Wierd fic thing been working on
This is here mostly for easy access to print and edit at work (lacks a printer at home). But enjoy if you so desire. This is one of many things that distracts me. Working on typing up what's officially the next chapter, (whether it's the second or third remains to be seen). That'll also be posted for printing and editing.
.......
dragondragondragondragon
Title Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson
Warnings Transformers as dragons, but it's not what you might expect.... I hope.
Summary (still working on this) Four million years ago, the Ark crashed. When the Autobots awoke, things weren't as they left them.
Prowl slid his shutters open, blanching in the orange light. Nothing about him felt right. He felt heavy, which was unusual for he wasn’t one of the larger mechs, like Prime or Trailbreaker. The Ark floor felt like it had been turned to slag that had never cooled. He blinked up at the white form before him and immediately snapped himself to his feet.
And promptly toppled over.
What the slag?
Blue organic eyes watched him from a soft white face. Bony dental plates jutted out of a ridiculously large mouth. The corners of that mouth curled up in what could only be a smile. A chevron like projection rose off of the creature’s forehead, giving it a permanent glower. It reminded him of someone…
“It’s about slagging time,” the words came out thickly, as though the creature didn’t quite know how to handle its broad jaw hinge, and the tentacle of flesh that flapped around its mouth. That voice, however, was undeniable.
“Ratchet?” the tactician queried. Or he tried to; all that came out was a noisy spasm. His body jiggled in an uncomfortably alien way as the spasms continued, his tracheal tubing crawled and encouraged the fit to continue.
The white beast drew his head up, blasting air out of his nasal holes. The-thing-that-illogically-sounded-like-Ratchet nudged Prowl with a hand-foot.
“Come on, Optimus had the same thing happen, and so did I for that matter. Get up, and don’t try to stand. Just crawl on your hands and... feet.” The large beast continued to prod at the tactician, who was wondering why his battle computer hadn’t taken him offline yet, until Prowl gained his feet. He stumbled after the Ratchet-thing, feeling his own tentacle of flesh sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“Here.” The sound of liquid running drew the tactician’s attention more than Ratchet-thing’s voice. He noted with alarm that the Ark had formed a leak some time during their period in stasis. “You’re lucky Optimus already figured this out, or we’d both be sorry. Watch.”
Prowl’s circuits crawled as Ratchet-thing dipped his pointed nose into the liquid and lifted his head, nose pointed straight into the air. The thick white neck convulsed and Ratchet, Prowl was becoming more and more convinced this was indeed their medic, shook his jaw dry. Prowl stared blankly, aware of the strange sensation that continued wriggle in his tracheal tube. Did Ratchet just… intake the Ark’s coolant?
“Now, or I’ll stuff your face in that substance,” the medic snarled in his normal acidic voice. Somehow coming form that organic throat, and added with the rumble from his chest, and the flash of those white dental plates, Prowl found it more intimidating than usual.
The tactician obeyed, finding the liquid cool, and, for the first time since he awakened, he attempted to bring his sensors online to analyze his surroundings.
Noise thundered through his cranium, melding with the splitting pain. His tracheal tubing vibrated and he realized that he was making that noise. What came out, was not a snarl like what the medic accomplished, but something he expected more from the twins, or Brawn, and certainly not what he normally produced. A roar, high-pitched and deafening, broke out of his tracheal tubing.
“Don’t do that again. And drink, fraggit.” The hefty white shoulder shoved Prowl back toward the small stream.
Gaping in alarm, Prowl staggered forward, his head dropping into the liquid. Ratchet was there, roughly hauling his nose out. A nose, Prowl realized, that was longer than it used to be, longer than Ratchet’s and ended with a pair of thin fleshy tentacles sticking out.
“Drink. If I tell you again I’ll slagging let you ventilate the stuff.”
Prowl tried again, taking care to keep his nasal holes out of the liquid. He scooped up a mouthful, amazed as the tentacle in his mouth seemed to absorb the fluid and unstuck. He imitated Ratchet’s head tilt, and the cool substance flowed down his tracheal tubing, not without choking him. There seemed to be more than one way for the stuff to go.
