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fandomweekly2019-08-12 08:27 pm
autobotscoutriella) wrote in fandomweekly2019-08-12 08:27 pm
Entry tags:
[#021] Calculation (Transformers Bayverse)
Theme Prompt: 021 - Blessing in Disguise
Title: Calculation
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse
Rating/Warnings: G - None
Bonus: No
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Prowl's tactical protocols are always running, no matter how unnecessary or inconvenient they are.
The brand-new command center hummed with activity. Junior officers and a few rank and file soldiers scrambled here and there, setting up desks, arranging datapads, linking up networks, and all the various other little tasks required to get a command center up and running; behind the transparisteel window that marked out the briefing room, the Prime was visible, talking to Elita One, Ratchet, and Hot Rod. Jazz's voice was audible at the far end of the biggest room, laughter in his tone as he described some construction mishap or other to Ironhide.
It was all very ordinary. The whole operation could have been mistaken for the opening of a new Enforcer station, complete with Council visit, back in the days when the Enforcers and the Council existed and the whole planet wasn't at war.
Prowl took it all in with a glance and dismissed it all just as quickly. The details were only important insofar as they gave him locations and estimated reaction times. The topics of casual conversation didn’t matter.
From his position in the center of the room, he could see every entrance, every exit, every possible shelter in case of an attack, every path that each soldier might take from their current positions. He could picture the layout of the developing Autobot base just as clearly, a map overlaying everything around him. A thousand different scenarios ran through his mind, each one with a different probability than the last, some likely, some not. Under different circumstances, he might have been listing off those scenarios for the Prime, keeping them two or three steps ahead of the approaching Decepticons. Under these, it was little more than background noise, systems constantly running in case they were needed.
"Hey, mech. Where's your head?"
Jazz was at his elbow, silver plating bright in the artificial light from the overhead bars, visor casually retracted to reveal amused optics. "There's half a dozen patrols out. If the 'Cons so much as twitch our direction, we'll see it coming. Don’t need tactics—could turn those off."
Prowl raised a brow, attention shifting toward the conversation behind the transparisteel window and then back to Jazz. “And here I thought this was the day you finally remembered I can’t. We’ve had this conversation."
"And we're gonna have it again." Jazz followed Prowl's gaze to the window and back. "'Cause every time we do, I ask you if it's that you can't turn it off, or that you won't. And every time, you tell me—"
"—that the end result is the same either way," Prowl finished, a faint smile flicking across his faceplate even as he considered the best way to defend against an aerial strike, assuming the Prime remained in the command center. "The tactical protocols remain on. Deactivating them isn’t an option anyway, so what does it matter if it’s won’t or can’t?"
Jazz heaved an overdramatic sigh and gestured at the room around them. "Don't tell me you think you need them now. You assigned those patrols and did the final tactical overview for this base, so if you don't think that's enough—"
“I’m sure it’s enough." Pink and black shimmered in the corner of Prowl's visor; Elita One was on the move. The numbers ran automatically, with and without her, and adjusted accordingly. "But no matter how much you talk, the protocols are still going to run. You should know that by now.”
"How'd you ever survive peacetime, mech?" Jazz shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. Prowl smiled inwardly and watched Hot Rod leave, taking a handful of rank and file soldiers with him. Those would be the long-range assignments he had set a few hours earlier. He could see the map without pulling it up in his display, each team’s patrol route and emergency retreat selected to match their skillsets. The next day’s patrols needed to be laid out and assigned, too; those were overdue as it was. Domino Squad could take the south road down to the Nova Cronum exit, and—
“Prowl. Hey. Relax.” Jazz elbowed him playfully, jerking Prowl’s attention back to the present. “This is downtime, or as close to it as we’re gonna get this week. Everything’s under control. You had to do something with those tactical protocols before the war. Ever consider doing that now?”
“I am doing that now,” Prowl said calmly, watching as screens began flickering to life. Good. Once the final connections to the planetary network came online, monitoring stations would be up and running within the hour. “I observed, I planned, and I modified those plans based on changing evidence. And no, I couldn’t turn it off then, either.”
“So you calculated and recalculated. Even during your downtime. Ever think maybe that’s overkill?” Jazz followed Prowl’s gaze across the room and back again. “Sounds like hell at parties.”
“That depends on the type of party.” It wasn’t much of a party trick—but they were at war.
“Remind me never to show up to anything you’re hosting.” Jazz grinned and clapped Prowl on the shoulder. “Don’t calculate too hard. We’ll need your processor in the field tomorrow.”
Prowl suppressed the urge to remark that calculating now was likely to be more beneficial for tomorrow’s assignments, and watched Jazz make his way through the maze of half-constructed desks to the briefing room. Behind the window, the Prime and Ratchet were still conversing, in tones just low enough to make the words unintelligible.
Sounds like hell.
He had thought the same once. The protocols were overkill for his function; street policing didn’t require deployment patterns and full-scale combat tactics, much less multi-level situational analysis. It was a curse in social situations, and an interesting but mostly useless feature on the job.
And then the war had come.
