The Great Cybertronian Cookoff
Title: The Great Cybertronian Cookoff (Chapter 1)
'Verse: TFA
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing. Double entendres.
Notes: I like cooking shows. I also like Transformers. Happy Birthday Wick :3
Ratchet vented air slowly when he opened the door and saw the assembly outside it.
“You might as well come in.” He muttered, turning away with a grumbled, “and keep it down! Bother them and I’ll boot you out, got it?” as the bots (and one techno-organic) trooped in after him
“Yes Ratchet.”
Only Optimus answered, the others too busy settling in front of his patients’ beds in a loud to-do of noise and chatter.
“Is it on yet? I don’t want to miss the start.”
“I don’t see why everyone’s so worked up about it, he’s not even here to appreciate the fuss.” Bumblebee drawled, arms folded behind his head in a great show of nonchalance, belied by an impatient drumming of fingers and Sari’s knowing elbow to his side.
Optimus, either missing that little interaction or through sheer force of habit replied with a longsuffering, “Bumblebee, we’re watching as a show of support-” only to be cut off by Sari flapping an arm at him as she pointed at the screen.
“Shh it’s starting!”
”Hello viewers, I’m Rosanna!”
“And I’m Windy! Welcome to this stellar cycle’s edition of: The Great Cybertron Cookoff!”
“That’s right, for the next 8 deca-cycles, bots will be welded to their viewing units as amateur cooks from all over Cybertron battle it out in the kitchen, serving up delectables and comestibles to our judges, all for the honour of taking home first place and a shiny trophy.”
“How exciting! Now, our judges have just entered the Cookoff kitchen. This stellar we are honoured as always to have chef Gamma Ray, dessert doyenne Mercury, and culinary analyst Alkalide joining us on the show to-”
Bumblebee twisted to look at the medic, busy checking on the two mechs under his care with a brusque carefulness, shooting one of them a pointed look when they opened their mouth, complaint at the fussing dying unspoken.
“Hey Ratchet, why didn’t we get a TV for the medbay in the warehouse? Think about all that time I could have spent not bored out of my processors in there.”
“And have you constantly in there, underfoot and driving me out of my processors instead?”
The red and white mech replied dryly, putting away his scanners, satisfied that his patients would continue to function another cycle as Bumblebee protested.
“Hey!”
“Pipe down, they’re introducing the contestants.”
“Yes Magnus.”
Optimus couldn’t stop himself from snapping to attention, even with Ultra Magnus looking very un-Magnus like, propped up on a veritable mountain of pillows with blankets tucked around him, but his teammates had no such problems.
“Who’d’ve thought you’d be a Cookoff fan?”
The Magnus glared, and Bulkhead seemed to shrink two sizes, eeping quietly as the Commander leant forward (or tried to, Ratchet was thorough with blanket tucking, especially when it came to stubborn patients who didn’t know what was good for them).
“I. Am. The. Biggest. Cookoff fan. I have not missed an episode since they started airing and I will not start now.”
“This is why you got better so fast, isn’t it?”
It was Bumblebee’s turn to eep when Ultra Magnus turned his glare on the yellow bot, only to exhale softly in relief when the bedridden mech decided that the cheerful patter of the show was more worthy of his attention.
“This next contestant very nearly did not make it to our competition.”
“Oh? Did they miss a transport?”
“No!”
“Did they get lost on the way to our lovely arena?”
“Also no!”
“Then what got in the way of their journey to our culinary heights?”
“I don’t know! It’s classified!”
“The perils of inviting an Elite Guard to anything, I suppose.”
“Haven’t heard from Jazz in a while? He’s not ignoring you, but it’s classified.”
“Sorry I’m late, I‘d explain more but it’s classified.”
“I know I missed our anniversary, dear, something came up last minute and I would tell you what but it’s classified.”
Both hosts tittered at their repartee, and from the back of the little crowd in the med bay, the Magnus made an amused sort of huffing noise, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards slightly.
