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This is something I wrote for a writing competition at my University last year. I lost because some of the judges consider the Spanish part invalid for the word count requirement. But my mom cried when she read it, and I feel a little bit sad about the thought of leaving it saved on my computer forever.
___________
The First One, The Only One: Seré Tu Orgullo.
The first daughter, the only daughter, is the one who carries the story, the legacy. She is the one for whom all the sacrifices were made, the one who holds the family's dreams and brings them to life. She is in everyone’s mouth, the group’s gossip, the mother’s pride, and the father’s dream. Being loved all her life, with kisses from her mother and songs from her father, with aunts and uncles not by blood, but by heart, each one taking the time to make her smile. Familia del corazón.
Father, in everything that matters, loves her unconditionally. He spoils her, maybe a little too much. He teaches her how to laugh, be kind, and give, even when there’s little to give. "All good will come back to you," he says, always smiling, cracking bad jokes that somehow brighten her day. He’s everyone’s friend, known and loved by everyone in town. Te extraño.
Mother, who has sacrificed everything, who has loved fiercely and been hurt by the ones she thought would stand beside her. Tough love from a tough woman, lessons given to her only daughter while holding her hand. “Be strong,” she says, “No time to cry. Study hard, that’s all I can give you. The world is uncertain, but my lessons are yours to carry.” A woman of strength with dreams as strong as her love for the man who knows how to make her laugh. Me duele verte llorar.
Daughter, so young and so clueless, who listens to songs with her father, holds his hand, and says goodbye. His only daughter, by heart, stays by his side until his final bye-bye. She must be strong. She must not cry. She must watch as her tough mother falls apart. Seré fuerte por ti.
She leaves her country, a stranger in a foreign land, learning a new culture but doesn’t leave hers behind. Proud of her roots, proud of her family, proud of the culture that shaped her. Hungry for knowledge, she studies with all her heart, knowing she is the first to go this far. All eyes are on her, she’s going far! Cumpliré tus sueños.
Life is hard. She learns again and again that loss is part of growing. She loses an aunt and an uncle but gains two brothers and a sister. Her family's hope and expectations are heavy on her, she is not just doing this for herself but for them, too. All their hopes, all their dreams rest on her. She is their hope. She is their future. Seré tu orgullo.
The first one, the only one, a little family of three. I carry your stories, your legacy. I will honor your sacrifices, make our dreams come true, pass down on your lessons, and make you proud. Lo prometo.
I totally forgot to upload it!!! Here it is my jewel of the crown, i’m very proud of this one…. Base in @tl-la-latina fic (that make me cry) and @keferon tf portal AU… BEHOLD
Look at that face! He is suffering, his world would never be the same…. AHGDJKEDKOERJEJWD
I hope Prowl's dead body was returned to his family for a funeral. It's sad to think that no one in his family knows that he died.
Knowing all the Aperture bullshit? And knowing that Tarantulas was the head of the whole company? There’s no way they just returned Prowl’s body to his family. Not in one piece at least
What a horrific way to discover the truth huh….. what a fun opportunity for Bluestreak to learn about where his brother disappeared all those years ago.
Do you think there’s also some personal information stored nearby? Documentation perhaps? Do you think Blue could handle finding a suspiciously familiar looking corpse and then looking through the documents and seeing his own last name in them hm:)
…….actually. The whole thing would definitely lead to Blue having a mental breakdown because oh look! He can’t have ANYONE huh?.? His family is dead and he knows that for sure because he was literally THERE and SAW them dying. And then there’s his mythical almost non existent older brother who “strangely disappeared” but at least Blue could pretend he got lost or ran away or something. But. Oh…oh look. Found him. Also dead.
Bonus points if that happens during the time when Prowl is shut down for the morality core fixing so it’s just a small group of Autobots who discover that. Prowl doesn’t know about anything bc he isn’t online and Jazz doesn’t know because he is way too busy trying to fix Prowl.
It’s 2am but I need to write this NOW before all motivation dies like Blurr in every single universe!
Also I’m on a Bluestreak angst high right now, so maybe it also influenced my need to write this
Go check out @keferon ‘s TF Portal AU, Jazz x Potato is PEAK!
Tw: Decomposing dead bodies, vomit, gore
—————
Sunstreaker opened a door, revealing another storage room, earning a groan in frustration. He slammed the door shut and stormed off to another door, opening it, only to slam it shut again.
