Boo!

Long time no see, eh? Looking at the (admittedly confusing) previous chapter of this, I think I was about to attempt a complex metaverse move that I never had the bandwidth to pull off when I suddenly found myself with a job and responsibilities and had to drop it, as one does. Rest assured that any cringey dramatics fossilized here for all eternity are long settled, and I've even started writing again after busying myself with adulthood for the last decade. Some rumors of technical difficulties on this site have reached my ears, so I just wanted to toss a line out to anyone who might miss this if it disappeared, since I have also loved and lost fics over the years and don't wish it on anyone. If anything happens to FFnet, I will clean up "Transmission Breakdown" and cross post it over on AO3, where I can be found mostly meddling in G1 shenanigans under the name of ObliqueVion. If anyone still checks the crusty, spam-filled Hotmail or yahoo email that their alert goes to, that is!

I hope anyone who remembers this has been doing well, and I leave you with one of the unposted scraps from Ye Olde Fic Folder.

~Vion

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The Popcorn Incident

"I am not just a car, and Ratchet knows that I know that you know that food and Autobots don't mix. He expressly prohibited me from allowing you near me with food after The Popcorn Incident. If it happens again, I think he will really leave me that way."

~Autobot Bumblebee

Medical File Update Code 512983BB

Patient's Designation: Bumblebee

Initial Status: Serious, NLT

Current Status: Stable, GTFO, LD

Assigned Medic: Autobot Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Who the frag else would it be?

Procedures: Welded feet back onto legs. Good as new. Note: Of course it's more complicated than that! Would any of you know what a servotronic recalibration, podiatric frame graft, or gerotor realignment was if it bit you on the aft? Of course not!

Recommendations: Get the frag out of my sight, and next time don't get your feet blown off! Stay in alt mode for a week minimum. No cheating! And go flash those big blue optics at someone else! I don't want to see 'em. Now get!

Further Comments: This is fragging ridiculous. No I won't take this seriously, not until either another medic or your datawork minion arrives. No use composing reports for myself; my memory is fine thank-you-very-much-Sir! And I want a shorter title. A patient could die by the time I get out all that "Autobot Chief Medical Officer" slag. And the next bot who comes to me with his feet missing is getting a whang upside the head with a life-saving instrument and a 'Band-Aid.' Whatever the frag that is, but it sounds inadequate enough.

Oh yes, and to think I almost forgot; GET THE FRAG OUT OF MY SIGHT! NOW!

End update.

"Dude, I never realized that giant robots would be afraid to go to the doctor." One smirking Sam Witwicky could barely contain the chuckles as he ribbed his alien car. "I mean, even I'm not that much of a wuss."

"That's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered- Doctor!- you ever set eyes on!I tried to get away from it, but he picked me up with his mind powers and- the only logical action would have to be one of desperation."

"Oh, so back to the radio now, is it? Did I hit a nerve on the poor widdle alien robot?"

"Doctors orders!"

"Oooooooh, ouch. That sucks, man. Normally I'd get a hurting bro a girly a card and bring you some ice cream, then sit on your couch and watch movies all day playing hooky with you, but you know, I don't know if my car is up to it right now looking all crappy like it just saved the world or something."

"Hey guys!" The door at the other end of the warehouse banged open, and a grimy and exhausted-looking Mikaela stumbled in, picking her way through the pallets and machinery strewn across the wide space.

A mournful, 'awwwwww' sound effect; "I guess I should stop trying to impress you," The dented and dinged, but otherwise whole and totally sick 2009 Camaro started to pull away.

"Hey man, I didn't mean it!