Ooh, look who finally came back online.
After too many months, the Bluestreak bunny came back (~he wouldn't stay away~ He was sitting on the porch the very next day~) and finally offered up a solution to my writer's block.
Title Three Small Words (aka That Damned Bluestreak Fic)
Okami-verse Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson
Characters Bluestreak, Smokescreen, Ratchet, Prowl
Warnings None that I can think of
Summary Still not a good day for Bluestreak, but not really as bad as the previous ones.
Part One
Part Two
“His processor is cycling. He's online.”
“Hydraulic pressure, still in the red, but rising. 15... 16...”
“Give him another liter of hydrolfluid.”
“I'm not getting a response from his ventilation system...”
“19...20...21...”
“Reroute power conduits 36 Delta to 84 Omega. Be careful not to cross wires Alpha 8 and 9.”
Hazy figures hovered over me. Specters with glowing eyes and black mouths. Something felt off, marked by the slowly building heat registering on my HUD, the uncomfortable pressure building in my chest to stifling pain.
“26...27...28...”
“Slaggit, rewiring didn't work and his coolant system's running too sluggishly. Hydraulic pressure's on the rise. He needs those ventilators online.”
My engine rattled painfully in my chest, its rotations heating my frame, my holding tanks. I couldn't see the blue optics looking down at me; they were all red, my city burning behind them.
“Don't you know how to fragging deal with malfunctioning hardware, Rail?” The sensation of a fist pounding my chest melded into the pulses of pain as Decepticons rooted around my insides for the parts they needed to repair themselves. Am I no less helpless now, as I was then? Will Starscream sail down this time and save me again? Or will he stand there and watch, directing his subordinates in their meaningless torture.
“34...35...36... Hydraulic pressure is in the green.”
Air rushed into my mouth, my intakes finally whirring on. My engine cooled and my processor finally focused on reality; the figures around me resolving into familiar faces. My vocalizer hummed with the effort of trying to speak, fear fleeting through my cortex as I felt the continued pulling and tugging of someone working on me. The ghosts of my last thoughts flitting through my processor. 'I'm going to die.' Then why would everyone act so calm
“All systems are responding. Hydraulic pressure is stable. Fuel is processing regularly.”
“Good work team,” a gruff voice rumbled, and I felt I should recognize the cadence of that one speaker.
I finally managed to make a sound; a whine from my vocalizer. Everything burned around me, my systems still working to cool down.
“Let's slide him into recharge and allow the repairs to set.” A red hand reached up to gently touch my chevron. “It's okay, Blue. See you when you come back online.”
A command prompt appeared in my HUD and someone keyed my systems offline.
And I slipped into a recharge filled with smoke and burning buildings; endless trines of Seekers roaring past.
****
“-I will let you know when my evaluation is done.”
A pause as a voice, stern but too soft to hear, made a reply.
“No, I don't want you sitting in on it. I will let you know when the evaluation is done,” this time said in a tone that allowed no argument.
I brought my optics online, wondering who was arguing with Smokescreen. Ratchet glanced down from the monitor he watched intently. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he focused on me. “Bluestreak, how are you feeling?”
I hummed for a moment,testing the strength of my vocalizer, remembering how I couldn't say anything before. “I feel like I got juggled by a Seeker trine, without the benefit of a rocket pack. You don't suppose Sideswipe would let me borrow his in the future.” My measly joke fell flat as Ratchet frowned down at me.
I turned my head as another approached the gurney; my motors jerky from repairs. Ratchet's optics flicked up to watch Smokescreen's approach. The other Enforcer smiled at me, his doorwings relaxed as he took a seat next to the medical berth.
“A Seeker trine, Bluestreak?” Smokescreen tilted his head inquisitively. A smile played on his lips, only to vanish into the void of duty. He regarded me, allowing concern to furrow his brow ridges. “How do you feel?” His optics never released mine, and I realized this was a test.
I laughed. “Well, I was just telling Ratchet that I feel like slag. But I'm ready to go and kick some Decepticon aft anytime. Make them feel like slag. You know returning... I wonder if I need to adjust my aim by a third of a degree. I'm gonna have to compensate for the lean I seem to be acquiring when I fire.”
