Differentiation
Oct. 2nd, 2009 01:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ante_luceTitle: Differentiation
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Smokescreen. Bluestreak.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Next part of the split personality fic.
Smokescreen kept the existence of Bluestreak’s ‘other self’ quiet. The second personality seemed to be laying low as well, though the psychologist wasn’t sure if that was out of self preservation (having the younger Praxian labelled as glitched would not be a good thing), or because Bluestreak himself wasn’t able to fall into recharge long enough for him to surface anyway.
Standing by the side of Bluestreak’s berth, he sighed down at the mech. Sedation, the means through which the grey mech was getting most of his rest (and the main reason he was unconscious right now), naturally affected both personalities, leaving Smokescreen at a loss as to how to proceed.
“He’s mending well. Physically at least.”
The chevroned mech jumped. He hadn’t heard the medic approach. Glancing over his shoulder, he nodded to the medic, then turned back to the mech on the berth. “That’s good to know.”
Silence fell between them, then Smokescreen made his hesitant admission. “… I fear I’m not helping him much, Differential. He’s still asking after ‘Prowl’, and I haven’t the spark to tell him that the mech doesn’t exist. Truth be told, I’m afraid of what might happen if I did.”
“Anyone with optics and audios knows Bluestreak’s got a long, difficult road on that front. You’re doing your best, in addition to all your other duties and responsibilities here. As for ‘Prowl’… we’ll deal with that when it comes.” The femme replied, moving closer to the offline mech to run a quick scan. “Good news. The sedatives have worn off, he’s recharging naturally now.”
There was a crash outside, and she directed a longsuffering look at the door. “And that sounds like my cue to go. They probably need me in the main med bay.”
The moment she was out of audio range, Smokescreen fixed his gaze back onto the grey form. It stirred, optics lighting faintly. The blue mech seated himself on the berth, blocking the mech’s head from the view of any bot who might approach them.
“Smokescreen.”
The composed manner identified the personality currently awake, and the tactician vented air softly in relief.
“It’s you. Good. We really need to come up with a designation for you.”
“Wouldn’t it be better not to? The less distinct I am from Bluestreak, the easier it should be to rejoin him.”
Smokescreen was about to answer when a loud blast rocked the area, sending both mechs scrambling to their pedes and towards the door. The medic met them outside the room, expression grim.
“Differential? What’s going on?” The tactician asked, and she muttered back, trying to keep the younger bot from hearing.
“We’re under attack. The Decepticons don’t like that we’re still hanging around their ‘masterpiece of annihilation’. Apparently it dilutes the message they were trying to send. We’re holding, for now, but we need to get the injured to safety before our defence falls.”
Smokescreen wavered, sensor panels flicking agitatedly, torn between his duty and the mech beside him. Differential took his forearm, gripping it firmly. “You have to get to the frontlines. They’ll need you there.”
The blue mech frowned, glancing back at the grey Praxian. The frightened look that met him almost made him swear in frustration. Bluestreak was back in residence, and at exactly the most unfortunate time too. The younger chevroned mech was visibly shaking, and the femme steadied his trembling frame.
“I’ll watch over Bluestreak. Go.”
Reluctantly, Smokescreen clasped Bluestreak’s shoulder, trying to reassure him, then headed in the direction of the conflict. Differential then turned her attentions to the grey mech, slowly coaxing him to where the wounded were being evacuated.
They almost made it.
The majority of the transports were already full when the Decepticons finally broke through. As the first evac craft rose off the ground and away from danger, Autobots fell back, surrounding the cluster to try and buy them a little more time.
Differential was at the last ship, trying to drag Bluestreak up the entry ramp. The grey mech was fighting her efforts at every step.
“Blue’! We have to get out of here!”
“I can’t! I didn’t see Prowl anywhere, he’s got to still be in Praxus!”
“Prowl isn’t here! He’s not real!”
“NO!” He broke free, shoving her in the direction of the ramp and into the arms of the bot pulling the evacuees onboard before backing away. The femme reached out to him, optics pleading, but Bluestreak shook his head resolutely.
“No. He’s out there, and I have to find him.”
“Bluestreak! Come back!”
Heedless of the medic’s cry, the grey Praxian turned and ran off as Differential tried to get away from the bot holding onto her. He vanished amongst the rubble, and she sagged in defeat.
= = =
Smokescreen spoke into his comm., directing Autobots where they were needed, a difficult enough task even when their forces weren’t already decimated. He didn’t bother himself with thoughts about defending Praxus. The city was beyond lost. All they were doing was holding out long enough for the evac ships to leave, and then they would scatter, hiding amongst the ruins of his home until they could escape as well.
The call came in and he gave the order to disperse, then scrambled for cover. A sound made him whirl around, and he swore violently when he saw who’d joined him.
“Damn it Bluestreak! You’re supposed to be on a transport out of here!”
“I can’t leave. Prowl’s still here.”
At the shaky, yet determined answer, he swore again, then grabbed a rifle from a deactivated form lying on the ground, holding it out to the other Praxian. Bluestreak cringed away from the weapon, and the tactician snapped.
“Take it. You’re going to need it.”
