justbolts | Bunny Cage v. 2 (Reply)

Continuing on with the sharing of "things that may never get (completely) written", here's a drop of fic snippets I've done for TF fandom, and details regarding them.

Various continuities for this post, but still mostly Bayverse. Some are just old.

Some individual warnings on the snippets themselves. Mainly for violence or minor squick. Double lines indicate time skips.

1) That "Sam binary-bonds with Bumblebee" idea -- After the '07 movie, alongside the ever popular Sam-bot fics, there was an up-spring of "Sam and Bumblebee share bodies/brains/'sparks' somehow and fight as one" fics. In case anyone missed it, I'm one those utter pricks who'll latch onto a story concept and go "oh, cool idea, but you left out so much. Let me fix that". The snippets below were one of those cases.

In this Bayverse AU, Autobots arrived on Earth forty some years ago and have been Earth's "guiding patrons" ever since. It's pretty much reshaped the face of the US, at least, in terms of infrastructure and economy. The AllSpark didn't land on Earth, but the coordinates for it's location did (vie Jetfire) and were genetically encoded into a branch of the Witwicky bloodline. (No, I have no idea how exactly that works.) During their partnership with Earth, certain Autobots form bonds with humans where they share the same body -- why is not something I fully developed. Something to do with lack of the AllSpark? To make humans more accepting of them? Hmm.

Warning: Potential squick for body horror, physical modifications, and some associated mental trauma.

Samuel Witwicky was seventeen years old when he stopped being fully human.

Before that he'd been normal. Ordinary. Unremarkable. A C-average student with no goals beyond getting his father to buy him a car and meeting a hot girl that didn't look past him like he didn't exist. He'd never had the sort of grades or drive it took to get into the Human/Autobot Alliance, even if he'd wanted to.

Which isn't to say that he hadn't once dreamed of it. All kids dreamed of it. They owned the toys and watched the news reports and were extra attentive when Cultural Appreciation Day featured Cybertronian stories and history. They knew the names and ranks and bios and could repeat them at will. Ratchet, the brilliant medic; Ironhide, the weapons specialist; Wheeljack, the engineer; Optimus Prime, the great and wise leader, the one who graced their TVs most often with his grave face and deep, trustworthy voice. They knew and hated the evil Decepticons, whispered their names to scare each other; Megatron, Soundwave, Starscream. The Autobots were superheroes -- less human, less familiar than Superman or Batman, but all the more awesome because they were real.

Just to work for the Autobots was a great honor and the competition for it was fierce. But the highest position, the rarest and truly coveted one, was as an Autobot partner.

No one knew exactly how you could become a partner. Some sources said it was just luck; you caught the attention of an Autobot and became their friend, that was all. Others said partners were the best of the best, hand picked by Optimus Prime himself as children and raised on-base. Still more claimed they were genetically created; breed in labs especially for working with Autobots.

What everyone did know was that partners not only got to live with the Autobots, they went into battle with them, too.

And after watching video recordings of those thrilling, heart-stopping fights, that was something every child wanted like burning. Partners were superheroes themselves; embedded with advanced Cybertronian technology that made them faster, stronger, longer lived. Some claimed they could even read each other's minds, that a human partner could control his mechanical partner's body like his own.

What child doesn't want a giant, powerful superhero at their beck and call?

So, of course Sam had dreamed of it. Had elaborate fantasies of black-suited men in shades coming to his front door, their voices severe as they said, "Sam Witwicky, we have a job for you. You're the only one who can do it." Imagined coming to school the next day with his new metal bodyguard and pointing out the bullying Ethan Rand or Mark Garcia, who'd pulled down his pants and shoved him into a mud puddle that one time. Played the scene of them running away in terror, over and over again.

No one would make him cry again. They wouldn't dare.

Then adolescences came, and with it cynicism and access to the type of information no one shares with children.

The rumors doubled, quadrupled, ran rampant.

Autobots weren't really heroes, you know. They were the ones who'd brought their intergalactic war to this world, who brought the Decepticon down on our heads, killing hundreds each year. If they left forever, Megatron and Starscream and all the others would vanish with them.

Sure, they shared some of their technology with humans, cured certain cancers and improved energy reserves, communications, and science, but they didn't share all of it. They doled it out, bit by bit, because they were afraid humans would learn how to kill them. Because they wanted to have control.

And did you know, those partners, the shiny special ones that everyone wanted to be, weren't really friends of the Autobots. Partners were really just pets, kept by the giant robots the way human kept dogs. Eventually all of humanity would be like that, enslaved by the false-friends that swore to protect them.

Or no, wait, it wasn't like that. They were leashes. That's why they could control their mechanical half's body, to stop them if something went wrong. If the Autobots were such good guys, why did they need a that kind of failsafe?

But even worse, haven't you heard that the Autobots are really the bad guys? They're the ones that started the war in the first place. They were traitors and the Decepticons were forced to defend themselves.

That's bullshit, see I have this source that ---

And on, and on, and on.

Sam didn't became one of the haters, just like he didn't became one of the staunch supporters. Instead he drifted somewhere in the middle, with most of the rest of humanity.

When the usual polls came out, "What do you feel about the Autobots?" he was one of the ones who marked "Unsure, no opinion". When his parents or neighbors bitched about taxes being raised for this or that Autobot related project, when a news report listed the collateral damage of another giant droid death match, he nodded and muttered in suitably angry agreement. When there was news report of a new cure the Autobot scientists had released or of the rapidly expanding moon base and orbital stations, he was as pleased and excited as everyone else.

If asked "do you think they're here to help us or hurt us?", he'd shrug and answer, "don't know, I don't have enough information."

That was that. For Sam Witwicky, the Autobots, their war and the humans that worked for them, were a distant part of everyday life. Unheeded, unimportant.

Then he came across a dying alien in a used car lot and everything changed.

__________
__________

"A porche," Ron Witwicky said in a rising tone of disbelief. He raked a pile of sand until it was level and motioned to the near-by stack of stone slabs. "Get one of those for me, would you?"