“This is absolutely ridiculous! How many storage rooms can a single robot have?” The yellow bot exclaimed.
When Jazz temporarily shut down Prowl, the Autobots wanted to help as much as they could, so they offered the Spec Ops agent to look around the facility to see if they could find any information that could assist him in fixing the ai.
Bluestreak was currently in a group with Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Hound, looking through the lower parts of the facility.
Everyone in the group commented on how eerie it all felt, that maybe one of the catwalks will just collapse and result in them all falling to their deaths. Sideswipe was the mainly the one who tried to freak them out, however neither Sunstreaker nor Hound were impressed.
While Bluestreak could agree that he did feel nervous walking over the seemingly bottomless pit, “eerie” wasn’t the word he personally would use to describe the place. It was strange, ever since the Autobots retreated into this abandoned science facility, he’s felt like someone familiar was holding him lovingly in their arms, comforting him, especially when it was quiet, when those dark thoughts resurfaced to show its ugly face.
It reminded him of his aunt from back when he was small. Thunder scared him, and he could never sleep when it was storming outside, so he would run to the kitchen and hide under the table and stay there until the screaming noises stopped. His aunt, when she visited, would crawl under the table with him and hug him, distract hum, anything, all until the storm stopped, or he fell back asleep. That warmth he felt during these moments was the exact warmth he felt when he entered the building. It was almost overwhelming, but in a good way. Especially that voice in the ceiling.
He can’t remember where he’s heard this voice, but it sounded so familiar. It unlocked memories that he couldn’t quite reach, but the sense of deja vu never left. Not even when the voice in the ceiling lost his morality core and threatened everyone in the building. Despite his fear, he still felt a certain attachment to whoever that voice resembled. Maybe it reminded him of his father, or his uncle, maybe even his grandpa? Maybe it’s because the ai had the exact same name as his missing brother who he doesn’t remember much of? Maybe it was a desperate desire to attach something to home. He didn’t know why the science facility specifically, but he knew was that this is what home feels like, and he loved feeling home.
‘That’s stupid,’ he thought to himself, ‘an ai feeling like home? I barley even lived here for a few months, which is even less time to even have a sense of deja vu every time I hear his voice. Crazier yet, why did I feel like I’m being hugged every time I lean against the wall? Am I becoming Schizophrenic? God I hope not. We already have way too many things to deal with here Maybe this is a trauma response to—’
“I mean I don’t know,” Bluestreak began, “maybe Prowl found use for them since this building has been abandoned for several years at this point, so maybe he uses them to store material for future tests and puzzles to solve, you know how Jazz told us that Prowl really loves to make those, which I don’t blame him, I love puzzles, so maybe that’s what they’re for, which makes the most sense, I mean if I had the money and the space, I would have a whole room filled with different rifles. You know how cool that would be, having a room full of rifles and show them to the enemy as a silent threat? It would be so cool!” Bluestreak rambled on. As he did so, they walked across the rusty catwalk, jumping down to the catwalk underneath them once they reached the broken end of the one they were on.
They opened the door at the end of the catwalk, only to be attacked by a flurry of dust, causing an explosion of sneezes and coughs that loudly echoed around them. Beyond the door was revealed to be an office, a really big one, definitely made for whoever owned this place. There was a broken chandelier at the center of the room, many of it’s crystals missing or broken, broken bookshelves lining the walls with it’s old and destroyed books, and towards the back, was a desk with a really comfortable looking chair, if it was for all the rot and mold on it. Though the centerpiece weirded them all out. What kind of person would have a coffin in their office?
“The hell is that?” Sideswipe exclaimed, gesturing both hands towards the coffin near the desk.
“It’s a coffin” Sunstreaker blatantly responded, Sideswipe slowly turning his head towards his twin with a weirded out look.
“No dip Sherlock, I know what a coffin looks like, just what on earth is it doing here?”
“Maybe it’s for decoration?” Bluestreak shrugged sheepishly, he himself trying to come up with some explanation for this strange choice in design. “A really, morbid and, twisted, and possibly even very illegal decoration.”
“What kind of sick person would put a full fledged coffin in their office? Next to their desk?” Hound chimed in.