The grey mech lifted the object gingerly from his grasp, and Smokescreen pointed out the gun’s features perfunctorily. “Safety. Trigger. Sights. Power pack. Power gauge. Don’t point it at anything you’re not prepared to want dead. Now, move. We’ve stayed in this spot too long.”
“Oh, don’t leave now.”
The Decepticons that found them leered triumphantly, and the blue mech immediately put himself between them and Bluestreak. The lead ‘Con looked them over, smirking when his gaze lighted on the grey Praxian and Bluestreak flinched.
“What have we here? Two Praxians. One an Autobot, and the other… Ah, you’re a survivor. Can’t have that. Makes us look bad.”
The younger mech brought up his weapon, the barrel wavering, and the Deception laughed.
“You’ve never even seen one of those before, have you?”
“I can still shoot you with it!”
“Oh, really?” The large bot seemed amused, and waved carelessly at the weapon. “Your safety’s on. Just so you know.”
Bluestreak looked down at the rifle, and the Decepticon roared, lunging at the pair. Smokescreen slammed into him, shouting at the other chevroned mech.
“Bluestreak, run! I’ll hold them-”
The tactician was flung away mid sentence, impacting against a collapsed wall with the sickening crunch of crumpling metal. Dazed and hovering on the brink of unconsciousness, he could only watch helplessly as the ‘Cons advanced on Bluestreak, the first Decepticon bowling the grey mech over, tumbling him to the ground. The other Praxian scrabbled in the blue mech’s direction, followed by his tormentors, only to be hauled up by a hand digging into his neck cables.
Bluestreak choked as the mech lifting him tightened his grip, impeding the flow of energon through his lines and making it hard for his processors to run smoothly. One hand clawed at the iron grip around his throat, the other clutched the rifle Smokescreen had handed him, unable to gather the wits release it.
He went limp at last, and Smokescreen’s vocaliser worked, making a small, unheard sound of despair. The ‘Con brought Bluestreak closer, gloating over his slack face and dark optics, only to drop the Praxian when a burning pain shot through his middle.
The chevroned mech landed in a clumsy heap, but recovered quickly enough to crawl over to the tactician. Blinking up at Bluestreak (or rather, Bluestreak’s other personality) as grey arms pulled him upright and supported him as they hobbled away, Smokescreen murmured.
“Did you…?”
“He will not die from the wound if it is treated. But I have seen what Decepticons do to the wounded, even their own, and he is in an isolated area. Their infighting over his effects should keep them occupied long enough for us to be elsewhere.”
“Any… plans, after… that?”
“Hide.”
“Sounds… good.”
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Smokescreen. Bluestreak.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Next part of the split personality fic.
Smokescreen kept the existence of Bluestreak’s ‘other self’ quiet. The second personality seemed to be laying low as well, though the psychologist wasn’t sure if that was out of self preservation (having the younger Praxian labelled as glitched would not be a good thing), or because Bluestreak himself wasn’t able to fall into recharge long enough for him to surface anyway.
Standing by the side of Bluestreak’s berth, he sighed down at the mech. Sedation, the means through which the grey mech was getting most of his rest (and the main reason he was unconscious right now), naturally affected both personalities, leaving Smokescreen at a loss as to how to proceed.
“He’s mending well. Physically at least.”
The chevroned mech jumped. He hadn’t heard the medic approach. Glancing over his shoulder, he nodded to the medic, then turned back to the mech on the berth. “That’s good to know.”
Silence fell between them, then Smokescreen made his hesitant admission. “… I fear I’m not helping him much, Differential. He’s still asking after ‘Prowl’, and I haven’t the spark to tell him that the mech doesn’t exist. Truth be told, I’m afraid of what might happen if I did.”
“Anyone with optics and audios knows Bluestreak’s got a long, difficult road on that front. You’re doing your best, in addition to all your other duties and responsibilities here. As for ‘Prowl’… we’ll deal with that when it comes.” The femme replied, moving closer to the offline mech to run a quick scan. “Good news. The sedatives have worn off, he’s recharging naturally now.”
There was a crash outside, and she directed a longsuffering look at the door. “And that sounds like my cue to go. They probably need me in the main med bay.”
The moment she was out of audio range, Smokescreen fixed his gaze back onto the grey form. It stirred, optics lighting faintly. The blue mech seated himself on the berth, blocking the mech’s head from the view of any bot who might approach them.
“Smokescreen.”
The composed manner identified the personality currently awake, and the tactician vented air softly in relief.
“It’s you. Good. We really need to come up with a designation for you.”
“Wouldn’t it be better not to? The less distinct I am from Bluestreak, the easier it should be to rejoin him.”
Smokescreen was about to answer when a loud blast rocked the area, sending both mechs scrambling to their pedes and towards the door. The medic met them outside the room, expression grim.
“Differential? What’s going on?” The tactician asked, and she muttered back, trying to keep the younger bot from hearing.
“We’re under attack. The Decepticons don’t like that we’re still hanging around their ‘masterpiece of annihilation’. Apparently it dilutes the message they were trying to send. We’re holding, for now, but we need to get the injured to safety before our defence falls.”