__________
__________

Bumblebee was in trouble and he knew it.

Technically, he'd been in trouble for a while now, ever since Spike's lifesigns had vanished suddenly -- painfully, devastatingly -- from his scanners. He wasn't sure how long ago that was, having stopped keeping track of petty things like time when a small, weak, organic heart had stopped keeping his symbiot alive.

Concepts like friends and orders and functionality had similarly dropped in importance. He knew they'd wanted him to get another symbiot -- soon, before his systems went into shut down -- but it was the very last thing he wanted. He was done. He wasn't going to through with this again, not after loosing Spike.

His friends, human and Autobot alike, had tried. It was painful how hard they tried to convince him otherwise, and a desperate relief when he finally managed to escape to die alone in peace. (That he'd managed to do it while half-mad with grief and overwhelmed with software malfunctions would be a source of pride for him much later, though.)

He'd found an out-of-the way back road to hide himself and settled down into what was supposed to be a permanent stasis as his body slowly deactivated and his spark faded.

Which was why he was rather baffled to come to partial consciousness and find himself being dragged down a highway.

Only 20% of his systems were functioning and nearly all his scanners were offline. His memory banks were slow to load, adding to his confusion. The only modules running at full capacity was the symbioses system and his central processor was flooded with error messages from the overactive protocols. He had produced a surplus of bonding serum, a chemical that enhanced organic brain functions to allow full interfacing with a Cybertronian processor. He was also getting warning message about being greatly overdue for an interfacing session, which made no sense, why wouldn't he and Spike--

His memory banks finally loaded and if he'd had any control over his body, he'd have ripped free from whatever was hauling him and slammed repeatedly into the nearest hard surface. Everything in him cried out for his missing partner. His central processor crashed in reaction.

He was booted back into awareness again an indeterminate time later. The symbioses system was still active, but in a different way; it had hijacked the majority of his processor and resisted his attempts to override.

//Analyzing data. Unsuitable match,// the protocols stated, routing the reports to his main processor, //New scan. Compiling. Analyzing. Physically compatible. Not recommended. New scan.//

I'm being examined by humans, he realized fuzzily, as the information poured in.

There were three humans all together; two mature male adults and a adolescent male that shared genetic markers with one of the adults.

Bumblebee tried to block off the data stream and failed. He didn't want to know if any of these humans were suitable symbiots. He wanted Spike.

Spike had only been with him for eight years. Eight years; not even half a percent of the millenia they should have had together. They were still learning about each other, for Primus sake. Spike, young human that he was at barely thirty, was still learning about himself. Bumblebee had been looking forward to seeing him develop. Organics grew so quickly, the other dual units had cautioned him, even if he frustrates you sometime, don't miss a moment or you'll regret it. Bumblebee had been determined not to.

...but now, he would never get the chance.

//Recommended, 83% suitability match, recommended// the protocols announced.

Despite himself, Bumblebee felt a surge of surprise. A 67% match was considered manageable and anything above 75% was ideal. That level of compatibility was rare.

The human sat down in Bumblebee's interior and Bumblebee wanted to expel him, wanted to release the spring in the seat and jettison him far away. Only Spike had been permitted into Bumblebee's interior and never mind what Bumblebee's protocols were saying, this boy was nothing compared to Spike.

"Feels good," the young male said softly. His hands slid along the steering wheel and wiped dirt off the center piece. Once Bumblebee's Autobot insignia had been stamped there; now it was blank.

Even if it hadn't been, Bumblebee doubted the human would think anything of it. Cybertronians weren't permitted to take the shape of actual human transports. They were under law to use only specific designs and the humans were trained to recognize them.

The sensory grid in the fake leather transmitted a host of data, from the contours of the human's finger prints to the rate of blood flow under the thin skin. Autobots didn't experience pleasure from tactile sensations the way humans did, but Bumblebee had always enjoyed the feeling of Spike's body against his sensor grids. It meant his partner was near and living and with him. The sensation of this unfamiliar person was grating.

"How much?" the young human asked.

One of the others rested his hands on Bumblebee's door frame and peered into the interior, grating even more. "For this one... I'd say about, $5,000."

__________
__________

There was something important about this boy, important enough for a Decepticon to risk exposure to secure him.

It figured that as soon as Bumblebee found a reason to live again, his body reached its limit.

His voice cut in and out as he desperately tried to get his message across to the boy. "Take my kzzzzt unit, will get you access to kzzzt base. Hurry. You must kzzzzt -- " The nodes for all his hydraulics abruptly went silent. His arms gave out, sending his upper body crashing to the ground. "You must get to Opti-kzzzt-mus Prime."

"Oh god, you are dying!" Sam continued on hysterically, "Was it the Decepticon? Did he do it? You'll survive until I get help, right?"

Bumblebee made a helpless noise. His logic circuit told him to say 'yes'. Sam would be encouraged to get to the base faster if he thought it would aid his unexpected savior. But the part of Bumblebee screaming that he couldn't lie to Sam, couldn't let the boy leave without his protection was stronger.

"No," Bumblebee said, fighting against the impending shut down, "I am kzzzt malfunctioning. Need my human partner." A subroutine kicked in and the integration chamber on his flank popped open. "Kzzt he died. I can't kzzzzzt function without."

__________
__________

Sam stared at the opening in the Autobot's side. As he watched, a blue light inside flickered and then died, leaving the space dark, but the image was already burned into Sam's mind. A round pod, just big enough for a seated human. Padded and festooned with tubes and wires.

It didn't look remotely pleasant or welcoming.

Sam swallowed hard.

"You need a human partner to get better, right?" he said. His pulse pounded hard in his throat. "Okay, yeah, that makes sense." No, it didn't make any kind of sense. Why would sentient robots need to hook up to a human? "Will I do?"

The words slipped out unbidden. Oh god, his mind gibbered, did I really just say that?

The Autobot didn't seem able to lift its head, but it did twist it around in the dirt get a better look at Sam. The blue optics flickered.

"Yes," the shattered, monotone voice said, "Will hurt kzzzzzt. Not enough pain-kzzzt-killers."

