Bleustreak - Transformers
Bleustreak
Author's Notes: I realize that this is a little late, but I wanted to write something for Exactly_what for Christmas. This is actually a prompt of hers from the Transformers Bunny Farm on LiveJournal (see bottom for full prompt) that struck my fancy:
http://tf-bunny-farm.livejournal.com/430391.html
Two: (got it from accidentally typing "Bleustreak") Bluestreak gets a French accent. Now, nobody can understand him.
I must apologize in advance; not only am I rather abysmal at mimicking accents, but my only real sources for ridiculous French accents are from "Harry Potter," "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," and to a lesser extent, "Pink Panther." ::Pauses:: Actually, that's not exactly a bad thing this time around, is it? Anyway, I will be deliberately exaggerating and mangling the accent even further for humor.
Thanks to Paver83 for betaing, especially since I sprang this on him with no warning.
Merry Belated Christmas and a Happy New Year, Exactlywhat!
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Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, nor do I own this prompt.
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High atop a safe, rocky crag, Bluestreak kept up an internal monologue as he searched for new targets. Okay, so Ratchet's fine. He's fixing Huffer, and Wheeljack is happily lobbing… something bubblegum-pink at any fool who tries to get close. Including Brawn. Ew, Wheeljack is going to have some apologizing to do. Oh! There goes Thundercracker and Sunstreaker. Ha. Perfect shot; he's majorly out of commission, but not deactivated. My conscience is clean, and the 'Cons will have to expend the resources to fix him.
Alrighty then… Optimus Prime and Megatron are still wrestling. Prowl's back at base, Jazz is about to jump on top of Devastator - how in the stars did he get up there, anyway?
Oh, another shot. Soundwave is down. Guess I should try and get Ramjet now. Steady… steady… fire!
"Die, Autobot!"
Like an avenging angel, Skywarp dove towards the startled sniper, who instinctively brought his firearm to bear on the incoming threat. Immediately, several things happened in rapid succession.
The rifle went off.
The blast hit Skywarp.
Skywarp's optics comically flashed white.
Skywarp dropped like a rock. Well, sort of.
What Skywarp really did was drop like a cannonball already in the descending part of its arch. Consequently, he plowed with all of his previous force right into Bluestreak's vantage point.
When Bluestreak felt himself falling with the rocks and rubble, he panicked, grabbing onto the dazed seeker. By the time they smashed to the ground, Bluestreak had somehow managed to slide to the bottom of the pile. As the whole mess crashed on top of him, the sniper just moaned and surrendered to blackness, hoping that he would be rescued by the time he awoke.
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Eventually, Bluestreak's optics fluttered online. "Welcome back to the land of the living," a voice greeted him.
With some effort, the Praxian turned to face Ratchet. "You've only been unconscious for a few hours," the medic continued. "Fortunately, you were our only real casualty today. I had to pound out several dents, and you rattled your helm a bit when you slammed to the ground, but unless something completely unexpected has happened, you should be fine." Smirking slightly, Ratchet added, "However, you'll probably be sore for several days. You cushioned Skywarp for him; Megatron has already started negotiations to get him back, so he should be gone within the day. The good news is that we'll probably get to use the spacebridge a few times; our comrades on Cybertron will appreciate your sacrifice."
Despite his pain and disorientation, Bluestreak smiled. "I em gled to hair eet. Ev'n zho I em een peen, eet eez wors eet. Efter all, zhey need enayrgan too."
Ratchet froze. "I think," he started slowly, "we're going to need to do a few more tests."
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Several hours later, Bluestreak slunk out of the medbay. Ratchet had no idea how or why the doorwinger had started speaking with an atrocious and devilishly hard to understand French accent, and neither did any of the resident scientists. So far, their best guess was that something had shifted slightly out of place during his crash, though what exactly escaped them. On the plus side, that seemed to be the only thing wrong with him. Consequently, Bluestreak found himself taken off of active duty and booted from the medbay so that the professionals could pour over the data.
"Hey, Bluestreak!" Sideswipe's cheerful greeting preceded the arm flung over grey shoulders. "Glad to see you're doing better! Are you heading to the mess hall?"