Ratchet blew air out of his nasal holes again. “Keep up until you’ve had your fill. You should know when.” The medic took his own advice and dipped his jaw into the stream again. Prowl stood there for what had to be another breem, sliding the liquid into his fuel tanks until he ached. Ratchet bumped the tactician away with his snout. “You’ve had enough. Any more and you’ll burst through.”
The medic didn’t seem to question how he knew, though Prowl was not inclined to disagree. That would accurately describe the feeling in his fuel tank. He almost felt ready to purge.
Blue eyes swept Prowl up, down, and back.
Prowl realized that he hadn’t spoken since he woke. “Ratchet?” he tried again, grateful when the noisy spasms didn’t claim him. Though he found it difficult to work out the necessary combination of ventilation, tentacle and jaw movement. The medic blinked, two sets of shutters sliding over his moist optics.
“Well, you look functional. Ready to see Prime? I need to wake up Wheeljack.” A grumble sounded from the broad white chest, and Prowl was suddenly aware of yet another fleshy tentacle, one attached to Ratchet’s backside, that twitched and swished, balancing Ratchet’s movements while seeming to react to his moods. “And don’t even try to transform. If you think bringing your sensors online was painful…” the medic trailed off, turning to head back the way they’d come.
“Where’s Prime?” Prowl asked.
“Behind you.”
Prowl whipped around, barely aware of the glimpse he received of his own lithe body, nothing like the one the medic sported. He stared up at yet another creature.
Big and red. Very red with blue projections rather than white. Projections that scraped the Ark’s ceiling, and made the ship bleed.
(chapter/part 2?)
The red beast twisted his head to look at the oozing holes, his long neck dipping in the middle. This one, as with Ratchet, possessed two sets of shutters. The translucent, horizontal pair slid over his blue optics and a rumble emanated from his throat. Prowlknew, more than he did with Ratchet, that this was Prime. There was no doubt in his befuddled mind.
“Need to be more careful about that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “How are you handling there, Prowl?” Prime’s voice grumbled out of the deep chest, not quite reaching the throat, much less his long mouth. His words slurred worse than Ratchet’s and Prowl’s. The plates on his nose shifted closer together and the corners of his long mouth dropped down.
Prowl narrowed his optics in concentration, setting to the difficult task of speaking. “Why aren’t you helping Ratchet wake up the others?” Prowl blasted air out of his nasal passages in annoyance. Cybertronian was not intended for a fleshy vocalizer. The Ark’s coolant seemed to be working through his fuel lines, clearing his processor of the… organic… static and allowing him to focus better.
“Would you like to try bringing Jazz online?” Prime asked, turning down the corridor and fully expecting Prowl to follow.
Naturally the tactician did. He noticed, now that he could process clearly, how low he sat to the ground. He hadn’t noticed before, since his perception had been greatly distorted by the new form and his optics seemed at their normal level in relation to Ratchet and Prime.
He turned his head to examine his new body, his long white neck twisting obligingly. Sinuous, he almost had the appearance of one long fleshy tentacle with thin legs and arms sticking out. A single black line ran along his underside, it reached up his neck farther than he could see and to the tip of his tentacle aft. His door panels seemed to have been converted to a three-tined membrane that flexed as he moved. Light fuzz covered the back of his neck and the tip of his tail, waving gently with every motion.
A loud expulsion of air drew his attention back to Prime’s towering form.
“I cannot compute how I’m able to stand, much less walk, on these rod thin legs,” Prowl admitted sheepishly when he realized he’d stopped. His ventilator appeared to object to his long sentence and he sat there for a few astroseconds, aware only of the intake and exhalations that expanded and contracted his torso.
Prime’s brow ridge lifted and his tentacle aft lashed suddenly as a laugh huffed from his broad chest. “I was wondering if you’d be able to walk myself.” A smile lifted the plates on Prime’s cheeks. “It’s only a little further.”
A little further proved to be what seemed little more than a morgue. Bodies, large and small, lay strewn carelessly about. Prowl’s exterior plating shuddered at the sight of the deathly gray mass.
Optimus headed straight for two bodies that had been positioned in a corner of the room. His head turned to watch the placement of his hands and feet, his tentacle aft lifted up to avoid smacking any of the inert bodies.