Sam was nodding, his head bobbing on his neck. "Right, right, but it's life and death now, isn't it? I owe you, man. Okay. Okay. Do I just have to... crawl in? This is reversible isn't it?"

The Autobot's body twitched against the ground. "Yes pppzzzztttt to both. Sam, Sam, you don't have to."

The last few words took on the first hint of emotion Sam had heard from the robot. Desperation, pain, longing.

Sam took a deep breath. He could do this. "Yeah," he said, approaching the mechanical form, "Yeah, I do."

__________
__________

Getting into the pod was the single most creepy moment in Sam's life to date. It was deeper than it looked. And dark. And wet. Moisture from some of the tubes slid along his arms as he sat back into the cushioned seat. He shuddered and wished he'd kept his sweater on.

It was a tight fit. The cushioning shifted around him; widening in some spots and pressing closer in others, until he was completely supported. The tubes moved too, their ends pressing against his exposed skin. His shivering increased.

He got one last glance of the blue sky above him before the pod sealed closed.

"I'm scared," he gasped into the enclosed darkness. A cool breeze was blowing on his face, but that didn't help the sense of being utterly entombed.

"Kzzzzt remember to-to-to breath," came the Autobot's voice from all around him.

That was the only warning he got. A second later, there were sharp pains all over his body as over a dozen needles pierced into him. They punctured into the underside of his arms, the back of his neck, and into his legs, straight through his jeans. He jumped, but the motion was arrested by the cushioning.

"Ow, ow, ow," he said, "Okay, ow, not too bad, not too bad. I can do this." Coldness spread around the entry points, as if some fluid were being pumped into his body. His breathing sped up. "I can do this."

He flinched involuntarily as something unseen slid across his face and probed his nostrils. "No, no, no, get that away!" Later, the blind panic in his voice would embarrass him, but right now, there was something unknown moving the darkness and touching his face. Oh god, what if it went up his nose into his brain?

"It's kzzzt slag! Oxygen, for breathing. Pleakzzzt, be calm, be cacacaca---zzzztt."

Sam obediently settled and the tubes slid up into his nostrils, but didn't go any further. Cool air dried his sinuses. The chill feeling in his veins began to heat up. His head swam.

Please let me pass out.

The heat increased, becoming a horrible burning. Some of the needles widened; he could literally feel his skin parting. It hurt. He wanted to jerk away, but he couldn't seem to move.

Soft music drifted into the dark space. What the shit --- oh, the Autobot. He tried to comment on the inappropriateness, but he seemed to have forgotten how to use his mouth.

Something moved inside his skin. He might have screamed, he wasn't sure. At that point, his fading connection to his body cut off and nothingness swallowed him.

__________
__________

Sam was in hell.

He drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like an eternity. One moment he'd be lost in a sea of strange, confusing images; the next he'd be caught in the grip of throbbing agony. He went into a blistering panic when he woke up once to find something shoved into his mouth almost to the back of his throat, so that it seemed like he couldn't breathe. And again when it felt like there was something in his stomach and he couldn't move to pull it out. And again when his thighs started itching, itching to the point of burning and no matter how he tried, he couldn't scratch them. And again when there was the nightmarish sensation of crawling under the skin on the insides of his arms.

He screamed, he struggled, he sobbed like a child. The only source of comfort came from a quiet voice that talked to him insistently, but even that couldn't make the experience any easier.

Eventually, the pain faded off, leaving only a steady flow of images, words, and faint sensations. It was nice not to hurt, so for a good while, he just... floated.

After a time, the words began to make sense. Systems reports. Data analysis. The sensations settled into feelings he could make sense of; a (dirt and asphalt composite) pressed against his side, the wind blowing across him and causing the surrounding plant-life -- wheat -- to drum against his back.

There was also pain but milder than before and distant. An array of error messages, unpleasant, but less frightening. Reassuringly, his programs were coming back online and the previously silent nodes in his frame were reporting information. More worrisome was the data stream regarding his bio-organic components; fever had settled in, along with dehydration and fatigue. He was going to need to secure some food soon ---

::Hey wait, that's me!:: Sam cried. His sense of hugeness, of a complex mechanical frame and its steady, calm listing of information, faded. It was still there, but it was like he was floating around inside it, instead of apart of it.

::It's us,:: Bumblebee answered, ::We are one unit. Sam, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, you shouldn't have had to do this.::

With the ease of practice, Bumblebee gently pushed his new partner's mind aside and took over motor control. Sam sense of 'self/individual/human' had separated their joint consciousness and allowed Bumblebee, as the stronger, older awareness, to override him. Bumblebee didn't like it. In a normal situation, they'd spend weeks just learning how to operate together and either one enforcing individual control was big a no-no.

But Bumblebee didn't have an option. They needed to relocate to a safe location and get their organic components looked after before it could suffer permanent damage from the trauma.

::'Organic components'...that's my body you're talking about,:: Sam said testily. But Bumblebee was right; Sam didn't know the first thing about managing this giant hunk of metal.

::And that's our body you're talking about,:: Bumblebee reminded him. He lifted himself cautiously to his knees and scanned the surroundings.

2) The Skids and Mudflap Fic -- I'm not a huge fan of these characters as they were written in ROTF and while I just avoided having around at all in "Teaching Young Bots Old Tricks", I usually prefer to not write off characters. I like the challenge of making characters I hate likable and compelling to myself.

That, however, is not how this fic was born. This fic was originally born after reading an article about abuses against US women soldiers while deployed and myself wondering how Autobots would respond to that occurring within NEST. Would they do anything and what could they do given their limited legal power? This pretty heavy idea collided with my urge to do something interesting with Skids and Mudflap. As you can see from the snippets, dealing with their issues took over my brain, leaving the original idea as yet-untouched side plot.

No major warnings.

They only learned about it because Skids and Mudflap had been sulking and avoiding the others.