Smokescreen's optics narrowed and he tucked his chin down staring at me with that gaze that pierced straight down to your spark and read into your very coding.
It always made me anxious and I began babbling; a nervous habit I'd picked up from somewhere. “Do you find that it's hard for you to maintain that glossy sheen with so many different colors to take into account? Sunstreaker says that he has to use a special kind of finish to make sure it reflects the golden grain of his paint job. He makes sure that it has plenty of acrylic and aluminum in it, or something. He can go on about depth of shine and reflective gloss. It's almost like wax is his own personal altar to himself and the buffer is worshipping at the altar to its god.”
Smokescreen blinked, and I could almost hear his processor whirring to keep up. “I have always preferred the softer finishes myself. It's better for the paint. I know Sideswipe uses it when his brother's not looking. What about you?” His optics flashed briefly in amusement. “How is it that you can manage to keep your paint job fairly clean? I don't see you scratched up very often, but you're never shining like you wax your paint. How do you do that?”
I grinned at that, my systems winding down. “I don't need a high shine on my finish. I actually have to mix my own wax with some of the stuff that the base supplies.” I watched Ratchet move over to the gurney next to me, standing at the console that controlled everything attached to the unconscious frame. “It would ruin the effect of my paint job after all, and I mean what would be the point of that. You know Sunny lets his paint shine so that he gets all the attention to distract it from Sideswipe so he can sneak attack the 'cons. You'd almost think that the stupid boltheads would have learned about keeping a sensor on both of them, but at least one manages to get snared by their traps. Like the minibots around here, too. They're always getting caught on the bad end of Sideswipe's pranks. I wonder if Prowl will ever realize that Jazz is egging him on in the pranks. Although I probably shouldn't say that, should I? I don't want to get Jazz in trouble.”
I couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of my vocalizer. Smokescreen didn't interrupt me, though he made appropriate noises throughout my speech. Ratchet moved about the room, tidying up, but ultimately acting more like a bodyguard than anything else. But who's he protecting and from what. Was it whoever had been arguing with Smokescreen when he'd come into the room. Would that mean it's someone who can order Smokescreen around, even though he didn't seem to have a problem with ordering whoever it was around.
Smokescreen seemed to wait for me to break from my rambling before he gauged me with his optics again. His frown took on a strained caste. “Don't worry, I won't tell Prowl.” His frown turned into a mischevious grin. “How many times have you helped out with Sideswipe's troublemaking. “
I pulled my wide-eyed innocent look that always seemed to fool Prowl, but not Jazz. I still wasn't sure if it fooled Smokescreen. “Not nearly as often as he'd like me to, probably. But then again, he's not responsible for half as many of the pranks as Prowl thinks he is. I think Jazz is using him as a scapegoat for him and Trailbreaker. I think Jazz likes seeing Prowl fritzing over stuff like that.”
Ratchet's engine revved, though whether in amusement or irritation was debatable.
Smokescreen chuckled however, his doorwings echoing his laugh with their angle and height. He leaned toward me, allowing a small hidden smile to twitch his lips as he whispered conspiratorially. “I think that Jazz enjoys it as well. You have to admit those are good times.”
I giggled, unable to help myself, and relaxed a little further.
“Jazz knows what he's doing when he gets Sideswipe in trouble like that. Just like he wouldn't have left you there if he'd thought they'd dismantle you. We wouldn't allow that.”
I stopped laughing and stared at him. “Wh-I-Th-I never thought he would!” I stuttered. “That'd be ridiculous ,wouldn't it?”
Smokescreen blinked in surprise. “Really? Then why were you giving Wheeljack such a hard time about shutting down?”
Ratchet paused in his tidying to stare at me, hard frown in place.
“I was just making sure that none of the Decepticons Sunstreaker had been fighting off had followed us, that’s all.”
The tactician tilted his head, optics narrowed at me, as though asking me if I thought he was that foolish. “Which Decepticons? That Seeker Trine you were talking about? Did they knock you off that building?”
I faltered, the feeling of dropping several hundred feet, and impacting, with a tank suddenly on top of me flashing through my processor. “It wasn't a Trine.”
“Oh?” He leaned forward. “What was it then?”
