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ante_luceBy popular vote, bunny got its first chapter. I have no bearings for US army procedure, so... pretty much making stuff up as I go along.
Title: Of Bindings - An Arrival and a Resurrection
'Verse: 2007 movie Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing
The hangar was quiet. Relatively, that is, for a space occupied by several large sentient alien robots. The move into the base had gone smoothly, again, relatively. A medical bay had been set up, more a demarked area into which no one, mech or human set foot into without dire need. Perhaps after its current occupant had calmed down.
Said occupant was muttering darkly, the sounds unintelligible (though the vitriol was unmistakeable) even to the ones who’d known him longest as he hunkered over two silver and darker coloured metal scrap heaps (said occupant’s own words), piecing them together. Occasionally, a snatch of his soliloquy would come in clearly, and the effect rather went a little something like this.
“*Mutter mutter* Stupid slag heap *mutter snarl mutter growl* Fix the fragging idiot quickly *snarl grumble* Glitching basket case *mumble mutter* As if being a medic were easy *mutter mutter* Do I look like Primus? *growl* Think I can pull miracles out of my aft *mumble mutter*.”
And so on.
This diatribe was punctuated by rather vicious clanks as anger was vented through the application of tools to work surface (i.e the unfortunate scrap heaps), although delicate wiring and circuitry, and practically everything that wasn’t outer armour was handled almost tenderly.
As such, it was understandable that a pair of human teenagers, one Army Captain (the Technical Sergeant had wandered off to get popcorn), one scout, one trigger happy frontliner and one by now very much verbally abused leader ‘bot kept well out of Ratchet’s throwing range. The humans were watching the proceedings with wide eyes, occasionally flinching as some phrase (usually of local origin and highly impossible physically, and though yet to be proven so for their new friends, by all that was good and right in the world they did not want to find out either way) became audible.
Their not-human companions refused flat out to translate the phrases that were not in English. Or in any earthly language. At one point large metal hands descended over the scout’s audio receptors, prompting the mech equivalent of an eyeroll and a petulant burst of static. To pass the time (and provide a distraction from some of the more… colourful phrases), they made small talk.
“So. Care to ‘splain why you sent the medic into a temper fit to terrify Unicron himself, Prime?” The black mech was curious; the leader of their little group didn’t usually test his luck in such extreme manners. The teenaged girl chimed in, also curious. “Yeah. I thought Jazz had… passed on. It seems a waste of time and resources,” and here the unheard ‘and your position in Ratchet’s good graces’ was evident. “To push the repairs like this.”
The mech being questioned shifted slightly, gathering his thoughts for an answer. After an expectant pause, he finally spoke. “I do not know precisely the reason; however, a few days back I received a transmission from one of our number.” Optimus waited for the resultant uproar to die down. “As faint as it was, it made two things clear. One was that we will soon be joined by an ally, and the other was a request that Jazz was to be made whole and physically functional as quickly as possible.”
All assembled fell silent at that, before more questions were fired in the Peterbilt’s direction. “Peace, I can only answer one question at a time. Firstly, I received the transmission early in the week, and by the timeframe given in the message our comrade should be making planet fall within the next month or so. Secondly, I am confident it was not a fake, nor was it traced, tracked or hacked by humans or Decepticons. Thirdly, the mech behind the message is well known to me and the rest of us Autobots on Earth.”
Another expectant pause as his audience considered that maybe Optimus had a penchant for being dramatic and drawing things out to torment them. And behind his battle mask the mech smiled, being the leader of an army, one took his pleasures where one could. Finally, unable to take the suspense, the teenaged boy sighed and asked the inevitable.
“So, who sent the transmission?”
Optimus smiled again. “A dear friend, and the Second in Command of the Autobots. His name, in your language, would be ‘Prowl’.”
========================================
The wait was nearly unbearable. Jazz’s repairs had been completed, and a silver chassis now lay under a tarp, tucked away in what would have been the mech’s quarters, if he were living. They’d managed a few more communications with the incoming mech to brief him on the situation on earth and for him to get landing coordinates, but Optimus had been frustratingly tight lipped about the reason Prowl had asked for Jazz to be repaired, saying that it was a something to be asked of the tactician when he landed.
Most everyone took that to mean the Prime had no clue either.
