ante_luce | Secrets of the Groundbound Kind [Part 12]

Title: Secrets of the Groundbound Kind [Part 12]
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.

Back in the med bay, Ratchet had completed his examination of Jazz’s CPU when both Ops mechs stiffened, intakes skipping a beat. Instantly, the medic was scanning the both of them, only to be waved off by the pair as their systems slowly returned to normal.

“Right, what was that all about?” Demanded the CMO, and at their dead silence and avoidant looks, turned to a helplessly snickering Smokescreen to ask, “And just what the frag is so funny?!”

“I’m guessing Mirage is with Hound.”

Ratchet blinked, and turned away, muttering as he motioned for Bumblebee to switch places with Jazz. “Don’t ask; you don’t want to know. You really, really don’t want to know.”

= = =

The medic watched the Ops mechs and Smokescreen as the final deep scan of the day was compiling, splitting his attention between the bots in his med bay and the data scrolling through his processors. The diversionary tactician was humming lowly as he hovered next to Bumblebee, door wings moving back and forth in the manner Ratchet had often observed the Datsuns using when one of their number needed reassurance.

The scout was fixated on the movement of the panels, systems running calmer than the ambulance would have expected from an Ops mech in a deep processor scan, reacting like Smokescreen, Bluestreak or even Prowl would to a similar gesture. More evidence that ‘Bee was probably Praxian sparked. Jazz shifted as Ratchet reached out to disengage the jacks from the scout’s cerebral data ports, indicating that the procedure was done. “So, what’s the damage, Ratchet?”

The medic sighed in relief. “Not as bad as I’d feared. Bumblebee's Praxian sparked alright, but it looks like being placed in a standard issue frame hasn’t harmed him all that much; most likely because of how young he was when it happened.” He turned to the scout, who was looking at him with slight apprehension.

“ ‘Bee, you’ve already adapted to your frame. If you wanted, you could take on the Praxian base code, but you don’t absolutely have to. Your programming is actually fine. A little convoluted and inefficient in spaces, but I can fix it. Take some time to decide, you survived this long, another day or more won’t hurt you.” Bumblebee nodded, and the Porsche spoke again. “And for me?”

“You ought to be thankful that you were sparked to be so adaptable. Any other seeker would have likely gone mad by now.” Ratchet growled. “Your case has no precedent that I have experience with, our best bet is to get Smokescreen here to sit down with you and go over both the Praxian and Vosnian coding, and make suggestions as to which parts you should implement. Then come back to me with his suggestions and I’ll double check them to make sure they won’t succeed where your addled CPU failed previously and send your processors into a programming conflict mediated meltdown.”

“… Right. Thanks Doc.”

“Oh, I’m not finished with you yet.” At Jazz’s questioning look, the medic crossed his arms and glared. “Your. Optics.”

“Eep.”

“Quite right. You do realise that doctor-patient confidentiality exists? They can’t be repaired, yes, but you could have gotten them replaced a long time ago. If you can still get data from them, the new optics will take, it’s only when the entire circuit is dead that replacements would do you no good, as well you’d know, since you’ve been faking that for only Primus knows how long, and for only Primus knows why!”

Realising that Prowl had only told Ratchet what the medic had absolutely needed to know, the visored mech raised his hands in a placating manner. “Sorry ‘bout that, Ratch’, but my visor’s pretty good, better than my optics ever were, and the whole ‘looking blind’ thing saved my aft on more than one occasion. So, I kept them like this.”

There was a resigned puff of air from the medic’s intakes, and he shuttered his optics, pinching his nasal bridge in frustration. “And I don’t suppose you’d be any more willing to let me replace them now.”

“… Maybe after the war, okay, Ratchet?”

Meeting the saboteur’s apologetic little half smile with a stern look of his own, Ratchet sighed and nodded. “I will hold you to that, Jazz. I swear it.”

Jazz ducked his head, smiling properly now. “Yessir.”

= = =

The diversionary mech leant against his desk, watching the Ops mech in his office pace back and forth like a caged turbowolf. A tentative comforting note, followed by a querying one had Jazz exhaling softly and moving to sit down on the chair facing the other mech.

“No psychiatrist’s couch, Smokey?” Smokescreen chuckled lightly, allowing the distraction. “I wanted one, when I researched human customs and found out the stereotype, but I don’t really have that kind of space in here.”