Prowl eyed the path Optimus used. His shorter legs and arms would have him scrambling over the bodies, and he didn’t really want to touch them. He looked around the room, and found a series of small slopes with odd glassy areas that ran the length of the room. He clambered up, balancing himself with his sinuous extremity. He gathered himself and leapt from slope to slope, amazed at the agility this lithe body possessed.
Prime nudged the two creatures before him, blowing air over them. He looked at Prowl expectantly.
Prowl examined the two bodies, one seemed of similar conformation to himself, the other looked similar to Ratchet. He winked the translucent shutters over his moist eyes and looked up at Prime. “Which one’s Jazz?”
Optimus seemed to droop, long neck and tentacle aft dipping down. “You can’t tell either?”
Prowl tilted his head. “No.”
His torso contracted in a noisy sigh. “Neither could Ratchet.” He touched a hand-foot to the one that appeared similar to the tactician. “Jazz.” His other hand-foot he touched to the Ratchet-shaped beast. “Ironhide.”
Prowl gingerly put his own hand-foot on the grey body. “He’s warm!”
“You have sharp fingertips, don’t forget,” Prime said in warning.
Prowl snatched his hand-foot away, too late, as the grey figure oozed grey fluid. “How should I wake him then?”
“Carefully.”
Prowl did not appreciate his commander’s sense of humor right then. Air hissed out from his clenched jaws, squeezing between his mouth tentacle and his elongated dental plates. He felt the hard tips of his membranous wings tap his side plates.
He watched Prime prod Ironhide's inert form with his wedge-shaped nose. He rested his blue-tipped hand-feet on a massive shoulder, carefully lifting the sharp points away from the tender flesh. The tactician sighed, the translucent shutter winking over his eye as he nudged Jazz’s lithe grey form.
They continued touching, nudging and prodding their comrades, trying to stir them from stasis.
A sudden resonating shriek echoed through the Ark.
Prowl whipped about, his pointed fingers sliding down Jazz’s torso. Prime’s head jerked up, only to relax again. A thoughtful growl rumbled from his chest and he looked to Prowl.
“Sounds like Wheeljack is online. Shall we let him try?” The massive red mech-turned-flesh lightly stepped over his crew. Prowl followed, using the soft-as-slag ledges to circumvent the bodies.
They walked the short distance back to where the Ark leaked.
Ratchet and another white creature drank at the small stream, tilting their heads back to allow the liquid to flow down their throats. The second white creature, whom Prowl assumed to be Wheeljack, looked up at their approach. His gaze slid from Prowl to Prime and he froze. The secondary shutters blinked and the odd blue membranous wings that lined his jaw hinge rippled.
“Optimus?” The small three-tined wings on his shoulder flattened.
The Autobot Commander nodded, but his optics slid to Ratchet still drinking from the pool. “Are you alright, Ratchet?”
The medic paused to glare at Prime. “Practically prime, Optimus. I’ll be much better if you tell me that Prowl was able to bring Jazz or Ironhide online.”
The long, red neck curved, dipping Prime’s nose to his hand-feet. “No such luck, I’m afraid.”
“Fragging wonderful,” the medic snarled. His mouth tentacle whipped out to clear his nose and mouth of the coolant. “Would you slagging bring Jazz over, then?” Ratchet frowned at the other three until Optimus nudged Wheeljack ahead with his nose.
Prowl glanced at the medic, and turned to follow Optimus. He joined them at Jazz and Ironhide’s forms, watching as Prime directed Wheeljack in waking the offline mech.
“That’s the third time since I came online that he has refueled. I have not felt the need since my initial fueling in this form.”
Both of the white Autobots blinked their secondary shutters at their commander.
“I’m a little confused about how this happened,” Wheeljack ventured, his headwings rippling in bright blue waves. As with Optimus his voice originated more from his chest than his throat, his sectioned lip components remained for the most part still.
Prime shook his head, his projections scraping against the Ark’s ceiling. “I’m sure that all of us wish to know the answer to that, Wheeljack.” He sighed and frowned. “Apparently Ratchet is the only one able to bring anyone online. I was hoping that you might be able to as well, Wheeljack. I am not comfortable depending on Ratchet alone to revive the crew.”