My ventilator hitched, and my equilibrium staggered with that freefalling feeling again, and then the crunch of a second mech dropping out of the blue sky resounded through my audio receptors. I clutched at the sides of the berth, reeling from the mocking laughs that echoed in my processor.
“They were taking them apart!” I cried. I didn't even realize that I'd covered my face until Smokescreen gently guided my hands back down. “They were taking them apart, one after another; right next to me and the bodies weren't even cold yet. I could see them dying and they weren't even doing anything about the pain, not mine, not theirs. They were just letting them expire one after the other, and I couldn't shut down because then I'd be next!”
Ratchet was suddenly at my side, hand on my chestplate, holding me down as I hadn't even realized I'd been trying to sit up. “Calm down, Bluestreak. You don't need to be getting this upset so soon.” The medic's blue optics slid a glare over to Smokescreen. “You're upsetting my patient,” he growled in that protective manner of his.
Smokescreen regarded Ratchet with a frown tilting his mouth down. “A word with you, Ratchet, please.” He gestured toward the door.
“Don't,” Ratchet snapped, hand pressing a little harder on my chestplate, “order me around my medbay.”
Smokescreen stared at Ratchet, his expression switching to a guarded neutral, and my sensors buzzed with a transmission.
“You're accusing me of upsetting him, but you want to let Prowl talk to him?” Why was I receiving the officer's channel? “That tightaft would have him walking circles avoiding his problem, and it would only make this situation worse.” Smokescreen stiffened, optics brightening with anger. “Dismantling should have been kept separate from the patients. We've had this trouble before. You know what happened to him in SpireFalls.”
Ratchet glared back, leaning forward, shoving his face at the blue mech's. “Rail didn't have the-”
“You're the CMO of this unit, Ratchet. If your medics break regulation, it's on your head.” Smokescreen tilted his head, yellow chevron flashing in the medical lights. “What would Prowl say to that?”
“You can get out. I'm not arguing over my patient about this. Out!”
Smokescreen squeezed my arm before turning on his heel and storming out. “He's all yours,” he snarled at someone just outside the door.
“Taking that tone with your commanding officer is ill-advised, Smokescreen.” Prowl paused at the door, looking back down the hallway as though he wanted to speak before he shook his head and approached my berth.
“If you stress his systems anymore Prowl, I'll personally turn you into a maintenance drone.”
“Duly noted.” He looked down at me, optics flicking down my frame. “Bluestreak, would you like to tell me how you wound up in that area? I thought you had found a building to station yourself on.”
I ducked my head down, my hinges complaining as my chestplate drew itself up over my chin. “One of them must have noticed me taking out the stationary canons.”
Prowl frowned, tilting his head. “You were careless.”
“Yes.” My head ducked a little lower, earning a reproving grumble from Ratchet for moving about so soon.
“Who?”
“I didn’t recognize him. He was-“ purple and cream, a jet, laughing, taunting me, firing at me, trapping me- “a triplechanger. Jet and tank.”
Prowl waited half a breem for me to continue, before he spoke up. “I recognized Starscream-“ burning eyes, swooping down, pain ripping through damaged panels- “but who was the other one?”
Grey and purple, with hands that grabbed and twisted and pulled and choked, laughed at my pain, enjoyed it. “Another triplechanger. Cargo shuttle and truck, a Convoy, I think.” I clenched my hands to the berth again, commanding my servomotors to stay still, but I couldn’t stop the shiver that rippled through my engine.
“Did they ask you anything?”
Do you remember, Autobot?
“No. They didn’t want me to talk.”
Prowl touched my arm, right where Smokescreen had laid his hand, and squeezed just as Smokescreen had. “We are moving out in the cycle. Ratchet wants you to rest until then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am pleased to see that you are functioning, Bluestreak.”
“Thank you, sir,” I couldn’t seem to raise the volume on my vocalizer.
“Ratchet, if you would please follow me, there is an issue we need to address.” Prowl gave my arm one final squeeze before he smoothly slipped out of the door.
Ratchet looked me over once more. “Go offline, and let your self-repairs work, Blue. We’ll have you up and about with the move.” He patted my foot and followed Prowl out. I could hear him as he stepped out into the hall. “And ‘Screen thought you would upset him…”
I lay there and stared at the lights, my optics burning from focusing on the bright orbs. I clenched my hands against my thighs, shivering in the absence of sound, my only company the soft hum of nearby generators. I lay there in the silence and remembered.