So they threw themselves into getting the base up and running, in an attempt to take their minds off the question. When getting things running stopped helping, they started scanning for anomalies and signals that would indicate a Cybertronian landing. Between the Autobots, the US military and the networks of a couple of very intrigued computer nerds, it was assumed that they’d hear of Prowl’s arrival relatively quickly.
Thus, it was with much surprise when one quiet afternoon, a car drove up to the base, got let in, and then spoke, politely requesting an audience with Optimus Prime and the individuals in charge.
As the humans expressed their shock with assorted weapons pointed in the newcomer’s direction, the mech arrived, along with Captain Lennox, summoned by frantic calls and (for Optimus) a comm. message.
“Prowl?”
Weapons (and jaws) dropped. The car transformed, and Prowl stepped forward, greeting his commander warmly. As the mech’s shoulder was clapped in welcome, the Captain at their feet stopped his gaping and, after getting their attention, made the following query.
“How-… We’ve been watching the skies ever since we got word about you. How did you avoid getting tagged?!”
To which Prowl had made a sound remarkably like a sigh and replied. “Jazz, miscreant that he is, is a bad influence. I can give you a more detailed report, but I’d like to see him as soon as possible, please.”
“Of course Prowl, there are just a few official procedures to go through first. Captain Lennox, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s get this over with; I’m dying of curiosity here.”
At Prowl’s alarmed warble, the Prime chuckled and patted his arm reassuringly. “A figure of speech, my friend. The human language is full of them.”
The mech nodded, then appeared wistful for a brief moment. “Jazz was loving this planet, wasn’t he.”
“Very much so. I believe he found their music particularly enthralling.”
Another warble, this one a touch depressed sounding as Optimus raised an optic ridge, only to be waved off by Prowl as the subject of arrival formalities was brought up again. The new mech was hustled into the base to get through the red tape, and Optimus contented himself with informing the other Autobots of the arrival, receiving their annoyed replies with a battlemask hidden smirk. If he had to endure the wait, then the others could as well.
========================================
Finally, Prowl was let free from the paperwork. The mech situated himself where Jazz’s body lay, watched by his comrades and four of the humans. As he gently connected a cable to the deactivated form, he heard one of the humans, Robert Epps, if he classified the vocal patterns correctly, ask Ratchet what he was doing.
“Fragged if I know. Prowl, what the slag are you doing?” This came just as Jazz’s optics powered up dimly, though the Solstice’s chassis remained as lifeless as ever.
“Opening Jazz’s chestplates.” Was the detached reply as Prowl focused on his task, kneeling by the berth Jazz lay on. The medic squawked in outrage and was about to reach forward to pull him away when the tactician held up a forestalling arm.
“Please, let me do this, Ratchet.”
Before the chartreuse mech could unleash whatever scathing retort he’d come up with, Jazz’s plates parted with a quiet hiss, and his spark chamber, newly reconstructed, came into view. The chamber split open, as did Prowl’s own plating and chamber, and the mech leant forward over the silvery chassis, slipping a hand under Jazz’s torso to draw the other closer, carefully cradling the limp form. Meanwhile, his audience shifted awkwardly at watching what looked like what was, for them, normally a very private act between individuals, and Ratchet looked like he was about to object.
But then, as the Autobots and humans watched in amazement, a small, bright orb floated across from the SIC into the mech below him. Plating quickly drew closed as Jazz was laid back down. Prowl sat back on his haunches as the dim glow behind the previously deactivated mech’s visor brightened, and his comrades stared in slowly increasing hope. The humans, having no clue as to what was going on, just watched, though they were fairly certain something unusual was about to happen.
“What in Primus’s name, Prowl?” The barely audible comment received no response from the mech whose gaze was fixed on the saboteur. Jazz’s visor brightened further, then abruptly faded. The other mechs sagged. Whatever Prowl had done, it had apparently failed. But the mech didn’t seem disappointed. Instead, he glared at the prone form, yanked out the data cable and jabbed a digit precisely into a sensitive point on Jazz’s frame.
The saboteur shrieked and jerked away from Prowl, toppling over the other side of the berth as he did so, eliciting a brief smirk from the tactician before he sighed and stated, rather dryly. “Are you quite done with being childish, Jazz?”
A muffled and somewhat injured tone answered him. “Slag Prowler, hundred of vorns apart and you’re still no fun.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I like calling you Prowler. S’got a nice ring to it.”