It was still hell, sometimes. But it was useful hell; worth some frustration, if it meant that the Autobots won their war. It was a small price to pay to end it.
Title: Calculation
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse
Rating/Warnings: G - None
Bonus: No
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Prowl's tactical protocols are always running, no matter how unnecessary or inconvenient they are.
The brand-new command center hummed with activity. Junior officers and a few rank and file soldiers scrambled here and there, setting up desks, arranging datapads, linking up networks, and all the various other little tasks required to get a command center up and running; behind the transparisteel window that marked out the briefing room, the Prime was visible, talking to Elita One, Ratchet, and Hot Rod. Jazz's voice was audible at the far end of the biggest room, laughter in his tone as he described some construction mishap or other to Ironhide.
It was all very ordinary. The whole operation could have been mistaken for the opening of a new Enforcer station, complete with Council visit, back in the days when the Enforcers and the Council existed and the whole planet wasn't at war.
Prowl took it all in with a glance and dismissed it all just as quickly. The details were only important insofar as they gave him locations and estimated reaction times. The topics of casual conversation didn’t matter.
From his position in the center of the room, he could see every entrance, every exit, every possible shelter in case of an attack, every path that each soldier might take from their current positions. He could picture the layout of the developing Autobot base just as clearly, a map overlaying everything around him. A thousand different scenarios ran through his mind, each one with a different probability than the last, some likely, some not. Under different circumstances, he might have been listing off those scenarios for the Prime, keeping them two or three steps ahead of the approaching Decepticons. Under these, it was little more than background noise, systems constantly running in case they were needed.
"Hey, mech. Where's your head?"
Jazz was at his elbow, silver plating bright in the artificial light from the overhead bars, visor casually retracted to reveal amused optics. "There's half a dozen patrols out. If the 'Cons so much as twitch our direction, we'll see it coming. Don’t need tactics—could turn those off."
Prowl raised a brow, attention shifting toward the conversation behind the transparisteel window and then back to Jazz. “And here I thought this was the day you finally remembered I can’t. We’ve had this conversation."
"And we're gonna have it again." Jazz followed Prowl's gaze to the window and back. "'Cause every time we do, I ask you if it's that you can't turn it off, or that you won't. And every time, you tell me—"
"—that the end result is the same either way," Prowl finished, a faint smile flicking across his faceplate even as he considered the best way to defend against an aerial strike, assuming the Prime remained in the command center. "The tactical protocols remain on. Deactivating them isn’t an option anyway, so what does it matter if it’s won’t or can’t?"
Jazz heaved an overdramatic sigh and gestured at the room around them. "Don't tell me you think you need them now. You assigned those patrols and did the final tactical overview for this base, so if you don't think that's enough—"
“I’m sure it’s enough." Pink and black shimmered in the corner of Prowl's visor; Elita One was on the move. The numbers ran automatically, with and without her, and adjusted accordingly. "But no matter how much you talk, the protocols are still going to run. You should know that by now.”
"How'd you ever survive peacetime, mech?" Jazz shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. Prowl smiled inwardly and watched Hot Rod leave, taking a handful of rank and file soldiers with him. Those would be the long-range assignments he had set a few hours earlier. He could see the map without pulling it up in his display, each team’s patrol route and emergency retreat selected to match their skillsets. The next day’s patrols needed to be laid out and assigned, too; those were overdue as it was. Domino Squad could take the south road down to the Nova Cronum exit, and—
“Prowl. Hey. Relax.” Jazz elbowed him playfully, jerking Prowl’s attention back to the present. “This is downtime, or as close to it as we’re gonna get this week. Everything’s under control. You had to do something with those tactical protocols before the war. Ever consider doing that now?”
“I am doing that now,” Prowl said calmly, watching as screens began flickering to life. Good. Once the final connections to the planetary network came online, monitoring stations would be up and running within the hour. “I observed, I planned, and I modified those plans based on changing evidence. And no, I couldn’t turn it off then, either.”
“So you calculated and recalculated. Even during your downtime. Ever think maybe that’s overkill?” Jazz followed Prowl’s gaze across the room and back again. “Sounds like hell at parties.”
“That depends on the type of party.” It wasn’t much of a party trick—but they were at war.
“Remind me never to show up to anything you’re hosting.” Jazz grinned and clapped Prowl on the shoulder. “Don’t calculate too hard. We’ll need your processor in the field tomorrow.”
Prowl suppressed the urge to remark that calculating now was likely to be more beneficial for tomorrow’s assignments, and watched Jazz make his way through the maze of half-constructed desks to the briefing room. Behind the window, the Prime and Ratchet were still conversing, in tones just low enough to make the words unintelligible.
Sounds like hell.
He had thought the same once. The protocols were overkill for his function; street policing didn’t require deployment patterns and full-scale combat tactics, much less multi-level situational analysis. It was a curse in social situations, and an interesting but mostly useless feature on the job.
And then the war had come.
It was still hell, sometimes. But it was useful hell; worth some frustration, if it meant that the Autobots won their war. It was a small price to pay to end it.