Title Three Small Words (aka That Damned Bluestreak Fic)
Okami-verse Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson
Characters Bluestreak, Smokescreen, Ratchet, Prowl
Warnings None that I can think of
Summary Still not a good day for Bluestreak, but not really as bad as the previous ones.
Part One
Part Two
“His processor is cycling. He's online.”
“Hydraulic pressure, still in the red, but rising. 15... 16...”
“Give him another liter of hydrolfluid.”
“I'm not getting a response from his ventilation system...”
“19...20...21...”
“Reroute power conduits 36 Delta to 84 Omega. Be careful not to cross wires Alpha 8 and 9.”
Hazy figures hovered over me. Specters with glowing eyes and black mouths. Something felt off, marked by the slowly building heat registering on my HUD, the uncomfortable pressure building in my chest to stifling pain.
“26...27...28...”
“Slaggit, rewiring didn't work and his coolant system's running too sluggishly. Hydraulic pressure's on the rise. He needs those ventilators online.”
My engine rattled painfully in my chest, its rotations heating my frame, my holding tanks. I couldn't see the blue optics looking down at me; they were all red, my city burning behind them.
“Don't you know how to fragging deal with malfunctioning hardware, Rail?” The sensation of a fist pounding my chest melded into the pulses of pain as Decepticons rooted around my insides for the parts they needed to repair themselves. Am I no less helpless now, as I was then? Will Starscream sail down this time and save me again? Or will he stand there and watch, directing his subordinates in their meaningless torture.
“34...35...36... Hydraulic pressure is in the green.”
Air rushed into my mouth, my intakes finally whirring on. My engine cooled and my processor finally focused on reality; the figures around me resolving into familiar faces. My vocalizer hummed with the effort of trying to speak, fear fleeting through my cortex as I felt the continued pulling and tugging of someone working on me. The ghosts of my last thoughts flitting through my processor. 'I'm going to die.' Then why would everyone act so calm
“All systems are responding. Hydraulic pressure is stable. Fuel is processing regularly.”
“Good work team,” a gruff voice rumbled, and I felt I should recognize the cadence of that one speaker.
I finally managed to make a sound; a whine from my vocalizer. Everything burned around me, my systems still working to cool down.
“Let's slide him into recharge and allow the repairs to set.” A red hand reached up to gently touch my chevron. “It's okay, Blue. See you when you come back online.”
A command prompt appeared in my HUD and someone keyed my systems offline.
And I slipped into a recharge filled with smoke and burning buildings; endless trines of Seekers roaring past.
****
“-I will let you know when my evaluation is done.”
A pause as a voice, stern but too soft to hear, made a reply.
“No, I don't want you sitting in on it. I will let you know when the evaluation is done,” this time said in a tone that allowed no argument.
I brought my optics online, wondering who was arguing with Smokescreen. Ratchet glanced down from the monitor he watched intently. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he focused on me. “Bluestreak, how are you feeling?”
I hummed for a moment,testing the strength of my vocalizer, remembering how I couldn't say anything before. “I feel like I got juggled by a Seeker trine, without the benefit of a rocket pack. You don't suppose Sideswipe would let me borrow his in the future.” My measly joke fell flat as Ratchet frowned down at me.
I turned my head as another approached the gurney; my motors jerky from repairs. Ratchet's optics flicked up to watch Smokescreen's approach. The other Enforcer smiled at me, his doorwings relaxed as he took a seat next to the medical berth.
“A Seeker trine, Bluestreak?” Smokescreen tilted his head inquisitively. A smile played on his lips, only to vanish into the void of duty. He regarded me, allowing concern to furrow his brow ridges. “How do you feel?” His optics never released mine, and I realized this was a test.
I laughed. “Well, I was just telling Ratchet that I feel like slag. But I'm ready to go and kick some Decepticon aft anytime. Make them feel like slag. You know returning... I wonder if I need to adjust my aim by a third of a degree. I'm gonna have to compensate for the lean I seem to be acquiring when I fire.”
Smokescreen's optics narrowed and he tucked his chin down staring at me with that gaze that pierced straight down to your spark and read into your very coding.
