What's The Child's Name?

It’s said – and I can fully attest to this, now – that trackers have a perverse level of tenacity.  More so than most in other functions, save for espionage and medical, perhaps.  Still, not many compare to the trackers.  Essentially, they’re the Cybertronian equivalent to the earth’s bloodhounds.  Their whole purpose in life is to pick up a scent trail, a clue, and trace it all the way to the source.  Start to finish, start to finish.  Never wavering, never being tempted off course, and never, ever giving in.  And, really, that analogy doesn’t put it in proper perspective to say just how tenacious a tracker can be.  It’s just the way they’re programmed.

Hound, on the other hand…  Just the notion forces a tired, airy sigh from me.  Not lost to him beneath the gentle whistle of wind that might otherwise hide such an expulsion from another mech.  No, not him.

Hound has this tendency to extend by concocting perversions with which to utilize his perverse tenacity.  Generally they’re little things, designed, I’m sure, to replete that inner need to start something and see it all the way through to its end.

Often enough, he accomplishes this through driving.  It’s a simple venture.  It has a beginning point and an ending point, fulfilling on the barest level.  He’ll throw in a complication to this escape by turning it into a game he shares with Trailbreaker, in which they find some rough riding two-track to chase one another through.  He tells me the whole point is to never transform to get out of a rut.  If one does, they lose.  It’ll keep them gone hours and hours at a time, and despite that Hound always returns with a sated grin on his faceplates, to my knowledge Trailbreaker’s the one who’s never lost.  It doesn’t exactly fit.  But, an end is an end, I suppose.

“June gave birth.”

Other times, he entertains himself through reading, downloading information and going over it on his datapad in his quarters or on the ground outside.  Mostly science journals, the latest publications of recent discoveries, covering everything in paleontology, paleoanthropology, paleogeology… paleobiology, paleoecology… paleornithology – Ngh, there’s not a chance I can remember them all.  Basically, he’s a ‘paleo addict’.  If it starts with ‘paleo’ and ends with ‘ology’, Hound’s into it.  It’s the whole long road of unknowns and filling in the pieces and tracing a line from a beginning to an end that captivates him so.  Aside from just being a 'nature nut', as he seems to be known.  I don’t understand most of what he talks about in those arenas; Beachcomber revels in Hound’s company in that respect.

Hound is a mover, physically and mentally, there’s no doubt.  And for all the ends he reaches - breezing through or hard earned ends - he often doesn’t settle long enough to reflect, to savor the moment, accept and share congratulations and praise, especially when it relates to duty.  No, he has to move.  He has to find that next scent trail.

Also, as I've found, he tends not to hover over any one particular interest for long.  If I knew anything about psychology – and I, surely, do not – I’d think of it as a counterbalance.  This roaming he does.  In his function as tracker for the Autobots, he’s in one narrow field.  Find the enemy.  Find the enemy, find the enemy, find the enemy… or, some variant of.  So, these extra little things he does, he does to give himself relief from having to otherwise do for duty’s sake.

Duty bound.  I give a slight shake of my head at the thought, as I realize it’s the binding part that often renders him to absurdity.

Case in point, now.  We’re suspended on a broad ledge, Hound and I, just over twenty-eight yards above the Ark entrance, with our hands thoroughly engaged within the inner workings of a large concussion blaster.  He carries on routinely, flawlessly.  Never stopping, never wavering.

But, the compulsion hungers, and needs to feed.  This is where his twist on the perversion comes into play.

Unable to leach his tracker programming into something more productive in situations like this, he often subjects it upon whoever happens to be closest, dragging said individual down into the… madness.  I somehow manage to get that sentence on frequent occasion.

And, so… here I am.  And I can’t escape it, either.  Just my luck to have been assigned outer perimeter detailing and maintenance with Hound, on a day like today, no less.

I’m not displeased in regards to the day itself, mind.  Matter of fact, it’s one of those grand days that finds mechs wishing Megatron would forget the security codes for Decepticon HQ and wind up locked in, just so they could bury their treads on the endless blacktop.  Yes, today is sunny, pleasantly warm, with just that bit of breeze that many say ‘nuzzles their plating’.  Even I had to admit, it was rather pleasurable being out.

