Checking in
Long time huh.
The writing urge is nipping at my fingers and I've been reading back over The Lost Bot-verse. I want to work on it, though I have no particular direction on who to chase up. I went through my old files and dug up some of my writing. Found a snippet from the last chapter of the Coherent story arc. Knowing me, that was probably one of the first pieces that got written. >.>
I miiight clean it up, work on a bit and see if something develops from there. I know I have fragments from the start of the Darkened story arc. Whoooo knows.
Here be a snippet
He remembers the fall of Praxus.
A maelstrom of pain, the unending bolts of agony that wracks his frame as his spark and processor reeled from the combined onslaught of the city networks dying. From the Praxian wireless, he’s aware of the dying shrieks, the desperate thoughts of pleasenodontwanttodie, the encompassing horror as his frame-kin witnesses the falling bombs. But it’s from the sparked network that the true horror lurks, the growing silence, the increasing sense of death, as it is violently ripped apart as living sparks vanish.
Gone. Gonegonegonegonenononononono!
The screaming doesn’t stop. Even though the med-bay is silent, Ratchet grimly standing by and watching helplessly, there is a roaring through his processors, loud and overwhelming and he can’t think, only feel the destruction coursing through every circuit, corrupting his code and sending his systems into failure.
His spark gutters. Ratchet curses, plugs a cable in, forces his spark chamber open and tries to stabilise his systems (Useless, Ratchet berates himself, Prowl has pulled himself out of the Autobot network, deny them the chance to support him on the (very likely) chance that he might pull them all into the Well). But there’s a sense of relief in that brief moment of letting go that Prowl can’t help but seize on it. It’s an escape from the failing networks, from feeling the bright quantum strings that connect him with his frame-kin snapping. If he follows, there will be no more pain and the links will be notbrokenwholecompletealive.
-Help me-
The desperate plea from one of the remaining sparks in the Praxian network stops him. Bluestreak, he processes dimly. Blustreak. A newly sparked Enforcer. They’d never met but they are connected weakly through Immobilizer. Bluestreak is alive. Bluestreak. Not even a vorn old, so young and curious. A gifted sniper. So young. So young. So young.
Alive.
Without meaning to, he brushes Bluestreak’s frightened mind with a query, the mech is sheltered in the basement of the bombed Enforcer’s headquarters. Alive and safe. Scared.
Alive and safe. Young. Alive.
Young enough that he is not deeply entrenched in the networks, that the death of a million cybertronians is not being routed through him and sending him into systems failure. Young enough that he could survive the loss of them. But not unscathed, surviving the death of the networks would destroy his core programming, crush his mental development unless someone takes the strain for him. And without Prowl’s help, no one might ever find Bluestreak in Praxus’s ruins.
A shudder wracks his frame and he wants to deny it but the decision is made. Bluestreak must live. Survive. And by that extension, he must live. He reaches out and wraps himself around Bluestreak’s young mind.
Then he displaces Bluestreak in the networks, doubles the agony ripping apart his systems as he takes on the burden on protecting Bluestreak from further damage. The screaming in his processors is like a white hot spike splitting his helm into two. Something in his spark breaks with the strain and black oblivion, sweet, seductive numbingly cold and quiet reaches out with its icy fingers and brushes his spark gently.
(Ratchet yells in horror as in front of his optics, part of Prowl’s spark turns black.)
He wants to give in, he should have given in but he can’t, not for the price of Bluestreak’s sanity and life. He can feel his codes corrupting themselves as the crashes trigger again and again, his personality matrix spins wildly and collapses and he knows that he’s about to-
Bluestreak must live.
Bluestreak must live.
Bluestreakmustlivelivelivelivelivelivelive.
Livelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelive.
He activates his battle processor and reaches inside himself to his cores codes, the essence of any mech, unhackable in almost every circumstance. As his frame fails, the impenetrable firewalls flicker and weaken and he-
BluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustlive-
He knows he’s going to die. Even if Ratchet stops the crashing, his codes and matrix are far too corrupt for his self to be recovered to any useful degree. But there’s one thing he can do to ensure that his spark and processor survive and, by extension, ensure that Bluestreak lives.
With the aid of his battle computer he manages to write three simple and yet incredibly important lines to replace his core codes as they fragment.
I must live.
The war must end and peace restored.
Till all are one.
If Ratchet manages to save his spark from this, the bot that wakes up in his frame will not be him. It will be a stranger, with limited and stunted development due to such a simple core code. But there must not be another Praxus and this is the only way he can ensure that it can never come to pass.
With one last shudder, he transmits Bluestreak’s location and a one last farewell to Ratchet and then his frame is still.
