![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ante_luceTitle: Division
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Smokescreen. Bluestreak.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
He stepped into the makeshift base, set up in the most structurally sound of the surrounding buildings, ducking through the partially collapsed doorway to approach the medic who’d summoned him. The femme looked up from the datapad she was holding, nodding at him in greeting.
“Glad you could make it here on such short notice.”
“I was in Praxus already, in any case.” He shrugged, and the medic cycled air softly, rubbing wearily at her optics.
“Yes… I suppose you would have been. My sympathies, Smokescreen.”
“What seems to be the problem? There are other bots trained in psychology already present, yet you asked for me specifically.”
The femme let the change in topic pass without comment. “We have a survivor.”
“… A survivor.” The chevroned mech’s tone was flat, and the medic reached for his shoulder, squeezing it gently before continuing.
“Our bots found him staggering towards them, badly hurt and barely functioning. He crashed into their arms, and was rushed back to us immediately. He onlined once or twice, asking for the bot who pulled him out of the rubble.”
The femme paused, expression troubled, and Smokescreen prompted her. “Go on.”
“He doesn’t remember meeting the team who spotted him. Doesn’t remember walking towards them. Says he was trapped under some collapsed building and another mech dug him out, and that he fell offline soon after he was freed. But we’ve searched every micron of our mech’s path, and found no one else.”
“Mental and physical trauma resulting in a scrambling of memory data?” The tactician suggested, and the medic shook her head.
“We don’t know. He’s gotten pretty panicky each time we bring him online and can’t produce his rescuer. We’ve had to keep him sedated.”
“I still don’t see why you called me in.” Putting aside the hope that more had lived through the catastrophe for now, Smokescreen frowned, and she sighed.
“We can’t keep drugging him. He’s asking for a bot of Praxian make. You’re one of the few left now, as far as I know. It’s a long shot, but maybe you can help him.”
= = =
Smokescreen watched as they slowly brought the other mech online. Restraints held his limbs securely to the berth, and cables linked him to numerous monitoring devices. Optics lit up, one cracked and the other flickering, and the bot attempted to lift his head, trying to see who else was in the room with him.
“Have you found him yet?” The mech struggled, and the tactician realised the purpose of the restraints. They kept the damaged mech from worsening his injuries with his thrashing. The femme medic hurried to the mech’s side, beckoning at Smokescreen to follow.
“Is this him?” He stepped forward into the grey mech’s visual field, only for the other Praxian to shake his head and increase his efforts at escaping his bonds.
“He’s not… Please, you have to let me go find him. He must have left me to look for help, but you found me before he got back. He’s probably looking for me! It’s not safe outside! We can’t leave him out there!”
Smokescreen pressed down on the keening mech’s shoulders, carefully stilling his movements. Keeping his tone low and soothing, he asked. “It would help if we knew who we were looking for. This mech, what does he look like? What are his colours?”
“He… he looks like me. But he’s got no colour in his paintjob; it’s all black and white. Except for his chevron, that’s like mine, I think. My optics are damaged, I can’t really tell colour right now.” The mech seemed calmer, and the diversionary tactician released him, standing upright again.
“Do you know his designation? The more information we have, the easier it will be to find him. Perhaps he’s part of the troops sent here, and was deployed elsewhere after we found you. If not, he may be on the refugee list.”
“I… I can’t…”
“Hey, watch it! What do you think you’re doing, skulking about like that? We’ve got enough work to do without having to patch up ourselves up after tripping over every idiot who decides to prowl around the med bay. If you’re not injured, then get!” The yelling startled the three of them, and Smokescreen turned to see another medic berating a sheepish looking bot as the femme growled and headed over to break up the altercation.
The grey mech on the berth stilled, then looked at Smokescreen, expression serious. “Prowl. His name was Prowl.”
The blue mech paused, then nodded. “… Alright. And your own?”
“I’m Bluestreak. Um… Who are you? Are you a medic?”
“Thank you, Bluestreak. My name is Smokescreen. I’m a tactician with the Autobots, but my secondary function is that of a psychologist.” At Bluestreak’s uncomprehending look, he added. “Kind of like a medic for the mind.”
“Oh. Will you help me look for Prowl?”
“I will. Do you remember anything else about him?”
“… I… He’s a tactician too.”
“I think that’s enough for now. Bluestreak, if you promise to stay on your berth, we can remove those restraints.” The femme medic had returned. The grey mech nodded meekly, and was soon released. Sitting up and glancing hopefully at the pair, he asked again.
“You’ll find Prowl?”
“We’re going to look for him now, alright? Try and recharge a little. We’ll let you know what we find out.” She petted his helm gently, then left the med bay with Smokescreen.
= = =
Once out of the room, the medic glanced at the diversionary mech, who had a concerned expression on his faceplates.
“What’s that look for? It’s a good lead, isn’t it?”
“It would be. If I weren’t absolutely sure that there isn’t another Praxian tactician in the Autobot ranks. Much less a black and white one named Prowl.” The chevroned mech was frowning, arms crossed before him as the femme rebooted her optics.