PDM, though mundane and tedious, tends to be a favored assignment, if only for the reason of being outside on days such as this.  Many ‘bots, I’d noticed, were more or less prickly over the day’s duty roster.  They all but fell over one another to see if they’d been liberated to the bright welcoming world, only to discover they’d been relegated to the vast inner reaches of orange-hued Ark.  Interspersed with the few cheers and other such celebratory cries, there’d been heard the low grumbles of dispirited sparks, accompanied by the now traditional one-off, ‘Prowl hates me’.

Jazz, of course… well…  Today is Wednesday.  The Wednesday interactions between Jazz and Prowl have become rather routine, near like a script.  Jazz takes his datapad from Prowl, holding it at his left hip while staring, devoid of expression, for three or four seconds, then shakes his head slowly and only once, before simply turning and walking away.  The act seems caricature in nature, amusing to so many.  And I suspect he allows it to be, if only to put a smile on the others’ faceplates, to keep up morale.  But, if you take a moment to look beyond that, you can see the exasperation venting inside of him.  Jazz hates doing inventory.

I’d have gladly traded with him today… if only I’d known…

Eleven hours.  Or, more precisely, ten hours, fifty-three minutes and… twenty-two seconds.  Hound has been at this all day long, being in one of his –

“What’s the child’s name?”

And there he goes again. Ngh. Although, in light of my suffering, I might force some satisfaction out of the situation, as I think I may be sapping his determination to some degree with my solemn ignorance.  He’s lessening the frequency of his delivery of this little riddle.  Still, eleven hours –

“June gave birth.  What’s the child’s name?”

I give a labored sigh, disappointed.  I've spoken too soon.  He must be reading my processor.

At any rate, this game or whatever it is – maybe he has finally fried his logics – has gone on since this morning.  He’s said little more than those select, nonsensical lines for the last eleven hours.  And it’s driving me insane.  I’d say eventually, if this continues for much longer, my CPU would be as toasted as Hound’s.  Would be.  If he were, indeed, losing it.  I know he’s not.  My eon long history with him concludes otherwise, having endured similar quirks many times over.

No, this is just Hound on one of those days, in one of those moods, exercising that perverse level of tenacity in a most perverse method, with myself being the target of that perversion.

“Come on.”  Entreating vocal.  He gently swipes away dirt and flecks of dry seed husks from the turret we’re working over.  He doesn’t look away from his task, but he doesn’t have to.  He knows I’m right here, forced to listen.  “What’s the child’s name?”

He’d given no real outward indication of his design this morning.  I hadn’t caught up with him until after he’d already been out, beginning our task with springy fingers and a delicate, satisfied smile.  Nor had he really spoken at first; he responded kindly, but distantly to my bid of ‘good morning’, reciprocating the words.  Then, Hound had simply slipped into, what I thought, was a tranquil state of mind.  He loves the outdoors, after all, and it’s not uncommon for him to become lulled to the point of oblivion with a day like today set down upon him.  So, I’d assumed I wouldn't hear another vocalization from him for the rest of our duty.

That lasted for all of twenty minutes.

“June gave birth.  What’s the child’s name?”

And, that’s exactly what he’d said eleven hours ago, and pretty much all he’s been saying the entire day.

As I’d mentioned earlier, however, I’ve had the (dis)pleasure of being subjected to his muses before, and I’ve learned to tolerate them, for the most part.  Noninvasive distractions like this are… easy enough, I suppose, to-

“What’s the child’s name?”

-deal with.  It’s when there’s a physical tag attached…  That’s when I find myself quickly tiring of his antics.

Take, for example, seven weeks ago; it was ‘a day in the life of a bison herd’ day.  Our shift rotations had given us sixteen corresponding hours of time off.

“June gave birth.”  He says it lightly, sing-song, before moving to take the sealant injector from my hand to reseal the two halves of the vertical joint housing, which is fine, as I’ve just finished with the upper portion of the same part.  “What’s the child’s name?”  He croons emphatically, optics sparkling with mischief and delight as he leans a fender briefly against my shinguard.

I’m not sure if it really even matters to him that I solve his puzzle or not.  I… I don’t know.  There’s just so much about him that I still don’t understand...

To get back to what I was saying, that morning we’d followed the bison had begun much too early for my liking.  But, he’d been insistent, wanting to have enough time to track them down, which we did with the help of Skyfire, who’d been heading east already to bring Tracks to the eastern coast.