Not that this was anything new. The 'Moron Twins', as they were often not-so-affectionately called by their teammates, were frequently banished to the back of beyond because of their behavior. They meant well, really they did. They were warriors and Autobots. They wanted to defeat the Decepticons and protect humans and serve Optimus Prime, just like everyone else. And they honestly did know how serious everything was.

It was just... really easy to forget sometimes. Mudflap was a little better at staying on target than Skids was (not that Skids would ever admit to this), but if Skids started in on him, he lost track too. Once something new caught their interest, it took major effort or outside intervention to re-focus on what they were originally supposed to be doing.

Ratchet liked to say that their priority protocols were glitched, but it was hard to tell if the medic meant that for real or not. He also liked to accuse them of switching their processors with their afts, which was just plain mean.

The latest screw-up had been a hard blow, because they'd been doing great for weeks before that. They were still riding the glory from their efforts of protecting Sam and double-teaming the giant combiner, Devastator, in Egypt. Optimus Prime had even nodded approvingly in their direction, something Skids still had yet to recover from.

Right after that, they'd been put under Sideswipe's watch for training. Sideswipe hated them like no-bodies business, judging by the way he acted, but he was a good teacher. And they'd been learning and getting better. A couple small missions playing guard duty to NEST supply convoys had gone successfully, so Sideswipe had put in a recommendation for them to be assigned something harder.

The result was an another guard duty assignment, this time protecting a human college in the Middle East. The college in question had been receiving threats of terrorist attacks -- why, the Twins didn't know and didn't really care. They liked humans well enough, but they were strange creatures and the reasons beyond their actions mattered much less than impressing their fellow Autobots. Optimus Prume had offered the Autobot's services as a sign of good will and the Twins were ecstatic to get the mission. Even if they did have to share it with Arcee.

The first few days had gone well. Skids and Mudflap watched the building at night while Arcee recharged or handled other duties, and then switched places for the daylight hours. But on the fourth day, they slipped.

Or rather, Skids slipped.

They'd been chatting over comm lines while they patrolled the perimeter. Skids already had grand ideas about how their success at this mission would send them sky-rocketing up in both the Autobot's ranks and Optimus Prime's affections. They indulged in some much beloved daydreaming, which quickly turned into bragging about which of them would rise faster, which in no time became arguing.

During this, Skids switched off his long range scanners. It hadn't been a fully conscious act. In truth, he should have no problem arguing with Mudflap and running his scans at the same time, but for some reason, they had seemed like an unnecessary extra effort much better directed at putting Mudflap in his place.

Because he hadn't been paying attention, a group of humans were able to get close enough to throw a Moltov cocktail undetected. Thankfully, the explosive hit the stone side of the building instead of going in through a window and they'd been able to put the fire out quickly before anything was majorly damaged.

And then, they both slipped. What they should have done was woken Arcee and stayed with the building until she gave them permission to pursue or did so herself. But they were furious and humiliated and the humans were escaping, so they both shot off down the narrow, awkward streets in pursuit, leaving the school entirely undefended. It was a half-hour of fruitless searching later before Acree woke up and ordered them to return. The mortifying realization that she'd had been monitoring the locations of their EM signatures even while recharging was overshadowed by the shame that they'd just proven her distrust justified. It was luck only that another group of humans hadn't taken advantage of the situation.

They were allowed to finish up that night's shift and then sent back to NEST headquarters the following morning. Having to explain themselves to Ironhide was worse than usual. Most everyone else would've reported directly to Optimus Prime, because of how small the group was, but their Prime had stopped trying to debrief them ages ago. They were literally incapable of speaking to him coherently.

"What the slag were you thinking?" Ironhide demanded.

"Come on, homey, it ain't like we were meanin' ta let the fleshies get that close," Mudflap said defensively. This earned him an incredibly foul look. He winced and dropped his human persona. "It was not on purpose, sir."

"It's never on purpose with you two. If it was, we woulda tossed you out on your afts centuries ago," Ironhide said. He vented heated air. "Why did you offline your long-ranges, Skids?" he asked, his voice surprisingly non-accusatory.

This was always the worst part. Skids unhappily did a quick self-analysis, frightened of the answer. Sure enough, it came back and was so lame it took effort to admit to.

"Humans had approached twice before last night," he said, dropping his usual human-inspired mannerisms the way Mudflap had. They sort of suspected that the others disapproved of the mimickry patterns they'd chosen, but no one said anything, so they weren't sure if they were imagining it or not. Besides, the dialect was fun and some of the soldiers around the base seemed to get a kick out of it.

"Both times, they came close enough to be picked up by our short-ranges before seeing us scared them off. I assumed that this would always be the case and that they could not do the damage they wanted from a greater distance. So I turned off the long-ranges to save processor power."

It was stupid. His battle computer was already telling him how stupid it was as he spoke the words. You never underestimated an opponent, went Sideswipes' lessons. You never trusted that if an opponent acted one way once, they would continue to act that way every time the situation arose. You never, ever assumed.

How nice of his battle computer to remind him of this now instead of last night when he really needed it.

::Now that was just pure dumbshit,:: Mudflap informed him over their private comm line. Skids glared at him resentfully. He knew perfectly well that his two mistakes made his twin feel better over his one.

Ironhide stood staring at him silently for a long while. No emotions reflected in the larger mech's body language.

Finally, Ironhide said, "Very well. I'll speak to Sideswipe about your training. Clearly there are a few gaps."

Mudflap sent a burst of dismay over their comm. Ironhide thought that Sideswipe hadn't been teaching them good enough! The small, ugly, bitter part of himself that was tired of getting flack wanted to just let the misconception slide. Sideswipe hated them and dealt with them only because Prime had ordered him; it wasn't like clearing his rep was going to earn them any favors.

"Stop looking like I just killed your pet turbofox," Ironhide said gruffly, interrupting Skids internal battle between integrity and cowardice, "You got lucky and there were no major consequences. The only reason yer getting it as hard as you are is 'cause this was for the humans, and Optimus is particular about putting on a good face for them. But it's not the end of the world. We'll make you two soldiers if we gotta beat it into you. Now get outta my sight. Baring Decepticon attack, you're off the duty roster until further notice."

