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sock-has-rock · 1 day ago

Text

miscalibrated

pt 3/?

Jazz inspected the strange mecha. His curiosity itched like a rash in the back of his mind. It was just so… boxy? Inflexible? It moved smoothly, but it didn’t have any visible weapons, or any form of defense he could see. Overall, it looked like it would be very ineffective at fighting a kaiju.

Why would anyone build a mecha like that? It was such a waste of resources. Jazz huffs, Bebop’s fins flicking outward to reflect his frustration. The alien mecha watched with intense eyes at the action.

Jazz took one more long glance at the mecha. It still didn’t seem inclined to attack him. He upped his proximity sensors, and let Bebop’s system start creating a sonic map of the area. It would take awhile for her to get an accurate scan, but he had nothing but time right now.

The wreckage behind the alien mecha was scorched and looked like someone had taken a can opener and pried the thing open while drunk. He stepped closer to inspect it, letting Bebop’s sonar pings wash over it.

“ꃅꍟꌩ, ꒒ꍟꍏꃴꍟ ꓄ꃅꍏ꓄ ꍏ꒒ꂦꈤꍟ!” The other mecha said.

Bebop’s head turned 180 degrees to look the mecha in the eye.

It yelped with surprise, pulling back slightly.

Jazz snickered at the reaction, Bebop’s intercoms picking the sound up and transmitting it. The mecha narrowed its eyes at him, seemingly offended.

So they had laughter and offence in common then, given the mecha’s reaction. This day just kept getting weirder and weirder. He didn’t know what to make of the mecha fully. There was too much unknown, too much to discover. Briefly, he wondered why Percy had chosen him for the blasted experiment, but let the thought drift away.

Jazz turned to look back at the wreckage, although took a step back. He could feel the other mecha’s gaze on him as he walked around the wreckage in a large circle. It looked nothing like the tech he was familiar with on Earth, and considering he had been stationed in nearly every corner of the globe, that was saying something.

Once he completed his circuit, Jazz went back to staring at the mecha. Why had it brought Bebop back online? How had it brought Bebop back online? Jazz looked at her stats, finding his power levels at ninety percent. Nearly fully functional.

The mecha stared back, although far more wary than Jazz himself was.

Hm. They couldn’t just stare at each other forever. Jazz kneels down, motioning for the mecha to do the same.

It hesitates, but ultimately complies, sitting down with its legs tucked under its body.

Jazz pointed one clawed finger to himself, “Jazz.”

“ꀭꍏꁴꁴ?” It repeated, frowning.

“No,” Jazz flicked his fins, “Jazz.” he said again, putting stress on each sound.

“Jazz,” It said again. Although accented, it was a lot closer than the first attempt.

“Good job man!” Jazz nodded, giving the mecha a thumbs up as well.

The poor mecha seemed endlessly confused, but returned the thumbs up. It looked from Jazz to its own hand, looking almost like it was searching for approval.

Yesssss Jazz thought with satisfaction. He would forever go down in history as the first guy to ever teach an alien the thumbs-up gesture. Seven-year-old Jazz would be proud.

Jazz gestured to the mecha, hoping that they would get the message and introduce themselves.

“ꉣꋪꂦꅏ꒒.” It said, pointing to itself like Jazz had. Then, held up an uneasy thumbs up.

Jazz returned the thumbs up. “Rowl?” He tried. It didn’t sound totally right, and the syllables seemed foreign on his tongue.

“ꉣꋪꂦꅏ꒒” It said again, but going slower.

“Prowl?” Jazz tried again, this time getting a more enthusiastic thumbs up from the mecha.

So his name was Prowl. Jazz grinned, the action translating to Bebop’s systems as fully raised fins. He gave the mecha another thumbs up as well.

Prowl seemed a lot less alien, now that Jazz had something to call him. It also stroked his curiosity. What kind of pilot was Prowl? Where did he come from? And, how did he end up crashed in this desert, stuck like Jazz was?

Hopefully Bebop’s sonar map would reveal more information about their surroundings. For now, while it was developing, he would continue to try and establish more of a connection with Prowl.