“Accurate.”
When he didn’t elaborate, everyone else fidgeted around him, obvious questions thickening their silence until he smirked, briefly.
“And that’s all you’re getting. It’s classified.”
= = =
“Now contestants, as you and the viewers at home know, the first challenge is a simple one.”
“Simple, but not easy. This is a competition after all. In time honoured Cookoff tradition, you will now prepare your Signature dish. Something that tells the judges about you. Your personality, your cooking style.”
“You got in, and now you have three mega-cycles to show us why you should stay in. Chefs! The pantry doors open in three, two, one!”
“I wonder what Jazz’s gonna make.”
Sari mused as the screen displayed a shot of most the contestants running for the ingredients, followed by a few stragglers, one particular Guardsmech among them.
“Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to make it. C’mon Jazz! It’s a competition, not a picnic!”
“Maybe he’s still deciding?” Sari volunteered, and Ratchet shook his head.
“Everyone on Cybertron knows what the first challenge is. I’ll bet he knows exactly what he’s going to make and he’s not running because he doesn’t need to. Fancy scrap is no good if you can’t serve it in three mega-cycles.”
A shriek drew their attention to the viewing unit once more and the medic nodded at the screen, arms folded across his front as on screen, two contestants lay in a heap, surrounded by scattered containers, some broken on the floor.
“And rushing about is a good way to frag up. Case in point.”
= = =
The show whirled on, most of the cooking passing by in a blur of snappy editing (watching pots boil was all well and good, until you had to condense several mega-cycles of pot boiling into a much shorter tv show), dramatic shots of flames or smoke or both flames and smoke while the contestants gave catchy soundbites and the hosts reeled off one-liners.
”Yeah, I had no doubt I was gonna get in this competition. Probably gonna win too, but I thought it’d be kinder to let the others think they’ve got a chance. Mark my words, they’re gonna be engraving ‘Chase’ on that trophy.”
The screen flashed to shots of the other contestants as they continued cooking, the ones closest to the speaker obviously having overheard, some amused, others annoyed. Optimus found himself pulling a very familiar expression, one that seemed to have found a twin on the Magnus’s face.
“I didn’t realise Sentinel Prime had family.”
The snort of laughter escaped his intakes before he could control it, but a quick glance at Ultra Magnus showed the other mech hiding a smile behind one hand as his black and gold co-patient folded his hands neatly above similarly securely tucked blankets, expression entirely prim and proper. Optimus shook his head and allowed his smile to grow, finally relaxing enough to enjoy watching the show with his teammates.
= = =
Finally, the cooking was over. Contestant after contestant brought their offerings to the judges, seated on a small stage at the front of the cooking arena.
“For the Signature challenge, many cooks go with the dish that got them into the competition in the first place.”
“Of course, the judges will be on the lookout for that. Preparing the exact same thing isn’t very creative. But perhaps there’s something to be said for consistency.”
The screen shifted back to the judging table, where a hapless cook squared her shoulders and faced judgement head on. Mercury peered over the plate, tilting her helm consideringly.
“A little slapdash in presentation. You ran out of time, didn’t you?”
At the young femme’s wince and nod, she continued.
“Well, we can call it an informal arrangement. Gamma, what do you think?”
“She got it all on a plate and up to us. And as terrible as it looks, the rush doesn’t seem to have influenced the flavour profiles negatively.”
“That’s Gamma’s way of saying he liked it. And I liked it too. Good effort, next!”
Back in the medbay, everyone fell silent as a familiar black and white form appeared on screen.
“Ah, our Elite Guard contestant.”
“Guilty as charged.”
The Jazz on the viewer smiled as he placed a basket in front of the judges, then drew back the cloth covering its contents. The three bots leant forward, visibly inhaling the scent of warm goodies.
”I’m three stellars again, bursting into the kitchen and demanding treats.”
“Be honest, you still do that, Alkalide.”
“You’ve got me pegged, Mercury. So, what’s the story behind these, Jazz?”