With that bracing comment, he gave Mudflap a personable slug in the shoulder and stalked off. They watched him into fold down into his alt-mode and vanish into one of the hangers.

"Now tha's jus' great," Mudflap said and treated Skids to a copy of Ironhide's earlier punch, "Ol' Iron-up-my-exhaust is gonna chew on our bitch-ass teacher an' then he's gonna come shootin' after our afts fer gettin' him in trouble."

"Slag off," Skids said, shoving his twin in retaliation. "What was I supposed ta tell 'im? 'Nah, Mister Ironhide sir, teacher done taught his lesson good, I jus' too cracked in ta' head tha' learn it right'? Then I gotta listen ta him spend hours tellin' me how I gotta take this shit serious an' step up like I don't know all that already. Nu-huh, not today."

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_______________

"Give me your medical records again," Ratchet said suddenly.

Skids and Mudflap shared a look.

"Sho'," Mudflap said, transmitting the data, "But it's not that different from last time."

Ratchet was silent for a moment, apparently analyzing the information. "The virus you had," he said, "The one that Lifesupport signed off on. What did he do to fix it?"

"He didn't," Skids said, a little baffled, "It was half a vorn between when we got it an' the others found us. Ya think we coulda survived with an untreated virus that long? We dug that fragger out ourselves. Lifesupport checked an' said we were clean."

Ratchet stared at them. "You self-treated a virus and didn't insist on a full, in-depth medical evaluation to make sure there weren't pieces left behind in your cores?"

"I said Lifesupport cleared us," Skids snapped back. He pushed himself into a sitting position and angrily disengaged the datapad. He hadn't agreed to this just to get yelled at. "We reported it to the slagger first thing, didn't hide it or wait around or nothing. He said we didn't need a full evaluation an' we trusted him. If you got a problem with that, you can just go to the Pit."

"Skids," Ratchet said. He stepped forward and put his hand on Skids' shoulder, restraining him from getting off the berth. "Mudflap, too. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for yelling and I'm sorry for that idiot, Lifesupport."

He didn't remember the last time someone had apologized to him. It gave him pause.

"...guess we shouldn't 'ave trusted Lifesupport, huh?" Mudflap said, a lot softer than Skids had ever heard him speak. Skids sent his twin a concerned ping and got back a flood of betrayal and sadness.

Ratchet vented air in a huff. "There's a chance he didn't believe you about the virus. He's not around anymore to ask, Pit take his spark, but that is the only reason I can think for a medic to not run a deep scan. I will say, there's no scar from the virus in either of your primary functions. That's uncommon enough for someone that received medical treatment and almost unheard of for a self-treatment. If I hadn't just seen the evidence in your cores and it wasn't in your records, I would swear you'd never been infected."

"But why would he sign off on it an' put it on our files if he didn't think it was real?" Skids asked. He couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"I don't know," Ratchet said, "It doesn't fit what I knew of his reputation, but war changes people. By the time this happened, he may not have been the mech I'd heard spoken of so highly. What I do know is that any possibility of a virus should be taken seriously and checked with a full evaluation. I'm deeply sorry that you weren't given the proper treatment."

Mudflap jerked up suddenly. "It's not still in us, is it?" Real fear bled into his tone.

Contracting that virus had been the worst thing they'd ever gone through. Skids remembered recharges plagued by nightmares; times when he couldn't recognize his own brother, name, or purpose; days when his body refused to obey him, when gears and cogs turned and turned for no reason until they stripped. It had taken years to isolate and purge the infection. He remembered deleting whole batches of corrupted memory and function modules, praying and hoping he'd be able to retrieve intact copies from Mudflap's processor. To this day, they didn't know how much they had lost and the thought plagued them.

"No," Ratchet said, shaking his head, "You're completely clean. The problem isn't the virus. Tell me what you did to get rid of it."

After a quick conference over their comm to make sure they had the details straight, Mudflap began; "We only remember so much, seeing as how we were pretty out of it, but our systems are identical, yeah? So if my targeting protocols got screwed, I could just purge 'em and replace 'em with Skids' protocols."

"After we figured that out," Skids said, taking over, "We just made a bunch of backups of clean files and used them to replace the ones that got damaged. That way, we only hadda focus on repairing the few programs that didn't have backups. It worked," he added a little resentfully.

"It did," Ratchet said dryly, "In fact, it was brilliant and saved your lives."

While they marveled over the novelty of Ratchet calling them brilliant for real, the medic continued on. "Unfortunately, it was something that should have only been a temporary fix, not a permanent one. You've got mountains of redundant programs in your processors. Copies of copies, on top of copies, and your command protocols are woven through all of them. Different functions are accessing different copies of the same modules.

"What seems to have happened is you were replacing files faster than you could delete the corrupted ones," Ratchet said, "In some cases, you layered patches over files that weren't corrupted. Your automated systems attempted to integrate the files anyway, only to find several copies of the same and no way to tell the difference. So it split connections to access them all. Normally, there are safeguards in place to keep us from using multiples of the same program, but..."

"We overrode a lotta safeguards gettin' rid of that virus," Mudflap said, "And we fragged our own systems doin' it. Great." He slumped back against the berth.

"What's it all mean though, doc?" Skids asked, "We can't be running all those redundancies together, or our processors would be movin' slower then slag rolling up a hill."

Ratchet grunted and waved a hand to direct their attention at the flat screen TV mounted onto the wall. The screen lit up, show a mass of different colored blobs woven through with a web of light.

"You aren't," he said, "As I mentioned, different functions are using different copies. That's where it's all slagged. This." He pointed to the screen again. "Is a representation of what a normal Cybertionian nerual network is supposed to look like."

The image changed. The blobs multiplied, showing several of the same color. The web of light was a tangled mess between them; where in the previous image, each blob had straight lines to connect to all the other blobs, the lines in this image split and divided, connecting to many blobs at once or even doubling back to access the same blob in a different location.