Getting an idea, like a lightbulb going off above his head, Jazz took a claw and began drawing. First the sun, then Mercury, Venus, and Earth, continuing until he had the entire solar system. Then, he pointed to himself again, “Jazz,” and then pointed at the drawing of Earth. “Earth.”

Prowl studied the map, then scooted back a little to begin his own drawing.

It was far larger than Jazz’s, and took Prowl quite some time. There was a sun, although it didn’t seem to be in the center. In the center was a large planet with a lot of geometric details. Or as detailed as one could get with sand. There were smaller planets Prowl had drawn nearby, connected to the main planet with a line. Did Prowl’s people inhibit more than one planet?

When he was finished, Prowl copied Jazz’s gestures, pointing from himself to the large planet in the middle. “Prowl, ꉓꌩꌃꍟꋪ꓄ꋪꂦꈤ.”

“Kaibakon?” Jazz tried, knowing that his attempt at pronunciation was hilariously bad.

Prowl almost looked offended. “Cybertron.” Prowl said again, but slower.

“Cybertron.” Jazz repeated, earning a far happier look.

So Prowl was from a planet called Cybertron. Jazz looked back down at the map Prowl had drawn. His solar system was far larger than Jazz’s, and he couldn’t begin to place it. It held no familiarities he could connect to his own system. Still, it was knowledge gained.

Jazz cleared the solar system drawing, Prowl leaning forward to watch with interest. He started with a circle, then a wonky torso, arms, and legs. Jazz decided to draw thick lines like his braids to represent the hair, a wobbly smile, and two dots for eyes, and a thin line to represent the bridge of his nose.

Then, in carefully printed letters, he spelled out ‘J A Z Z’.

The utter confusion on Prowl’s face was almost hilarious, if it weren’t for the hurried glances from Jazz’s drawing to his visor.

Prowl pointed to the drawing. “Jazz?”

“Yes?” Jazz said, giving Prowl a thumbs up.

Prowl then pointed to Bebop, “Jazz?” he asked again.

“Yes.” Jazz confirmed, giving Prowl another thumbs up.

There was some sort of disconnect happening, but Jazz couldn’t think of what could cause it. As a fellow pilot, Prowl should recognize the difference between someone’s mech and their true self.

Jazz pointed from his drawing, then to Bebop. “Jazz. Both are Jazz.” He said, even though he knew his words wouldn’t necessarily help Prowl.

Jazz thought for a moment. Maybe it would be easier to show Prowl? He glanced at the stats, although a little lower in oxygen than Earth’s atmosphere, wherever this was wasn’t completely devoid of it. The oxygen levels were comparable to a mountain altitude.

Jazz got up from the pilot seat, flicking through the series of buttons it took to unlock the pilot pod. Bebop’s arrays went dim as the pod hissed steam, releasing the pressure locks.

There was a confused, nearly scared noise from Prowl’s direction.

The light was considerably blinding as Jazz popped his head out from the pilot pod.

There in front of him was Prowl, looking…absolutely terrified?

“You good man?” He asked, slowly climbing out of the pod and coming to stand on Bebop’s knee.

Prowl looked at him the way you look at a cockroach on the wall. The initial terror, then, the burst of bravery as you find a slipper to crush it to death with.

Jazz is lucky he spent the last seven years honing his reflexes.

Otherwise he wouldn’t have dodged the boulder that came flying toward him.

Prowl wasn’t used to the panic that gripped him recently.

There was an–an organic thing that had crawled out of Jazz’s chest. Prowl had heard of parasites before, but he wasn’t aware that mechs could get organic ones.

Blindly, he scrambled and reached behind him, coming up with a palm sized rock. Had he taken a second and aimed, he likely would’ve hit it. But it missed the mark, hitting Jazz’s dormant body instead.

The little thing survived. It stood on Jazz’s knee, as small as Prowl’s palm.

“PROWL!” The organic parasite shouted.

It shouted with Jazz’s voice.

What in the name of Primus…

“Jazz?” Prowl asked, the data in his mind scrambling to come up with an answer.

The organic spoke again, in the same language that Prowl didn’t understand, but it carried Jazz’s tones and inflections.