It always made me anxious and I began babbling; a nervous habit I'd picked up from somewhere. “Do you find that it's hard for you to maintain that glossy sheen with so many different colors to take into account? Sunstreaker says that he has to use a special kind of finish to make sure it reflects the golden grain of his paint job. He makes sure that it has plenty of acrylic and aluminum in it, or something. He can go on about depth of shine and reflective gloss. It's almost like wax is his own personal altar to himself and the buffer is worshipping at the altar to its god.”
Smokescreen blinked, and I could almost hear his processor whirring to keep up. “I have always preferred the softer finishes myself. It's better for the paint. I know Sideswipe uses it when his brother's not looking. What about you?” His optics flashed briefly in amusement. “How is it that you can manage to keep your paint job fairly clean? I don't see you scratched up very often, but you're never shining like you wax your paint. How do you do that?”
I grinned at that, my systems winding down. “I don't need a high shine on my finish. I actually have to mix my own wax with some of the stuff that the base supplies.” I watched Ratchet move over to the gurney next to me, standing at the console that controlled everything attached to the unconscious frame. “It would ruin the effect of my paint job after all, and I mean what would be the point of that. You know Sunny lets his paint shine so that he gets all the attention to distract it from Sideswipe so he can sneak attack the 'cons. You'd almost think that the stupid boltheads would have learned about keeping a sensor on both of them, but at least one manages to get snared by their traps. Like the minibots around here, too. They're always getting caught on the bad end of Sideswipe's pranks. I wonder if Prowl will ever realize that Jazz is egging him on in the pranks. Although I probably shouldn't say that, should I? I don't want to get Jazz in trouble.”
I couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of my vocalizer. Smokescreen didn't interrupt me, though he made appropriate noises throughout my speech. Ratchet moved about the room, tidying up, but ultimately acting more like a bodyguard than anything else. But who's he protecting and from what. Was it whoever had been arguing with Smokescreen when he'd come into the room. Would that mean it's someone who can order Smokescreen around, even though he didn't seem to have a problem with ordering whoever it was around.
Smokescreen seemed to wait for me to break from my rambling before he gauged me with his optics again. His frown took on a strained caste. “Don't worry, I won't tell Prowl.” His frown turned into a mischevious grin. “How many times have you helped out with Sideswipe's troublemaking. “
I pulled my wide-eyed innocent look that always seemed to fool Prowl, but not Jazz. I still wasn't sure if it fooled Smokescreen. “Not nearly as often as he'd like me to, probably. But then again, he's not responsible for half as many of the pranks as Prowl thinks he is. I think Jazz is using him as a scapegoat for him and Trailbreaker. I think Jazz likes seeing Prowl fritzing over stuff like that.”
Ratchet's engine revved, though whether in amusement or irritation was debatable.
Smokescreen chuckled however, his doorwings echoing his laugh with their angle and height. He leaned toward me, allowing a small hidden smile to twitch his lips as he whispered conspiratorially. “I think that Jazz enjoys it as well. You have to admit those are good times.”
I giggled, unable to help myself, and relaxed a little further.
“Jazz knows what he's doing when he gets Sideswipe in trouble like that. Just like he wouldn't have left you there if he'd thought they'd dismantle you. We wouldn't allow that.”
I stopped laughing and stared at him. “Wh-I-Th-I never thought he would!” I stuttered. “That'd be ridiculous ,wouldn't it?”
Smokescreen blinked in surprise. “Really? Then why were you giving Wheeljack such a hard time about shutting down?”
Ratchet paused in his tidying to stare at me, hard frown in place.
“I was just making sure that none of the Decepticons Sunstreaker had been fighting off had followed us, that’s all.”
The tactician tilted his head, optics narrowed at me, as though asking me if I thought he was that foolish. “Which Decepticons? That Seeker Trine you were talking about? Did they knock you off that building?”
I faltered, the feeling of dropping several hundred feet, and impacting, with a tank suddenly on top of me flashing through my processor. “It wasn't a Trine.”
“Oh?” He leaned forward. “What was it then?”
My ventilator hitched, and my equilibrium staggered with that freefalling feeling again, and then the crunch of a second mech dropping out of the blue sky resounded through my audio receptors. I clutched at the sides of the berth, reeling from the mocking laughs that echoed in my processor.