"This is what yours looks like. See here?" A section of the image lit up brighter. "All that shiney new knowledge about battles and procedures and what not that Sideswipe has been teaching you is only being written to this one copy. But your higher reasoning has a split connection to both the updated copy and the outdated version. Rather than using both at once and eating up RAM, there's a subroutine in place to determine which gets priority. But the criteria for that is arbitrary at best and I couldn't begin to tell you why it works one way instead of the other. When you're in the middle of a test, you might access the updated copy, but out in the field, you might access the outdated one. This is why Skids, especially, can show complete understanding of the subject material, while still failing to consistently act upon it."

The twins were silent for a moment, mulling that over in their heads. They spoke at the same time.

"So ain't my fault?" Skids asked.

"Can you fix it?" Mudflap asked.

They gave each other a dirty look.

"No, to both questions," Ratchet said. He held up a hand to forestall their mingled dismay and relief. "It's not your fault. You can't help the way you are. And I don't begin to have the skill to straighten that mess in your heads out. If I'd gotten my hands on you right after it happen, then maybe. But it's been hundreds of years. The changes are completely integrated in your systems and attempting to re-route your command structure could cause a complete crash." He turned away from them and grabbed a crate to drag between their berths.

"You sayin'... we just gotta keep living like this?" Skids said. He didn't know what to think about that. In a way, it was relief to have a name for the problem. They weren't careless fuck-ups and they weren't stupid either. There was just something not working right in their processors that they couldn't control.

But where did that knowledge leave them? Still scraping the bottom of the Autobot barrel, because a glitch meant they weren't trustworthy anywhere else? What about their dreams?

"Well, that's where you two come in." Ratchet lowered himself ponderously onto the crate. It creaked mightily in protest, but held his weight. "If you can take control of the subroutines that govern which program versions you utilize and set your own requirements for them, you'll improve your functionality tenfold. But I can't do that for you. It's gotta be your own coding.

"This is not going to be easy," he added sharply, cutting off their excitement, "It'll take time and patience and effort. And before you get your hopes up, there's a very low chance of 100% recovery."

_______________
_______________

"I suspect that Skids and Mudflap may have been Decepticons before the virus," Ratchet said.

"Can you confirm this?" Optimus Prime said.

"Not beyond a shadow of a doubt, I can't," Ratchet said, "The coding language they use is almost exclusively 'Con in origin, but it's not unheard of for Autobots to use it too. And before you ask, no, I don't think it'll ever have any affect on their current alliances."

"I didn't think it would," Optimus said calmly, "They have well proven their loyalty and I will trust in that." He cocked his head to the side. "Is the code language the only reason?"

"Eh," Ratchet grunted and shifted his weight, "That was the first tip off, but there are a couple other hints. Their memory files from before the virus have been completely pieced back together... and not necessarily the right way. Some of the emotions and thoughts don't logically match the sensor feeds they're associated with. Optimus, they were aboard the Nemesis. Both of them identify themselves as prisoners in those memories -- but I don't know any prisoner that was allowed to refuel at energon dispensers or go racing with Stunticons in the hallways."

Optimus had gone still at the information. Ratchet let him think for a moment.

Finally, the Prime said, "Skids and Mudflap knew themselves to be Autobots with such conviction, they re-wrote any memory that disagreed with this perception. No. I cannot believe that a Decepticon would mistake their own goals and ideals to that degree simply because of a virus. Either they had defected prior to the infection, or...they were undercover agents."

"Those two?" Ratchet said disbelievingly.

"Sideswipe has mentioned their potential on numerous occasions," Optimus said. A hint of humor entered his tone. "It's part of his frustration with their incompetence."

Ratchet let out an amused huff. "Well, it would explain why Autobots would have memories of buddying around on the Nenesis. Of course, I don't recall ever hearing about twin agents in the ranks."

"You wouldn't have. That's the point," Optimus said, "Was that the only reason you pursued this investigation, Ratchet?"

"No, sir. It was... it was because of Lifesupport," Ratchet admitted with reluctance. "The medic that cleared Skids and Mudflap when they joined the Eighth Division. When I found out he let them off without a deep-scan, I figured him for an idiot at worst and an apathetic shell at best. Then Mudflap let slip that Lifesupport had not only personally built them upgraded frames, but had petitioned on their behalf to join the Eighth. That wasn't the actions of a mech too burnt out by the war to care about his patients. My suspicion is that he either knew or suspected them to be former Decepticons, and purposely avoided a deep-scan so there was no chance of it being discovered and ending up on their records."

3) Jetstorm and Jetfire Idea -- Hey look, TFA fic! This is an itty-bitty snippet compared to the above. It was mainly going to be a story about freedom and consent, and what their lives as expendable factory workers turned into high-profile experiments really meant for them.

"This is what you are going to be," the teachers said when the two mechs came online.

For some of their kind, it was a question. 'What do you want to be?', the teachers and attendants would ask, 'Have you looked at all the brochures yet? Have you thought about it? There's so much available.' Each newly conscious infant was different. There were those that knew exactly what they wanted and begged for extra downloads to help them prepare. Others had so many different life plans they couldn't settle on one. Still more had no goal at all, only a dreamy anticipation for the solar cycle they could leave and see what the world has to offer them.

But that was for those models, those protoform batches. The ones built to have a choice.

"This," the teachers said and gave them downloads and tools to begin practicing their future trades, "Is what you will be."

And because they knew no different, because they didn't understand the nature of choice, they accepted it as truth.

4) The OTHER Jetstorm and Jetfire, with a side of Bumblebee, fic -- Gosh, I can't stand TFA Bumblebee, but as stated above, I like to see that as a challenge.

This one is actually a kink meme fill. I can't be arsed to go looking for the original prompt right now, but the gist was that Jetfire and Jetstorm have seeker trine protocols, are feeling incomplete without knowing why, and latch onto Bumblebee to be their third because of his jet attachments. Because I have a thing for both threesomes and involuntary bonds/bonding, this so did it for me. I was also enamored of this mental image of Bumblebee having fun, casual threesome sex with these two exotic new models and then in a later battle -- wait, why are there streams of Decepticon code and dialect running through my processor? I dunno guys.

