Who Am I (Intro)

Transformers (G1) Verse
Rating: PG…for now
Characters: Prowl, Ratchet

Warnings: Uhm…gender switching and a wee bit of cussing.

A/N: This story is inspired by those few TF gender (term used loosely here) fanfics/fanarts out there. Definitely read "500 Miles" by Crimson Starlight and "Switch" by Beregond if you haven't already.
There be craziness ahead in this fic. You have been warned. ;)

What makes an individual who they are? Is it what is on the inside or what is on the outside…or perhaps somewhere in between?

Ratchet waited for his processes to catch up with the scene before him, feeling the rare buzz of a system failure lurking in his processors. It did not help when the smaller bot looked up at him with such a beseeching expression—one that was completely out of place on the other's faceplates. The glimmer of fluid lining their bright blue optics was most foreboding to the medic. He could feel it threatening to fall at any moment and the larger bot knew that once it did, there would be no stopping the 'waterworks.'

"Please, Ratchet…" the softer voice pleaded with him, stepping even closer to the panicked medic as their lower lip trembled terribly. Slender white hands were clasped tightly to an equally white chest plate.

There was a muted clang and suddenly the smaller, more curved form was pressed against his frame in a very distracting way. Distracting and extremely disturbing considering whom the other seemed to actually be. Awkwardly, Ratchet wrapped his arms around the now trembling and sobbing bot that clung haphazardly to his boxy chassis.

"There, there…uh…Prowl." Here, he patted the other bot's back plates carefully between the twin sensory panels that had remained the exact same, trying to sooth the seriously distraught tactician. Never in the long, long time that he had known the Autobot's second-in-command had he ever seen this normally composed individual completely break down like this. Even the destruction of Praxus had not garnered this kind of reaction. Then again, he had never known this particular bot as anything other than a mech.

The weeping monochromatic femme currently in his possession was definitely an unexpected turn of events. She (and YES she was definitely female) had burst into his med bay mere moments ago, seeking him out amongst the rows of empty berths and had effectively cornered the much larger mech in his office. She had practically begged him, while the two door panels of her back quivered in suppressed fear and anxiety, to explain then fix whatever had happened.

Stunned by her appearance, the medic had first thought that somehow one of Elita-One's femmes had managed to make it through the space bridge and to their base. The red and white mech had even gone so far as preparing to open a comm. line to the bridge to explain the situation to the officer on duty when the slender femme decided to invade his personal space.

His confusion was further compounded when the femme had asked him point blank why HE had changed into what she was. Finally taking in the familiar paint job and red chevron that adorned this new bot his mind skipped the last few steps to a stunning conclusion. Somehow Prowl, the Autobot's head tactician and SIC, was now very much a femme.

The garish orange ceiling came fuzzily into view as Prowl's optics flickered online. With a groan, he lifted a servo to his chevron and rubbed tiredly at the soreness radiating from the central point of his helm. The throbbing in his processors abated enough to allow the bot to actually focus on what had just happened to land him flat on his back in the middle of one of the Ark's storage rooms. Palm sliding flat over his faceplates in an attempt to sooth his sensors further, Prowl stopped short when his digits encountered a pair of rather plump lips in place of where a normally thin and sharp set lay. Processes now coming online fully in a sparkbeat, the tactician sat up swiftly, moaning as his tank argued against the action and ran his servo over his faceplates again.

More changes became apparent under his questing fingertips. His normally sharp and prominent nasal ridge was smaller—more curved and ended higher. Cheek arches also felt higher set in his faceplates and the cheeks themselves seemed fuller. Staring in confusion at the other servo resting in his lap, the tactician also took note that the hand which was most definitely his appeared more slender and almost…delicate. Both of his new hands could have easily fit into one of his previous ones.

What in the name of Antiquity?

The formerly prominent hood of his alt mode stared back at him. Optics blinking slowly off, then once more almost painfully on the tactician took in the altered curvature of his chest plate and the noticeable concave middle that gave the alarming impression of cleavage.

Awaiting the inevitable crash of his logic center, the black and white bot braced himself. After a minute, then two went by without anything happening, the tactician ran an internal diagnostic to try to figure out why he was not laid out on the floor again. The scan went quickly and as he scrolled through the results, coolant flooded his lines.

His battle computer was no longer active. Not only that, it was now only a peripheral system when as before it had been a primary and integral part of his body.

Deciding that he really had just had enough surprises for one day, Prowl braced one elegant servo on the floor to leverage himself up and to his pedes (which he sourly noted were also quite dainty). Fists clenched and doorwings held high, the somewhat shapely Datsun left the small pile of datapads that not just moments ago had been so important to him in their respective disorganized piles on the floor and marched his (her?) way to the med bay. The hope being to demand an answer to this hallucination and the subsequent cure, if not a good knock over the helm for good measure.