Prowl drew the most logical conclusion and stiffened. “You believe he’s using his own reserves somehow?”
“I believe it to the point that I know it to be true, Prowl.” Prime slid a hand-foot under the saboteur and Prowl stepped in to help maneuver Jazz across Prime’s shoulders. “He insists on doing it though, and I regretfully agree to the necessity. I have not been able to locate any Decepticons among the bodies. And there are three of the crew missing as well.”
Wheeljack’s headwings shifted. “You recognize them?”
“Odd, isn’t it?” Optimus agreed. “You can continue trying to wake Ironhide. Prowl and I will take Jazz to Ratchet.”
Prowl followed Optimus out, his lean and agile form slipping around the much larger mech’s bulk to keep Jazz from sliding off. They both paused mid-step when they reached the small stream in what Prime identified as the rec room. The two officers paused, exchanging a concerned glance with each other.
Ratchet lay stretched out on his side against the wall. Deep, even rumbles emanated from the white form, his optics shuttered.
Prowl inched forward, wondering what they would do if their only medic malfunctioned. “Ratchet?”
The white beast seemed to snap online, blinking both sets of shutters as he shook his head. “’Bout slagging time,” the medic grumbled, rising to his hands and feet. His aft twitched, spasming down the tentacle with annoyance.
Prowl helped Prime slide Jazz off his shoulder.
An explosion of air, accompanied an irritated grumble. “What the slag happened?” Ratchet touched the leaking slices on the saboteur’s shoulder, glaring at them from under his chevron.
“We have sharp fingertips,” Prowl admitted, his wing membranes scraping against his side.
Ratchet’s aft twitched and his dental plates bared in what could only be a scowl. “Glad you noticed. Now I’m sure there’s something you should be doing. Prim, how about Wheeljack, any luck?”
Optimus huffed. “Unfortunately, no.”
A growl, like an engine sputtering, rumbled from the medic’s throat. “Of all the times for ‘Aid to be inaccessible.”
The big red Autobot turned. “Let’s see if you or Wheeljack can get a response from Teletraan-1, Prowl.”
Prowl turned to follow, his head the last to whip about as he watched Ratchet lay his hands on Jazz’s grey form.
And from the medic’s hands, color flowed into the saboteur.
.......
dragondragondragondragon
Title Silver Purity, Cursed Crimson
Warnings Transformers as dragons, but it's not what you might expect.... I hope.
Summary (still working on this) Four million years ago, the Ark crashed. When the Autobots awoke, things weren't as they left them.
Prowl slid his shutters open, blanching in the orange light. Nothing about him felt right. He felt heavy, which was unusual for he wasn’t one of the larger mechs, like Prime or Trailbreaker. The Ark floor felt like it had been turned to slag that had never cooled. He blinked up at the white form before him and immediately snapped himself to his feet.
And promptly toppled over.
What the slag?
Blue organic eyes watched him from a soft white face. Bony dental plates jutted out of a ridiculously large mouth. The corners of that mouth curled up in what could only be a smile. A chevron like projection rose off of the creature’s forehead, giving it a permanent glower. It reminded him of someone…
“It’s about slagging time,” the words came out thickly, as though the creature didn’t quite know how to handle its broad jaw hinge, and the tentacle of flesh that flapped around its mouth. That voice, however, was undeniable.
“Ratchet?” the tactician queried. Or he tried to; all that came out was a noisy spasm. His body jiggled in an uncomfortably alien way as the spasms continued, his tracheal tubing crawled and encouraged the fit to continue.
The white beast drew his head up, blasting air out of his nasal holes. The-thing-that-illogically-sounded-like-Ratchet nudged Prowl with a hand-foot.
“Come on, Optimus had the same thing happen, and so did I for that matter. Get up, and don’t try to stand. Just crawl on your hands and... feet.” The large beast continued to prod at the tactician, who was wondering why his battle computer hadn’t taken him offline yet, until Prowl gained his feet. He stumbled after the Ratchet-thing, feeling his own tentacle of flesh sticking to the roof of his mouth.
“Here.” The sound of liquid running drew the tactician’s attention more than Ratchet-thing’s voice. He noted with alarm that the Ark had formed a leak some time during their period in stasis. “You’re lucky Optimus already figured this out, or we’d both be sorry. Watch.”