The resulting short snippet below is me figuring out how to sympathize with Bumblebee. It's set after he's unknowingly bonded with the Twins, who then had to go back to Cybertron with Sentinel, leaving them all three worse for the wear and Bumblebee's teammates worried. Technically, #3 and #4 could be combined into the same fic.

"Learned anything new?" Optimus asked.

"Oh, plenty." Ratchet scrubbed a hand down his face and reflected on the reading he'd done.

He'd spent several cycles yesterday going through Bumblebee's medical files and personal history -- something he'd been avoiding since joining this crew. It gave you insight into a bot and their motives, made it that much easier to care about what happened to them. This lot had already wormed their way under his plating enough as it was.

Needless to say, Bumblebee's files had explained a great deal of his behavior that Ratchet had been stubbornly blaming on a personality glitch.

Well, in a sense, it still was a personality glitch. Except the reason he was so annoying came not from that, but from the massive failure of everyone around him to teach him to deal with it. His earliest Personality Evaluations from when he was a newly onlined protoform described a highly sensitive, clingy, stubborn bot, who'd need patience, attention, and consistency in order to become a confident, independent member of society.

Unfortunately for him, the Protoform Training and Social Integration Program he was enrolled in was grossly underfunded; not only did they not have the teachers to spare for one-on-one mentoring, the ones they did have had no idea what to do with a high maintenance protoform like Bumblebee. He was passed on from teacher to teacher, pushed through the development stages despite failing several key exams along the way, and finally, discharged from the Program early, probably in the hopes he'd get an apprenticeship or higher education teacher who could give him the guidance he needed.

Instead, he got Sentinel Prime.

Really, it was no wonder Bumblebee was undisciplined, defiant, unabashedly cocky, and distrustful.

Optimus was still watching him patiently. Ratchet waved away his wandering thoughts and turned back to his console.

"I just can't say any of it explains his current depression," Rachet said.

5) Incompatible Universes -- A while back, someone awesome made a joke about the G1 universe being powered by inconsistencies. This got me thinking of the idea of the G1 cartoon seriously being one, singular timeline/universe that is constantly resetting and re-configuring itself. For the most part, the inhabitants wouldn't be aware, because hey, if history is being re-written, than so are their memories and bodies and understanding.

But what if there were some glitches in the system? People who weren't properly updated with each shift, so that for the duration of the shift, or even the rest of their lives, they believe and remember things differently from everyone else. What if from then on, they gain at least SOME degree of awareness of the shifts?

Warning: Character death (sorta?)

He didn't realize it at the time, but on later reflection, Windcharger was really lucky that he was around Jazz the first time it happened.

He'd been resting in one of the lounges on the third floor of the main Iacon dome, when a mech strolled past and waved a hello, cool as you please, as if he hadn't just been blown up two orn prior.

It was probably shock more than anything that had Windcharger leaning over and asking his only other companion in the lounge, "Was that really Backslide?"

"Yep," Jazz had said, still bouncing his head in time with his music.

"Wasn't he deactivated?" Windcharge said.

"Maybe," Jazz said and added, "Why don't you go chat him up while you got the chance?"

Jazz grinned then, making this suggestion seem so normal and reasonable that Windcharger had happily stated "I think I will!" and ran off to find Backslide.

Backslide was just down the hall and a little surprised that Windcharger stopped him for a talk. They'd never really socialized before. This, Windcharger decided after a bit, was a shame, because they ended up sharing a lot of similar interests and hobbies.

The experience should have been weird. He remembered Backslide's deactivation, all the fuss and memorial service surrounding it. Granted, others had also died around the same time and Windcharger couldn't say that Backslide had been more than another name in a list already too long, but he would've heard if Backslide had made an unexpected recovery. He should have been completely freaked or at least trying to figure out if it was a prank.

Instead, it seemed like the most normal thing ever to have a nice conversation with a supposed-to-be-dead fellow Autobot and bid him goodbye when they both had to get back to work.

After this encounter, Windcharger rationalizes to himself that Backslide was undercover or it was a mistake in the files, or something like that. Until, that is, he visits one of the memorials and finds Backslide's deactivated shell there. And okay, maybe that could still be explained away, but he's been noticing other things recently too; reports that hugely contradict the one before them, mechs being in one place when they were originally in another just moments ago, or suddenly having clones, and the overall weirdness that not only does no one else find issue with this, it doesn't bother him either, unless he thinks about it. Meanwhile, he keeps randomly encountering Backslide and building a solid friendship with him.

Everything comes to a head when Backslide straight-up vanishes in the middle of a conversation. Windcharger has a bit of a fit that earns him some "quiet time" in the local medbay. Jazz comes to visit him.

You see, Jazz gets it. He has the same problem, with people vanishing or being where they shouldn't or looking different or history not being what he remembered. He shares his theory with Windcharger, that the universe is one big virus addled computer and some programmer or other is doing his damnedest to make sure everything operates the way it's supposed be, but it doesn't work or maybe he keep changing his mind on what that means. And sometimes mechs like him and Windcharger and others pop-up; bits of code from old, deleted programs still hanging around, watching the system reconfigure around them.

Windcharger gets a kind of peace from this and decides, like Jazz, to just go with the flow of their weird, glitchy universe. After all, Jazz's "programmer" not being sure whether Backslide should be dead or alive means he got to become dear friends with someone he would've otherwise never met.

This odd friendship pays off in an unexpected way millions of years later during the attack on Autobot City on Earth. After not seeing Backslide for a very long time, the mech appears suddenly, just in time and just long enough to push Windcharger out of the way of a shot that would've killed him.

Much later, Windcharger reflects on this with Jazz. He wonders it if was intended; if his entire friendship with Backslide was a set up to ensure he had someone to save him during the attack. Jazz shrugs and suggests he not think about it too deeply or it'll drive him batty. Windcharger laughingly agrees.

With that Windcharger stood, collected his empty cube, and nodded goodbye to Jazz.

