Protectobot Snippets #16
Got my modem power adapter in the mail yesterday, so I've got internets back, hooray! Phone LJ is better than nothing, but commenting by phone leaves a little to be desired, especially since once I start typing, I can't see the comment or post I was replying to, and I usually forget what the heck I was talking about before I get to the end.
The internet deprivation gave me a little more writing time, though, so have some snippets! Protectobot Beginnings!verse this time.
Warning for implied non-gory dismemberment in the first one, maybe? It's not as bad as it sounds, don't worry! ^_~
1.
I see him!
Something didn’t look right. Skydive angled down sharply, landing in front of the Protectobot and unfolding out of alt mode. What he saw made his spark stutter in horror.
“Groove! Sweet Primus, what did they do to you?” Someone was going to pay for this, big time. No one damaged their younger brothers without certain…repercussions.
Groove would have waved his arms reassuringly, except he had no arms anymore to wave. “Skydive, hey, relax. It’s not as bad as it looks. First Aid took them off, he was careful.”
“First Aid did this?”
“Yep,” Groove said cheerfully, hopping closer on his one remaining leg. “It was the only way I was going to fit through that tunnel.”
2.
“Aw, c’mon Aid, just give it a try! I’ll stand completely still, I promise.” Streetwise handed his brother the wrench and then gave him his best, hopeful, bumblepuppy expression.
First Aid laughed but shook his head. “Ratchet knows exactly how to do it so it triggers a reset without damage, Streets. If I hit the wrong place or too hard I could really hurt you.”
“But you gotta learn some time, right? And what better time than now, when you’re stuck on berth rest for who knows how long. You said you were bored. Just throw it sort of soft at first.” Streetwise placed himself within easy wrench-throwing distance and angled his helm invitingly, turning up the puppy optics a few more degrees.
“Hm.” First Aid giggled at his brother’s pleading look, but shook his head. “I think I should practice on a non-living target to begin with. How about if I can hit the back of the couch.” First Aid hefted the wrench and stuck his glossa out slightly between his lip plates in concentration as he took aim.
“Whoa!” Hot Spot ducked as something flew over his head and into the hallway as he entered their quarters.
“Sorry, Hot Spot!” First Aid called from his berth. “I was aiming for the couch.”
“Ah. I see.” Hot Spot retrieved the wrench from the floor, poked Streetwise, who was snickering uncontrollably, and then went over to snuggle First Aid on his berth. Whatever they were up to, he was just happy to see Aid looking a little more bright-opticked. “Isn’t the couch over that way?”
First Aid nodded and sighed ruefully, though he was smiling still. “Streets, why don’t you lock the door, and then get behind me where it’s safe. I think I’ve got a lot more practicing to do before I can throw wrenches in a medical capacity.”
3.
Aid. I need you here now. Blades’ voice through the comm signal was tight and controlled. Too calm.
On my way. First Aid knew Blades wouldn’t have called him away from the plague virus patients without good reason. What’s up?
Hot Spot is sitting down.
4.
“I don’t know if I can let him go,” the other First Aid said, a little sobbing catch in his voice even as he laughed at himself. “He’s no more than a sparkling, Hot Spot.”
Hot Spot clung tightly, trembling, not sure if he could let go either. It was a strange sort of comfort-mingled agony, this First Aid, filling all the empty places in his soul with his warm solid presence, and yet… it wasn’t his First Aid. The other Hot Spot was even stranger yet, giving them space in the bond with no resentment that Hot Spot could detect, an echoing of empathetic grief, utter and complete understanding. He met the red optics over First Aid’s shoulder. They were his own optics, he knew that in his processor, but never could he imagine himself so ancient, so wise.
5.
First Aid linked in to the ancient mech’s systems, readouts familiar and unchanged. Unrecoverable processor error. Reboot failed. He puzzled again over the chronometer reading: timed out completely. Either the mech was older than the universe, or something had altered the quantum timekeeping mechanisms of the chronometer itself. Both seemed equally unlikely. “Someone took good care of you,” he murmured, finding the place where an old injury, protoform deep, had healed seamlessly, visible now only to his scanners. From some forgotten war, most likely, before the Golden Age of Cybertron. Though stripped to basic, cometary form, the mech had multiple weapons attachments, battle scarring on his frame. He had not come from a time of peace.
