(no subject)
Title: The Simple Art of War (3/?)
Rating: R (I have no idea actually, but it'll probably be apropriate at some point.)
Pairing: Eventually this will be Prowl/Jazz. Really, it will.
Summary: Anyone who used to know him would say he'd changed, but he isn't so sure. After all he still believes in the same simple things; know your enemy, hit them hard and fast and move on. Always keep moving on.
Warnings: No slash, still. Transformer style swearing. Violence and stuff is heavily implied.
Author's notes: Jazz comes of a bit bi-polar, don't you think?
For a long moment he just stood and looked at the mech on the other side of the bars. The yellow mech was sitting on the floor in one corner of the cell, if you felt like sitting there wasn’t much choice except for the floor. The mech was staring at the floor sullenly, but Jazz was almost sure that he knew that he was being watched.
“Sunstreaker,” he finally said shortly.
He wasn’t surprised when the mech didn’t answer. Sunstreaker never made anything easy.
The sub-commander opened the cell and stepped inside. He stepped right in front of the larger mech and looked down at him. It was closer than most mechs would have dared to get to the always volatile Lamborghini. But while he’d called Sunstreaker a lot of things, most not meant for sensitive audios, he knew the mech wasn’t a complete idiot.
“I like you Sunstreaker,” he said evenly. “I’m one of the few mechs around who actually do.”
He looks into the blue optics of the mech lying on the rubble strewn ground as he places the muzzle of his photon rifle on the mech’s scuffed gray chest plate, right over the still brightly red insignia.
Just like painting a target on your chestplate, he thinks not for the first time and grins.
The gray mech twitches slightly, like he’s still trying to fight. It’s useless though, he’s far too injured to do anything.
The look in the bright blue optics doesn’t dim. They meet his own stubbornly. He wonders briefly if the mech is being brave or just powerless to do anything else.
He pulls the trigger.
Jazz pulled out his photon rifle and pointed it at the yellow mech.
“Look at me,” he ordered tonelessly.
The order itself had been redundant, because the motion of pulling out his weapon had already drawn the attention of the yellow mech. While the action of pulling out the gun might not make any distinct sound, Sunstreaker wasn’t one to let his guard down so completely that he’d fail to notice something like that. An attitude Jazz approved of.
The look in the mech’s blue optics however was pure shock. Even an angry Jazz had never pulled a weapon on another autobot.
Bright blue optics stare up at him in quiet, angry defiance.
“Are you really so fragging desperate for some sort of action that you have to let your glitch of a brother talk you into something so completely idiotic?” The words were not something that would come out of Prowl’s vocaliser, but at that moment the Porsche’s tone was more like the other black and white’s than any of their fellow autobots have ever heard it.
“I get it, you don‘t give a slag about most of the mechs here,” Jazz continued before the other had time to even think of an answer. “And you know what? I don’t care. I’m not going to tell you to go and make nice with the others. Because lets face it, you don’t have it in you to be a good little autobot.” The sub-commander said, his words heavy with mockery. “All I want you to do is to do what you’re told,” his tone was deadly serious. “And not purposely frag off Prowl,” the last words fell down heavy, each carefully stressed.
Jazz let a few nano kliks pass quietly and then continued calmly.
“Or the next time I will put a photon blast right through your spark chamber.”
He looks at the sneering mech at his feet. The mech is clutching his wing and whimpering in pain, but the look of defiance never leaves his faceplates, even though that’s exactly what landed him in that position.
He doesn’t try to stop his lip components from stretching out into a smile. Such a thin line between being brave and being stupid.
He shoots the hand holding the injured appendage. “Next time I won’t aim at your wing.”
“Am I making myself clear?” Jazz asked the yellow mech.
Sunstreaker looked at him quietly like he was actually taking the time to think it over.
“Yes, sir,” the Lamborghini answered quietly but clearly.
The black and white nodded, satisfied with the answer and the apparent sincerity. Quietly and without unnecessary show he subspaced his gun.
“You’re going to have to stay here for now,” he told the yellow mech, his tone back to what was recognizably Jazz. “The regs are pretty clear on that,” he explained, a slight hint of regret about the fact in his voice.
The sub-commander stepped out of the cell and turned on the force field.
“Sunstreaker,” Jazz stopped to add, looking at the other mech through the bars. “I meant it about liking you. So whether you want it or not you can count me as a friend.”
With those parting words the Porsche left the yellow mech alone in his cell.
***
“If the ‘Cons get that thing working…” His voice trailed of, the implications were obvious to all three mechs in the room.
“The weapon looked like it was damaged.” Prime looked at the two black and whites. “We should still have some time.”
“So either we go and ask Megatron nicely to give it back…” The saboteur grinned.
“Or we find out how to neutralize the weapon’s effects,” the tactician added.
“We need the original plans for the weapon,” Prime decided, his voice grave. The seriousness of the situation was lost on no one.