The cyberninja shrugged slightly, ducking his helm, smile turning a little bashful.
“These goodies have common ingredients and don’t take a lot of space to make. For bots in my line of work, they taste like coming home, especially when we’re off planet and won’t be back for a while.”
“And that, dear viewers, was the sound of your sparkchambers melting.”
The screen flashed to Rosanna, whispering conspiratorially to the camera before the judges came back into view.
“Well, they are a little uncomplicated for a cooking competition, especially when compared to some of the things your fellow competitors have served up so far. Let’s hope we think they're enough to keep you in the show.”
“Lighten up a little, Gamma.”
Alkalide chuckled through his mouthful, somehow managing to not spray crumbs all over his fellow judges.
“These are good. And he’s right, they do taste like coming home.”
Mercury smacked the other judge’s shoulder lightly, smiling.
“Well, we’d know that for certain if you’d get your hands off Jazz’s goodies, mech. Come on, he made enough for all of us.”
Ultra Magnus became aware of some rather pointed gazes directed at him, and he raised an optic ridge at the gathered bots with a gruff, “What?”
“How much of Jazz’s dialogue was scripted through the Autobot PR machine?”
“For frag’s sake, Bumblebee. It’s the Cookoff, Autobot PR knows better than to try.” Ratchet grumbled, but the Magnus only sighed.
“They may have made a few ‘suggestions’. It is an unprecedented opportunity to improve relations with the civilian population. And Jazz is a good soldier who always follows orders, of course.”
The dry look the mech gave them made it plain he knew about a certain Guardsmech’s absconding off to Earth, and made it plainer that he didn’t find it entirely unexpected. A few nervous coughs later, Bumblebee worked up the nerve to ask another question.
“Is that why he put in what looks like the bare minimum of effort into the first challenge? Trying to flunk out?”
Ultra Magnus’s expression was stern. “No, he’s pacing himself. You’ll notice a few of the other contestants served simple things too.”
“It’s a cooking competition.” Sari, being brand new to the whole Cookoff experience, stared at the Cybertronians in disbelief. Optimus shrugged slightly.
“One that’s been running long enough that there are actual strategy guides on the nets.”
“So he’s trying to get the others to underestimate him by presenting an easy dish?" The young girl sounded suspicious now. “Kind of like landing on Earth and being scared of organics?”
Bulkhead chimed in. “And not knowing what traffic lights are? Although, I’ve heard Sentinel talk about organics. If I had to listen to that all the way to Earth, I’d be worried too.”
“In any case, he removed any chance of us underestimating him when we took on those drones at the factory.”
Prowl met the blank looks his team mates (and Ultra Magnus) gave him with a confused one.
“You did not think that was impressive enough?”
A choking sound from the viewer prevented them from answering as onscreen, Alkalide scrabbled dramatically for a glass of coolant.
”Oh sweet frag, what did I just eat?”
“Chase, I have to ask, did you taste this while you were making it?”
Mercury sounded strained as she put down her spoon, the lump clinging to the utensil barely sampled.
“Of course I didn’t, I’ve made it so many times I could do it in my recharge! I got on this show with this dish.”
“So, either you submitted someone else’s cooking under your name, or you’re an arrogant slagger who thinks he can’t make any mistakes. When you serve the same thing you entered with, it had better be better than perfect. This is burnt and you’ve managed to mix up ethylene glycol with concentrated phosphoric acid. It’s completely inedible. Get this slag off our table and back to your counter.”
“Hey Chase, bet you’ve still got a chance!” A brightly coloured femme called, laughing as the scowling mech slunk past her.
“... Guess we know who’s going home later.”
Bulkhead said, sounding satisfied, and Bumblebee laughed.
“He painted a big target on himself with that line. If the judges don’t cut him this time, the others will during Sabotage deca-cycle.”
“Sabotage? This is a Cooking. Competition!”
The yellow mech grinned at his friend.
“Sari, you’re gonna be a lot of fun this season.”
