Bunny Farms Contest Thingy!
I'll be the first to admit that I'm very much not pleased with this. Of course, that could be because it was originally supposed to be a part of a larger story, but I'm afraid I've run out of time. I won't have time tomorrow - *glances at time* today - to finish it off, and it does elaborate on the bunny so.... This bunny was originally spawned while kirin and I were discussing a bunny (actually, we were laughing at the fact that, despite the fact that she didn't put the whole bunny up, I still came with the same idea... So, blame Soundwave.), but I'm afraid it doesn't really fit that post anymore, so I was trudging back through old posts and found this. Number 29, which is perfect.
“Shh, little sparkling, calm down now, there’s nothing to fear.” A warm voice, soothing, that belonged to the one with black hands and black helm. The one who’d held him when the loud voices had come, who was stroking his own, tiny in comparison, yet equally dark helm. “We won’t let you go, promise. No matter what they say, you’re ours now, sparkling, we won’t just throw you out.”
“Jazz, did you even listen to the medics?” One of the loud voices, now originating from another of their kind, primarily red in coloring - larger than the one who held him. He curled closer to the soft-voiced one, static issuing from his vocal processors in his distress.
“Be quieter, you’re scaring him.” The other shifted to look up at the loud one, when before his optics had been trained on the shaking sparkling in his arms. “Of course I listened. I jus’ don’t see why we need ta get rid a th’little guy. So there’s a few things wrong with his programmin’, don’t see why tha’ should matter.”
“They’ve never even seen anything else like him! Nobody has a clue what he’ll be like - two opposing sets of programs are there. Two completely different goals. He won’t be stable, Jazz. Better to just do the kinder thing now and shut him down.” There is nothing kind or forgiving in this one’s voice and his words - though far beyond the sparklings comprehension - were frightening.
A wail cut the air as he sought the comfort of the only one to come near him thus far.
Tiny, fragile hands note an indention in the otherwise smooth metal and immediately begin questing for more. Moments later, the panel pops open to reveal a series of wires and outlets and switches, complicated and unlabeled. The same hands from before move forward, wondering, and begin to manipulate the panel, the bright blue eyes of the sparkling who owns the hands observing every tiny twitch in the one beside him.
Somehow, he comes across a sequence that seems to send the other into a state of forced rest - stasis, his ever-growing databank informed him, was what the datapad from before had referred to it as. A chirp of pleasure sounds, as though something of great importance had been accomplished (not really, just something he hadn’t known before that he knew now.)
Those same delicately black hands remove themselves from the panel and begin to explore the rest of the mech above him.
He’s been through everything in both arms, both legs, and the head. Now the only place left to explore was the chassis - he pauses, unsure, since the datapad had been especially vague on this area, since it was supposedly the most ‘dangerous’ area to work in. He didn’t understand, though, and he wanted to, so he moved forward, curiosity brimming in his eyes.
Within moments, his gaze rests upon the only machinery he’s seen active in the body, a large pump that seems to convert the energon the mech takes in. For many long breems he does nothing but watch the pump warily, debating his next course of action heavily, before coming to a conclusion and reaching forward.
Not to long afterward, the pump stutters to a stop, and the young Cybertronian delving into the insides of the mech watches attentively.
“Heya, there.” The cry of the recently returned mech had the sparkling bounding up from his position on the floor, surrounded by datapads. At half a vorn old, the black and red sparkling had progressed - mentally, at least - at an amazing rate. Emotionally, he was no further along than any other sparkling his age.
Jazz leaned forward and scooped his child into his arms, grinning at the happy gurgle he got in response. He didn’t particularly care what others thought of the young one, it was at moments like these that Jazz knew he’d made the right decision in keeping his sparkling both alive and with him. The little one really was one of the sweetest things he’d ever met, though he still seemed to shy away from Turbocharge (of course, ‘Charge hadn’t exactly made any attempts to relate to the sparkling that he’d helped to create; the matter was often a subject of flaring tempers between Jazz and his lover.)
He cocked his head to one side upon noticing an odd smell drifting from his and his lover’s shared quarters. Curiously, he approached the room, having never smelled that particular scent his home, and only once or twice outside, if at all, since he couldn’t quite put a name to the odd odor. It isn’t until he spots ‘Charge - or the little that remained of the red mech - that he finally connects the smell to dry, half-processed energon.