It’d been just before nine when Hound and I were on the ground and creeping our way toward a herd.  I wasn’t particularly keen of the idea, us getting too close.  Those creatures, though not much compared to our stature, looked like they had the potential to be ugly.  I may not know much about the lifeforms on this planet, but I’m familiar enough with the word ‘stampede’.  And, I’d thought, just how exciting could watching a mass of smelly, hairy quadrupeds be?  Hound, though…  It was, in the least, amusing watching him carry on like some great wildlife enthusiast.

“June gave birth.”

He reminded me of the gentleman he’d met a couple of years previous; this man that hosts a nature show called Wild America...  Marty Stouffer.  Well, Hound had inadvertently interrupted a taping somewhere near Biloxi.  You’d have sworn he was nothing more than a big kid in a metal body, the way he carried on around that man.  He’d even asked for an autograph, and had his picture taken with him.  It still sits in a frame Spike had bought, on Hound’s workstation in his quarters.

I suppose, in hindsight, it wasn’t quite the torture I’d initially envisioned.  Just like Marty and the nature show he hosted, Hound had kept us in strict biologist form, preaching the whole non-interference oath, monitoring the bison at a fair distance, moving cautiously when they did, staying ‘downwind’.  I could feel the euphoria seeping out of him while he’d explained to me all he knew of the beasts, rambling excitedly in whispers at new things he hadn’t known before.  He’d nearly fritzed at being able to witness three births.  It’s not often you find Hound without a word to say, particularly where the earth is concerned.  But, watching those… calf?  Calves is the plural term?  Watching the calves being born left Hound comparable to an awestruck human child seeing a Transformer for the first time.

I have to admit, I enjoy seeing Hound that way.  It’s amusing and endearing.  And somehow, it makes being on earth just that much more tolerable.

“What’s the child’s name?”

Okay, so that wasn’t the perfect example to convey how irritating his tenacity can become.  I can say, in all honesty, that it was much more enjoyable than last year’s ‘a day in the life of a prairie dog’.  An animal that in no way resembles a dog, as far as I’m concerned.  Now, that was an intolerable venture!  By mid-afternoon, I’d been ready to short-circuit myself to bring it to an end.  Still, no matter what I’d said, he was fully insistent on us staying and watching that little family of buck-toothed rodents.  And he’d chattered on about them just as excitedly as he had the bison.  After a while, I simply deactivated my optics and listened to him…  Well, there’d been no stopping him, after all.

“Finished with the injector?”  I say to Hound now, glancing at a face so full of concentration, but so light at the same time.  He’s having fun, I know, despite that I’d given up playing into his little game, which I’m certain he’s aware.  Yet, he’ll keep going until I figure out what in Primus’ name he’s talking about, or he blows a fuse in his synthesizer, because it’s something he’s Pitbent on finishing.

He gives me a slanting look, beamish, as he gives the injector nozzle a slight thrust to finish off the bead he’s just drawn, before pulling it away carefully.  Then he searches about himself for a taper stick to smooth out the edges of the bead.

“June gave birth,” he replies now, casually, the playful smirk present in his tone.  How was I not expecting that?  I can’t help but to sigh tiredly, as this has been going on much too long.  “Why?”

~Why?~  What is this all of a sudden?  He can’t be changing the game, it’s not like him.  I feel my jaw attempting to gape.  After so-  Oh, wait.  Perhaps… no, he must be asking me why I want the injector back.  In the middle of my broken thoughts, I catch myself gawking at him.  At the same time, he catches me also.  Which, of course, only entitles him to smirk in excess, and he wastes no time in doing so.  Hound even chuckles a little at my expense.  He was asking me about the injector.

I check my chronometer...  Going on eleven and a half hours.  I can’t keep doing this.  I tell myself, I can’t keep listening to this.  I’ll go mad.  Alright, time for a counterassault.  “So I can beadseal my audios,” I reply with a touch of petulance in my synthesizer, more forced than natural, though… surprisingly.

“Ah,” he says with a slender tilt of his head, his amused expression never changing.  He holds the injector out for me, dangling it by the trigger over his index finger.  And he continues, as I covet the tool from him briskly, “That might hurt.”

“No.  June hurts,” I throw back sarcastically, mustering my annoyance with him and focusing it into my air; I didn’t want to hurt him, just let him know how much he was grating on me.

