Title: The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots
Description: A series of oneshots from the early days of the Transformers on Earth, accompanied by excerpts from a book written by Carly and Spike. G1, all characters, inspiration from various sources.
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. Duh. But I would be quite irate if someone were to steal from me.
Author's notes: Everyday occurrences that best describe the characters of various Autobots. Part one of many, since I could probably go on forever.
Day in the Life ... (PART 1)
Cybertronians are a true juxtaposition: living organisms made of inorganic material. They can even heal themselves, to an extent. If the damage is too extensive, that's where the medic comes in.
- From The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots, Chapter 3: First Aid and General Maintenance
The rec room doors slid open, emitting a Ratchet who looked in sore need of recharge and some damn strong high-grade. The sudden palpable stillness in the room was not lost on the red-and-white mech, but he just couldn't be slagged to care at that moment.
"Ratchet," a black-helmeted mech slid a full cube of energon across the table, which Ratchet managed to snatch with some dignity. Jazz voiced the question that was clearly on more than one central processor. "What's th' verdict, docbot? How's everyone?"
"Recharging," Ratchet grunted. A quiet sigh of relief seemed to come from nowhere in particular and the atmosphere in the room relaxed at the medic's customary snippy tone.
"Even the Twins?" Hound asked from another table.
"They're bolted to their berths until I say otherwise," Ratchet's vocal processor growled around a mouthful of liquid energy. "And if I don't get some recharge myself in the next breem, that won't be for another lunar cycle."
A buzz of laughter, uneasy with fresh relief, filtered through all present. This was a familiar routine after a battle. Damage could always be repaired. No casualties was a reason to celebrate.
Jazz managed a chuckle, but it was strained. "... Prowl?"
Even Ratchet knew better than to be snide about that. "Recharging. Just brought him out of stasis. He should be back online soon."
The other 'bot relaxed visibly. "An' Carly?"
"Recharging," Ratchet hid a smirk behind his cube. "On Prowl's chestplate. She powered down with the welding torch still in her hand. Didn't have it in me to move her."
Jazz laughed, the rumbling full-body chuckle he was known for. "How'd she hold up in 'er first post-battle emergency room?"
"Not bad. Better'n most rookies would. That kid's got some spark." Ratchet grimaced. "My best pupil in four million years would have the lifespan of a single vorn, slaggitall."
The other mech clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Maybe Wheeljack could do somethin' 'bout that."
Ratchet gave a hefty snort into his energon and was about to tell Jazz exactly what Wheeljack could "do" about that when Teletraan's shipwide comm crackled to life.
"This is Prowl paging Ratchet to the medbay." The tactician's voice was as calm a monotone as ever, but did Ratchet detect a note of uncertainty?
The static-laden speaker went on. "Prowl to Ratchet, I believe some of my systems did not fully reboot after recharge. I require some assistance." Pause. "I also seem to have a small ... problem."
With the groan of a mech whose patience was stretched as thin as microcarbon filament, Ratchet abandoned the last of his energon and stomped out the rec room doors, ignoring the raucous laughter that followed him into the corridor.
Many Cybertronians have auxiliary computers installed to perform various functions: increase sensory perception, aid in scientific computations, formulate battle strategies. These added features are not actually part of the "brain", which is able to function fine without them, but they can affect the thoughts and even the personality of the user and can pose a serious problem when not functioning properly.
- From The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots, Chapter 4: Programming and "The Spark"
"List the procedure when recovering an injured comrade."
"Assess the situation for danger, attempt contact with the injured, call for assistance ... ummm ..."
Prowl sighed and rubbed the side of his faceplate. "Damage report."
"Right!" Bluestreak slapped his helm. "I always forget that one. Call for assistance, damage report ..."
"You forgot emergency first-aid as well."
"Right! Emergency first-aid if there's no danger, then call for assistance, then damage rep..."
"Bluestreak."
"Yes sir?"
"How long have you been an Autobot soldier?"
"Ummm ... six, almost seven million Earth-years? But we were in stasis for four million years, so ..." The younger Datsun jumped when Prowl's hand slammed on the desk hard enough to knock over a stack of datapads. The tactical officer wasn't actually angry. It took more than his charge's incessant babbling to annoy him to the point of expressing violence, but he found the displays to be useful.
"Are your memory circuits malfunctioning? You should know this without having to think, Bluestreak."
The gunner looked utterly mollified, which had the unfortunate effect of making his superior officer feel the same for about a tenth of a second. "I know it. I've done it right hundreds of times, I remember perfectly if I'm in a situation. It's just hard to bring up just thinking about it, because no one's actually injured and my battle and emergency programs aren't kicking in, and ..."