Bluestreak got curious. What was it about this coffin that made it so special that it was stored in this huge office? As everyone else was debating why a coffin was in the room, Blue approached the coffin slowly, a sense of dread washing over him as he got closer. Dead bodies were, unfortunately, nothing new in his life, and he hates how unfazed he is when he sees on, or when he sees someone fall, it makes him sick, but it’s the price of war.
Getting closer, he noticed the glass was a little cracked, so he grabbed the old lamp across the coffin, on the desk, and broke it open. Inside was a half decomposed dead body, its skin and muscles rotting, and some bone exposed.
As a sniper, Bluestreak was the cause of many people dying. A gunshot straight in the head, blood and brain matter everywhere, and then they fall. Always a headshot. However the smell that filled the room was something he has never smelled in such close proximity, and it resulted in him vomiting in his mouth. What kind of sick human being would keep a decomposing dead body in their office? Was this person a murderer? Was this place actually haunted? Maybe that’s why Prowl sounds very human when he speaks, because he haunted by a ghost— Wait… that couldn’t…
The brunette’s electric blue eyes scanned the desk next to the coffin, overflowing with papers. He needed to know…
Bluestreak rushed over to the table, almost jumping over the coffin just to get there faster. He immediately began rushing to pick up one of the many papers on the desk and started skimming through each one. All of them had a bunch of words he was unfamiliar with (science was never really his forte), but from the reports, he could connect the dots, after all, figuring out what happened in the facility was a puzzle, and he loved puzzles.
One report after another, he began to become increasingly impatient, needing to know if what he assumed was wrong. Dear god he hoped it was wrong. There was one report that talked about bouncy gel, another on a type of poison that was now in the facility, another on the owner who they can now name “Tarantulas” getting ill and trying to find a cure, and another that talked about the massive amount of debt the company has gotten into because of some supply called “Moon Dust”, and this one was written by… his thoughts spiraled into chaos.
There was one report that caught his attention, the title saying “Brain Scan” or something like that, he only skimmed over it, more focused on what it said.
Transplant Summary -
While the transfer of Prowl of Praxis’s consciousness into robotic model GLaDOS was largely a technological success, numerous unforeseen consequences have been discovered. They are outlined below in accordance with measures taken to correct them.
1. Immediately after transplant, GLaDOS attempted to flood the facility with lethal neurotoxin. No further instances have been documented since the addition of the morality core.
2. GLaDOS does not respond to its moniker, but instead to “Prowl,” the name of the transplanted consciousness. This issue has not been resolved, but is under investigation to see which measures should be taken should the research team decide to correct it, since this could be considered a non-issue.
3. There have been several calls from Prowl of Praxis’s family in addition to missing person reports responding to his disappearance. The research team is currently coordinating with the law team to fabricate a cover story to explain the disappearance in such a manner that will prevent surrendering the subject or the company.
Bluestreak slammed the report on the table and continued looking. Maybe it was someone else with the same name. It couldn’t be. He prayed that it wasn’t him.
The brunette grabbed a yellow folder and opened it up faster than Blurr could ever run, and inside, was a photo of his missing older brother. The same one Bluestreak has seen in old videos and pictures his family showed him when they told him about him. The same albino with red stains in his hair. A face so similar yet different from his own. Under the photo was a report that was written over with a red sharpie, “Change of plans: Prowl is a better candidate than Tarantulas”. Bluestreak just stared at the words and reread them over and over again, as if they would magically change if he stared hard enough. If he prayed hard enough. He was quiet for an unnaturally long time.
“Oh…” was all he could muster. He hadn’t even noticed the tears that began to run down his face, or how his hands clenched onto the folder like his life depended on it. He took shaky breaths, and only then had he realized that he was holding his breath for the entire duration of his frantic search.
There was only one thought that ran through his mind now that there was complete silence in the room, ‘I really am alone’
“Blue?” He snapped out of his thoughts and looked up. There stood the twins and Hound, giving him a worried look, “Are you okay?” It was Hound that asked.
Bluestreak immediately regained his composure and wiped the tears from his eyes, giving them a smile.
“Yep! It’s just, a little disturbing to read. But I’m fine! Promise!” No one pushed. They just left everything be and agreed to not tell anyone, not wanting to freak them out so much that they leave. They don’t have anywhere else to go, and they were already down far too many men to risk it. However, they did promise each other that when the war was over, they would take the body and find it a better place to rest. Somewhere nicer than a dusty office. Sideswipe didn’t promise to not make ghost stories though.