“Your audios will be ringing once I’m done with you if you don’t explain what the slag just happened!” At Ratchet’s ticked off demand, both mechs glanced at each other in slight trepidation before rising to face the interrogation, Jazz somewhat shakily before Prowl prodded him into sitting on the berth.
::Come on, I’m not explaining this on my own.::
::Do we have to?:: Jazz whined back over the bond.
::Megatron tore you in half, and pretty much fragged your spark casing to shrapnel. Once Starscream sees you alive, he’ll know a bond had something to do with it. As the only Autobot to arrive so far, I’m the most likely candidate as your bonded. The others might as well know now, so that they can account for this factor when in battle or in anything else.::
::Why do you always have an answer that I can’t wiggle out of?::
::Bonded for how long, Jazz?::
::Y’doing it again.::
::Answer the angry medic before he makes good on his threat, Jazz.::
A brief pulse of apprehension, coupled with amusement, came across their bond, and the Special Ops mech directed a mock annoyed look at the tactician before clearing his vocaliser.
“Well, y’see…” Jazz trailed off, uncertain as to how to go about with the explanation. At Ratchet’s intensifying glare he quickly babbled out his next words. “Me an’ Prowl are kinda… bonded?”
The medic was not amused. “Bonded.”
“Yeah.”
“And apparently your bond was strong enough for Prowl to be able to keep a hold of your spark after you got your fool self ripped in two.”
“I object to the fool bit.” Here Prowl was faintly heard to say “I don’t.”
“Hush, Prowler. But yep.”
Ironhide snorted. “You expect us to believe that? A bond strong enough to do that takes a slagging long time to form, you’d have to have been bonded for at least half the length of the war for this stunt you just pulled to succeed. And the two of you are hardly candidates for most likely to be bonded. Frag, if you two didn’t have to work together, I’d never think you’d willingly spend time with each other.”
“Well technically after a while we worked together more than we spent time apart…”
Optimus cut in. “I’d like to know when and how, precisely, did this happen.”
“Prowl, I think you’d better take over. I was pretty out of it at the time.”
Prowl sighed. “I suppose.” Looking up at the assembled mechs and humans, he clicked thoughtfully before starting his explanation.
“I met Jazz for the first time near the start of the war...”
Title: Of Bindings - An Arrival and a Resurrection
'Verse: 2007 movie Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing
The hangar was quiet. Relatively, that is, for a space occupied by several large sentient alien robots. The move into the base had gone smoothly, again, relatively. A medical bay had been set up, more a demarked area into which no one, mech or human set foot into without dire need. Perhaps after its current occupant had calmed down.
Said occupant was muttering darkly, the sounds unintelligible (though the vitriol was unmistakeable) even to the ones who’d known him longest as he hunkered over two silver and darker coloured metal scrap heaps (said occupant’s own words), piecing them together. Occasionally, a snatch of his soliloquy would come in clearly, and the effect rather went a little something like this.
“*Mutter mutter* Stupid slag heap *mutter snarl mutter growl* Fix the fragging idiot quickly *snarl grumble* Glitching basket case *mumble mutter* As if being a medic were easy *mutter mutter* Do I look like Primus? *growl* Think I can pull miracles out of my aft *mumble mutter*.”
And so on.
This diatribe was punctuated by rather vicious clanks as anger was vented through the application of tools to work surface (i.e the unfortunate scrap heaps), although delicate wiring and circuitry, and practically everything that wasn’t outer armour was handled almost tenderly.
As such, it was understandable that a pair of human teenagers, one Army Captain (the Technical Sergeant had wandered off to get popcorn), one scout, one trigger happy frontliner and one by now very much verbally abused leader ‘bot kept well out of Ratchet’s throwing range. The humans were watching the proceedings with wide eyes, occasionally flinching as some phrase (usually of local origin and highly impossible physically, and though yet to be proven so for their new friends, by all that was good and right in the world they did not want to find out either way) became audible.
Their not-human companions refused flat out to translate the phrases that were not in English. Or in any earthly language. At one point large metal hands descended over the scout’s audio receptors, prompting the mech equivalent of an eyeroll and a petulant burst of static. To pass the time (and provide a distraction from some of the more… colourful phrases), they made small talk.