Smiling in turn, the sniper turned to answer his lover before snapping his mouth closed. Instead, he simply nodded.
Naturally, this uncharacteristic behavior immediately snagged both frontliners' attentions. "Did you actually get released from Medbay, or did you sneak out?" Sunstreaker asked bluntly.
In all fairness, this was a valid question. Several of the younger mechs, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe included, had taken to practicing their stealth skills by sneaking out of the Medbay once they felt better. Fortunately, no one had been seriously harmed from that yet, but Slingshot had nearly ripped open a weld when he forgot to stay calm, and many runaways had been dented from angry wrenches.
However, Bluestreak had never been one of those thrill seekers. Why make his medical visits anymore uncomfortable than they had to be? To answer Sunstreaker's question, he frowned and shook his helm in negation.
"Then how come you're not talking?" Sideswipe asked pathetically. Tapping his throat, Bluestreak silently offered up a prayer of thanks at his partners' intelligence and perceptiveness. "So, something's wrong with your throat and you're not allowed to talk for a while?" Well, he hadn't exactly been ordered, but since no one could understand him, that was close enough. He nodded again.
Sympathy flashed over the red twin's features, and he reached out and briefly stroked the smaller mech's face. "That's rough, Bluestreak. Do you have any idea how long you're banned for?" When a shake answered him, he sighed. "Come on then; let's go get some energon."
The three Autobots journeyed into the mess hall. Sideswipe slipped away to grab energon for the three of them, leaving Sunstreaker to subtly ensure that their lover did not tax himself.
Suddenly, Bluestreak froze. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I am not seeing that! It can't be happening!
But it was. There, on the other side of the room, stood Smokescreen talking to Wheeljack, while wearing one of the most horrible smiles Bluestreak had ever seen in life. The older Praxian caught his gaze and winked.
"Freg," Bluestreak muttered.
Instantly, Sunstreaker's attention zoomed in on the supposed-to-be silent mech. "Bluestreak? I though you couldn't talk?"
As Smokescreen started towards them, Bluestreak ex-vented wearily. "Not quite," he managed clearly, before his extraordinarily irritating friend descended upon them.
Everyone in the room knew about his speech impairment within two minutes. The rest of the base knew within five.
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"Bleustreak?" Wincing at the slight mangling of his name (curse Smokescreen, anyway!), the sniper turned to the two Aerialbots with a smile.
"We were wondering," Air Raid continued, "if you would tell us a story?"
Raising an optic ridge, Bleustreak pointed at himself in disbelief. "Why me? Zoorly, zhou cannot understind me fohr zee layncs of en eentire ztory."
"Well," Fireflight piped up, equal parts bashful and hopeful, "you're right. But honestly, we just like listening to your voice. We can always hear the story again after you're better or somewhere else. So, please?"
Gazing at the pleading optics, Bleustreak acknowledged defeat. At least the younglings were not likely to taunt him. "Zoor," he agreed cheerfully. "Where to?"
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"Geeve me zhee pad, Cleefjoomper!" Bleustreak ordered in frustration.
This was absolutely ridiculous; ever since his run-in with Skywarp two weeks ago, mechs had been anything from playfully annoying to downright mean. Granted, it was mostly just mild teasing that he could easily brush off. Sometimes, however, they went too far. He'd suffered more casual tripping, theft, and other minor foul play recently than at any other point in his Autobot career. In this particular case, the red minibot had snagged the datapad that Bleustreak had been working on for an hour.
"I'm sorry, Bleu. What did you say? I can't understand you," Cliffjumper asked with a grin. That grin vanished when golden servos clamped on his side and yanked him into the air.
"Is bolts for brains bothering you, Bluestreak?" Sunstreaker asked coldly.
Ordinarily, the Praxian would have prevented the mini from suffering his lover's wrath, but this time, he would make an exception. Maybe then everyone would lay off a bit. "Yez," he agreed. Reaching toward the dangling mech, Bleustreak again asked, "Zhee pad?" Silently, Cliffjumper handed it over without protest. "Zhank you. Zunztreaker? Do not demege heem."