When the day was done, they gathered up everything they found and handed it to Jazz, just in case he really needed it to fix Prowl up. After they did, they all headed back to their rooms, Bluestreak was no exception, however he was unnaturally quiet, something that freaked everyone out. Maybe his constant yapping wasn’t all that bad, because the absolute misery that surrounded him felt incredibly uncanny.
After Bluestreak made it to his room, he leaned on the door, still lost in his thoughts. Suddenly the room felt like it was spinning, and he could no longer stand. He stumbled onto his bed, grabbed his pillow, and began screaming into it, loud, gross sobbing following after.
The universe really was out to get him, wasn’t it? Because now, the only family he had deluded himself into thinking that he was alive somewhere out there, was now confirmed to be dead. Just like everyone else he loved. He barely even knows his older brother, and yet it hurts just as much as when his family died right next to him.
Was he destined to be alone? Was he cursed? Did he do something wrong in some past life to warrant this? He apologized loudly into his pillow, hoping that the universe would forgive him for what ever he did to deserve this. He then began yelling into the pillow, cursing the universe for leaving him alone in hell. Was any sin really worth this? It’s unfair! Couldn’t he have at least one person to be there with him? Was that too much to ask for? Bluestreak then threw the pillow across the room.
“WHAT THE F*** IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” He screamed to no one. Bluestreak’s shouts then became quiet sobs, tears streaming as he leaned against the wall in search for that warmth he desperately needed. All he felt was his heat leaking into the cold dead wall.
—————
Hahaha! Sorry Blue 💔
Thank you to my friend for beta reading this for me and making edits to make it read better!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Have a little trip to the ER, but everything is ok now, it was something I wasn’t expecting, but I’m relieved that it was this that what my mind actually thought it was.
also what the heck!??? I’m gone for a few hours and there is so much new art and lore on my favorites AU…. Well at least I have the time to read it… after a short nap, my body hurts
Today’s story is brought to you by several days of accumulated comment exchanges led by @keferon spawner of intriguing AU’s.
In a rare change of events, I’m actually going try (try) to preemptively outline how many chapters a story will be in advance.
The story will be four parts total and are named below:
White Out
White Knuckle
White Elephant
White Hat
Look up tf portal au to see other amazing creators taking this concept and running with it.
Enjoy.
———————————————————————
In. Out.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Slower.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Jazz was breathing manually, which had to be one of the absolute stupidest ways the cons have ever tried to kill him.
He much preferred their earlier stuff. Knives instead of needles, long winded monologues where they reveal their whole plan and how they’re going to kill you because they really do believe that they’re going to kill you.
The good stuff. Informative. Classic.
Not whatever shit one of Soundwaves little punks managed to stick him with.
Jazz blinked rapidly as he felt his eyes going dry from staring at the same crack in the wall for the last fuck knows how long.
He couldn’t turn his head without his vision lagging behind, and the risk of dizziness was too great when he’d just managed to find a hiding spot before the drug really kicked in.
It got worse in waves but he was managing to ride them out. Whenever he had a moment of clarity he’d sip more water and whenever the effects got worse he’d stare straight ahead and focus on not having a panic attack.
At the peak of each wave, Jazz could do exactly one thing at a time. Sometimes it was rubbing his thumb in circles against the concrete to ground himself. Sometimes it was wiping the sweat from his cold neck. Currently, it was breathing manually.
Because for some god fucked reason, he was pretty sure his brain couldn’t do that on its own right now and he’d actually suffocate if he stopped.
His breathing hitched, then manually smoothed.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
His fingers itched where he couldn’t move them. Covered in moon dust he’d been trying to paint onto the floor since he’d escaped. One of the few functional portal guns hummed uselessly on his lap.
Orange. It’s the orange one I need to fire.
Back home, Prowl had its twin, an inactive blue portal waiting for him. Prowl always had a door back home for him.
Now if I could just move enough to open it.
The portal guns were pretty fuckin amazing in Jazz’s opinion, and after the moon incident it became pretty clear that the things range was Yes. The only real limitation was the conductive surface needed to hold a portal.