Prowl’s circuits crawled as Ratchet-thing dipped his pointed nose into the liquid and lifted his head, nose pointed straight into the air. The thick white neck convulsed and Ratchet, Prowl was becoming more and more convinced this was indeed their medic, shook his jaw dry. Prowl stared blankly, aware of the strange sensation that continued wriggle in his tracheal tube. Did Ratchet just… intake the Ark’s coolant?
“Now, or I’ll stuff your face in that substance,” the medic snarled in his normal acidic voice. Somehow coming form that organic throat, and added with the rumble from his chest, and the flash of those white dental plates, Prowl found it more intimidating than usual.
The tactician obeyed, finding the liquid cool, and, for the first time since he awakened, he attempted to bring his sensors online to analyze his surroundings.
Noise thundered through his cranium, melding with the splitting pain. His tracheal tubing vibrated and he realized that he was making that noise. What came out, was not a snarl like what the medic accomplished, but something he expected more from the twins, or Brawn, and certainly not what he normally produced. A roar, high-pitched and deafening, broke out of his tracheal tubing.
“Don’t do that again. And drink, fraggit.” The hefty white shoulder shoved Prowl back toward the small stream.
Gaping in alarm, Prowl staggered forward, his head dropping into the liquid. Ratchet was there, roughly hauling his nose out. A nose, Prowl realized, that was longer than it used to be, longer than Ratchet’s and ended with a pair of thin fleshy tentacles sticking out.
“Drink. If I tell you again I’ll slagging let you ventilate the stuff.”
Prowl tried again, taking care to keep his nasal holes out of the liquid. He scooped up a mouthful, amazed as the tentacle in his mouth seemed to absorb the fluid and unstuck. He imitated Ratchet’s head tilt, and the cool substance flowed down his tracheal tubing, not without choking him. There seemed to be more than one way for the stuff to go.
Ratchet blew air out of his nasal holes again. “Keep up until you’ve had your fill. You should know when.” The medic took his own advice and dipped his jaw into the stream again. Prowl stood there for what had to be another breem, sliding the liquid into his fuel tanks until he ached. Ratchet bumped the tactician away with his snout. “You’ve had enough. Any more and you’ll burst through.”
The medic didn’t seem to question how he knew, though Prowl was not inclined to disagree. That would accurately describe the feeling in his fuel tank. He almost felt ready to purge.
Blue eyes swept Prowl up, down, and back.
Prowl realized that he hadn’t spoken since he woke. “Ratchet?” he tried again, grateful when the noisy spasms didn’t claim him. Though he found it difficult to work out the necessary combination of ventilation, tentacle and jaw movement. The medic blinked, two sets of shutters sliding over his moist optics.
“Well, you look functional. Ready to see Prime? I need to wake up Wheeljack.” A grumble sounded from the broad white chest, and Prowl was suddenly aware of yet another fleshy tentacle, one attached to Ratchet’s backside, that twitched and swished, balancing Ratchet’s movements while seeming to react to his moods. “And don’t even try to transform. If you think bringing your sensors online was painful…” the medic trailed off, turning to head back the way they’d come.
“Where’s Prime?” Prowl asked.
“Behind you.”
Prowl whipped around, barely aware of the glimpse he received of his own lithe body, nothing like the one the medic sported. He stared up at yet another creature.
Big and red. Very red with blue projections rather than white. Projections that scraped the Ark’s ceiling, and made the ship bleed.
(chapter/part 2?)
The red beast twisted his head to look at the oozing holes, his long neck dipping in the middle. This one, as with Ratchet, possessed two sets of shutters. The translucent, horizontal pair slid over his blue optics and a rumble emanated from his throat. Prowlknew, more than he did with Ratchet, that this was Prime. There was no doubt in his befuddled mind.
“Need to be more careful about that,” he muttered, almost to himself. “How are you handling there, Prowl?” Prime’s voice grumbled out of the deep chest, not quite reaching the throat, much less his long mouth. His words slurred worse than Ratchet’s and Prowl’s. The plates on his nose shifted closer together and the corners of his long mouth dropped down.