He gestured about his office. “Can you imagine how big it would have to be able to accommodate every frame type on the Ark? Chairs were simply easier, logistics wise. But if you want the ‘proper’ experience, I do have a small bench type thing I use for the bots who can’t easily fit into the chairs.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Alright. So, before we go over the programming, tell me why you don’t want to be here. I can’t help you if you’re too fritzed to be present in both CPU and chassis.”

“I… It’s not you, Smokescreen.”

“Right. And every Ops bot I’ve ever met has been jumpy around me because they’re all averse to the colour blue.” The Datsun drawled, and Jazz snickered before replying.

“Actually, it’s your yellow chevron.”

“Ah, so much makes sense now.”

“So, you’ll change it?”

“No, but I’ll start you three on a desensitisation program. General practice doesn’t recommend hiding from your troubles, understand?” The diversionary tactician flashed Jazz a brief smile, and the Ops mech grinned, conceding. “Yeah, yeah, I get you.”

“I know that Ops doesn’t like having their psyche picked over and their secrets ferreted out by outsiders, and for most part I’ve been willing to let your lot be in that department. I only hope you’d know to come to me or Ratchet should there actually be issues you can’t handle on your own. But this isn’t a session, I’m just showing you the subroutines and programs a Praxian type would have.”

The Porsche was silent, gazing sightlessly at his pedes, and the blue mech tilted his helm curiously before prompting the mech. “Jazz?”

“I dunno. I haven’t used the codes in so long, but the flight capable seeker is still… part of me. To remove that programming…”

“It isn’t that much different, Jazz.” Smokescreen’s expression was understanding, and when the visored mech looked up in surprise, the Datsun shrugged. “We route sensor data through different analysis programs, and our wings obviously move differently, but for a few minor changes, the base programming stays the same.” Again, there was that flash of a quick grin. “I’d not be called seekerkin otherwise.”

“I always wondered how much the programming differed.”

“And you’re still stalling. If my secondary function bothers you so much, I could get Prowl or Bluestr-”

“It’s alright, really! Wait. Bluestreak?”

“We’re trinemates. Naturally, he has the same security clearances we do, he just chooses to keep out of most matters. It’s easier than constantly having to keep him in the dark, especially when he’s in our CPUs more often than not.”

The matter of fact explanation didn’t calm Jazz. If anything, the visored mech only grew more fidgety, and Smokescreen stared at the Porsche, puzzled by his behaviour. “Jazz, what don’t you want Prowl finding out? I can keep a secret, even from him, and my trinemates will respect whatever reason I give.”

The Ops mech covered his faceplates with a hand, sighing again, and the Datsun fluted a coaxing note, doors flexing in a non-threatening manner. When Jazz still didn’t respond, Smokescreen raised an optic ridge and rose from his perch on the desktop to rest a hand on the other mech’s shoulder.

“Look, one of us is going to have to help you with the protocols eventually, lest we all end up in Ratchet’s yet to be started toaster collection. Now, I have no ambitions of being one of his first few acquisitions, so if you have an issue against Prowl, I’d suggest airing it now.”

Jazz vented his intakes slowly before replying. “I don’t have any problems with Prowl.”

The blue tactician gave him an even look. “Honestly, you wouldn’t be the first to come to me because of him. I know our SIC can be difficult to understand. Pit, I’m his trinemate and a behavioural analyst, and he still manages to baffle me sometimes.”

“Frag, Smokey, it’s not a problem.”

“If it’s making you go glitchy on me, I’d say it is.”

“Well, I say it’s not.”

“Oh for crying out loud, Jazz. If it’s not a problem, then why are you-” Smokescreen stopped short, then blinked at the Porsche. “Jazz, do you like Prowl?”

The visored mech just stared at him, mouth working for a moment before the words actually sounded. “… ‘Course I do! He’s my friend and we work together a lot, it’d make things rather difficult if I didn’t.” The Datsun groaned.

“Primus, I can’t believe I’m talking like this. I mean like as in like, Jazz. As in, ‘would like to jump Prowl in a darkened corridor and frag him until his ability to process code goes to the Pit and takes his damned logic with it’.”

When Jazz blinked at him, then thunked his helm repeatedly against the back of his chair, Smokescreen nodded, the weight that had settled on his spark when he first asked the Ops mech about Prowl dissipating. This made things much easier.