'Verse: TFA
Characters: Ensemble
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing. Double entendres.
Notes: I like cooking shows. I also like Transformers. Happy Birthday Wick :3
Ratchet vented air slowly when he opened the door and saw the assembly outside it.
“You might as well come in.” He muttered, turning away with a grumbled, “and keep it down! Bother them and I’ll boot you out, got it?” as the bots (and one techno-organic) trooped in after him
“Yes Ratchet.”
Only Optimus answered, the others too busy settling in front of his patients’ beds in a loud to-do of noise and chatter.
“Is it on yet? I don’t want to miss the start.”
“I don’t see why everyone’s so worked up about it, he’s not even here to appreciate the fuss.” Bumblebee drawled, arms folded behind his head in a great show of nonchalance, belied by an impatient drumming of fingers and Sari’s knowing elbow to his side.
Optimus, either missing that little interaction or through sheer force of habit replied with a longsuffering, “Bumblebee, we’re watching as a show of support-” only to be cut off by Sari flapping an arm at him as she pointed at the screen.
“Shh it’s starting!”
”Hello viewers, I’m Rosanna!”
“And I’m Windy! Welcome to this stellar cycle’s edition of: The Great Cybertron Cookoff!”
“That’s right, for the next 8 deca-cycles, bots will be welded to their viewing units as amateur cooks from all over Cybertron battle it out in the kitchen, serving up delectables and comestibles to our judges, all for the honour of taking home first place and a shiny trophy.”
“How exciting! Now, our judges have just entered the Cookoff kitchen. This stellar we are honoured as always to have chef Gamma Ray, dessert doyenne Mercury, and culinary analyst Alkalide joining us on the show to-”
Bumblebee twisted to look at the medic, busy checking on the two mechs under his care with a brusque carefulness, shooting one of them a pointed look when they opened their mouth, complaint at the fussing dying unspoken.
“Hey Ratchet, why didn’t we get a TV for the medbay in the warehouse? Think about all that time I could have spent not bored out of my processors in there.”
“And have you constantly in there, underfoot and driving me out of my processors instead?”
The red and white mech replied dryly, putting away his scanners, satisfied that his patients would continue to function another cycle as Bumblebee protested.
“Hey!”
“Pipe down, they’re introducing the contestants.”
“Yes Magnus.”
Optimus couldn’t stop himself from snapping to attention, even with Ultra Magnus looking very un-Magnus like, propped up on a veritable mountain of pillows with blankets tucked around him, but his teammates had no such problems.
“Who’d’ve thought you’d be a Cookoff fan?”
The Magnus glared, and Bulkhead seemed to shrink two sizes, eeping quietly as the Commander leant forward (or tried to, Ratchet was thorough with blanket tucking, especially when it came to stubborn patients who didn’t know what was good for them).
“I. Am. The. Biggest. Cookoff fan. I have not missed an episode since they started airing and I will not start now.”
“This is why you got better so fast, isn’t it?”
It was Bumblebee’s turn to eep when Ultra Magnus turned his glare on the yellow bot, only to exhale softly in relief when the bedridden mech decided that the cheerful patter of the show was more worthy of his attention.
“This next contestant very nearly did not make it to our competition.”
“Oh? Did they miss a transport?”
“No!”
“Did they get lost on the way to our lovely arena?”
“Also no!”
“Then what got in the way of their journey to our culinary heights?”
“I don’t know! It’s classified!”
“The perils of inviting an Elite Guard to anything, I suppose.”
“Haven’t heard from Jazz in a while? He’s not ignoring you, but it’s classified.”
“Sorry I’m late, I‘d explain more but it’s classified.”
“I know I missed our anniversary, dear, something came up last minute and I would tell you what but it’s classified.”
Both hosts tittered at their repartee, and from the back of the little crowd in the med bay, the Magnus made an amused sort of huffing noise, one corner of his mouth tugging upwards slightly.
“Accurate.”