It took him longer than Prowl had expected to reach the med bay proper. The black and white SIC had gone to great lengths to avoid detection by the few Autobots wandering the halls, as well as Red Alert's myriad of hidden and not-so-hidden cameras. By the time he was safely ensconced inside the (thankfully!) empty med bay, he felt the disturbing burn of coolant tears at the back of his optics.

Shaking the sudden emotional onslaught off both physically and metaphorically, the tactician sought out the Autobot's CMO. Upon locating his hunched over form at the desk in his office, the black and white stalked towards him with all of the due intention of a lioness stalking her prey. He did not even stop upon the threshold to give the medic some forewarning as his decorum software would have had him do. Instead, the smaller bot marched right up to good ol' Ratchet and…froze when he turned his way.

The seasoned medic actually did a double take at his form and it was all that Prowl could do to hold onto the resolve and righteous fury that backed it as he took in the other's shocked expression.

"Ratchet, you have to help me." Dear Primus, even his vocals were higher and softer.

"Huh?" The medic had yet to pick his lower jaw up from its place on the floor.

Now frustrated and feeling just a little bit more unstable, Prowl clasped his hands in front of his curvy chest, pleading with the other. "Please, Ratchet…"

He felt the sting of tears and this time couldn't hold back the keen as he all, but fell into the medic's stunned form, clinging to the larger mech like a lifeline as the tactician's emotion circuits surged and overtook all other processes.

The boxy medic's field fluctuated against Prowl's own wildly changing one and his sensor panels picked up on the hesitant arms that hovered above his shoulder guards before wrapping tentatively around his quivering form. That action just made more coolant stream down the sides of Prowl's heart-shaped faceplates and he buried them in the cool windshield in front of him in shame.

From his position, the black and white felt more than heard Ratchet awkwardly attempt to calm him down, the deep rumble of his engine soothing some of the tactician's fritzing diodes. That in itself was enough for Prowl to try once again to rein in his emotions and he took a few deep draughts of air through his intakes to help cool his internals as well. For a few moments, all was quite in the small office as neither bot dared to move.

Finally, almost hesitantly, the smaller of the two backed away—optics fixed firmly on the ground as they attempted to wipe the trails of liquid from the rims of large optics.

Ratchet cleared his vocal processor…CPU almost stopping again as he tried to think of what to say before eons of experience kicked in and the CMO just approached this situation the way he did every single other time.

With blunt, angry honesty.

"What the FRAG happened to you?"

The smaller bot jerked back in surprise, optics widening more as she looked up at the medic. The shock only lasted a moment before the femme changed gears like the flip of a light switch.

"I do not know WHAT happened to me, Ratchet. That is why I came to you. One moment I was my usual self running inventory, the next I online like this." And here the black and white femme gestured to herself and inadvertently a rather shapely pair of legs.

Ratchet's optics followed the irate motions of the SIC's hands before his optics shot right back up from where they lingered. Thankfully, Prowl was too busy ranting to notice.

"How could this possibly have happened? To me of all bots, none the less."

Helplessly, the medic just shrugged his red-crossed shoulders watching as the slender form took to pacing the short distance in front of him.

"Perhaps it was something in the energon that I ingested? Maybe the Decepticons were trying some new weapon and I just can not recall being in its path? What could have possibly caused this?" That beseeching expression was back once again as the Datsun turned and focused back on her captive audience.

"Slow the slag down, Prowl. You're making my processor ache." Rubbing his helm, Ratchet gestured to one of the medical berths just outside his door. "Why don't I run a few scans on you and find out exactly what has been affected and we can work our way backwards from that?"

Folding her more streamlined arms under her black bumper, Prowl pursued her lips in thought before nodding once in agreement. Grace was definitely nothing new to the tactician, but the new form simply emphasized that point more so as she quickly crossed to the empty berth and sat along its shorter side, long legs dangling above the floor.

Ratchet wasted no time in running both basic maintenance scans and more invasive system scans on the tactician. The good and perhaps bad thing about Cybertronian technology was the speed in which data could be catalogued, analyzed and orderly presented. It only took a mere 10 minutes of Earth's time for the scans to complete and the results made available to the CMO.

Ratchet did his best to ignore the fidgeting femme behind him as he perused the data, optic ridges shifting upwards beneath his jet black chevron at the information being displayed. After a few more minutes of complete silence and being ignored, the SIC couldn't take it anymore.

"Well?"

Letting out a draft of air from this intakes (a Cybertronian's sigh) Ratchet slowly turned to his current, and probably for the foreseeable immediate future, patient.

"Well, Prowl the good news is that whatever changes occurred, they appear to be have finished with no real harm to your systems or structure. You shouldn't have to worry about anything else happening."