Before he could even ask himself the question, his battle computer gave him the answer:

This organic creature was Jazz.

Prowl stared down at …Jazz. Not just a simple organic creature, but Jazz, who was from the third planet from the sun in his solar system, a place called ‘Earth.’ Jazz, who had seemed eager to find connection with Prowl.

The organic crossed its tiny arms at him, saying something in its language.

“I’m…sorry.” Prowl said, drawing his legs back close to his body, folding his arms to his side and resting his hands on his knees. As strange as it was, for an Organic to have a giant, mech-body that it…drove from the inside? That didn’t mean Jazz couldn’t be a valuable ally.

Jazz replied with a pointed tone, his hands going to rest on his hips.

So, his only ally was actually a tiny organic. He had crash landed on this desert planet with no sign of rescue.

What else did this day have in store for them?

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sock-has-rock · 1 day ago

Text

miscalibrated

2/?

potential ooc, I have no idea how to write Prowl ;-;

The unknown mech at Prowl’s feet was the icing on the oil cake of a very long, very bad day.

The Quintessons had just overrun the front on Vos, taking the airports where a majority of Seeker air support came from that morning. His subordinates stationed there hadn’t followed his plan, and gotten six teammates killed, and two injured, which could have been avoided. Optimus had then decided to reassign him after Prowl had yelled at his remaining subordinates. So, instead of the front on Vos, he was going to be on the front on Kaon.

Prowl didn’t need another reassignment, he needed people to take his plans seriously and follow them. Optimus had delivered it diplomatically, of course, but Prowl was a trusted advisor. You would think the Prime would want him by his side, but noooo. It’s Prowl that’s the problem.

Oh, and to finally top it all off. After inspecting it the best he could, he discovered that the navigation on his shuttle was miscalibrated, causing it to crash on an unknown, unnamed planet. There was literally nothing around him in any direction that he could see. Just an endless ocean of sand and rocks. Oh, and of course the crashed shuttle. Can’t forget the crashed shuttle.

Unicron had it out for him.

Prowl had dug the emergency box out from the wreckage already, had set up the radio distress signal, and then sat and waited.

How long did distress signals take to pick up? How long until someone discovers that Prowl hadn’t ever actually made it to Kaon? How long until the calculations running in the back of his head drove him fully mad?

The ever-present string of numbers and statistics and probabilities liked to try and take over his thoughts. It liked the spotlight and it liked the data-crunching. Prowl was determined to not let it rule–a challenge Optimus had given him. Be his own person, outside of the algorithms. Of course Prowl had taken the challenge, he likes winning, he likes proving himself right.

But it had just made him realize how startlingly bad he is at acting like a person.

Without calculating the best routes of a conversation, he flubbed on what to say constantly. Every social instinct seemed to abandon him mid-thought and he’d end up shoving his own pede down his mouth. Since then, he’s been avoided in the breakrooms. Optimus had seemed a little upset about the results of his get-Prowl-to-act-normal experiment, but Prowl?

Prowl wasn’t surprised at all. He was what you would call, an acquired taste. To tolerate his presence, you needed to go through some kind of exposure therapy. Or helm trauma. Which was…fine. Other people are idiots and he can’t stand them anyways.

Would they even notice I hadn’t made it yet though? Would they care?

The calculations said they wouldn’t.

Prowl buries his face into his servos, trying to ignore the steady stream of stats that supports the fact that everyone at base hates him.

A vrrbom sound interrupts his brooding. Prowl removes his helm from his servos, looking around for the source of the noise. It’s coming from behind him, from one of the shuttle’s half busted sensors. It was supposed to be some anti-Quintesson early warning system that detected some chemical most commonly found in the techno-organic flesh that the Quintessons were made out of. It only worked a bit more than 30% of the time, but some warning was better than no warning.

Prowl stands to his pedes uneasily, taking care to inspect his surroundings. Given that there was still nothing around him but sand and rocks, it was unlikely the Quints were going to ambush him. The scanner had probably been damaged in the crash.