Smiling ferally, Sunstreaker carefully bent over to kiss his lover's cheek. "Got it. See you later."
Bleustreak fondly watched the others leave. Well, time to finish up work before someone else tried to abscond with it.
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"I truly am sorry, Bluestreak," Prowl began. "Unfortunately, due to the sheer difficulty in understanding you, you simply cannot go to the event. Humans will undoubtedly wish to converse with you, and as of right now, you are unable to reliably do so. Perhaps," he offered, "you can go to the next event."
Sadly, Bleustreak shifted his doorwings in acknowledgement and left the office. He had been looking forward to attending the gun and knife show for months, and was now forbidden to go practically anywhere for the foreseeable future.
Optics narrowing, Bleustreak solemnly swore that come next battle, Skywarp would pay.
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"Bleustreak? Bleustreak? Come on, you have to wake up!"
With a groan, the grey Praxian swam back to consciousness. "Ugh… what happened, Skyfire?"
Staring down at him in shock, the shuttle blurted, "You just spoke normally!"
Any lingering drowsiness fled, and Bluestreak asked, "I did? I did! I actually spoke normally for the first time in over a standard month! Oh, I am so happy! This is wonderful! I can't wait to tell everyone, especially Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker, Prowl, Jazz, and everyone. Do you know how it happened? What did you do, and how long was I out?"
Abruptly, Bluestreak silenced from the digit in front of his lips. Smiling, Skyfire attempted to answer the questions. "I'm so glad that you're better, Bluestreak! When we're done talking though, we're going to Medbay so that Ratchet can scan you. You were out for about thirty seconds before you started shifting around. And, ah," here he squirmed slightly in embarrassment, "I didn't actually do anything. I've been holding some geological samples for Beachcomber, on the shelves right about shoulder height. Unfortunately, that means several meters above your head, and I guess they weren't as secure as I thought they were. One fell and hit you."
Bluestreak processed that, and groaned. "So I was cured from my injury, which was caused by a chunk of cliff and a seeker collapsing on top of me, by a rock falling on my head?" Unable to help himself, he pouted. "That's just wrong."
Skyfire chuckled. "I must say that I agree. So, shall we go?"
"Yep!" Taking the proffered servo, he hoisted himself upright. As the two mechs strode to the medbay, the sniper thought of all the ways that he could celebrate with his lovers. First and foremost was cuddling, obviously, but next, he wanted some nice, well-planned revenge. Nothing dangerous, of course, and nothing that would hurt someone.
But it would be fun!
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Bluestreak certainly did get his revenge.
Everyone who had teased him on the Ark found dozens of small inconveniences befalling them, everything from scratched paint jobs to items vanishing to glue spilled in odd spots. However, Skywarp's fate took pride of place. During the next battle, Bluestreak promptly shot the teleporter down at first opportunity. He and the Twins were able to quietly spirit the mess-maker away, never to be seen again.
Well, until the next day, which was when the Nemesis received an anonymous tip about one of their mechs requiring assistance. Lo and behold, Skywarp did need assistance, and quite a bit of it too. First to unbury him from the carefully placed cairn of rocks he was under, and then to untangle him from the impossible amount of fabric he was swaddled in. Finally, upon returning to base, he and his trinemates spent the next three standard days cussing and ripping off the adhesive stickers plastered all over his body.
The red, white, and blue paintjob that exactly mimicked Starscream's? They gave up on trying to fix that, and it eventually faded away over the next month.
After that debacle, the Decepticons gave the sniper's roost a wide, wary berth, and Bluestreak never had another problem with French accents.
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Author's Notes 2: I realize the ending is kinda weak, but honestly, is there any way to end this kind of story other than the traditional cognitive recalibration? I feel no shame.
This is my second story that's mentioned Bluestreak liking gun and knife shows. I really must go to one of the things, if only for research purposes. Also, I didn't mention it, but Bluestreak was not totally without communication. He could use his comm, and Prowl and Smokescreen (if Bluestreak wasn't ignoring his existence) could talk to him through their doorwing sign language.