“Are you saying a Decepticon helped our mech?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Then, who was Bluestreak talking about?”
Smokescreen exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling with a troubled air.
“… I think this ‘Prowl’… doesn’t exist at all.”
= = =
He wasn’t looking forward to this at all. Firstly, because no one had heard of or seen a black and white Praxian, and every database he’d searched had turned up nil for a bot by the name of Prowl. Bluestreak’s worried expression each time he showed up, bearing no news, was spark wrenching. And secondly, the medic femme had informed him that the young mech had just managed to fall into recharge for the cycle, and Smokescreen was loathe to disrupt what rest the unfortunate spark could grasp.
But when Smokescreen entered the room, the grey mech within made him pause. Bluestreak was standing upright, the distinctive sensor panels of their common Praxian frame positioned high and stiff. Suddenly wary, the diversionary tactician took a step back when the mech he knew had to be Bluestreak turned around.
A solemn expression, unlike any he’d ever seen on the younger bot met him. An assessing gaze raked him over, making him feel as if his plating were made of flimsy tin sheeting instead of battle worthy armour. Stunned, he spoke the grey Praxian’s name questioningly.
“Bluestreak?”
The mech only looked at him, then folded his arms loosely and replied.
“He is in recharge.” This mech’s vocal patterns were different too. Cool, distant and impassive. Smokescreen suppressed a shiver, and continued questioning the other bot.
“Then, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you? Because the last time I checked, you were Bluestreak.”
“I am and am not. Bluestreak needed a way to override his emotional responses and act rationally during the attack on Praxus. I resulted.”
The tactician rebooted his optics. “A personality programming split. You’re his Prowl?”
“No. ‘Prowl’ is a figment of Bluestreak’s imagination. An attempt to reconcile the fact of his survival with the certainty of deactivation that his memory banks recorded. While my actions did get Bluestreak out of immediate peril, obviously, I am neither black and white, nor am I in any military position.”
“… Alright. That answers my next question of whether he knows about you. Why are you showing yourself only now?”
“Because you were due to visit, and Bluestreak was coincidentally in recharge at the same time. I require your assistance in reassimilating with him. He should not remain thus divided, and you are qualified in the treatment of such matters.”
The grey mech stopped, then slid back onto the berth. “He’s waking. Until the next time, Smokescreen.” His optics dimmed, then brightened as Bluestreak came online.
“Smokescreen?”
Processors whirling, he still managed a smile for the younger Praxian. “Hey, Blue’.”
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Smokescreen. Bluestreak.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
He stepped into the makeshift base, set up in the most structurally sound of the surrounding buildings, ducking through the partially collapsed doorway to approach the medic who’d summoned him. The femme looked up from the datapad she was holding, nodding at him in greeting.
“Glad you could make it here on such short notice.”
“I was in Praxus already, in any case.” He shrugged, and the medic cycled air softly, rubbing wearily at her optics.
“Yes… I suppose you would have been. My sympathies, Smokescreen.”
“What seems to be the problem? There are other bots trained in psychology already present, yet you asked for me specifically.”
The femme let the change in topic pass without comment. “We have a survivor.”
“… A survivor.” The chevroned mech’s tone was flat, and the medic reached for his shoulder, squeezing it gently before continuing.
“Our bots found him staggering towards them, badly hurt and barely functioning. He crashed into their arms, and was rushed back to us immediately. He onlined once or twice, asking for the bot who pulled him out of the rubble.”
The femme paused, expression troubled, and Smokescreen prompted her. “Go on.”
“He doesn’t remember meeting the team who spotted him. Doesn’t remember walking towards them. Says he was trapped under some collapsed building and another mech dug him out, and that he fell offline soon after he was freed. But we’ve searched every micron of our mech’s path, and found no one else.”
“Mental and physical trauma resulting in a scrambling of memory data?” The tactician suggested, and the medic shook her head.
“We don’t know. He’s gotten pretty panicky each time we bring him online and can’t produce his rescuer. We’ve had to keep him sedated.”
“I still don’t see why you called me in.” Putting aside the hope that more had lived through the catastrophe for now, Smokescreen frowned, and she sighed.
“We can’t keep drugging him. He’s asking for a bot of Praxian make. You’re one of the few left now, as far as I know. It’s a long shot, but maybe you can help him.”
= = =
Smokescreen watched as they slowly brought the other mech online. Restraints held his limbs securely to the berth, and cables linked him to numerous monitoring devices. Optics lit up, one cracked and the other flickering, and the bot attempted to lift his head, trying to see who else was in the room with him.
“Have you found him yet?” The mech struggled, and the tactician realised the purpose of the restraints. They kept the damaged mech from worsening his injuries with his thrashing. The femme medic hurried to the mech’s side, beckoning at Smokescreen to follow.
“Is this him?” He stepped forward into the grey mech’s visual field, only for the other Praxian to shake his head and increase his efforts at escaping his bonds.