The smeared white surface on the floor was about half the size he needed.
The tight empty feeling of not enough air snapped his brain back to the present.
In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out.
In.
Out.
After several indeterminate measures of time, Jazz tested his current level of capability by changing the direction of his vision.
He got his head to turn far enough down that he could see the white patch on the floor, so it was mostly in his peripheral. But at least he was kinda looking at it.
He felt well enough to start petting the concrete again. The motion brought to mind the analogy of petting his own brain like some kind of nervous animal to keep it from jumping away.
Once his automatic breathing kicked back in, Jazz turned onto his knees achingly slow. The world wobbling to catch up with his glacial movements.
Just a little longer and he could finish the portal base.
Boots scraped the floor above him, painfully sharp in his ears. “In his current state he can’t have gotten far. If he is gone we’ll just have to move up the time table on project White Out. Keep looking.”
Or now.
Now is fine.
Jazz heaved himself over the white blank mural and started to paint his escape. The shot of adrenaline from hearing the Decepticons enter the fire escape stairwell made his heart stutter over itself in a way that put a great big dark spot in the center of his vision.
I need to get back. I need to finish this and fire the portal to get back home.
Completing the portal is the fastest way inside the Autobot base.
Blinking away the darkness, Jazz moved unconsciously, wiping broad even strokes across the ground. Sweat dripped down his nose. His visor growing cloudy from his steaming breath rising through the freezing air.
Footfalls.
A shout.
And then a gun fired.
—————
Prowl prowled.
He certainly wasn’t pacing. It just so happened that the terminal on one side of the chamber was .0052% faster in sending signals to the solar arrays than the terminal on the other side that streamed camera feed from the west wing with .099% less static.
Therefore, it was perfectly rational for Prowl to stalk back and forth between the two.
And the steady blue glow of the unconnected portal in the center of the chamber was purely circumstantial in its location at the halfway point between those terminals.
He would not look at it.
He would not sit and stare like some forlorn puppy or a sailors wife taking vigil in her bay facing window.
He had a job to do.
Ratchet was with an away team gathering medical supplies. After last time with the twins raiding a veterinary office, it was deemed that expert supervision was worth the risk to bring back the correct supplies.
There was an unfortunate limit to what Prowl could create. He had vast stores of many kinds of chemicals and base elements, but the supply wasn’t infinite. Everything he gave was something he’d never get back.
Chip chip chipping away at the facility, every disaster made him just a little bit smaller.
As he amputated and recycled pieces of himself too damaged to repair, Prowl became intimately acquainted with the looming concept of entropy.
The Autobots were questionable company at times, but there was a hidden value in the ways they staved off that rotting entropy. Both of body and mind.
Symbiosis: (noun)
1. the living together in more or less intimate association or close union of two dissimilar organisms (as in parasitism or commensalism)
2. a cooperative relationship (as between two persons or groups)
Prowl gave them protection, food and warmth.
The Autobots brought him supplemental salvage, entertainment and.. autonomy.
At least, one member did.
He glanced at the static oval of blue.
Prowl had a theory. A completely implausible unscientific theory which he could test, however that would mean considering something no better than a superstition as a serious intellectual phenomenon.
The second Prowl left this room, Jazz would return.
He didn’t need to leave. He really only moved his avatar between the terminals of his central sanctum. He technically didn’t even need to do that. Manual inputs were far slower than simply commanding what needed to be done internally.
Prowl just typed out of habit.
He was staring at the portal again.
Sighing, Prowl looked up where Elita was to discuss her observations of the exterior of his facility in “person.” Finding her on the way back from the roof, Prowl raised his crane into the ceiling of his chamber to meet Elita on the upper floors.
The portal flickered to life.
Ecstatic rage and vindication were completely blown from Prowls processor as he watched Jazz hit the ground so hard he bounced.
Shouting voices carried through the tunnel in reality and Prowl descended.
He was not usually in the habit of leaving the lights on when working alone, so when the shabbily dressed Decepticons approached the ever shifting orange hole punched through space, all they could see was Jazz’s limp form surrounded by darkness.
Then red.
Body like a claw at the end of a mechanical arm, Prowl was wrapped around the spy instantaneously. He snapped up his gaze to the would be kidnappers just beyond the portal. One almost raised a gun on instinct before their more observant cohort yanked them into a full fledged retreat.