When he didn’t elaborate, everyone else fidgeted around him, obvious questions thickening their silence until he smirked, briefly.
“And that’s all you’re getting. It’s classified.”
= = =
“Now contestants, as you and the viewers at home know, the first challenge is a simple one.”
“Simple, but not easy. This is a competition after all. In time honoured Cookoff tradition, you will now prepare your Signature dish. Something that tells the judges about you. Your personality, your cooking style.”
“You got in, and now you have three mega-cycles to show us why you should stay in. Chefs! The pantry doors open in three, two, one!”
“I wonder what Jazz’s gonna make.”
Sari mused as the screen displayed a shot of most the contestants running for the ingredients, followed by a few stragglers, one particular Guardsmech among them.
“Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to make it. C’mon Jazz! It’s a competition, not a picnic!”
“Maybe he’s still deciding?” Sari volunteered, and Ratchet shook his head.
“Everyone on Cybertron knows what the first challenge is. I’ll bet he knows exactly what he’s going to make and he’s not running because he doesn’t need to. Fancy scrap is no good if you can’t serve it in three mega-cycles.”
A shriek drew their attention to the viewing unit once more and the medic nodded at the screen, arms folded across his front as on screen, two contestants lay in a heap, surrounded by scattered containers, some broken on the floor.
“And rushing about is a good way to frag up. Case in point.”
= = =
The show whirled on, most of the cooking passing by in a blur of snappy editing (watching pots boil was all well and good, until you had to condense several mega-cycles of pot boiling into a much shorter tv show), dramatic shots of flames or smoke or both flames and smoke while the contestants gave catchy soundbites and the hosts reeled off one-liners.
”Yeah, I had no doubt I was gonna get in this competition. Probably gonna win too, but I thought it’d be kinder to let the others think they’ve got a chance. Mark my words, they’re gonna be engraving ‘Chase’ on that trophy.”
The screen flashed to shots of the other contestants as they continued cooking, the ones closest to the speaker obviously having overheard, some amused, others annoyed. Optimus found himself pulling a very familiar expression, one that seemed to have found a twin on the Magnus’s face.
“I didn’t realise Sentinel Prime had family.”
The snort of laughter escaped his intakes before he could control it, but a quick glance at Ultra Magnus showed the other mech hiding a smile behind one hand as his black and gold co-patient folded his hands neatly above similarly securely tucked blankets, expression entirely prim and proper. Optimus shook his head and allowed his smile to grow, finally relaxing enough to enjoy watching the show with his teammates.
= = =
Finally, the cooking was over. Contestant after contestant brought their offerings to the judges, seated on a small stage at the front of the cooking arena.
“For the Signature challenge, many cooks go with the dish that got them into the competition in the first place.”
“Of course, the judges will be on the lookout for that. Preparing the exact same thing isn’t very creative. But perhaps there’s something to be said for consistency.”
The screen shifted back to the judging table, where a hapless cook squared her shoulders and faced judgement head on. Mercury peered over the plate, tilting her helm consideringly.
“A little slapdash in presentation. You ran out of time, didn’t you?”
At the young femme’s wince and nod, she continued.
“Well, we can call it an informal arrangement. Gamma, what do you think?”
“She got it all on a plate and up to us. And as terrible as it looks, the rush doesn’t seem to have influenced the flavour profiles negatively.”
“That’s Gamma’s way of saying he liked it. And I liked it too. Good effort, next!”
Back in the medbay, everyone fell silent as a familiar black and white form appeared on screen.
“Ah, our Elite Guard contestant.”
“Guilty as charged.”
The Jazz on the viewer smiled as he placed a basket in front of the judges, then drew back the cloth covering its contents. The three bots leant forward, visibly inhaling the scent of warm goodies.
”I’m three stellars again, bursting into the kitchen and demanding treats.”
“Be honest, you still do that, Alkalide.”
“You’ve got me pegged, Mercury. So, what’s the story behind these, Jazz?”