“They were taking them apart!” I cried. I didn't even realize that I'd covered my face until Smokescreen gently guided my hands back down. “They were taking them apart, one after another; right next to me and the bodies weren't even cold yet. I could see them dying and they weren't even doing anything about the pain, not mine, not theirs. They were just letting them expire one after the other, and I couldn't shut down because then I'd be next!”
Ratchet was suddenly at my side, hand on my chestplate, holding me down as I hadn't even realized I'd been trying to sit up. “Calm down, Bluestreak. You don't need to be getting this upset so soon.” The medic's blue optics slid a glare over to Smokescreen. “You're upsetting my patient,” he growled in that protective manner of his.
Smokescreen regarded Ratchet with a frown tilting his mouth down. “A word with you, Ratchet, please.” He gestured toward the door.
“Don't,” Ratchet snapped, hand pressing a little harder on my chestplate, “order me around my medbay.”
Smokescreen stared at Ratchet, his expression switching to a guarded neutral, and my sensors buzzed with a transmission.
“You're accusing me of upsetting him, but you want to let Prowl talk to him?” Why was I receiving the officer's channel? “That tightaft would have him walking circles avoiding his problem, and it would only make this situation worse.” Smokescreen stiffened, optics brightening with anger. “Dismantling should have been kept separate from the patients. We've had this trouble before. You know what happened to him in SpireFalls.”
Ratchet glared back, leaning forward, shoving his face at the blue mech's. “Rail didn't have the-”
“You're the CMO of this unit, Ratchet. If your medics break regulation, it's on your head.” Smokescreen tilted his head, yellow chevron flashing in the medical lights. “What would Prowl say to that?”
“You can get out. I'm not arguing over my patient about this. Out!”
Smokescreen squeezed my arm before turning on his heel and storming out. “He's all yours,” he snarled at someone just outside the door.
“Taking that tone with your commanding officer is ill-advised, Smokescreen.” Prowl paused at the door, looking back down the hallway as though he wanted to speak before he shook his head and approached my berth.
“If you stress his systems anymore Prowl, I'll personally turn you into a maintenance drone.”
“Duly noted.” He looked down at me, optics flicking down my frame. “Bluestreak, would you like to tell me how you wound up in that area? I thought you had found a building to station yourself on.”
I ducked my head down, my hinges complaining as my chestplate drew itself up over my chin. “One of them must have noticed me taking out the stationary canons.”
Prowl frowned, tilting his head. “You were careless.”
“Yes.” My head ducked a little lower, earning a reproving grumble from Ratchet for moving about so soon.
“Who?”
“I didn’t recognize him. He was-“ purple and cream, a jet, laughing, taunting me, firing at me, trapping me- “a triplechanger. Jet and tank.”
Prowl waited half a breem for me to continue, before he spoke up. “I recognized Starscream-“ burning eyes, swooping down, pain ripping through damaged panels- “but who was the other one?”
Grey and purple, with hands that grabbed and twisted and pulled and choked, laughed at my pain, enjoyed it. “Another triplechanger. Cargo shuttle and truck, a Convoy, I think.” I clenched my hands to the berth again, commanding my servomotors to stay still, but I couldn’t stop the shiver that rippled through my engine.
“Did they ask you anything?”
Do you remember, Autobot?
“No. They didn’t want me to talk.”
Prowl touched my arm, right where Smokescreen had laid his hand, and squeezed just as Smokescreen had. “We are moving out in the cycle. Ratchet wants you to rest until then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am pleased to see that you are functioning, Bluestreak.”
“Thank you, sir,” I couldn’t seem to raise the volume on my vocalizer.
“Ratchet, if you would please follow me, there is an issue we need to address.” Prowl gave my arm one final squeeze before he smoothly slipped out of the door.
Ratchet looked me over once more. “Go offline, and let your self-repairs work, Blue. We’ll have you up and about with the move.” He patted my foot and followed Prowl out. I could hear him as he stepped out into the hall. “And ‘Screen thought you would upset him…”
I lay there and stared at the lights, my optics burning from focusing on the bright orbs. I clenched my hands against my thighs, shivering in the absence of sound, my only company the soft hum of nearby generators. I lay there in the silence and remembered.