Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread Chapter 6
Title: Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread
Chapter: 6
Word Count: 1082
Summary: They had all been banished. By Sentinel Prime or their commanders, it didn't matter. They had been left alone on that tiny, out-of-the-way moon base, left to die or live. Nobody cared which. Then Sentinel died, along with most of his command element, and Optimus Prime is left with the task of choosing new mechs to help him lead. Who better than those who survived alone for so long?
Rating: T
In Which There is a Party and Prime Gets Drunk
The party was organized with surprising efficiency. Mechs scrambled for supplies and reorganized the Rec Room so there was a dance floor in the center and a music booth in one corner. The lights were muted, and there was a pyramid of high grade cubes (“Contraband,” Prowl rumbled under his exvents as he passed it with the Prime) on a table set to the side of the door.
It was shaping up to be one heck of a party. The Prime, Prowl, and Ironhide had claimed a table in the corner of the Rec Room to watch as the finishing touches were added to the room to get it ready for the party. Then, the mechs of the base started filing in.
“Prime,” the black and white said, then nodded to the music booth, and the small stage behind it. “You had best make your announcement now, before the party starts and is impossible to stop.”
Just as Prowl finished, there was a loud screech, and the music started. Loud, pounding, victorious music that filled the audios and spark.
“Too late,” Prowl practically shouted into the Prime's audio. “Jazz and Blaster will only turn this off if the Decepticons attack.”
The Prime shook his helm. “That is fine, Prowl. I will make my announcement in the morning. However, in the meantime...” The large mech walked over to the table of high-grade and picked up two cubes, one of which he kept, the other he handed to the base commander. “Let us have fun.”
Prowl eyed the cube warily for a long moment. Then a small silver form appeared at his elbow. “Drink it, Prowler! It ain't gonna hurt ya!”
The tactician turned his golden glare on the silver saboteur beside him. Then he vented and knocked back a drink. The saboteur's grin widened.
“See? 'S good for ya.”
Prowl blinked once, then looked at the cube. “This is actually rather good. Who made it?”
“Sides,” Jazz said, turning toward the red frontliner, who, repaired quickly after the battle, was currently standing and talking with his twin and Bluestreak near the door.
Prowl nodded, a gleam in his optics that made the Prime want to back away. “I see,” he said, and something in the flat tone made Optimus want to turn tail and run.
He didn't, though, instead retracting his mask and taking a swig of the high-grade.
And promptly coughed, clearing his intakes of the charged liquid. Prowl glanced at him, amused.
“Holy Primus, that's strong. I haven't had anything like that since... before I was Prime, actually,” Optimus mused, holding the cube up to examine it. Ironhide, standing somewhere behind his elbow, stepped up to take his own cube and promptly downed half of it.
“Slag, that's good stuff,” the black mech huffed, blinking.
“You do not have high-grade on Cybertron?”
Optimus, startled from his distracted musing, looked down at the black and white Praxian. “We do have high-grade, but not very much of it.”
“And what we do have ain't all that good, either,” Ironhide rumbled, taking another swig.
The Prime nodded. “Yes. Very few brewers survived. Where did Sideswipe learn to make high-grade?”
“Don't know,” Jazz said, tilting his helm to the side. “He ain't told anyone, an' Ah don' think he's gonna.”
With a nod, the Prime took another drink, then grinned at his companions. “Go have fun, my friends. I will make my announcement in the morning. As it is, please, do not waste the chance of a good night on me.”
Prowl hesitantly tilted his helm in acquiescence, then allowed himself to be tugged away by Jazz.
Optimus finished his cube and grabbed another.
“Well, Prime,” Ironhide said as he stepped up next to his leader, “enjoy the night. I’m off to drink myself into recharge.” Optimus looked at his friend worriedly, and the black mech chuckled, waving him off. “Nothing wrong. Just been too long since I got properly overcharged.”
The Prime chuckled and patted his guard on the shoulder. “Go have fun, Ironhide.”
“As the Prime commands.”
And the black mech was gone, swallowed by the surrounding horde of partying mechs.