It was, undeniably, one of the most disturbing crime scenes he had ever attended. The shell that had once housed a spark had been completely, systematically dismantled, each piece taken under heavy consideration before the energon pump had been detached, ultimately the cause of death. It made one wonder at the type of personality that a mech would have to have to commit a murder of this type. And then there was the location - apparently, the bright red mech had been taken apart on his own berth.
Then there was the utter lack of forced entry at any of the doors. No signs showing that a fight had taken place, on the mech or in the home. It didn’t make sense, not when considering that the mech who had called in the murder (the significant other, apparently, though not bonded. A potential suspect.) claimed that he hadn’t cleaned anything up. Actually, Prowl thought with a twitch of his doorwings, he probably didn’t. The rooms aren’t that clean and the death wasn’t long enough ago for the natural wear and tear to build up after a good scrubbing.
Sweeping from the room where the body had laid, he approached the other black and white mech - Jazz, if he remembered correctly, as he undoubtedly did, - who was seated in his living room. “I need to you ask a few questions.”
The other glanced up at him, then back down at the energon cube in his hands. “Ask away, I’ll do my best to answer.”
“Where were you today?” Best to just get the most uncomfortable questions out of the way.
“Work. It’s a club, I’m a DJ.” Well, that meant he would have a strong alibi. Of course, Prowl would still have to check on the validity of his statement, see that the visored mech hadn’t taken any unexplained, long breaks. But there was no need to ask after that right now, not considering how emotionally fragile the other undoubtedly was.
“Do you know who was here during the time you were away?”
“Should have only been ‘Charge and ‘Ceptor.” Who? He reviewed the names, identifying the former as a shortened version of the dead mech’s name, but found the latter as unfamiliar.
“Ceptor?” Surprisingly, the other paused for the first time, rather than giving an immediate answer. Then Jazz rose gracefully to his feet and sat his energon on a side table.
“Wait here just a moment.” Unsure of what other option he had, since he was trying to avoid antagonizing the other, Prowl remained where he’d sat in order to put himself at eye-level with the other. It was only the light click of metal against metal that alerted him to Jazz’s return, and he turned, expecting him to be carrying an image-capturer, or something of the sort.
He hadn’t expected to see the peacefully recharging sparkling in the other’s arms, nor to hear the soft introduction of, “Meet Perceptor.”
“Shh, little sparkling, calm down now, there’s nothing to fear.” A warm voice, soothing, that belonged to the one with black hands and black helm. The one who’d held him when the loud voices had come, who was stroking his own, tiny in comparison, yet equally dark helm. “We won’t let you go, promise. No matter what they say, you’re ours now, sparkling, we won’t just throw you out.”
“Jazz, did you even listen to the medics?” One of the loud voices, now originating from another of their kind, primarily red in coloring - larger than the one who held him. He curled closer to the soft-voiced one, static issuing from his vocal processors in his distress.
“Be quieter, you’re scaring him.” The other shifted to look up at the loud one, when before his optics had been trained on the shaking sparkling in his arms. “Of course I listened. I jus’ don’t see why we need ta get rid a th’little guy. So there’s a few things wrong with his programmin’, don’t see why tha’ should matter.”
“They’ve never even seen anything else like him! Nobody has a clue what he’ll be like - two opposing sets of programs are there. Two completely different goals. He won’t be stable, Jazz. Better to just do the kinder thing now and shut him down.” There is nothing kind or forgiving in this one’s voice and his words - though far beyond the sparklings comprehension - were frightening.
A wail cut the air as he sought the comfort of the only one to come near him thus far.
Tiny, fragile hands note an indention in the otherwise smooth metal and immediately begin questing for more. Moments later, the panel pops open to reveal a series of wires and outlets and switches, complicated and unlabeled. The same hands from before move forward, wondering, and begin to manipulate the panel, the bright blue eyes of the sparkling who owns the hands observing every tiny twitch in the one beside him.
Somehow, he comes across a sequence that seems to send the other into a state of forced rest - stasis, his ever-growing databank informed him, was what the datapad from before had referred to it as. A chirp of pleasure sounds, as though something of great importance had been accomplished (not really, just something he hadn’t known before that he knew now.)