“So. Care to ‘splain why you sent the medic into a temper fit to terrify Unicron himself, Prime?” The black mech was curious; the leader of their little group didn’t usually test his luck in such extreme manners. The teenaged girl chimed in, also curious. “Yeah. I thought Jazz had… passed on. It seems a waste of time and resources,” and here the unheard ‘and your position in Ratchet’s good graces’ was evident. “To push the repairs like this.”
The mech being questioned shifted slightly, gathering his thoughts for an answer. After an expectant pause, he finally spoke. “I do not know precisely the reason; however, a few days back I received a transmission from one of our number.” Optimus waited for the resultant uproar to die down. “As faint as it was, it made two things clear. One was that we will soon be joined by an ally, and the other was a request that Jazz was to be made whole and physically functional as quickly as possible.”
All assembled fell silent at that, before more questions were fired in the Peterbilt’s direction. “Peace, I can only answer one question at a time. Firstly, I received the transmission early in the week, and by the timeframe given in the message our comrade should be making planet fall within the next month or so. Secondly, I am confident it was not a fake, nor was it traced, tracked or hacked by humans or Decepticons. Thirdly, the mech behind the message is well known to me and the rest of us Autobots on Earth.”
Another expectant pause as his audience considered that maybe Optimus had a penchant for being dramatic and drawing things out to torment them. And behind his battle mask the mech smiled, being the leader of an army, one took his pleasures where one could. Finally, unable to take the suspense, the teenaged boy sighed and asked the inevitable.
“So, who sent the transmission?”
Optimus smiled again. “A dear friend, and the Second in Command of the Autobots. His name, in your language, would be ‘Prowl’.”
The wait was nearly unbearable. Jazz’s repairs had been completed, and a silver chassis now lay under a tarp, tucked away in what would have been the mech’s quarters, if he were living. They’d managed a few more communications with the incoming mech to brief him on the situation on earth and for him to get landing coordinates, but Optimus had been frustratingly tight lipped about the reason Prowl had asked for Jazz to be repaired, saying that it was a something to be asked of the tactician when he landed.
Most everyone took that to mean the Prime had no clue either.
So they threw themselves into getting the base up and running, in an attempt to take their minds off the question. When getting things running stopped helping, they started scanning for anomalies and signals that would indicate a Cybertronian landing. Between the Autobots, the US military and the networks of a couple of very intrigued computer nerds, it was assumed that they’d hear of Prowl’s arrival relatively quickly.
Thus, it was with much surprise when one quiet afternoon, a car drove up to the base, got let in, and then spoke, politely requesting an audience with Optimus Prime and the individuals in charge.
As the humans expressed their shock with assorted weapons pointed in the newcomer’s direction, the mech arrived, along with Captain Lennox, summoned by frantic calls and (for Optimus) a comm. message.
“Prowl?”
Weapons (and jaws) dropped. The car transformed, and Prowl stepped forward, greeting his commander warmly. As the mech’s shoulder was clapped in welcome, the Captain at their feet stopped his gaping and, after getting their attention, made the following query.
“How-… We’ve been watching the skies ever since we got word about you. How did you avoid getting tagged?!”
To which Prowl had made a sound remarkably like a sigh and replied. “Jazz, miscreant that he is, is a bad influence. I can give you a more detailed report, but I’d like to see him as soon as possible, please.”
“Of course Prowl, there are just a few official procedures to go through first. Captain Lennox, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s get this over with; I’m dying of curiosity here.”
At Prowl’s alarmed warble, the Prime chuckled and patted his arm reassuringly. “A figure of speech, my friend. The human language is full of them.”
The mech nodded, then appeared wistful for a brief moment. “Jazz was loving this planet, wasn’t he.”
“Very much so. I believe he found their music particularly enthralling.”
Another warble, this one a touch depressed sounding as Optimus raised an optic ridge, only to be waved off by Prowl as the subject of arrival formalities was brought up again. The new mech was hustled into the base to get through the red tape, and Optimus contented himself with informing the other Autobots of the arrival, receiving their annoyed replies with a battlemask hidden smirk. If he had to endure the wait, then the others could as well.
Finally, Prowl was let free from the paperwork. The mech situated himself where Jazz’s body lay, watched by his comrades and four of the humans. As he gently connected a cable to the deactivated form, he heard one of the humans, Robert Epps, if he classified the vocal patterns correctly, ask Ratchet what he was doing.