After so long with no response, there was really no hope, he knew that. Ratchet said to trust his instincts, that if he didn’t want to give up there was likely good reason, pointing to Roller as evidence. First Aid suspected Ratchet was only being kind, and careful with him as everyone was these days, but he was grateful nonetheless. There was no good reason for it, but somehow the thought of giving up, returning this unknown mech to cold stasis gripped his spark with despair.
“Although maybe it would be the kinder thing to do,” he told the still form, touching the cold, gray helm sadly. “Cybertron now is so different, and everyone you ever knew must be long gone.” The vital signs notched up incrementally, almost as if in response to the sound of his voice. He knew better than to ascribe awareness to that dim-burning lifespark, and yet….
Not really thinking too hard about it, First Aid rested a hand on the cold gray helm and began to sing quietly, one of Wheeljack’s old lullabies. The spark glimmered and brightened, vitals cycling higher in response. Carefully, delicately feeding the merest trickle of energy directly to the long-stagnant processor, he initiated another reboot cycle. Systems revved suddenly in to high gear, the spark flaring into brightness on the monitors, the processor cycled up, stalled for a moment, faltered…and caught! First Aid held his intakes, not daring to breathe, holding the link and energy feeds steady as one by one, levels of function and consciousness lit up like new-formed stars.
After a breem or so of humming equilibrium a simple awareness stirred, groping weak but seeking across the link. It was a process First Aid remembered well from when Roller had been a newspark; the mech was seeking a designation. A total reboot then, the memories in the processor no longer accessible although even through the medical link he could feel the spark burning bright, waking to innocent wonder as it explored, gentle and fearless through the outer layers of First Aid’s processor. First Aid reached cautiously back; there were defenses still in place, and firewalls, as were only to be expected in an adult mech from whatever era, but they lay open to First Aid in an act of total trust that made him blink. One hand twitched, jerky and uncoordinated as the processor exerted control over its frame for the first time in countless vorns. First Aid twined it with his own, and blue optics lit faintly, slowly focusing on his face. The mech continued to download basic vocabulary and language files apace, searching and storing easily despite the corrupted memory files. A note of delighted accomplishment beamed through the link as the mech settled on a designation at last.
“Bumblebee it is.” The blue optics glowed brighter, smiling up at him. First Aid felt his spark give a leap of pure joy. “Welcome back.”
The internet deprivation gave me a little more writing time, though, so have some snippets! Protectobot Beginnings!verse this time.
Warning for implied non-gory dismemberment in the first one, maybe? It's not as bad as it sounds, don't worry! ^_~
1.
I see him!
Something didn’t look right. Skydive angled down sharply, landing in front of the Protectobot and unfolding out of alt mode. What he saw made his spark stutter in horror.
“Groove! Sweet Primus, what did they do to you?” Someone was going to pay for this, big time. No one damaged their younger brothers without certain…repercussions.
Groove would have waved his arms reassuringly, except he had no arms anymore to wave. “Skydive, hey, relax. It’s not as bad as it looks. First Aid took them off, he was careful.”
“First Aid did this?”
“Yep,” Groove said cheerfully, hopping closer on his one remaining leg. “It was the only way I was going to fit through that tunnel.”
2.
“Aw, c’mon Aid, just give it a try! I’ll stand completely still, I promise.” Streetwise handed his brother the wrench and then gave him his best, hopeful, bumblepuppy expression.
First Aid laughed but shook his head. “Ratchet knows exactly how to do it so it triggers a reset without damage, Streets. If I hit the wrong place or too hard I could really hurt you.”
“But you gotta learn some time, right? And what better time than now, when you’re stuck on berth rest for who knows how long. You said you were bored. Just throw it sort of soft at first.” Streetwise placed himself within easy wrench-throwing distance and angled his helm invitingly, turning up the puppy optics a few more degrees.
“Hm.” First Aid giggled at his brother’s pleading look, but shook his head. “I think I should practice on a non-living target to begin with. How about if I can hit the back of the couch.” First Aid hefted the wrench and stuck his glossa out slightly between his lip plates in concentration as he took aim.
“Whoa!” Hot Spot ducked as something flew over his head and into the hallway as he entered their quarters.
“Sorry, Hot Spot!” First Aid called from his berth. “I was aiming for the couch.”