Prowl narrowed his optics in concentration, setting to the difficult task of speaking. “Why aren’t you helping Ratchet wake up the others?” Prowl blasted air out of his nasal passages in annoyance. Cybertronian was not intended for a fleshy vocalizer. The Ark’s coolant seemed to be working through his fuel lines, clearing his processor of the… organic… static and allowing him to focus better.
“Would you like to try bringing Jazz online?” Prime asked, turning down the corridor and fully expecting Prowl to follow.
Naturally the tactician did. He noticed, now that he could process clearly, how low he sat to the ground. He hadn’t noticed before, since his perception had been greatly distorted by the new form and his optics seemed at their normal level in relation to Ratchet and Prime.
He turned his head to examine his new body, his long white neck twisting obligingly. Sinuous, he almost had the appearance of one long fleshy tentacle with thin legs and arms sticking out. A single black line ran along his underside, it reached up his neck farther than he could see and to the tip of his tentacle aft. His door panels seemed to have been converted to a three-tined membrane that flexed as he moved. Light fuzz covered the back of his neck and the tip of his tail, waving gently with every motion.
A loud expulsion of air drew his attention back to Prime’s towering form.
“I cannot compute how I’m able to stand, much less walk, on these rod thin legs,” Prowl admitted sheepishly when he realized he’d stopped. His ventilator appeared to object to his long sentence and he sat there for a few astroseconds, aware only of the intake and exhalations that expanded and contracted his torso.
Prime’s brow ridge lifted and his tentacle aft lashed suddenly as a laugh huffed from his broad chest. “I was wondering if you’d be able to walk myself.” A smile lifted the plates on Prime’s cheeks. “It’s only a little further.”
A little further proved to be what seemed little more than a morgue. Bodies, large and small, lay strewn carelessly about. Prowl’s exterior plating shuddered at the sight of the deathly gray mass.
Optimus headed straight for two bodies that had been positioned in a corner of the room. His head turned to watch the placement of his hands and feet, his tentacle aft lifted up to avoid smacking any of the inert bodies.
Prowl eyed the path Optimus used. His shorter legs and arms would have him scrambling over the bodies, and he didn’t really want to touch them. He looked around the room, and found a series of small slopes with odd glassy areas that ran the length of the room. He clambered up, balancing himself with his sinuous extremity. He gathered himself and leapt from slope to slope, amazed at the agility this lithe body possessed.
Prime nudged the two creatures before him, blowing air over them. He looked at Prowl expectantly.
Prowl examined the two bodies, one seemed of similar conformation to himself, the other looked similar to Ratchet. He winked the translucent shutters over his moist eyes and looked up at Prime. “Which one’s Jazz?”
Optimus seemed to droop, long neck and tentacle aft dipping down. “You can’t tell either?”
Prowl tilted his head. “No.”
His torso contracted in a noisy sigh. “Neither could Ratchet.” He touched a hand-foot to the one that appeared similar to the tactician. “Jazz.” His other hand-foot he touched to the Ratchet-shaped beast. “Ironhide.”
Prowl gingerly put his own hand-foot on the grey body. “He’s warm!”
“You have sharp fingertips, don’t forget,” Prime said in warning.
Prowl snatched his hand-foot away, too late, as the grey figure oozed grey fluid. “How should I wake him then?”
“Carefully.”
Prowl did not appreciate his commander’s sense of humor right then. Air hissed out from his clenched jaws, squeezing between his mouth tentacle and his elongated dental plates. He felt the hard tips of his membranous wings tap his side plates.
He watched Prime prod Ironhide's inert form with his wedge-shaped nose. He rested his blue-tipped hand-feet on a massive shoulder, carefully lifting the sharp points away from the tender flesh. The tactician sighed, the translucent shutter winking over his eye as he nudged Jazz’s lithe grey form.
They continued touching, nudging and prodding their comrades, trying to stir them from stasis.
A sudden resonating shriek echoed through the Ark.
Prowl whipped about, his pointed fingers sliding down Jazz’s torso. Prime’s head jerked up, only to relax again. A thoughtful growl rumbled from his chest and he looked to Prowl.
“Sounds like Wheeljack is online. Shall we let him try?” The massive red mech-turned-flesh lightly stepped over his crew. Prowl followed, using the soft-as-slag ledges to circumvent the bodies.