"You shouldn't need them to," Prowl interrupted, standing. "What if you're damaged? What if the programming fails? We cannot simply rely on our upgrades and installed software. We must know right from the spark what to do in any situation, so we can still prevail even if nothing but our basic routines are functional."
Understanding dawned on the other Autobot. "Your battle computer?"
Prowl felt suddenly uncomfortably exposed, an unfamiliar and unpleasant experience. He shifted quickly to restack the datapads (in order, of course). "I was lucky young Mr. Chase was able to remotely take control of me. I've since made several reroutes of the programming and begun committing the raw data to my regular memory files. I would highly suggest you do the same. You may not have the same hardware, but your programming is similar enough that damage could be a severe liability."
Bluestreak was nodding slowly, optics wide. Prowl realized he had reordered the same stack of datapads twice over and quickly sat back down behind the desk.
"Repeat it again. Procedure when recovering an injured comrade."
"Assess the situation for danger, emergency first-aid if it's safe, attempt contact with the injured, call for assistance, damage report ..."
Autobots who have been Earth-bound for prolonged periods often become deeply infatuated with human culture, especially those who were already enthusiastic about music or art from their own world. This behaviour can infect even the most unlikely candidates.
- From The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots, Chapter 6: Human-Cybertronian Interaction
"Whoo! Turn it up, Jazz, I love this song!"
"So does Prime!" Jazz's grin nearly reached his visor. "He can't get enough of it!" The music cranked up a few decibels. Carly grabbed Spike's hands and swung to the crescendo guitar riff.
"You got the touch! You got the POWEEEERRRRR YEAH!"
The metal floor vibrated with each stomp of heavy robot feet. Jazz and Blaster had apparently decided if the humans were going to dance, so were they. All of them laughed out loud at Blaster's impression of Stan Bush on the guitar, right down to flinging back imaginary hair.
Someone's vocalizer cleared very loudly, and both Blaster and Jazz stopped in mid-riff. From the door, Prowl made a slicing motion with one hand and the music was abruptly cut.
"May I remind the two of you," the second-in-command said quietly, "that we have regulations on noise-pollution in the base, for a reason?"
"Aww, don't be such a stick in the transistors, Prowl," Blaster cocked his head at the Datsun, still pretending he had rock-star hair to look through. "We could play your favourite, if ya like."
"I don't care what you play, just do it quietly."
"Prowl has a favourite song?" Spike blurted. The image of the black and white robot grooving out in his office where no one could see put him dangerously close to an impromptu giggle-fit.
"Sure he does," Jazz said, at the same time Prowl said, "No, I do not."
Jazz's ever-present grin widened. "Hey Prowl, what was playing on yer radio when ya ran down Wildrider on Highway 80 las' week? 'Rock you like a hurricane'?" Spike covered his mouth so his bark of laughter came out like a wheezing vacuum. Carly tittered.
Prowl looked from the humans to Jazz and then back to Blaster. "Keep the noise level below 62.7 decibels, if you please," was all he said. He turned and left the room without a backward glance. Several meters down the hall the strains of electric guitar started up, much quieter this time.
"It's early mornin', the sun comes up ..."
Prowl's flicker of annoyance was quickly washed out with an unexpected sense of satisfaction. That mis-programmed glitch Wildrider thought a Datsun couldn't outrun a Ferrari on the open highway. That had been a glorious day in the line of duty, even if his radio had been malfunctioning.
Sparkplug was on his back scraping rust off the undercarriage of a beat-up Ford F60 when he thought he heard someone humming as they passed the shop. He rolled out from under the truck to take a look, but all he could see was Prowl, stylus and datapad in hand, on his way to some inspection or other. Shrugging, he went back to his task, the tune now stuck firmly in his head.
"Here I am ... rock you like a hurrica-ane ..."
The Autobots' official stand on choosing sides in any human conflict has been made very clear. They will stand to the last soldier to defend us from any outward threat, they will offer advice and sanctuary to any who need it, and they will help to repair any damage done in the aftermath, but they are not our caretakers. They will not step in to save us from ourselves.
- From The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots, Chapter 9: Diplomatic Standing Between Earth and Cybertron
"I'm sorry, Senator. That is my final answer."
The white-haired human on Teletraan's vid-screen looked mildly irate, which probably meant he was furious and keeping a lid on it. "I wish you'd reconsider, Mr. Prime. The United States government ... and its, er, people, too, would owe you a tremendous debt."
"As would we, to all who were harmed," Optimus responded.
The senator's false smile was sweet as aged energon. "You misunderstand, Mr. Prime. We would use your technology for peaceful purposes."
Ironhide was not nearly as adept at "keeping a lid on it" as his commander. "You call what's goin' on out there peaceful?" he snarled, shaking a fist at the screen. "Sounds ta me ya'll got th' same idea of peaceful as th' Decept'cons!"