The look on Prowls face promised the kind of death that could only be described by a science fiction author dropping acid in the eighties.
A moment later and Prowl disabled the portal while bringing on the lights. He sent a prerecorded facility wide intercom message politely demanding for [medical trained personnel] to immediately report to [central chamber].
Prowl himself, meanwhile, frantically began searching his information banks on everything pertaining to emergency care.
Bombshell had done quite a number on Prowls data banks, deleting scores of “useless” information to free up additional memory and processing power. The first category to go was anything pertaining to keeping humans alive. It wasn’t exactly a priority to Prowl at the time, so he’d not bothered making backups beforehand.
Cursing quietly, Prowl had to focus a camera on a first aid guidelines poster in an employee break room several floors down instead.
1. Do not move unless the environment is dangerous.
Jazz is in the safest possible location.
2. Call for help.
Done.
3. Check subject for mutant mantis men bites or a wire tap.
What? Fucking Tarantulas.
4. Check subject for responsiveness.
“Jazz?” Prowl gently laid his hands on the human. He couldn’t feel temperature or really even texture but he could clearly see how soaked Jazz’s shirt was beneath the collar of his coat.
“Jazz are you alright?” He was breathing loudly, but didn’t sound like his airways were blocked.
“Hengh.” Jazz moved to roll onto his back and Prowl helped him.
He tried to speak again, “Heeeey Prowle- Pow-wer, oh WOW talk- talk-‘King is weird right now.”
The core of the facility stared down at him. Prowl lifted Jazz’s visor to better see his eyes and Jazz just giggled.
A beat passed, “Your pupils are massive. What happened? Were you drugged?!”
“Feels like it!” Now that he wasn’t trapped in an enemy base, Jazz relaxed considerably and seemed content to become an unhelpful puddle.
Before Prowl could tear out his technically real, technically not hair, Orion and Elita ran into the chamber.
“Buddies!” Cheered the mess on the floor.
“Jazz! You’re okay!” Orion beamed down.
Prowl cut off their reunion with a number of floor panels pulling aside to bring up a fully stocked medical suite.
“Jazz is not okay he has been poisoned with an unknown substance, now would one of you do something?!”
After some scrambling and unnecessary apologies, Jazz was lifted onto the gurney and about half a dozen different monitoring devices were set up.
Prowl was receiving data. He was receiving data that he couldn’t interpret because fucking BOMBSHELL deleted over half of his medical files, and Prowl didn’t have anything else to compare what he was seeing with.
He’d schedule full depth medical screenings with every Autobot available once Ratchet returned. Without a proper baseline Prowl was useless in this department.
Speaking of Ratchet, Elita called over from one of the terminals, “We got Ratchet on the line but the connection is fuzzy. Jazz, how’d you get poisoned?”
“Mmm, stabbed.”
Somewhere deep down in the facilities inner workings, an old pipe burst like a blood vessel.
“WHERE?!” Three voices simultaneously called out.
“Leggy.” Burbled Jazz, who was now wiggling the leg in question with no signs of stopping.
Bemused, confused and deeply entertained, Jazz just snorted when Orion grappled his leg like a small alligator.
A crackling voice came over the terminal, Ratchets frowning mug appearing on the screen, “-leave you idiots alone for two days and the whole damn-“
“Ratchet, I’m sending along the data we’ve acquired so far. None of Jazz’s organs appear to be failing yet but I’ve already come up with a list of possible donors. If we work quickly then-“
Ratchet raised a hand, scolding through the screen, “Hold it HOLD IT! Absolutely NO organ removal without me being the one doing it! Now everyone shut it while I read this. Prowl, give me a couple clear photos of Jazz if you want to be useful.”
The facility core quickly did so snapping pictures of the small puncture wound on Jazz’s leg as well as some wider shots of his overall state.
Ratchet mumbled to himself, barely coming over the microphone, “Blood sugar is a little low, temps running high, there’s signs of an adrenaline spike which makes sense, and a foreign chemical signature of..”
Ratchet guffawed, then broke into a full belly laugh.
Never in any of their individual lives have they ever heard Ratchet laugh at a medical report.
Shaken slightly out of his stupor, Jazz worriedly looked over to the screen and made a noise that was vaguely interrogative and lacked any consonants.
