfortunately for his dignity and everyone else's mental state, it had started affecting them in public, so the crew now had to deal with a grumpy, invisible spy. The other had been the "always singing" virus, which all affected bots had simply downloaded from a popular music file.
Red Alert had also found the colour-changing virus during his random investigation involving possible security upgrades. Again, people were afraid to ask him exactly why he had been studying architecture for security purposes, but that was the official story. Oddly enough, Sunstreaker had not read through Red Alert or Perceptor's datapad; he had simply been searching through the same information and had managed to catch the virus on his own.
Finally, the rhyming virus was finally found in files about Sentinel Prime and several high-ranking, extremely scandalous incidents that had characterized the late and lamented Prime's reign. When asked why in the stars he had been skimming through that information, Blaster defensively replied that Rewind had recommended it to him. Blaster's answer had raised a very important question to Blaster, Perceptor, and High Command.
Where the frag had the Cassettes been all day?
. . .oOo.
In Storage Room Beta 13, deep in the bowels of the ship, seventeen small creatures gathered together, cackling happily and ignoring the telepathic calls that their carrier was pinging at them. Instead, they cheerfully sent back feelings of accomplishment, safety, and pleasure, and toasted each other with the shared satisfaction of a prank well-done.
The plot had been carefully investigated, prepared for, and executed over several months. Frankly, the hardest part had been deciding what to do; they wanted something funny, something to break the monotony of space travel, something easily gotten rid of, and something that was not debilitating in a fight. Once they had decided upon a plan, they had cautiously done everything within their power to make it succeed, and succeed it had. Spectacularly so, even if all of their carefully designed viruses hadn't been utilized.
Now, they were simply lounging in their unofficial headquarters, basking in the bliss of achievement, more than willing to remain that way forever. Sadly, all things must end, and someone eventually raised the question that none of them had though to ask before now.
"So. When do you think we can go back without the possibility of our dear teammates killing us?"
End
. . .oOo.
Second Author's Notes: Personally, LadyAnatar finds Perceptor as a Typhoid Mary vastly amusing. Why didn't Red Alert get the "maniacal dancing" problem? He just didn't; you don't always catch something that you're exposed to. For those who do not know, cephalopods include squid, octopi, and cuttlefish. Storage Room Beta 13 is a reference to Exactlywhat's "Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread" series. Rewind was an archivist of sorts in the MTMTE comics, which may explain here why he knew about some old scandals. And if you check out the Autobot Mini-Cassettes TransformersWiki page, yes, Blaster really has that many.
Virus Victims, Source, and Method of Infection:
Rhyming - Blaster searched the Sentinel Prime article, gave it to Perceptor, who gave it to Prowl's datapad, and Prowl gave it Sideswipe.
Colour Changing - Red Alert and Sunstreaker both searched through an article on architecture.
Glitchmouse Vocalizer - Optimus, Ironhide, Elita, and Chromia got it from the long-ranged comms.
Magnetism - Mirage picked it up from a video file, and gave it to Hound and Trailbreaker.
Maniacal Dancing - Red Alert found the code in a research file about organic cephalopods, sent it to Perceptor, and Wheeljack accidently became infected from borrowing Perceptor's datapad.
Always Singing - The Protectobots (minus First Aid), Bumblebee, and Beachcomber all obtained it separately from a popular music file.
Backwards Talking Fliers - Fireflight became infected from a video that he chose, and he managed to infect his brothers, Skyfire, and Powerglide before it finished.