Author's NB: Please excuse me, I don't know American geography or metrological patterns so I am relying on Google to tell me if it snows or rains or what in Oregon, which is where a few sources in the official cannon say the Ark is located. I know there are other regions where the Autobots are said to reside, but for this story I'm just shoving them in Oregon. SO hopefully Wiki and Google aren't lying to me when they say it rains there in December. (I can tell you, its bloody hot in December where I live).
Chapter Ten
19th December
At sometime during the night it had begun to rain. It had occasionally drizzled the day previous but it was really pouring now. It was a cold rain, the type that soaked human coverings and chilled them to their bones. And it certainly was no picnic on Yn'szq, which in the human tongue of English roughly translated into "Place of many funs". He and his bro used to joke it was the place of many femmes, which was certainly true. And like all femmes, the ones on that world loved him too, and couldn't get enough of him. But back to the rain. It was cold and it seeped through the tiny gaps in his armour that allowed movement, and cooled his inners. That was the problem they'd encountered on this mud ball, Cybertron and many other worlds they'd been on did not have a concept of "rain", or even "weather", it was usually just the same, day in, day out. All year round. It was either really hot, or really cold and their systems adjusted to the one temperature accordingly. But here it fluctuated so much it was difficult to be truly comfortable.
Damned planet.
If Megatron was any kind of war monger he would have wiped this spec from the windshield of the universe along time ago.
Focussing on the freezing water, that horrid rain, allowed him to take his CPU off the registry of pain that was ripping along every strut, every linkage cable, every wire that ran from the mess wrapped around the tree that was once his front chassis. He was sure even his paint job hurt. Stupid Ratchet. He'd get back at that surly son of a retro rat… oh wait, Ratchet was dead.
And there in lay the huge problem.
He contemplated on his possible insanity as the fleshies called it as he drifted into another bout of stasis.
--
While his chassis was essentially repaired, and by that he meant it was hammered back into shape and the internal injuries were repaired; the awful gorges in the metal, the scraped chrome and the flaking paintjob were about as subtle as the stench on Junkion. Then there was the mud. Dear Primus he was covered in mud!! It'd take months to get back to his pristine and well groomed self. He lamented that as he took in his surrounds.
He was in a small room, enclosed, with no windows or doors. The walls were coated in a polymer that was rather soft and very sturdy.
Great.
He was in a padded cell.
"HEY! Someone wanna tell me what the HELL I'M DOING IN THIS SLAGGIN' CELL?!!!"
He banged on the wall; it was spongy and easily absorbed the force of his blows, without giving him discomfort or damaging its structural integrity.
After a good couple of minutes he realised he wasn't getting any attention he slumped back down and groaned. He started flicking the chunks of dirt and grass from his ankle joints. What a mess. It was going to take months to get sorted… didn't he have this thought already? He sighed; regardless it was something that he needed to do and something that would nag him until he did. The temperature in the cell suddenly dropped and he felt the prickle of the decrease along his metallic skin. Wondering if there was something flawed with the internal temperature gauge in the cell, or maybe First Aid missed something while putting him back together. Given the job he did ignoring his finish, the twin wouldn't be surprised if he was incompetent to miss a few more vital components. And his finish was very vital. Ratchet never seemed to think so, and nor did First Aid it would appear. Holistic care, the fleshy blobs they were stuck defending called it. The temperature continued downwards and then he heard a whisper.
At first he wasn't sure if it was a whisper, or perhaps it was just a gust of wind blowing in through a gap somewhere in the cell. His second thought was that it was probably his imagination. The third thought, well, the third thought was that it was nothing.
He shut his optics offline and decided to try and get some recharge; Primus knew he'd initiated such in worse circumstances. The sound infiltrated his attempt though. It was definitely not his imagination. It was most definitely not nothing. And the sound was so well formed this time he was able to identify it as language. Words.
"Spaghetti bolognaises".
The words were whispered with a hushed voice, it was gruff, it was firm, it had a hint of amused anger. It was whispered again, this time a little louder. Sunstreaker did something he had never done in his entire life cycle, and did something he thought he'd never do. He screamed. His optics flashed back online, he jumped up to his feet rushed the wall, still screaming, and starting pounding on the padded wall.
"LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUT!!!!"
On the other side of a well hidden camera's lens, the medic stood there with the two senior officers.
"Well, that was unexpected".
Rodimus grumbled.
"Indeed".
Came the firm, unimpressed response of the city commander.
"First Aid, keep this one here, and run a full diagnostic on his brother".
Magnus added as he walked out, obviously not possessing the time to bother too much more about this comparatively small incident.
"What you think's wrong with him? I mean, bots don't just flip their lids".
Rodimus asked the young doctor.
"To be honest, I'm not sure. But my guess, its probably some kind of post traumatic stress disorder, he's recently reported difficulty recharging and I've heard on the grape vine that he's been hallucinating things. Not to mention all the other events that have transpired around him lately – it suggests either PTSD or the spitting of his CPU's personality components into another entity".
"What? His CPU is spitting? What the pit does that mean?"
"The humans call it schizophrenia. It's a multiple personality disorder. He has symptoms that match it almost perfectly, its incredibly rare though, I've only read of cases, never actually seen any. Perceptor may have, though".
"Well, you go have yourself a little chin wag with Percy and see if he can… what's he saying now?"
Rodimus asked as he increased the volume on the microphone that was picking up Sunstreaker's ramblings.
"It sounds like he's saying… spaghetti bolognaise… what in the name of Vector Sigma is that?"
The doctor asked.
"It only happens to be Danno's favourite chow! Its some kind of human fuel. Why would Sunny be screaming about a human fuel, I thought he hated them?"
"Again, its just more indication that his CPU is spitting into multiple personalities. I'm going straight to Perceptor right now".
First Aid turned and started rushing out of the room. The new and rather inexperienced leader found himself alone in the chamber, looking up at the screens, each giving a different view of the maddening Autobot.
"Man, Optimus, I could really have used your assist on this one, I bet your troops never lost their marbles while you were in charge".
He sighed, somewhat depressed and he headed out to his other more pressing duties. The screams of Spaghetti bolognaise still ringing through the speaker and reaching his audios as the doors shut behind him.
--
Sideswipe lent back against the wall in his "room". Of course, that's not what the security director Kup had called it. At least Prowl was honest about their punishment, he didn't mince words or piss about trying to reassure them they could go whenever they wanted, but it was best he stayed just for the time being until this mess was sorted out. Prowl was a mech of few words and this Kup could rant and ramble on for hours about stories that the red twin neither cared about nor wanted to know. Sideswipe wondered if this Kup was the same Kup he'd heard was a tutor at the Autobot training school he'd attended soon after he came online. He'd never met the mech, but he had heard stories about this certain old codger who'd go off on tangents.
Sideswipe looked up at where he knew the camera was situated; he'd been in enough "rooms" to know when and where there was surveillance. When it was Prowl who was on the other end of the camera he'd make a few lewd gestures, but he just wasn't in the mood to do anything now. He leant back and stretched his arms and legs, wriggling his fingers as he groaned impatiently.
Spaghetti bolognaise.
He was damn sure that's what he just heard.
The words were whispered with a gruff voice and they floated along a freezing breath. It seemed to branch out and cool the entire room.
Nah, just his imagination.
Spaghetti bolognaise.
No. He did just hear that. No way. NO WAY!
He was up on his feet quickly and spun around to where he thought the whisper had come from. He almost jumped out of his shell when the whisper was uttered from behind him, it had moved right around him. He spun around to face the location, and saw nothing, but felt cold, felt as if he was being watched and it wasn't because of the camera.
Spaghetti bolognaise.
"What…"
Spaghetti bolognaise.
"Oh Pit No!"
Sideswipe shrugged off any preconceived notion of dignity and self control and started banging on the door yelling to be let out… as the chilling whisper continued he stopped yelling and started screaming.
"Did he just say Spaghetti bolognaise?"
Jazz turned and looked at Blaster, the two on the other side of the camera.
"Sounds like it, man".
"Outa sight".
--
NB: Why spag bol? Read "The Winter of our Medic's Discontent" .net/s/4796465/1/The_winter_of_our_medics_discontent [/plug]