Getting a hold of himself, Ratchet addressed his patient, “Hey kid? Were the cons throwing a party?”
Jazz made another noise that was more confused than concerned. Still without consonants.
Either because of lag or a failing poker face, Ratchets face twitched a smile. “Because you’ve got about two hundred milligrams of THC in your system.”
—————
Jazz felt floaty.
And bored.
Once word got out that Jazz was back, a cause for celebration, and that he was high as fuck, a cause for significantly more childish celebration, social hour began and didn’t stop til Prowl plucked Jazz from the party claw machine style.
The general consensus was that the Cons had definitely intended to kidnap Jazz like they had Mirage. Their choice of drug and the state of the equipment Prowl saw those goons carrying implied the Decepticons were salvaging whatever they could find. They wanted him alive, so they improvised something that would fuck him up but not kill him.
Lucky Jazz.
Injections worked differently from smoking or edibles, so the former party ambulance took an “educated” guess at when it’d wear off and rounded that up by another twelve hours to be safe. He also talked Jazz through how best to ride it out, which Jazz was so using for blackmail material later on.
Interrogating the brick wall of a doctor on his adventurous youth would have to wait though, as he and a few other autobots were still a days travel away.
More concerningly, Ratchet also flagged a couple things that implied Jazz might have caught a cold on top of getting Turbo High, so current orders were to eat, drink and rest.
While everyone was around, he played up the goofy character people expected when they thought of someone being high as balls and Jazz didn’t let up the whole afternoon. He got quite the applause.
That said, his head hurt. He felt cold and exhausted. And he technically hadn’t gotten a chance to actually rest since he first got shanked. But he could’ve kept going. This was the most fun the Autobots had had in a while and he didn’t have the heart to turn them away.
Prowl? Not so much.
He pretty much went limp as a kitten when Prowl swiped him and spent the last of his energy blowing kisses and waving goodbye while Prowl scolded the party over letting him actually rest. Soon enough, Jazz was deposited into his personal room within the facility and left with a little peace and quiet.
A lot of peace and quiet.
Maybe somewhat too much peace and quiet actually.
Sensory overload straight into total silence wasn’t exactly playing nice on his fuzzy brain. So while Jazz focused once more on breathing at a steady pace, he turned to the camera and crooked his fingers in a “C’mere.”
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The sharp click of panels in the ceiling indicated Jazz was about to get something much more entertaining to do than breathe.
“Hellooo French fries from the skies.” Jazz sang.
Suppressing a smile, Prowl lowered to his bedside.
“How are you feeling?”
Flopping his head back, Jazz self evaluated, “Tired, bored, thirsty, dizzy and did I mention bored?”
Turns out getting Weed Wacked meant baby sitting duty, except instead of teaching toddlers swear words, Jazz was baby sitting his own brain without pay. And he already knew all his own swear words. Scammed.
“Soup?” Prowl offered.
“Ye.”
A few moments later the greatest invention known to man was delivered.
The two made small talk as Jazz ate, Prowl updating him on what gossip he’d missed and Jazz taking notes. When the walls have literal ears there were certain benefits to befriending its mouth piece.
Eventually Jazz was warm and satiated, eyelids getting droopy.
Well almost satiated, he always was a sucker for desert. He put on his best sultry look which was probably comparable to a half baked bread loaf that was hanging partway off the counter.
Jazz draped himself forward, “Kiss?”
Prowl just laughed once and met him in the middle.
They both knew kissing didn’t physically feel like anything to Prowl, but there was still the emotional feedback that made him run a little warmer beneath the shell. Heck, Prowl offered to give affection about as often as Jazz requested it.
And Prowl was nothing if not indulgent.
Besides, Jazz had learned awhile ago what did make him happy and exploited the hell out of it. The closest thing Prowl experienced to a dopamine hit was when someone did well in completing a test chamber, so Jazz was a regular subject in those spaces.
Jazz did once suggest he could solve a rubix cube while they were making out, however this proved to be logistically challenging.
What was much easier at the moment was to cup his hand around the back of Prowls neck and pull him that much closer.
This near, Jazz could peek and see what Prowl looked with his eyes closed. He smiled into the kiss.
Tracing his fingertips along where the base of his skull would’ve been, Jazz caught the touch of a seam that trailed down the center of his neck and beyond.