They walked the short distance back to where the Ark leaked.
Ratchet and another white creature drank at the small stream, tilting their heads back to allow the liquid to flow down their throats. The second white creature, whom Prowl assumed to be Wheeljack, looked up at their approach. His gaze slid from Prowl to Prime and he froze. The secondary shutters blinked and the odd blue membranous wings that lined his jaw hinge rippled.
“Optimus?” The small three-tined wings on his shoulder flattened.
The Autobot Commander nodded, but his optics slid to Ratchet still drinking from the pool. “Are you alright, Ratchet?”
The medic paused to glare at Prime. “Practically prime, Optimus. I’ll be much better if you tell me that Prowl was able to bring Jazz or Ironhide online.”
The long, red neck curved, dipping Prime’s nose to his hand-feet. “No such luck, I’m afraid.”
“Fragging wonderful,” the medic snarled. His mouth tentacle whipped out to clear his nose and mouth of the coolant. “Would you slagging bring Jazz over, then?” Ratchet frowned at the other three until Optimus nudged Wheeljack ahead with his nose.
Prowl glanced at the medic, and turned to follow Optimus. He joined them at Jazz and Ironhide’s forms, watching as Prime directed Wheeljack in waking the offline mech.
“That’s the third time since I came online that he has refueled. I have not felt the need since my initial fueling in this form.”
Both of the white Autobots blinked their secondary shutters at their commander.
“I’m a little confused about how this happened,” Wheeljack ventured, his headwings rippling in bright blue waves. As with Optimus his voice originated more from his chest than his throat, his sectioned lip components remained for the most part still.
Prime shook his head, his projections scraping against the Ark’s ceiling. “I’m sure that all of us wish to know the answer to that, Wheeljack.” He sighed and frowned. “Apparently Ratchet is the only one able to bring anyone online. I was hoping that you might be able to as well, Wheeljack. I am not comfortable depending on Ratchet alone to revive the crew.”
Prowl drew the most logical conclusion and stiffened. “You believe he’s using his own reserves somehow?”
“I believe it to the point that I know it to be true, Prowl.” Prime slid a hand-foot under the saboteur and Prowl stepped in to help maneuver Jazz across Prime’s shoulders. “He insists on doing it though, and I regretfully agree to the necessity. I have not been able to locate any Decepticons among the bodies. And there are three of the crew missing as well.”
Wheeljack’s headwings shifted. “You recognize them?”
“Odd, isn’t it?” Optimus agreed. “You can continue trying to wake Ironhide. Prowl and I will take Jazz to Ratchet.”
Prowl followed Optimus out, his lean and agile form slipping around the much larger mech’s bulk to keep Jazz from sliding off. They both paused mid-step when they reached the small stream in what Prime identified as the rec room. The two officers paused, exchanging a concerned glance with each other.
Ratchet lay stretched out on his side against the wall. Deep, even rumbles emanated from the white form, his optics shuttered.
Prowl inched forward, wondering what they would do if their only medic malfunctioned. “Ratchet?”
The white beast seemed to snap online, blinking both sets of shutters as he shook his head. “’Bout slagging time,” the medic grumbled, rising to his hands and feet. His aft twitched, spasming down the tentacle with annoyance.
Prowl helped Prime slide Jazz off his shoulder.
An explosion of air, accompanied an irritated grumble. “What the slag happened?” Ratchet touched the leaking slices on the saboteur’s shoulder, glaring at them from under his chevron.
“We have sharp fingertips,” Prowl admitted, his wing membranes scraping against his side.
Ratchet’s aft twitched and his dental plates bared in what could only be a scowl. “Glad you noticed. Now I’m sure there’s something you should be doing. Prim, how about Wheeljack, any luck?”
Optimus huffed. “Unfortunately, no.”
A growl, like an engine sputtering, rumbled from the medic’s throat. “Of all the times for ‘Aid to be inaccessible.”
The big red Autobot turned. “Let’s see if you or Wheeljack can get a response from Teletraan-1, Prowl.”
Prowl turned to follow, his head the last to whip about as he watched Ratchet lay his hands on Jazz’s grey form.
And from the medic’s hands, color flowed into the saboteur.