Festival Challenge Day 9 - It's a mad mad world out there
Title: It's a mad, mad world out there
Genre: Generation 1
Content/Warnings: None
Characters: Prowl and Jazz
Festival: Battalia delle Arance, Day 9: Cursed.
… … … … … … …
“Look out!”
Jazz ducked in time.
Prowl did not.
*splat*
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Sideswipe said, bending over to grab the now hopelessly misshapen lump. “Didn’t think that the orange would do that.”
“What did you expect?” Jazz asked, picking himself off the floor while Prowl mutely pulled the stringy strands of pith and peel from his chassis.
“To bounce.” Shoulders shrugged uncomfortably, the mech left. A trail of dripping citrus juice showed where he went.
Now alone, Jazz and Prowl looked at each other. “This just isn’t your day, Prowler, is it?”
“Nor is it yours.” Prowl gestured towards Jazz’s bright repaint.
“I really hope this color lasts only temporarily,” Jazz muttered darkly. “Don’t need rumors popping up ‘bout me being more invisible than Mirage.” He paused before reaching the cross section in the Ark’s main corridor. “You go first.”
Prowl stepped forward, triggering no attacks. “Not every doorway or hallway is mined.”
“No - just the one’s I’m going through.” The two officers continued their trek towards the wash racks. “Really hope these, … ah slag.” Directly ahead, a prone figure blocked the doorway to the wash racks.
“Help me up, will you?” Wheeljack asked. “I’d get up myself, but every time I get my feet underneath, I end up sliding and falling back on my back.”
“Let me guess: you tripped over a crate of overturned citrus, and went flying.”
“Close,” amber earfins flashed dully. “Discovered a forgotten game of marbles, by stepping on the fauxglass bearings.”
“Great, now the floors aren’t safe either,” formerly black-and-white arms crossed. “Did the entire universe decide to go mad?”
“It is not logical to claim the universe has feelings, suffers from emotions, or chooses mechs as a laughing stock.”
“Sure feels like it - I got covered in nauseatingly neon paint, from a booby-trap I should have seen coming.”
Wheeljack chuckled. “Least it’s Autobots pranking you, and not cons taking pot-shots at everyone.”
Jazz’s glower was hidden beneath his visor - and the application of bright orange paint. “Can I at least wash this off before it dries completely?”
“Well …”
The answer was delayed yet again by the sounds of more shouting.
“Hold still you little rascal!” Cliffjumper cried out, shooting at a yellow minibot.
The Volkswagen beetle nimbly turned the corner, jumping over Wheeljack and dodging the slimly balls of orange goop his pursuer was throwing his way.
“Can’t hit the broad side of the barn door, can you?” Bumblebee taunted before slamming into the unseen Jazz.
*Omph*
The two figures topped over, nearly dragging the black and white Praxian down with them.
“Ha! Got you!” The red minibot crowed in delight, staining Bee’s armor - and splattering Prowl’s amour in the process.
With one final toss, Cliffjumper took off, Bumblebee racing after him.
“I stand corrected - the world has gone mad. Perhaps it would be safer for our processors if we retreated until sanity has restored itself.”
“Not before I get cleaned up.” Jazz growled, debating the effort of getting up, verses staying where had landed. He got up.
“Wheeljack, are the wash racks working or not?”
“Oh, the spigot’s dispensing something - but it’s not cleaning fluid.” The engineer assured the smaller mech. “That is what I was trying to discover before I slipped.”
Prowl stepped inside, turned on the nozzles. A thick liquid that did not flow like water dribbled out. “Is that … corn oil? Why is it oddly colored?”
Jazz moaned. “Red and yellow dye mixed in. What happened - never mind. I don’t want to know. Come on Prowl, the scientist wash-racks should still be working.”
Watching the two officers retreat towards the laboratory, Wheeljack was tempted to join them. After all, it wasn’t every vorn every single system went haywire. Seeing (rather, hearing) the Dinobots approaching, the engineer decided it would be better to stay and fix what he could.
Jazz and Prowl made it to the area claimed by Perceptor and the other scientists. Then misfortune struck again.
“Oh, come on. Open. Up! ALREADY!” Banging on the solidly stuck door produced no visible results.
“My apologizes,” Skyfire’s words were muffled but understandable despite the thick metal barrier separating him from those trying to gain access. “I was doing an experiment and the results ran way from me, clogging the gears and levers.”
“Ran away?” Jazz backed up, eyeing the entryway suspiciously. “Is there a pest problem I need to be made aware of?”
“No,” came the quick report. “I was studying the specific physical and chemical properties of processed cocoa beans and sugared and whipped-egg whites when an open heat source is applied evenly to the highly combustible airy substance, trying to replicate what Spike call a ‘perfectly toasted marshmallow’ at will.”
“You were attempting to make s’mores?”
“Cybertronians do not react well to desserts human children eat with their fingers,” Prowl and Jazz spoke simultaneously.
“I wasn’t burning the organic products for me!” Skyfire snapped back, “How was I to know the bag would explode if it got too close to a source of constant heat?”
“Ya’ mean you’re trapped in there? And we’re stuck out here?” In a much lower voice, the saboteur muttered, “Primus must hate me.”
“It is merely coincidental that all the wash-racks we have attempted to use have been disabled, or put out of reach. We still have …” the voice of reason trailed off.
Leaning against the wall, Jazz turned his head from side to side. “Count ‘em up, Prowl. This was our last chance at getting clean.”
“So, Skyfire.” He tried for a conversational tone. He almost succeeded in fooling those listening in that the question was simple curiosity. Almost.
“How long have you been locked in?”
“Since I first learned there would be a vibrant reenactment of Polyhexon’s energon riots.”
After hearing the answer, Prowl nodded thoughtfully. “That explains a lot.” He spoke over Jazz’s cussing. “How long do the mock battles typically last?”
“Three days.” Came the prompt reply. A pause. “How did you two get caught up in the crossfire? By mutual agreement, the officers were barred from being targets.”
“We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Prowl told Skyfire. “It has been so long since we’ve had the energy and resources to replay the event that many of us have forgotten when it takes place.” To Jazz, Prowl repeated his earlier urgings. “We should wait in my office fro the prescribed time to pass. No one will bug us there.”
“Yeah, but everyone knows that it’s your sanctuary.” Jazz reported morosely. “Better off hiding in the Decepticon base.”
“Dodging Soundwave and his cassettes for thirty-six hours? Avoiding Megatron’s troops in the heart of their defenses?” Prowl tried not to toss doubt on the suggestion by his cautions’ reminders.
His partner-in-crime snorted. “Least we know what to expect from our enemies --- and get a chance to clean up.”
“Point.” Prowl conceded. “Perchance we could encourage any potential captors to sow chaos and mischief instead of maintaining the stalemate that keeps us stuck on earth.”
“Just no water ballons, Prowler.” Jazz shuttered theatrically. “Been targeted often enough in the last joor to last me a lifetime.”