“Ah. I see.” Hot Spot retrieved the wrench from the floor, poked Streetwise, who was snickering uncontrollably, and then went over to snuggle First Aid on his berth. Whatever they were up to, he was just happy to see Aid looking a little more bright-opticked. “Isn’t the couch over that way?”
First Aid nodded and sighed ruefully, though he was smiling still. “Streets, why don’t you lock the door, and then get behind me where it’s safe. I think I’ve got a lot more practicing to do before I can throw wrenches in a medical capacity.”
3.
Aid. I need you here now. Blades’ voice through the comm signal was tight and controlled. Too calm.
On my way. First Aid knew Blades wouldn’t have called him away from the plague virus patients without good reason. What’s up?
Hot Spot is sitting down.
4.
“I don’t know if I can let him go,” the other First Aid said, a little sobbing catch in his voice even as he laughed at himself. “He’s no more than a sparkling, Hot Spot.”
Hot Spot clung tightly, trembling, not sure if he could let go either. It was a strange sort of comfort-mingled agony, this First Aid, filling all the empty places in his soul with his warm solid presence, and yet… it wasn’t his First Aid. The other Hot Spot was even stranger yet, giving them space in the bond with no resentment that Hot Spot could detect, an echoing of empathetic grief, utter and complete understanding. He met the red optics over First Aid’s shoulder. They were his own optics, he knew that in his processor, but never could he imagine himself so ancient, so wise.
5.
First Aid linked in to the ancient mech’s systems, readouts familiar and unchanged. Unrecoverable processor error. Reboot failed. He puzzled again over the chronometer reading: timed out completely. Either the mech was older than the universe, or something had altered the quantum timekeeping mechanisms of the chronometer itself. Both seemed equally unlikely. “Someone took good care of you,” he murmured, finding the place where an old injury, protoform deep, had healed seamlessly, visible now only to his scanners. From some forgotten war, most likely, before the Golden Age of Cybertron. Though stripped to basic, cometary form, the mech had multiple weapons attachments, battle scarring on his frame. He had not come from a time of peace.
After so long with no response, there was really no hope, he knew that. Ratchet said to trust his instincts, that if he didn’t want to give up there was likely good reason, pointing to Roller as evidence. First Aid suspected Ratchet was only being kind, and careful with him as everyone was these days, but he was grateful nonetheless. There was no good reason for it, but somehow the thought of giving up, returning this unknown mech to cold stasis gripped his spark with despair.
“Although maybe it would be the kinder thing to do,” he told the still form, touching the cold, gray helm sadly. “Cybertron now is so different, and everyone you ever knew must be long gone.” The vital signs notched up incrementally, almost as if in response to the sound of his voice. He knew better than to ascribe awareness to that dim-burning lifespark, and yet….
Not really thinking too hard about it, First Aid rested a hand on the cold gray helm and began to sing quietly, one of Wheeljack’s old lullabies. The spark glimmered and brightened, vitals cycling higher in response. Carefully, delicately feeding the merest trickle of energy directly to the long-stagnant processor, he initiated another reboot cycle. Systems revved suddenly in to high gear, the spark flaring into brightness on the monitors, the processor cycled up, stalled for a moment, faltered…and caught! First Aid held his intakes, not daring to breathe, holding the link and energy feeds steady as one by one, levels of function and consciousness lit up like new-formed stars.
After a breem or so of humming equilibrium a simple awareness stirred, groping weak but seeking across the link. It was a process First Aid remembered well from when Roller had been a newspark; the mech was seeking a designation. A total reboot then, the memories in the processor no longer accessible although even through the medical link he could feel the spark burning bright, waking to innocent wonder as it explored, gentle and fearless through the outer layers of First Aid’s processor. First Aid reached cautiously back; there were defenses still in place, and firewalls, as were only to be expected in an adult mech from whatever era, but they lay open to First Aid in an act of total trust that made him blink. One hand twitched, jerky and uncoordinated as the processor exerted control over its frame for the first time in countless vorns. First Aid twined it with his own, and blue optics lit faintly, slowly focusing on his face. The mech continued to download basic vocabulary and language files apace, searching and storing easily despite the corrupted memory files. A note of delighted accomplishment beamed through the link as the mech settled on a designation at last.
“Bumblebee it is.” The blue optics glowed brighter, smiling up at him. First Aid felt his spark give a leap of pure joy. “Welcome back.”