Still, even while I refocus my attention on the turret and set about ignoring him once again, he’s going into a fit of deep, full-bodied chuckles, the back of his head rocking against the lip of his windshield frame with a series of soft clinks.  In doing so, he takes all the wind from my proverbial sail, crushing my rebuff with ease, probably not even having acknowledged it as such.  This is something that both irritates me and, strangely, tickles me.  Hound allows none of my huffiness to kill his purpose, there’s simply no defeating him.  And I can’t help but to smile.  Genuinely.

This is something Hound does all too well.  It’s his attitude, his warmth.  He does everything with a warmth to his being, even when he knows he’s poking at you.  It’s so easy to let him get away with it, too.  Because you just know, deep down, there’s no malicious intent to it.  It’s all in good humor, in camaraderie, in picking up one’s spark.

“Ha-ha,” I retort, unable to fully wipe clean the silly grin of mine.

Silly, I’m certain, because of how obvious it must be to him that I’m trying to suppress it.  He sees this.  I know he does, because he has this glint in his optics.  This fond and gratified glint that says, for the hundredth time, he’s won me over.  I’ll play again.  He knows I will. I know I will.

Damn him!  Love him, hate him.  Above all, can’t resist him.  Because he’s good.  He’s tenacious.

“June gave birth.  What’s the child’s name?”  He starts anew, spring in his inflection, glee on his faceplates.  And, for the first time today, he abandons our work, focusing entirely on me and this absurd compulsion to start something and keep it going to the ultimate conclusion.

“Red Alert.”  Coyly, playing him in turn.

“June gave birth-"

“Gah!”

“What’s the child’s name?”

He leans toward me, staring right at me!  There’s thrill in following the trail.  A plainly seen craving for the prize at the end, and I can feel his euphoria like a surge of electricity within him.

“Hound!”  I volley back.

“No-“  And now, he’s doubled over, laughing so hard.  The dual crests of his helm clank against my knee joint.  Then, he straightens abruptly.  “You know,” he begins, wagging an index finger up at me, a splash of craftiness in his countenance, “it’ll be fall by the time you figure it out!”

Alright.  Now, I know that was a blatant attempt to toss me a clue.  Either that or an ultimatum.  Come up with an answer, or be tormented for eternity.  And I would be, too.

I give a brief snort of mock insult; it doesn’t have the intended impact with my grin still prevailing.

Hound remains in Primus sent silence for a moment, as I pause to shake my head, glance away, and then look back at him.  And I sigh in defeat when my optics return to his same maddeningly happy expression.

How can I deny…?

“Alright, Hound,” I say after another deep exhalation, setting my tools aside in total resignation.  I shift my position and wriggle out from behind the butt of the gun barrel, squatting to get optic to optic with him.  Once I still, I have to force the smile to fade, pressing myself to some semblance of seriousness and concentration.

It occurs to me briefly, that I could simply reach out and push him off the ledge…  Oh, no... no more smiling.  I’m being serious, now.  I have to be serious.

I’m pawning myself out to his muses…  What’s there to be serious about?

Another heavy sigh, as I wonder just when I’d become so lax, all for him.

Adjusting my tone accordingly, I continue, “What are you getting at with this?  Tell me again.”

Hound leans closer, now, his own smile diminishing by a fraction.  “Okay, listen,” he begins in a subdued vocal, speaking slowly, his own visage becoming rather sedate.  And I focus earnestly, unwilling to miss a single word, a single syllable, even though it’s all I’ve heard today.  Once more...  “June gave birth.  Today.”  I almost flinch at the newcomer.  Another little clue he’s thrown in.  Alright, taking it in...  “What’s the child’s name?”

The words stream through my processor, while Hound sits across from me, watching, waiting...  projecting.  For all of the intensity in his optics, I’d swear he was trying to broadcast the answer to me.  I find it amuses me, how desperately he wants this answer.  How intensely he’s pursued this...

All for one word?  A name?  But then, that’s not like Hound, to chase something so frivolous.

So, then... what is Hound actually after-

“OH, FER THE LOVE OF PRIMUS, MIRAGE!”

Ack!

“THE ANSWER IS SUMMER!”

Blaring out of the volcano wall, the booming voice jolts me, and I find myself thrown to the lip of the ledge, clinging as the voice – Ironhide!  Oh, he’s in for it! – continues yelling out of the Ark PA.

“IT’S JUNE 21ST, THE OFFICIAL FIRST DAY OF SUMMER! JUNE GAVE BIRTH, THE CHILD’S NAME IS SUMMER! SHEESH!”