"However…?" A low voice asked cautiously.

"However…it's not just changes to your frame that have happened."

Cerulean blue optics narrowing in response, the black and white femme waited for the other gavel to drop.

"Apparently, you do not just look like a femme, Prowl. Physically, your internals match the same expected specifications as a standard Cybertronian femme." Ratchet warily watched the seated black and white's door wings for a clue as to what she was thinking.

Optics focused somewhere over his shoulder, Prowl managed to work out of her gaping mouth, "You mean that I am truly…a femme?"

Wincing, Ratchet nodded in response. The female Autobot started shaking her head in denial, optics shuttering as her tiny hands clenched into tiny fists on her lap.

"NO!" The femme shouted unexpectedly.

Now, Ratchet had plenty of experience with bots of all shapes and sizes in his lifetime and he was no fool. Backing away slowly in an attempt to simultaneously not draw attention to himself and not set off the ticking time bomb in his med bay, the medic only made it a few steps before he was caught. The tactician's glare was always something to fear, but the femme tactician's glare made Ratchet want to find the deepest, darkest hole on this planet and bury himself in it for the next millennia or two. That should be enough time for the tactician to cool down.

"Ratchet, I can not stay this way. I. AM. A. MECH. This is physically impossible and completely improbable."

"Take it easy, Prowl." The mostly white mech held his red servos up in a placating gesture towards the bristling femme. "This is going to take some time to figure out and probably even longer to straighten you out. I can't do anything for you right now, save for prescribe some rest and take you off-duty for the time being."

"WHAT?" The screech nearly blew off the medic's audios and he was surprised that no other bots came bursting through the door at the sound of bloody murder.

"I have to take you off duty…"

"I heard what you said." She angrily cut the mech off, mid-sentence. Ratchet did his best to bite his glossa as the normally mild-mannered SIC continued on her emotional rollercoaster. It wasn't really her fault. Not only had she switched genders, but the CMO had also noticed (and surreptitiously failed to mention) both her battle computer and logic center had been rewritten such that they operated in a secondary roll. This was a first for the smaller bot, which meant that she had not learned quite what it meant to control her emotions as of yet and was therefore going to need a crash course.

"Good, so you can stop yelling." Ratchet snarked back, mouth sadly on autopilot.

Looking offended, the tactician rose a pearl-white servo to her chestplate and gasped, "I am most certainly not yelling. You are just not listening to me."

Frown deepening, the medic regarded the femme, concern for her well being going out the proverbial window.

"That's enough. You are a senior officer of this crew, Prowl and I expect you of all bots to behave that way. I don't care if you are a mech or a femme, a frontliner, a minibot or fraggin' Primus himself, you will show me respect—especially in my med bay."

Ratchet glowered down at the slight form, optics flashing in ire.

Silence, blessed silence greeted the fuming mech.

Looking quite abashed, Prowl hunched down in her seat, sensor panels falling low and to the sides.

After a moment she spoke, sounding much more subdued, but at least in control of herself. "I apologize, Ratchet. I meant no offense to you. This situation is just…difficult for me." The last word was said almost with bitterness and the medic deflated slightly in response.

"I understand. That's why I want you off duty until we have all of this sorted out. It isn't about you being a femme, at least, not specifically. You need time to adjust to the changes for however long they might last and I need Wheeljack out of recharge to help me solve this situation."

The tactician did not brighten in mood, but at least she ventured to meet his optics. "Again, I am sorry, Ratchet. I will do as you say."

Nodding to himself, the medic eased the new femme off the berth, leading her towards the main doors.

At the threshold, the SIC turned to the now significantly larger mech and queried, "Will you inform Prime, then?"

Sighing again, the CMO nodded, rubbing a large, red servo along the back of tired neck cables. "Yes, in this instance I have to."

"Will you tell the rest of the crew as well?"

"I don't know. I can promise you that I will not tell anyone else until Prime orders me to do so and at that point I will give you a heads up first, Prowl."

Smiling softly, Prowl regarded the medic. "Thank you, Ratchet."

Ratchet felt a little silly as he smiled back automatically in response to the angelic expression that seemed so natural on this face, but would have been completely out-of-place on Prowl's previous faceplates.

"Don't mention it. I mean it. Now scat—it's getting late and the morning crew will be up soon. Best be in your quarters before then." He gave the small femme a light push between the door wings out of the med bay and watched as she turned before cautiously making her way back towards the Ark's officer's quarters.

Shaking his helm, Ratchet aimed a look towards the heavens before opening a comm. to Prime.

Things were about to get very interesting for the Ark.

A/N: O-kay then. Well, that was interesting. I still do not know the direction this is going to head, but I do know that poor Prowl is in for a real treat. Hopefully this story is moderately amusing so far, ne? ^_^