He’d been inside there once. After shutting Prowl down and replacing the lost morality core, Jazz wouldn’t let anyone else touch him there.
He wanted to make sure that Prowl would stay Prowl no matter what anyone else tried to argue.
Crisply, Jazz could see the memory in his minds eye: smooth interlocking metal puzzle pieces that folded away with the right touch, compact switches like rows of pin heads, bundles of cabling so carefully spaced out.
He could imagine the feeling of clicking the access panel open and threading his fingers through the wires.
Grasping, then yanking-
“Woah.” Jazz suddenly stopped. Then pulled away completely.
His eyes were scrunched closed tight as he tried to push the mental image from his mind.
From some casual conversation with Prowl previously, Jazz knew, he knew that pulling the plug on Prowl was about as unpleasant an experience as it could get for the guy.
“Is everything alright? Did I do something?” Prowl still had a hand between Jazz’s shoulder blades, so even though he was asking, Prowl didn’t think he was what hurt Jazz.
Jazz scrubbed his face with one hand and waved him off with the other, “Yeah, yeah you’re fine. I think Aunt Mary the hit-man is coming to fuck with me one last time.”
“I see. Do you want me to try and reach Ratchet or anyone else?” Prowl spoke quietly, lightly leaning into his space.
Honestly, Jazz was feeling crummy in that way pre-illness usually did. However the mental image of hurting Prowl was still sharp in his mind and Prowls presence was making it hard to not dwell on. He pushed it away harder and felt a little cold sweat on his back.
“No, no I think I should just sleep this off. Come get me if anything crazy happens though yeah?” Jazz scooted down his bed a little further and got more comfortable.
Prowl lingered, but nodded, “Of course. I’m going to speak with Elita if you need me. She says there’s some concerning cloud cover incoming and wants to know how the facility will handle a white out.”
White Out caught in his mind. He hadn’t told anyone about what he’d heard right?
His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He could think the words he wanted but the sound wasn’t forming. Or was it? Ratchet mentioned inner and outer monologues could get a little mixed up on high doses. Maybe he already said it at the party.
He was dropping quickly now, warm and fed and thoroughly exhausted. But he needed to..
He needed to..
“Snow is falling outside.” Prowl looked up through the ceiling into the sky beyond.
His bed was so unfairly soft.
Leaning over one last time, Prowl pulled the blanket a little further up Jazz’s shoulder as the human fought for consciousness.
Softly, in a voice that Jazz suspected Prowl didn’t think he could hear, he said, “I’m glad you came back.”
Jazz had no more voice, nor even a twitch to his fingers, so he put all his thoughts into his eyes and hoped that Prowl could read them.
Me too.
I love you.
I’m pretty sure the impending snow storm is another attempt to kill us all by the Decepticons but I am unfortunately too blasted to communicate that right now so please read the S.O.S. I am trying to blink at you ah fuck my eyes are closed.
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Love your transformers drawings, I don't know if you have answered this before, but how you draw transformers? I want to try, but not really sure where to start. Thank you!
I already made a "how I draw Transformers" post a while ago. Hope you find it useful:)
@keferon good luck with your surgery, i’ve been working on this for a couple of days, in my mind is not perfect but I wanted to gift you something before a challenging time. Wishing you the best.
Went to see Superman this past Saturday a d draw this quickly sketch cus i left the teather with a big smile, a sense of hope, a sense of determination and just feel good that, dunno, didnt expected it.
Like im not unfamiliar with what and who is Superman. I grew up watching the Batman Animated series, and watched faithfully that, the Superman series and Justice League. And thou Superman was not my top favorites, i always liked the idea that he is the most goodest person in the world thou he is the most powerful, and he is humble and sort of innocent in a sense.
And dunno, watching the movie, i felt like a kid in a sense. Like i was smiling, i was just feelign this warm happiness. Dunno if because how things has been lately but felt somehow we all needed this those of hope and happiness and who better than this Superman to inspired us to be our best, do good and dont give up.
This is the Superman i felt i grew up watching in those cartoons.
And i love love so much how they practically say how being kind is punk rock.
In a world that looks to hate and despise others, being kind is an act of rebellion.
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The other day I rewatched Nimona and tough this looks something like Legend of Zelda but futuristic and I have to try it! So this is Link (it is?) as a child