The senator's face went scarlet and his cheeks puffed like a frog. Prime gently restrained the security officer before addressing the vid-screen again. "I'm afraid Cybertronian law is very clear on this matter," he told the man.
The human set his lips in a thin line. "I'd hoped you would be more reasonable, especially since we've been so ... accommodating to you thus far. Perhaps with some more time, you'll see it our way."
"Perhaps," Prime agreed. One might mistake his tone for regret, but it was only distaste at the nature of the conversation. He ended the formalities and shut off the communication.
"Tha's three times this year, Prahm," Ironhide ground his dental plates. "How many times we got ta say 'up yers' before they git th' hint?"
"As many times as it takes," the Autobot leader replied evenly.
"I don' like it. Bad enough they go 'round blowin' each other ta bits, they need our help now? They want us ta step in so bad, maybe we oughta! End this load a' ..."
"That's not our way, Ironhide."
"Ah know, Prahm, but still ..."
"My friend," Optimus Prime laid a hand the other mech's shoulder. "If someone stepped in to 'end' our war with the Decepticons, which side might they choose?"
Ironhide was silent, and Prime went on. "It isn't our place to make that decision for any other, in any way. Freedom is the right ..."
"Th' right o' all sentient bein's, ah know," Ironhide clasped his leader's forearm. "S'ppose that's why yer in charge an' not me."
Optimus' optics crinkled in a smile. "Among other things," he said wryly.
A Cybertronian's personality is only partly a result of programming; for the most part it tends to develop over the course of their lives, much like ours do. This is reflected in their preferences, their attitudes and disposition, and the way they take to new experiences. Despite this, the most unlikely friendships can prevail.
- From The Human's Guide to Understanding Autobots, Chapter 1: Speaking Cybertronian: From my CPU to Yours
Heavy pounding footsteps sent Carly scuttling to the side of the corridor, though she knew the Autobots could sense her at a distance and were far too careful to ever step on her. Even after a few weeks of working in the base, she was still a little skittish about thirty-foot robots when they weren't standing still. The fact that that the loudest impacts sounded deliberate and irritated did not help.
Voices followed the footsteps even before the two mechs rounded the corner. She didn't know one of them very well, but she remembered the army-green Jeep who was named Hound. The other was ... M-something. Mirror? Mir ...
"Mirage," Hound sounded like he was trying to be apologetic, but even from her vantage at knee-height Carly thought he was fighting hard not to laugh. "Come on, Mirage, it's not that bad."
"I emphatically disagree," the blue and white mech said, biting off each word with impeccable clarity. "Maybe you are built to withstand such ... such degrading punishment, but I will have nothing more to do with it, thank you very much."
"It was just a bad run," Hound soothed. "You just need to get a feel for the terrain, that's all. Next time will ..." the Jeep stopped abruptly as Mirage whirled around a jammed a finger into his chest. As he did, Carly saw that his entire left side was dented and scratched so badly that silver metal showed beneath his white and blue paint job.
"You may go 'feel' the terrain as much as you like," he snarled, punctuating several words with a jab to Hound's chestplate. "Do tell me how much you enjoy being knocked off a cliff and buried under a pile of boulders the next time you're out 'feeling' the terrain!"
With that jab of finality, Mirage spun on his heel and stalked off down the corridor, muttering about paint-jobs and rock formations and idiots who think climbing them is a good idea and even bigger idiots who let themselves get talked into thinking the same. Hound watched his friend stomp off to the washracks, oddly still looking very amused.
Carly ventured timidly away from the wall. "Is he alright?"
"Oh, he's fine," Hound waved a hand dismissively. "He's just being a ... what do you call it? A crybaby." The Jeep crossed his arms and somehow managed to roll his optics, though Carly wasn't quite sure how. "I've been buried under rocks more times than I can count, and it's not half as bad as he makes it sound."
"The Touch" is by Stan Bush and is the theme of the 1986 Transformers Animated Movie (seriously, who doesn't know this?)
"Rock You like a Hurricane" is by The Scorpions and was released in 1984 (coincidentally, the year the Transformers awoke from stasis on Earth and the year the cartoon show debuted ... also the year the first TMNT comic book was printed, and the year I was conceived. Not that that has anything to do with anything.) I'm not sure why I tied it to Prowl, except that the image of him tearing down the highway after Wildrider, sirens flashing and blasting that song out ... yeah, that was pretty sweet.
62.7 dB is about the same as level of noise as a conversation across less than 3 feet (~60-70 dB).
The very last one, with Mirage and Hound, was inspired by a picture of Shy-Light on Deviantart. Go to her gallery and see if you can find which one. It's not hard. Trust me.