Those same delicately black hands remove themselves from the panel and begin to explore the rest of the mech above him.
He’s been through everything in both arms, both legs, and the head. Now the only place left to explore was the chassis - he pauses, unsure, since the datapad had been especially vague on this area, since it was supposedly the most ‘dangerous’ area to work in. He didn’t understand, though, and he wanted to, so he moved forward, curiosity brimming in his eyes.
Within moments, his gaze rests upon the only machinery he’s seen active in the body, a large pump that seems to convert the energon the mech takes in. For many long breems he does nothing but watch the pump warily, debating his next course of action heavily, before coming to a conclusion and reaching forward.
Not to long afterward, the pump stutters to a stop, and the young Cybertronian delving into the insides of the mech watches attentively.
“Heya, there.” The cry of the recently returned mech had the sparkling bounding up from his position on the floor, surrounded by datapads. At half a vorn old, the black and red sparkling had progressed - mentally, at least - at an amazing rate. Emotionally, he was no further along than any other sparkling his age.
Jazz leaned forward and scooped his child into his arms, grinning at the happy gurgle he got in response. He didn’t particularly care what others thought of the young one, it was at moments like these that Jazz knew he’d made the right decision in keeping his sparkling both alive and with him. The little one really was one of the sweetest things he’d ever met, though he still seemed to shy away from Turbocharge (of course, ‘Charge hadn’t exactly made any attempts to relate to the sparkling that he’d helped to create; the matter was often a subject of flaring tempers between Jazz and his lover.)
He cocked his head to one side upon noticing an odd smell drifting from his and his lover’s shared quarters. Curiously, he approached the room, having never smelled that particular scent his home, and only once or twice outside, if at all, since he couldn’t quite put a name to the odd odor. It isn’t until he spots ‘Charge - or the little that remained of the red mech - that he finally connects the smell to dry, half-processed energon.
It was, undeniably, one of the most disturbing crime scenes he had ever attended. The shell that had once housed a spark had been completely, systematically dismantled, each piece taken under heavy consideration before the energon pump had been detached, ultimately the cause of death. It made one wonder at the type of personality that a mech would have to have to commit a murder of this type. And then there was the location - apparently, the bright red mech had been taken apart on his own berth.
Then there was the utter lack of forced entry at any of the doors. No signs showing that a fight had taken place, on the mech or in the home. It didn’t make sense, not when considering that the mech who had called in the murder (the significant other, apparently, though not bonded. A potential suspect.) claimed that he hadn’t cleaned anything up. Actually, Prowl thought with a twitch of his doorwings, he probably didn’t. The rooms aren’t that clean and the death wasn’t long enough ago for the natural wear and tear to build up after a good scrubbing.
Sweeping from the room where the body had laid, he approached the other black and white mech - Jazz, if he remembered correctly, as he undoubtedly did, - who was seated in his living room. “I need to you ask a few questions.”
The other glanced up at him, then back down at the energon cube in his hands. “Ask away, I’ll do my best to answer.”
“Where were you today?” Best to just get the most uncomfortable questions out of the way.
“Work. It’s a club, I’m a DJ.” Well, that meant he would have a strong alibi. Of course, Prowl would still have to check on the validity of his statement, see that the visored mech hadn’t taken any unexplained, long breaks. But there was no need to ask after that right now, not considering how emotionally fragile the other undoubtedly was.
“Do you know who was here during the time you were away?”
“Should have only been ‘Charge and ‘Ceptor.” Who? He reviewed the names, identifying the former as a shortened version of the dead mech’s name, but found the latter as unfamiliar.
“Ceptor?” Surprisingly, the other paused for the first time, rather than giving an immediate answer. Then Jazz rose gracefully to his feet and sat his energon on a side table.
“Wait here just a moment.” Unsure of what other option he had, since he was trying to avoid antagonizing the other, Prowl remained where he’d sat in order to put himself at eye-level with the other. It was only the light click of metal against metal that alerted him to Jazz’s return, and he turned, expecting him to be carrying an image-capturer, or something of the sort.
He hadn’t expected to see the peacefully recharging sparkling in the other’s arms, nor to hear the soft introduction of, “Meet Perceptor.”