The alert sounds again, highlighting the location on a scanner map that was fizzing in and out of existence. He wants to ignore it. He should ignore it. It’s most likely broken and there’s no point in investigating if he’s waiting for help. Prowl’s smart enough to know that you’re not supposed to leave the area when waiting for a rescue.

But what happens when the rescue isn’t coming. A vicious thought whispers. Prowl shudders.

The scanner beeps at him again, calling, tempting.

One side effect of having the most calculating, efficient computers living in the back corners of your brain is the all-consuming desire to know things. To gather more data. It’s an ever present ache at the back of his mind. Prowl likes knowing things.

The curiosity sits there, innocent and waiting.

The scanner beeps once more.

With a sigh, he stands, looking at the scanner more closely. The unidentified Quintesson object isn’t too far from where he is, just about two clicks away. Prowl, in his alt-mode, can get there in a very short time.

He downloads the map from the scanner, uploading it into his files for reference.

Prowl transforms into his alt-mode, back from his days as an Enforcer. Could he have changed it since then? Yes, yes he could have. But that would mean having to learn the stats and limits of a new alt mode whilst in the middle of fighting a war. As nice as it would be to have something less…intimidating, that just isn’t going to happen.

The sand kicks up under him, creating a great billowing trail behind him. If Prowl hadn’t crash landed here, it would’ve been a nice place to just let loose. Maybe race, or drift or do those stupid contests that Hot Rod and Bumblebee loved to start.

One click passes, then two.

The Quintesson object reflects a lot of light, shining in the midday sun of the desert.

When he first gets a good look at it, it disgusts him. It looks Cybertronian, or rather it looks like some poor imitation of a Cybertronian. It has two legs, two arms, a face covered entirely by a blue visor, and some kibble, but that’s where the similarities end. Its legs are bent at odd places, its arms are a touch too long, the fingers too curved and sharp, the joints too round.

If the Quintessons were trying to create a Cybertronian mimic to infiltrate them, it was a poor attempt. Prowl stared at the creature, trying to make sense of its odd body. It had no visible transformation seams either, nothing to indicate that it had a second form at all.

It made Prowl shudder.

But if it was really Quintesson made, then it would be best for the Autobots to take it fro study. Anything they knew about the Quintessons could aid them in the war.

Experimentally, Prowl prodded at its body with his pede. It gave no discernible reaction.

Hm. He didn’t have any towing cables with him at the moment. So he would have to drag the creature all the way back to the crash site. For two clicks.

As Wheeljack would say, for science!

So, ‘for science’, he drags the creature back to the crash site two clicks away. Despite being slightly shorter (seemingly) than Prowl, it is considerably denser. Absently, he wonders if the R&D department would allow him to attend the initial dissection of the creature, or at least read the reports. While Prowl wasn’t necessarily friends with the R&D department, they appreciated his commitment to data and general curiosity.

Perhaps if functionalism hadn’t deemed him an enforcer, he could’ve been a scientist instead.

Prowl sags with relief when the crash site comes into view and he can finally stop dragging this heavy creature. He was thankful the crash site wasn’t a messy one, and had yet to spontaneously combust.

He lets the legs of the creature drop, and goes to the now completely open side of the ship. From there, he locates his energon rations and the field scanner. It was a handy little thing, and he was glad it was apart of the standard kit.

Prowl turned his scanner on, letting it pass over the strange mech once, then twice, to get a visual feel of how it worked. The scan revealed an extremely complex inner system, comparable to a Cybertronian’s. It was eerie, how similar the scanner revealed them to be.

The scanner chimed, indicating the concentration of the Quintesson energy was coming from the mech-creature’s right arm, along its wrist. When Prowl knelt down to inspect it, it coughed out a plume of smoke, little flickers of energy running through it.

He shouldn’t touch it. Prowl takes a look at his scanner again, and then down at the strange mech’s cuff. Could it be that they were a Quintesson prisoner? If they were, how did they escape? There was no other ship nearby that Prowl could see, no visible damage on the mech’s frame, nothing to indicate a struggle. But it was equally unlikely that the Quintessons would just leave a prisoner behind. It was also equally unlikely that the Quintessons would just leave something that they had created behind.

Unless they were dead.