The cyberninja shrugged slightly, ducking his helm, smile turning a little bashful.
“These goodies have common ingredients and don’t take a lot of space to make. For bots in my line of work, they taste like coming home, especially when we’re off planet and won’t be back for a while.”
“And that, dear viewers, was the sound of your sparkchambers melting.”
The screen flashed to Rosanna, whispering conspiratorially to the camera before the judges came back into view.
“Well, they are a little uncomplicated for a cooking competition, especially when compared to some of the things your fellow competitors have served up so far. Let’s hope we think they're enough to keep you in the show.”
“Lighten up a little, Gamma.”
Alkalide chuckled through his mouthful, somehow managing to not spray crumbs all over his fellow judges.
“These are good. And he’s right, they do taste like coming home.”
Mercury smacked the other judge’s shoulder lightly, smiling.
“Well, we’d know that for certain if you’d get your hands off Jazz’s goodies, mech. Come on, he made enough for all of us.”
Ultra Magnus became aware of some rather pointed gazes directed at him, and he raised an optic ridge at the gathered bots with a gruff, “What?”
“How much of Jazz’s dialogue was scripted through the Autobot PR machine?”
“For frag’s sake, Bumblebee. It’s the Cookoff, Autobot PR knows better than to try.” Ratchet grumbled, but the Magnus only sighed.
“They may have made a few ‘suggestions’. It is an unprecedented opportunity to improve relations with the civilian population. And Jazz is a good soldier who always follows orders, of course.”
The dry look the mech gave them made it plain he knew about a certain Guardsmech’s absconding off to Earth, and made it plainer that he didn’t find it entirely unexpected. A few nervous coughs later, Bumblebee worked up the nerve to ask another question.
“Is that why he put in what looks like the bare minimum of effort into the first challenge? Trying to flunk out?”
Ultra Magnus’s expression was stern. “No, he’s pacing himself. You’ll notice a few of the other contestants served simple things too.”
“It’s a cooking competition.” Sari, being brand new to the whole Cookoff experience, stared at the Cybertronians in disbelief. Optimus shrugged slightly.
“One that’s been running long enough that there are actual strategy guides on the nets.”
“So he’s trying to get the others to underestimate him by presenting an easy dish?" The young girl sounded suspicious now. “Kind of like landing on Earth and being scared of organics?”
Bulkhead chimed in. “And not knowing what traffic lights are? Although, I’ve heard Sentinel talk about organics. If I had to listen to that all the way to Earth, I’d be worried too.”
“In any case, he removed any chance of us underestimating him when we took on those drones at the factory.”
Prowl met the blank looks his team mates (and Ultra Magnus) gave him with a confused one.
“You did not think that was impressive enough?”
A choking sound from the viewer prevented them from answering as onscreen, Alkalide scrabbled dramatically for a glass of coolant.
”Oh sweet frag, what did I just eat?”
“Chase, I have to ask, did you taste this while you were making it?”
Mercury sounded strained as she put down her spoon, the lump clinging to the utensil barely sampled.
“Of course I didn’t, I’ve made it so many times I could do it in my recharge! I got on this show with this dish.”
“So, either you submitted someone else’s cooking under your name, or you’re an arrogant slagger who thinks he can’t make any mistakes. When you serve the same thing you entered with, it had better be better than perfect. This is burnt and you’ve managed to mix up ethylene glycol with concentrated phosphoric acid. It’s completely inedible. Get this slag off our table and back to your counter.”
“Hey Chase, bet you’ve still got a chance!” A brightly coloured femme called, laughing as the scowling mech slunk past her.
“... Guess we know who’s going home later.”
Bulkhead said, sounding satisfied, and Bumblebee laughed.
“He painted a big target on himself with that line. If the judges don’t cut him this time, the others will during Sabotage deca-cycle.”
“Sabotage? This is a Cooking. Competition!”
The yellow mech grinned at his friend.
“Sari, you’re gonna be a lot of fun this season.”