The writing urge is nipping at my fingers and I've been reading back over The Lost Bot-verse. I want to work on it, though I have no particular direction on who to chase up. I went through my old files and dug up some of my writing. Found a snippet from the last chapter of the Coherent story arc. Knowing me, that was probably one of the first pieces that got written. >.>
I miiight clean it up, work on a bit and see if something develops from there. I know I have fragments from the start of the Darkened story arc. Whoooo knows.
Here be a snippet
He remembers the fall of Praxus.
A maelstrom of pain, the unending bolts of agony that wracks his frame as his spark and processor reeled from the combined onslaught of the city networks dying. From the Praxian wireless, he’s aware of the dying shrieks, the desperate thoughts of pleasenodontwanttodie, the encompassing horror as his frame-kin witnesses the falling bombs. But it’s from the sparked network that the true horror lurks, the growing silence, the increasing sense of death, as it is violently ripped apart as living sparks vanish.
Gone. Gonegonegonegonenononononono!
The screaming doesn’t stop. Even though the med-bay is silent, Ratchet grimly standing by and watching helplessly, there is a roaring through his processors, loud and overwhelming and he can’t think, only feel the destruction coursing through every circuit, corrupting his code and sending his systems into failure.
His spark gutters. Ratchet curses, plugs a cable in, forces his spark chamber open and tries to stabilise his systems (Useless, Ratchet berates himself, Prowl has pulled himself out of the Autobot network, deny them the chance to support him on the (very likely) chance that he might pull them all into the Well). But there’s a sense of relief in that brief moment of letting go that Prowl can’t help but seize on it. It’s an escape from the failing networks, from feeling the bright quantum strings that connect him with his frame-kin snapping. If he follows, there will be no more pain and the links will be notbrokenwholecompletealive.
-Help me-
The desperate plea from one of the remaining sparks in the Praxian network stops him. Bluestreak, he processes dimly. Blustreak. A newly sparked Enforcer. They’d never met but they are connected weakly through Immobilizer. Bluestreak is alive. Bluestreak. Not even a vorn old, so young and curious. A gifted sniper. So young. So young. So young.
Alive.
Without meaning to, he brushes Bluestreak’s frightened mind with a query, the mech is sheltered in the basement of the bombed Enforcer’s headquarters. Alive and safe. Scared.
Alive and safe. Young. Alive.
Young enough that he is not deeply entrenched in the networks, that the death of a million cybertronians is not being routed through him and sending him into systems failure. Young enough that he could survive the loss of them. But not unscathed, surviving the death of the networks would destroy his core programming, crush his mental development unless someone takes the strain for him. And without Prowl’s help, no one might ever find Bluestreak in Praxus’s ruins.
A shudder wracks his frame and he wants to deny it but the decision is made. Bluestreak must live. Survive. And by that extension, he must live. He reaches out and wraps himself around Bluestreak’s young mind.
Then he displaces Bluestreak in the networks, doubles the agony ripping apart his systems as he takes on the burden on protecting Bluestreak from further damage. The screaming in his processors is like a white hot spike splitting his helm into two. Something in his spark breaks with the strain and black oblivion, sweet, seductive numbingly cold and quiet reaches out with its icy fingers and brushes his spark gently.
(Ratchet yells in horror as in front of his optics, part of Prowl’s spark turns black.)
He wants to give in, he should have given in but he can’t, not for the price of Bluestreak’s sanity and life. He can feel his codes corrupting themselves as the crashes trigger again and again, his personality matrix spins wildly and collapses and he knows that he’s about to-
Bluestreak must live.
Bluestreak must live.
Bluestreakmustlivelivelivelivelivelivelive.
Livelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelivelive.
He activates his battle processor and reaches inside himself to his cores codes, the essence of any mech, unhackable in almost every circumstance. As his frame fails, the impenetrable firewalls flicker and weaken and he-
BluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustliveBluestreakmustlive-
He knows he’s going to die. Even if Ratchet stops the crashing, his codes and matrix are far too corrupt for his self to be recovered to any useful degree. But there’s one thing he can do to ensure that his spark and processor survive and, by extension, ensure that Bluestreak lives.
With the aid of his battle computer he manages to write three simple and yet incredibly important lines to replace his core codes as they fragment.
I must live.
The war must end and peace restored.
Till all are one.
If Ratchet manages to save his spark from this, the bot that wakes up in his frame will not be him. It will be a stranger, with limited and stunted development due to such a simple core code. But there must not be another Praxus and this is the only way he can ensure that it can never come to pass.
With one last shudder, he transmits Bluestreak’s location and a one last farewell to Ratchet and then his frame is still.