“Fragged if I know. Prowl, what the slag are you doing?” This came just as Jazz’s optics powered up dimly, though the Solstice’s chassis remained as lifeless as ever.
“Opening Jazz’s chestplates.” Was the detached reply as Prowl focused on his task, kneeling by the berth Jazz lay on. The medic squawked in outrage and was about to reach forward to pull him away when the tactician held up a forestalling arm.
“Please, let me do this, Ratchet.”
Before the chartreuse mech could unleash whatever scathing retort he’d come up with, Jazz’s plates parted with a quiet hiss, and his spark chamber, newly reconstructed, came into view. The chamber split open, as did Prowl’s own plating and chamber, and the mech leant forward over the silvery chassis, slipping a hand under Jazz’s torso to draw the other closer, carefully cradling the limp form. Meanwhile, his audience shifted awkwardly at watching what looked like what was, for them, normally a very private act between individuals, and Ratchet looked like he was about to object.
But then, as the Autobots and humans watched in amazement, a small, bright orb floated across from the SIC into the mech below him. Plating quickly drew closed as Jazz was laid back down. Prowl sat back on his haunches as the dim glow behind the previously deactivated mech’s visor brightened, and his comrades stared in slowly increasing hope. The humans, having no clue as to what was going on, just watched, though they were fairly certain something unusual was about to happen.
“What in Primus’s name, Prowl?” The barely audible comment received no response from the mech whose gaze was fixed on the saboteur. Jazz’s visor brightened further, then abruptly faded. The other mechs sagged. Whatever Prowl had done, it had apparently failed. But the mech didn’t seem disappointed. Instead, he glared at the prone form, yanked out the data cable and jabbed a digit precisely into a sensitive point on Jazz’s frame.
The saboteur shrieked and jerked away from Prowl, toppling over the other side of the berth as he did so, eliciting a brief smirk from the tactician before he sighed and stated, rather dryly. “Are you quite done with being childish, Jazz?”
A muffled and somewhat injured tone answered him. “Slag Prowler, hundred of vorns apart and you’re still no fun.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I like calling you Prowler. S’got a nice ring to it.”
“Your audios will be ringing once I’m done with you if you don’t explain what the slag just happened!” At Ratchet’s ticked off demand, both mechs glanced at each other in slight trepidation before rising to face the interrogation, Jazz somewhat shakily before Prowl prodded him into sitting on the berth.
::Come on, I’m not explaining this on my own.::
::Do we have to?:: Jazz whined back over the bond.
::Megatron tore you in half, and pretty much fragged your spark casing to shrapnel. Once Starscream sees you alive, he’ll know a bond had something to do with it. As the only Autobot to arrive so far, I’m the most likely candidate as your bonded. The others might as well know now, so that they can account for this factor when in battle or in anything else.::
::Why do you always have an answer that I can’t wiggle out of?::
::Bonded for how long, Jazz?::
::Y’doing it again.::
::Answer the angry medic before he makes good on his threat, Jazz.::
A brief pulse of apprehension, coupled with amusement, came across their bond, and the Special Ops mech directed a mock annoyed look at the tactician before clearing his vocaliser.
“Well, y’see…” Jazz trailed off, uncertain as to how to go about with the explanation. At Ratchet’s intensifying glare he quickly babbled out his next words. “Me an’ Prowl are kinda… bonded?”
The medic was not amused. “Bonded.”
“Yeah.”
“And apparently your bond was strong enough for Prowl to be able to keep a hold of your spark after you got your fool self ripped in two.”
“I object to the fool bit.” Here Prowl was faintly heard to say “I don’t.”
“Hush, Prowler. But yep.”
Ironhide snorted. “You expect us to believe that? A bond strong enough to do that takes a slagging long time to form, you’d have to have been bonded for at least half the length of the war for this stunt you just pulled to succeed. And the two of you are hardly candidates for most likely to be bonded. Frag, if you two didn’t have to work together, I’d never think you’d willingly spend time with each other.”
“Well technically after a while we worked together more than we spent time apart…”
Optimus cut in. “I’d like to know when and how, precisely, did this happen.”
“Prowl, I think you’d better take over. I was pretty out of it at the time.”
Prowl sighed. “I suppose.” Looking up at the assembled mechs and humans, he clicked thoughtfully before starting his explanation.
“I met Jazz for the first time near the start of the war...”