After that, things got blurry for the Prime. He vaguely remembered dancing on a table, perhaps with a partner at his side, loud encouragement echoing in his audios. He had a fuzzy recollection of a strange game, involving awkward questions and shots of high-grade. He could recall the faintest image of him laughing as he sang one of the old drinking songs favored by the dock workers in Tyger Pax, and others listening and laughing along.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
“Ooh...” the Prime moaned as his systems onlined. There was too much energy thrumming through his circuits, creating an impossible helm-ache.
A hangover, in other words.
“Hiya, Prime!” a too cheery, too loud voice exclaimed, and the Prime moaned again.
“Jazz... mute it...”
“O' course, Prime.”
For a few very long breems, nothing was said and neither of the mechs moved. Then the Prime rolled over and onlined his optics to see a bright blue visor staring directly into his face, a mischievous grin settled beneath it.
With a yelp, Optimus scrambled backwards, only to crash into the wall that the berth he was on was pushed up against. Jazz's grin broadened as he slid off the edge of the berth.
“Don' worry, Prime, we didn' do nothin' last night. Well, you didn'. Ah had mah own partner. Ah jus' dragged ya t' mah room t' keep ya outta trouble. An' I don' mean you causin' trouble, but there're plenty a' mechs on this here base who'd take 'dvantage of a situation.”
The Prime, processors reeling, sat up slowly and swung his feet off the berth. “I... I see?”
“Good! Door's unlocked, but it'll lock b'hind ya. Leave whenever ya're ready. Uh... Prowler knew ya prolly wouldn' be up fer that 'nouncement right 'way. Said he scheduled it fer t'night. That okay?”
“Ah... wonderful. Tell him I said thank you.”
“Will do, Prime!”
With that, the too-cheerful mech left the room.
The Prime groaned once again and lay back down on the berth. He wasn't needed now, so the world could continue on without him until this infernal helm-ache went away!
--------
A/N: Okay, so Prime's a tiny bit OOC. Oh well. He's surrounded by the crazies... it's bound to effect him eventually. *shrugs*
Chapter: 6
Word Count: 1082
Summary: They had all been banished. By Sentinel Prime or their commanders, it didn't matter. They had been left alone on that tiny, out-of-the-way moon base, left to die or live. Nobody cared which. Then Sentinel died, along with most of his command element, and Optimus Prime is left with the task of choosing new mechs to help him lead. Who better than those who survived alone for so long?
Rating: T
In Which There is a Party and Prime Gets Drunk
The party was organized with surprising efficiency. Mechs scrambled for supplies and reorganized the Rec Room so there was a dance floor in the center and a music booth in one corner. The lights were muted, and there was a pyramid of high grade cubes (“Contraband,” Prowl rumbled under his exvents as he passed it with the Prime) on a table set to the side of the door.
It was shaping up to be one heck of a party. The Prime, Prowl, and Ironhide had claimed a table in the corner of the Rec Room to watch as the finishing touches were added to the room to get it ready for the party. Then, the mechs of the base started filing in.
“Prime,” the black and white said, then nodded to the music booth, and the small stage behind it. “You had best make your announcement now, before the party starts and is impossible to stop.”
Just as Prowl finished, there was a loud screech, and the music started. Loud, pounding, victorious music that filled the audios and spark.
“Too late,” Prowl practically shouted into the Prime's audio. “Jazz and Blaster will only turn this off if the Decepticons attack.”
The Prime shook his helm. “That is fine, Prowl. I will make my announcement in the morning. However, in the meantime...” The large mech walked over to the table of high-grade and picked up two cubes, one of which he kept, the other he handed to the base commander. “Let us have fun.”
Prowl eyed the cube warily for a long moment. Then a small silver form appeared at his elbow. “Drink it, Prowler! It ain't gonna hurt ya!”
The tactician turned his golden glare on the silver saboteur beside him. Then he vented and knocked back a drink. The saboteur's grin widened.
“See? 'S good for ya.”
Prowl blinked once, then looked at the cube. “This is actually rather good. Who made it?”
