17: Naive (no spoilers, save for what Whip eventually picks as a hobby. This takes place a good while after the events of Not Alone, some unspecified time in the future.)
"What do you mean, malfunctioning?"
Whiplash actually fidgeted, which Ratchet took as a sign the small robot was highly uncomfortable; usually he was delightfully prompt in answering requests and following orders.
"My processor has been misfiring," Whiplash said, uncharacteristically sullen. "It has been doing it for-- for some time; I had hoped it would decompile out during recharge, but if anything, it has gotten worse."
"Some time being how long, exactly?" Ratchet remotely powered up the nearest medical console and linked to the medbay scanners.
"...two weeks."
"Whiplash."
"It seemed so minor, sir, I did not want to bother you with a triviality!" The poor scout looked so chagrined that Ratchet forewent further scolding and only gently prodded him into position to do a preliminary scan. Whiplash always did such a thorough job of chastising himself that no one else had to do it.
"Now, tell me exactly what's going on."
"Random memory feedback loops," Whiplash said as the medic attached a cable to the port on the back of his head. "Surges of data come unbidden, at inappropriate times. So far it has not interfered with my duties, but I fear an episode may come during battle."
Ratchet studied the readouts carefully. Such random surges weren't uncommon in Cybertronians who neglected to recharge properly, or who had suffered a recent injury to the inner core systems that supported subprocessors, but Ratchet knew for a fact Whiplash was recharging adequately, and no such injury had occurred. The scan confirmed this. Aside from the damaged code that was already there, Whiplash was the picture of robotic health.
"Your processor's clean," Ratchet reported. "Interprocessor systems operating within normal parameters."
"But--" Whiplash tried to turn his head, jostling the interface cable. "Last week, when Prowl was arranging the duty roster, 'Clair de Lune' suddenly started playing back from my memory. I did not call it up-- certainly not when I was supposed to be listening to my superiors!"
"'Clair de Lune'?" Ratchet quickly snagged information from the internet. "Claude Debussy, a musical arrangement?"
"Yes, and I let it run almost halfway through before I realized Prowl had finished. I had to ask Bumblebee what my assignment was." Utterly disgusted, Whiplash continued, extending his legs to give the cable a little slack. "And two days ago, on the firing range with Ironhide and Sunstreaker, Ironhide was explaining a cannon configuration, and-- Tchaikovsky's '1812 Overture'. Complete with cannon fire, at full volume with no warning."
Ratchet snorted before he could stop himself, and Whiplash threw him a wounded look. "I'm sorry, Whiplash, it's just a little apropos."
"It is dangerous," Whiplash insisted. "Those are only the worst incidences. There have been nine more in the past thirteen days. Thankfully, none during a skirmish. I admit to finding music fascinating, but I fear I have... overindulged."
"If only we all had habits as benign," Ratchet said, running a second-layer scan just to be sure. "But that would hardly be damaging to any of us. In fact... yes, it looks like the aphasia malcode is showing a point-zero-one percent reduction. Just keep tighter partitions in your active cognitive functions when you're on duty and you shouldn't have any more private concerts." He reached to disconnect the cable.
("It's not khyj bszb--") Whiplash hastily interrupted, and paused to collect himself. Ratchet disconnected the cable and let it retract back into the console.
"It is not only that," the scout tried again, in relatively more reliable English. "Today, it got worse."
Resisting the urge to growl and reiterate that he was fine, Ratchet tilted his head and indicated for the other to elaborate.
"In the common room, just now... Seargeant Epps and Sam were attempting to enlist Nic and me in a contest in something called a Halo, and as they were explaining the mechanics of the game, I noticed it was happening again-- the involuntary playback-- but this time in a background process, so I brought it forward. It was something I had never heard before, Ratchet. Spontaneous generation of a random musical formula, clearly influenced by the patterns of what I have been listening to."
"And you think that's a glitch?"
"What else could it be?" Whiplash cocked his head and stared dubiously up at the medic. "The spontaneous code could be a precursor to something much more damaging."
Ratchet wondered what he could have done to deserve falling in with such an interesting collection of individuals. "Whiplash, there's nothing wrong with you."
"But-"
"Let me finish. That's not a glitch. That's creativity. You were composing. Humans call it daydreaming, though they have less control over when and how, as I understand it."
"But I am a soldier; I am not programmed for--"
"And you're just the output of your code, are you? A mindless drone? There's a spark in there, or have I been grossly misled?" Ratchet jabbed a finger at Whiplash's chestplates and the smaller robot hopped backward, hands coming up out of reflex.
"But composing? I thought it was largely a human peculiarity..."
Ratchet shook his head, turning to a nearby Teletraan terminal. Perceptor had been the young scout's mentor, as much as an education could be given in the chaos of a full-scale war. Brilliant, Perceptor had been, true, but something of a philistine. It explained a lot about Whiplash, actually. "Here, look. Four terabytes of music by Cybertronian composers. Primus, you war brats-- didn't anyone in your squad even once talk about the arts?"
Ratchet almost laughed as Whiplash paused and appeared to be actually actively searching his memory banks. "Don't strain yourself, Whiplash, I knew your lot. And to be fair, the war rather did put a hold on that sort of thing, especially during your time on Cybertron. But this is a good thing. It means we have time now. The war is over. We're not constantly fighting and life is slowing down to something resembling civility. Primus knows this planet could do with a little slowing down," he added in a mutter.
Optics shuttering rapidly, Whiplash radiated confusion. "But... what do I do with it?"
Definitely an interesting bunch. "As long as you get your perfectly functioning chassis out of my medbay, whatever you want."
Author's Note, 5.11.08: I didn't have to think too hard about this one. If there's something Whip would be naive about, it would be his own culture. Born and raised in the worst parts of the war, it would have been a very low priority to him anyway, given he tends to take his martial programming perhaps too seriously. And the comment about Whip's teammates being un-art-inclined-- Hot Rod/Rodimus and Powerglide always struck me as jock-types, big on action, not much for the abstract. Perceptor's definitely your left-brained pragmatist, and Bluestreak... had issues... and pretty much had the same problem Whip did: no time for it. So poor Whip pretty much 'grew up' in a cultural vacuum.
Story progress: Urgh. Mother's Day weekend means no free time at all for me. Got two family bunches to make social calls to. passes out