Smokescreen wavered, sensor panels flicking agitatedly, torn between his duty and the mech beside him. Differential took his forearm, gripping it firmly. “You have to get to the frontlines. They’ll need you there.”
The blue mech frowned, glancing back at the grey Praxian. The frightened look that met him almost made him swear in frustration. Bluestreak was back in residence, and at exactly the most unfortunate time too. The younger chevroned mech was visibly shaking, and the femme steadied his trembling frame.
“I’ll watch over Bluestreak. Go.”
Reluctantly, Smokescreen clasped Bluestreak’s shoulder, trying to reassure him, then headed in the direction of the conflict. Differential then turned her attentions to the grey mech, slowly coaxing him to where the wounded were being evacuated.
They almost made it.
The majority of the transports were already full when the Decepticons finally broke through. As the first evac craft rose off the ground and away from danger, Autobots fell back, surrounding the cluster to try and buy them a little more time.
Differential was at the last ship, trying to drag Bluestreak up the entry ramp. The grey mech was fighting her efforts at every step.
“Blue’! We have to get out of here!”
“I can’t! I didn’t see Prowl anywhere, he’s got to still be in Praxus!”
“Prowl isn’t here! He’s not real!”
“NO!” He broke free, shoving her in the direction of the ramp and into the arms of the bot pulling the evacuees onboard before backing away. The femme reached out to him, optics pleading, but Bluestreak shook his head resolutely.
“No. He’s out there, and I have to find him.”
“Bluestreak! Come back!”
Heedless of the medic’s cry, the grey Praxian turned and ran off as Differential tried to get away from the bot holding onto her. He vanished amongst the rubble, and she sagged in defeat.
= = =
Smokescreen spoke into his comm., directing Autobots where they were needed, a difficult enough task even when their forces weren’t already decimated. He didn’t bother himself with thoughts about defending Praxus. The city was beyond lost. All they were doing was holding out long enough for the evac ships to leave, and then they would scatter, hiding amongst the ruins of his home until they could escape as well.
The call came in and he gave the order to disperse, then scrambled for cover. A sound made him whirl around, and he swore violently when he saw who’d joined him.
“Damn it Bluestreak! You’re supposed to be on a transport out of here!”
“I can’t leave. Prowl’s still here.”
At the shaky, yet determined answer, he swore again, then grabbed a rifle from a deactivated form lying on the ground, holding it out to the other Praxian. Bluestreak cringed away from the weapon, and the tactician snapped.
“Take it. You’re going to need it.”
The grey mech lifted the object gingerly from his grasp, and Smokescreen pointed out the gun’s features perfunctorily. “Safety. Trigger. Sights. Power pack. Power gauge. Don’t point it at anything you’re not prepared to want dead. Now, move. We’ve stayed in this spot too long.”
“Oh, don’t leave now.”
The Decepticons that found them leered triumphantly, and the blue mech immediately put himself between them and Bluestreak. The lead ‘Con looked them over, smirking when his gaze lighted on the grey Praxian and Bluestreak flinched.
“What have we here? Two Praxians. One an Autobot, and the other… Ah, you’re a survivor. Can’t have that. Makes us look bad.”
The younger mech brought up his weapon, the barrel wavering, and the Deception laughed.
“You’ve never even seen one of those before, have you?”
“I can still shoot you with it!”
“Oh, really?” The large bot seemed amused, and waved carelessly at the weapon. “Your safety’s on. Just so you know.”
Bluestreak looked down at the rifle, and the Decepticon roared, lunging at the pair. Smokescreen slammed into him, shouting at the other chevroned mech.
“Bluestreak, run! I’ll hold them-”
The tactician was flung away mid sentence, impacting against a collapsed wall with the sickening crunch of crumpling metal. Dazed and hovering on the brink of unconsciousness, he could only watch helplessly as the ‘Cons advanced on Bluestreak, the first Decepticon bowling the grey mech over, tumbling him to the ground. The other Praxian scrabbled in the blue mech’s direction, followed by his tormentors, only to be hauled up by a hand digging into his neck cables.
Bluestreak choked as the mech lifting him tightened his grip, impeding the flow of energon through his lines and making it hard for his processors to run smoothly. One hand clawed at the iron grip around his throat, the other clutched the rifle Smokescreen had handed him, unable to gather the wits release it.
He went limp at last, and Smokescreen’s vocaliser worked, making a small, unheard sound of despair. The ‘Con brought Bluestreak closer, gloating over his slack face and dark optics, only to drop the Praxian when a burning pain shot through his middle.
The chevroned mech landed in a clumsy heap, but recovered quickly enough to crawl over to the tactician. Blinking up at Bluestreak (or rather, Bluestreak’s other personality) as grey arms pulled him upright and supported him as they hobbled away, Smokescreen murmured.
“Did you…?”
“He will not die from the wound if it is treated. But I have seen what Decepticons do to the wounded, even their own, and he is in an isolated area. Their infighting over his effects should keep them occupied long enough for us to be elsewhere.”
“Any… plans, after… that?”
“Hide.”
“Sounds… good.”
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Date: 2009-10-02 03:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-10-03 08:47 am (UTC)