Prowl eyed the potential corpse, looking for something that would constitute a sign of life. It lays still. He takes a look down at his scanner. Would it be able to tell him anything more in depth about this odd not-cybertronian mech if he could connect to its internal systems?

Only one way to find out… Prowl hesitantly flicked on the device again. It passed over the mech with a blue holographic grid, once, then twice more.

ESTABLISH CONNECTION? Appeared on its tiny screen.

Connection? Connection to what, the mech? Prowl shifted from pede to pede, wary of whatever cyber-virus thing could possibly transmit. His digit hovered over the dismissal button.

Instead, he hit accept.

The internal cable popped out of the side, from where Prowl could stretch it and plug it into the unknown mech’s wrist connection. The scan had pointed out a potentially compatible port.

Strangely enough, the connection works. The code on the screen runs normally at first, the number flicking by as it searches for an avenue.

ERROR ALERT! The scanner notifies.

The connection between the mech’s wrist and Prowl’s scanner is starting to smoke and spew jolts of electricity. The device is hot in his servos, and Prowl drops it a half a second before it explodes.

Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.

The mech creature jolts, all limbs flailing and coming to life. There’s a muffled, internal noise that almost sounds like a tiny shriek.

Then it dies.

Or, well, lay still for a moment.

Prowl stared at it, then, stupidly, leaned down to try and get a better look. He didn’t even see so much as a twitch before one of its long arms reached and slashed across his face.

Immediately, Prowl slapped a servo over the cut as the wave of pain that follow hit him. The battle computer told him that it was a shallow cut that his internal nanites could take care of in a few joors.

The mech hadn’t wasted any time in escaping, and by the time Prowl had recovered from the surprise, it was already booking its way across the sand.

He couldn’t let a potential Quintesson escape!

Prowl sprinted after the mech, though he almost tripped over several rocks. He was enthralled by the creature’s odd running gait, how it seemed to barely touch the ground before leaping ahead. It was faster on foot than some cybertronians were on wheels.

Prowl was lagging behind, until it decided to skid to a stop and pivot, facing him with a blank blue visor.

He tensed, expecting it to leap out at him, knife first.

But that didn’t happen. It stared at him for a long moment

“Hello.” He says awkwardly. “I uh, didn’t mean to startle you. Or hurt you.”

Well. He had. A little bit. Not personally, though. Prowl had just intended to ship it off for dissection. The creature doesn’t need to know that though.

On either side of its head, there were long, thick antennae like appendages. Apparently, they also could move. The antennae snap up straight, before lowering again. Was it trying to communicate with him? Prowl didn’t speak ‘antennae’ and didn’t have any protocol to reference for ‘what to do when someone tries to communicate in a language you don’t speak’.

It slowly stands up from its crouched position until its nearly eye level with Prowl. He takes a moment to study its face. Or lack thereof. There’s no intake, no optics, just a blank, blue visor that glows subtly. That must be the purpose of its antennae then, for emotive displays, given the lack of a face.

It tilts its head to the side, studying him, before taking two bold steps forward.

Prowl hadn’t realized that he’d relaxed until now, his whole body tensing.

It tilted his head at him again, antennae wavering slightly.

“ꫝꪖ꠸?”

Wait what.

“Hai?” Prowl repeats with a frown.

“ᛕꪮꪀ꠸ᥴꫝ꠸᭙ꪖ?” It tries again, antenna flopping down in what seemed to be disappointment.

He’s not even going to bother to try and pronounce that.

“I have no idea what you’re saying.” Prowl replies.

“᭙ꫀꪶꪶ ꪻꫝ꠸ᦓ ꠸ᦓ ꠹ꪊᦓꪻ ᧁ᥅ꫀꪖꪻ. ᦓꪻ᥅ꪖꪀᦔꫀᦔ ᭙꠸ꪻꫝ ꪖꪀ ꪖꪶ꠸ꫀꪀ ᭙ꫝꪮ ᦔꪮꫀᦓꪀ'ꪻ ꪊꪀᦔꫀ᥅ᦓꪻꪖꪀᦔ ꪑꫀ.” The mech says.

Prowl sighs.

This would be a long wait for rescue.