“He’s not… Please, you have to let me go find him. He must have left me to look for help, but you found me before he got back. He’s probably looking for me! It’s not safe outside! We can’t leave him out there!”
Smokescreen pressed down on the keening mech’s shoulders, carefully stilling his movements. Keeping his tone low and soothing, he asked. “It would help if we knew who we were looking for. This mech, what does he look like? What are his colours?”
“He… he looks like me. But he’s got no colour in his paintjob; it’s all black and white. Except for his chevron, that’s like mine, I think. My optics are damaged, I can’t really tell colour right now.” The mech seemed calmer, and the diversionary tactician released him, standing upright again.
“Do you know his designation? The more information we have, the easier it will be to find him. Perhaps he’s part of the troops sent here, and was deployed elsewhere after we found you. If not, he may be on the refugee list.”
“I… I can’t…”
“Hey, watch it! What do you think you’re doing, skulking about like that? We’ve got enough work to do without having to patch up ourselves up after tripping over every idiot who decides to prowl around the med bay. If you’re not injured, then get!” The yelling startled the three of them, and Smokescreen turned to see another medic berating a sheepish looking bot as the femme growled and headed over to break up the altercation.
The grey mech on the berth stilled, then looked at Smokescreen, expression serious. “Prowl. His name was Prowl.”
The blue mech paused, then nodded. “… Alright. And your own?”
“I’m Bluestreak. Um… Who are you? Are you a medic?”
“Thank you, Bluestreak. My name is Smokescreen. I’m a tactician with the Autobots, but my secondary function is that of a psychologist.” At Bluestreak’s uncomprehending look, he added. “Kind of like a medic for the mind.”
“Oh. Will you help me look for Prowl?”
“I will. Do you remember anything else about him?”
“… I… He’s a tactician too.”
“I think that’s enough for now. Bluestreak, if you promise to stay on your berth, we can remove those restraints.” The femme medic had returned. The grey mech nodded meekly, and was soon released. Sitting up and glancing hopefully at the pair, he asked again.
“You’ll find Prowl?”
“We’re going to look for him now, alright? Try and recharge a little. We’ll let you know what we find out.” She petted his helm gently, then left the med bay with Smokescreen.
= = =
Once out of the room, the medic glanced at the diversionary mech, who had a concerned expression on his faceplates.
“What’s that look for? It’s a good lead, isn’t it?”
“It would be. If I weren’t absolutely sure that there isn’t another Praxian tactician in the Autobot ranks. Much less a black and white one named Prowl.” The chevroned mech was frowning, arms crossed before him as the femme rebooted her optics.
“Are you saying a Decepticon helped our mech?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Then, who was Bluestreak talking about?”
Smokescreen exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling with a troubled air.
“… I think this ‘Prowl’… doesn’t exist at all.”
= = =
He wasn’t looking forward to this at all. Firstly, because no one had heard of or seen a black and white Praxian, and every database he’d searched had turned up nil for a bot by the name of Prowl. Bluestreak’s worried expression each time he showed up, bearing no news, was spark wrenching. And secondly, the medic femme had informed him that the young mech had just managed to fall into recharge for the cycle, and Smokescreen was loathe to disrupt what rest the unfortunate spark could grasp.
But when Smokescreen entered the room, the grey mech within made him pause. Bluestreak was standing upright, the distinctive sensor panels of their common Praxian frame positioned high and stiff. Suddenly wary, the diversionary tactician took a step back when the mech he knew had to be Bluestreak turned around.
A solemn expression, unlike any he’d ever seen on the younger bot met him. An assessing gaze raked him over, making him feel as if his plating were made of flimsy tin sheeting instead of battle worthy armour. Stunned, he spoke the grey Praxian’s name questioningly.
“Bluestreak?”
The mech only looked at him, then folded his arms loosely and replied.
“He is in recharge.” This mech’s vocal patterns were different too. Cool, distant and impassive. Smokescreen suppressed a shiver, and continued questioning the other bot.
“Then, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you? Because the last time I checked, you were Bluestreak.”
“I am and am not. Bluestreak needed a way to override his emotional responses and act rationally during the attack on Praxus. I resulted.”
The tactician rebooted his optics. “A personality programming split. You’re his Prowl?”
“No. ‘Prowl’ is a figment of Bluestreak’s imagination. An attempt to reconcile the fact of his survival with the certainty of deactivation that his memory banks recorded. While my actions did get Bluestreak out of immediate peril, obviously, I am neither black and white, nor am I in any military position.”
“… Alright. That answers my next question of whether he knows about you. Why are you showing yourself only now?”
“Because you were due to visit, and Bluestreak was coincidentally in recharge at the same time. I require your assistance in reassimilating with him. He should not remain thus divided, and you are qualified in the treatment of such matters.”
The grey mech stopped, then slid back onto the berth. “He’s waking. Until the next time, Smokescreen.” His optics dimmed, then brightened as Bluestreak came online.
“Smokescreen?”
Processors whirling, he still managed a smile for the younger Praxian. “Hey, Blue’.”