“Sides,” Jazz said, turning toward the red frontliner, who, repaired quickly after the battle, was currently standing and talking with his twin and Bluestreak near the door.
Prowl nodded, a gleam in his optics that made the Prime want to back away. “I see,” he said, and something in the flat tone made Optimus want to turn tail and run.
He didn't, though, instead retracting his mask and taking a swig of the high-grade.
And promptly coughed, clearing his intakes of the charged liquid. Prowl glanced at him, amused.
“Holy Primus, that's strong. I haven't had anything like that since... before I was Prime, actually,” Optimus mused, holding the cube up to examine it. Ironhide, standing somewhere behind his elbow, stepped up to take his own cube and promptly downed half of it.
“Slag, that's good stuff,” the black mech huffed, blinking.
“You do not have high-grade on Cybertron?”
Optimus, startled from his distracted musing, looked down at the black and white Praxian. “We do have high-grade, but not very much of it.”
“And what we do have ain't all that good, either,” Ironhide rumbled, taking another swig.
The Prime nodded. “Yes. Very few brewers survived. Where did Sideswipe learn to make high-grade?”
“Don't know,” Jazz said, tilting his helm to the side. “He ain't told anyone, an' Ah don' think he's gonna.”
With a nod, the Prime took another drink, then grinned at his companions. “Go have fun, my friends. I will make my announcement in the morning. As it is, please, do not waste the chance of a good night on me.”
Prowl hesitantly tilted his helm in acquiescence, then allowed himself to be tugged away by Jazz.
Optimus finished his cube and grabbed another.
“Well, Prime,” Ironhide said as he stepped up next to his leader, “enjoy the night. I’m off to drink myself into recharge.” Optimus looked at his friend worriedly, and the black mech chuckled, waving him off. “Nothing wrong. Just been too long since I got properly overcharged.”
The Prime chuckled and patted his guard on the shoulder. “Go have fun, Ironhide.”
“As the Prime commands.”
And the black mech was gone, swallowed by the surrounding horde of partying mechs.
After that, things got blurry for the Prime. He vaguely remembered dancing on a table, perhaps with a partner at his side, loud encouragement echoing in his audios. He had a fuzzy recollection of a strange game, involving awkward questions and shots of high-grade. He could recall the faintest image of him laughing as he sang one of the old drinking songs favored by the dock workers in Tyger Pax, and others listening and laughing along.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
“Ooh...” the Prime moaned as his systems onlined. There was too much energy thrumming through his circuits, creating an impossible helm-ache.
A hangover, in other words.
“Hiya, Prime!” a too cheery, too loud voice exclaimed, and the Prime moaned again.
“Jazz... mute it...”
“O' course, Prime.”
For a few very long breems, nothing was said and neither of the mechs moved. Then the Prime rolled over and onlined his optics to see a bright blue visor staring directly into his face, a mischievous grin settled beneath it.
With a yelp, Optimus scrambled backwards, only to crash into the wall that the berth he was on was pushed up against. Jazz's grin broadened as he slid off the edge of the berth.
“Don' worry, Prime, we didn' do nothin' last night. Well, you didn'. Ah had mah own partner. Ah jus' dragged ya t' mah room t' keep ya outta trouble. An' I don' mean you causin' trouble, but there're plenty a' mechs on this here base who'd take 'dvantage of a situation.”
The Prime, processors reeling, sat up slowly and swung his feet off the berth. “I... I see?”
“Good! Door's unlocked, but it'll lock b'hind ya. Leave whenever ya're ready. Uh... Prowler knew ya prolly wouldn' be up fer that 'nouncement right 'way. Said he scheduled it fer t'night. That okay?”
“Ah... wonderful. Tell him I said thank you.”
“Will do, Prime!”
With that, the too-cheerful mech left the room.
The Prime groaned once again and lay back down on the berth. He wasn't needed now, so the world could continue on without him until this infernal helm-ache went away!
--------
A/N: Okay, so Prime's a tiny bit OOC. Oh well. He's surrounded by the crazies... it's bound to effect him eventually. *shrugs*