To Jazz's optics, Windcharger was gone all at once, vanishing between one nod and the next. No blip, no shimmer, no residual heat or exhaust in the air, no indication that Windcharger should have been there at all.

Which he shouldn't have, after all. He'd died during the assault on Autobot City three years ago.

Jazz lifted his energon cube to the empty room. "See you around, friend."

6) Humans in my robot spaceship? -- This G1-based idea is the flipside of the "Autobots and humans living together on Earth" fic-bunny I posted yesterday. An Autobot spaceship has an altercation with a Decepticon ship and discovers a ton of organic life stored in their cargo hold. Among them are possible sentients and with the stasis unit they've been kept in damaged, the Autobot crew decides the right thing to do is wake them up, figure out how to communicate with them and how to get them back home.

The humans, however, are not a space going species and even after bridging the language gap, they have no idea where Earth is in relation to the rest of the galaxy. The Autobots have never encountered Earth and with the Decepticon ship's crippled and computer wiped, they have no idea what course they took. The two species learn to co-exist on the ship and a few human generations pass before they get glimmering of where Earth might be. I like other idea more, ultimately, but this one is fun too.

"They would've died!"

The stricken yell was swallowed up by the sound dampeners on the bridge, but a few of the attending still winced at the reminder.

"Their risk of death has yet to significantly lower at this rate," Prowl said, clinically cold and infinitely practical, "We are poorly equipped for long term organic life support and the unit they're currently housed in was damaged during the conflict. It will not keep them in stasis for much longer. Furthermore, even if we succeed in ensuring their continued survival, it will significantly impact the rest of our mission."

The look Hound gave him was surprised and betrayed. Prowl had been right there alongside Hound in rescuing the life support unit and the unconscious creatures contained inside from the Decepticon ship's hold. The Scout had clearly expected Prowl to support him against the others.

Optimus, who understood a bit more about how Prowl dealt with such situations, touched Hound's shoulder to get his attention and stem further comment.

"It was right of you and Prowl to save them as you did," Optimus said for the benefit of everyone attending.

__________
__________

"Whoever put this together knew what they were doing," Hound said, "There is some high class construction in here and it's got double the required amount of plant, soil, and microbe samples." He set the last sheet of plexiglass on top of the rest.

"What is all this?" Ratchet asked.

"Organic terrarium kits," Hound said and reached into the subspace field to pull out another small bio-support unit. "Assembling a small one was part of my final at the academy. It's supposed to be a self-contained and, as much as possible, self-supporting biological environment. Extra points for longevity. These are..."

Hound looked down at the block in his hands quietly for a moment.

"Ratchet," he said softly, "This no hobbyist kit here. Not even Tower mechs would be this through if it was just for a collection. This is like something you could find in Crystal City Academy for the study of higher order biologicals."

A chill crawled through Ratchet's lines. What scientist would be buying lifeforms -- potentially sentient lifeforms, at that -- off of Decepticon terrorists?

"Well, we'll worry about that later," Ratchet said, "Can we put these thing together now to take care of our organics?"

Hound hesitated. "It... it's our best bet."

"But?"

"But, these can take anywhere from a few decaclyes to several vorn to get properly established, depending on vegetation life cycles. And that's assuming I manage to do everything right the first time around and don't kill off entire colonies of necessary bacteria a megacyle in. We're still going to have to find some other way to provide for their atmospheric and dietary needs if they're gonna survive."

7) Raising Glitch -- My personal favorite. Bayverse, once again. A scientist involved with Sector 7 before the arrival of the Autobots is intrigued by the lifeforms created by the Cube and their similarity to the Ice Man. She wants to study a living one. The eventual end result is a Cybertronian sparkling raised by humans. Also one of my rare indulgences of 100% Original Character cast.

"I only need one."

It was a presumptuous statement and impossible to back up with hard data. But she made it anyway, echoing their impenetrable expressions with one of her own. The answers she sought were to questions that had been apart of their organization from the very beginning.

They shifted, talked amongst themselves; a wall of suits behind a glossy desk. All men. Finally, one leaned forward.

"We'll take it under consideration."

Two months later, she had her pit and access to the Cube.

_____________

"What I'm trying to figure out," Curtis said, "Is what good all this is supposed to do." He motioned to the partially constructed object on the work surface and the tools and parts spread out around it. "There's nothing you can build that the Cube energy won't completely reconfigure. There's no reason to make a robot out of it first."

Madeline made a distracted noise.

_____

The concrete pit was twenty feet deep, and fifteen by fifteen feet square. There was a observation room on one side, but for now, it was hidden behind heavy steel and concrete doors. A sheet of bullet proof glass covered it, with a steel cover that could be dropped down on top of that. Cameras concealed in concrete blocks and bullet proof glass spiraled their way up the sides, recording every angle.

The robot was placed in the center, surrounded by the items Madeline had collected. Stuffed animals, wooden blocks, plastic bowls and cups. She suspected most of it would be destroyed, but even that would reveal a great deal.

She stood at behind the bank of monitors and let out a breath.

"Pipe in the Cube energy."

The strange hum that accompanied the Cube was felt even in the observation room. In the pit, blue light danced and rolled over the robot.

_____

With the same high-pitched chittering that the previous experiments had exhibited, the small robot let loose a barrage of bullets and at the surrounding objects. Fluff and wood chips exploded into the air.

Apparently not satisfied with that, Glitch let loose a piercing shriek of what sounded like rage echoed through the pit and darted forward on bird-like legs. He pounced the pile of stuffed animals and toys, ripping and shredding and throwing bits in a frenzy.

"You know what scares the shit out me, Mattie?" Curtis said into the strained silence, "The idea that the big frozen one is just like this."

"That's what we're here to determine," Madeline said. She watched her creation calmly, ready to wait there all day. All the other experiments had been terminated within their first two minutes of life, if not sooner. She wanted to see at least a week of prolonged violence.

"Look, it's calming down."

Indeed, after three minute of frantic movement, Glitch's actions had slowed.