Ep 0.5 - Family Reunion - Closed
Feb 5, 2012 11:32:09 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 5, 2012 11:32:09 GMT -5
Ironhide had never known he had base protocol codes - 'instincts', the organics might call them - to deal with things other than weaponry and warfare and guarding. It was what he had been sparked for, what he had always done, and he had thought, in the past, that it was, literally, all he was. Had thought it was the sum totality of what he was meant for until the rotation a tiny bit of a sparkling had been placed in his unwilling hands and protocol trees he had never known he had had unfurled at light speed, piercing through every system, hijacking other protocols, the replication of their new and unknown directives spreading like a virus as the tiny, fragile thing in his hands had blinked impossibly large optics up at him.
In that instant, on that long ago vorn, the entire universe had rearranged itself inside his processor into 'safe' and 'not safe' with the single inescapable imperative to keep that small, infinitely breakable, incalculably precious thing in his hands safe, no matter the cost.
The code worm, once executed, as the saying went, couldn't be decoded. And those protocols extended themselves easily, morphing and mutating, to encompass not only his sparkling but his cohort as well. It had run into his guardian protocols, mixed, interspliced, and the interwoven thread had tumbled on its merry way through his systems as the only logical conclusion. He was the Wall. He was the Guns. He was the guardian, the protector, the safety and the shield behind which his cohort could remain safe from the chaos of the universe around them. He was the steady rock at their center when Chromia had been too hot and Jazz too cool, the impenetrable force when an overwrought sparkling needed rest, the grounding wire when things exploded. They had, all of them, taken turns at those roles for the others, and it didn't even require conscious thought to switch to them no matter how long the gap had been.
Some things, though, such as the shaking cling of pain and fear, simply cut right through to those first, most basic protocols.
Ironhide scooped Jazz close without thought, tucking the smaller mech underneath his chassis as he pushed himself onto knees and elbows on the berth. His plates flared wide, mantling, cannons clicking free, crouched over and around his cohort mate. In the shallow space between berth and chassis the saboteur was pressed to his spark, covered and shielded by Ironhide's mass.
Pressing his forehelm to the top of the other mech's, Ironhide shuttered his optics and threw open his vents, cycling hard to force air through his systems and into the heated nest formed at his core. "It's alright," he rumbled softly, and where his vocalizer broke it didn't matter, their overlapping fields pressed so tight they could have been one thing, pulsing with safe/together/family/protection/not-alone. "It's alright. Yeh ain't alone, Jazz. Ah got yeh." His engine, underscored with the hum of prepped weapons - safe, those whispered in hot harmonics, safety, defended, safe - throbbed low and steady, the core of his own systems beating an enduring vibration that filled the silence, inescapable proof of presence that was anything but 'alone'.
In that instant, on that long ago vorn, the entire universe had rearranged itself inside his processor into 'safe' and 'not safe' with the single inescapable imperative to keep that small, infinitely breakable, incalculably precious thing in his hands safe, no matter the cost.
The code worm, once executed, as the saying went, couldn't be decoded. And those protocols extended themselves easily, morphing and mutating, to encompass not only his sparkling but his cohort as well. It had run into his guardian protocols, mixed, interspliced, and the interwoven thread had tumbled on its merry way through his systems as the only logical conclusion. He was the Wall. He was the Guns. He was the guardian, the protector, the safety and the shield behind which his cohort could remain safe from the chaos of the universe around them. He was the steady rock at their center when Chromia had been too hot and Jazz too cool, the impenetrable force when an overwrought sparkling needed rest, the grounding wire when things exploded. They had, all of them, taken turns at those roles for the others, and it didn't even require conscious thought to switch to them no matter how long the gap had been.
Some things, though, such as the shaking cling of pain and fear, simply cut right through to those first, most basic protocols.
Ironhide scooped Jazz close without thought, tucking the smaller mech underneath his chassis as he pushed himself onto knees and elbows on the berth. His plates flared wide, mantling, cannons clicking free, crouched over and around his cohort mate. In the shallow space between berth and chassis the saboteur was pressed to his spark, covered and shielded by Ironhide's mass.
Pressing his forehelm to the top of the other mech's, Ironhide shuttered his optics and threw open his vents, cycling hard to force air through his systems and into the heated nest formed at his core. "It's alright," he rumbled softly, and where his vocalizer broke it didn't matter, their overlapping fields pressed so tight they could have been one thing, pulsing with safe/together/family/protection/not-alone. "It's alright. Yeh ain't alone, Jazz. Ah got yeh." His engine, underscored with the hum of prepped weapons - safe, those whispered in hot harmonics, safety, defended, safe - throbbed low and steady, the core of his own systems beating an enduring vibration that filled the silence, inescapable proof of presence that was anything but 'alone'.