Rating: R (I have no idea actually, but it'll probably be apropriate at some point.)
Pairing: Eventually this will be Prowl/Jazz. Really, it will.
Summary: Anyone who used to know him would say he'd changed, but he isn't so sure. After all he still believes in the same simple things; know your enemy, hit them hard and fast and move on. Always keep moving on.
Warnings: No slash, still. Transformer style swearing. Violence and stuff is heavily implied.
Author's notes: Jazz comes of a bit bi-polar, don't you think?
For a long moment he just stood and looked at the mech on the other side of the bars. The yellow mech was sitting on the floor in one corner of the cell, if you felt like sitting there wasn’t much choice except for the floor. The mech was staring at the floor sullenly, but Jazz was almost sure that he knew that he was being watched.
“Sunstreaker,” he finally said shortly.
He wasn’t surprised when the mech didn’t answer. Sunstreaker never made anything easy.
The sub-commander opened the cell and stepped inside. He stepped right in front of the larger mech and looked down at him. It was closer than most mechs would have dared to get to the always volatile Lamborghini. But while he’d called Sunstreaker a lot of things, most not meant for sensitive audios, he knew the mech wasn’t a complete idiot.
“I like you Sunstreaker,” he said evenly. “I’m one of the few mechs around who actually do.”
He looks into the blue optics of the mech lying on the rubble strewn ground as he places the muzzle of his photon rifle on the mech’s scuffed gray chest plate, right over the still brightly red insignia.
Just like painting a target on your chestplate, he thinks not for the first time and grins.
The gray mech twitches slightly, like he’s still trying to fight. It’s useless though, he’s far too injured to do anything.
The look in the bright blue optics doesn’t dim. They meet his own stubbornly. He wonders briefly if the mech is being brave or just powerless to do anything else.
He pulls the trigger.
Jazz pulled out his photon rifle and pointed it at the yellow mech.
“Look at me,” he ordered tonelessly.
The order itself had been redundant, because the motion of pulling out his weapon had already drawn the attention of the yellow mech. While the action of pulling out the gun might not make any distinct sound, Sunstreaker wasn’t one to let his guard down so completely that he’d fail to notice something like that. An attitude Jazz approved of.
The look in the mech’s blue optics however was pure shock. Even an angry Jazz had never pulled a weapon on another autobot.
Bright blue optics stare up at him in quiet, angry defiance.
“Are you really so fragging desperate for some sort of action that you have to let your glitch of a brother talk you into something so completely idiotic?” The words were not something that would come out of Prowl’s vocaliser, but at that moment the Porsche’s tone was more like the other black and white’s than any of their fellow autobots have ever heard it.
“I get it, you don‘t give a slag about most of the mechs here,” Jazz continued before the other had time to even think of an answer. “And you know what? I don’t care. I’m not going to tell you to go and make nice with the others. Because lets face it, you don’t have it in you to be a good little autobot.” The sub-commander said, his words heavy with mockery. “All I want you to do is to do what you’re told,” his tone was deadly serious. “And not purposely frag off Prowl,” the last words fell down heavy, each carefully stressed.
Jazz let a few nano kliks pass quietly and then continued calmly.
“Or the next time I will put a photon blast right through your spark chamber.”
He looks at the sneering mech at his feet. The mech is clutching his wing and whimpering in pain, but the look of defiance never leaves his faceplates, even though that’s exactly what landed him in that position.
He doesn’t try to stop his lip components from stretching out into a smile. Such a thin line between being brave and being stupid.
He shoots the hand holding the injured appendage. “Next time I won’t aim at your wing.”
“Am I making myself clear?” Jazz asked the yellow mech.
Sunstreaker looked at him quietly like he was actually taking the time to think it over.
“Yes, sir,” the Lamborghini answered quietly but clearly.
The black and white nodded, satisfied with the answer and the apparent sincerity. Quietly and without unnecessary show he subspaced his gun.
“You’re going to have to stay here for now,” he told the yellow mech, his tone back to what was recognizably Jazz. “The regs are pretty clear on that,” he explained, a slight hint of regret about the fact in his voice.
The sub-commander stepped out of the cell and turned on the force field.
“Sunstreaker,” Jazz stopped to add, looking at the other mech through the bars. “I meant it about liking you. So whether you want it or not you can count me as a friend.”
With those parting words the Porsche left the yellow mech alone in his cell.
***
“If the ‘Cons get that thing working…” His voice trailed of, the implications were obvious to all three mechs in the room.
“The weapon looked like it was damaged.” Prime looked at the two black and whites. “We should still have some time.”
“So either we go and ask Megatron nicely to give it back…” The saboteur grinned.
“Or we find out how to neutralize the weapon’s effects,” the tactician added.
“We need the original plans for the weapon,” Prime decided, his voice grave. The seriousness of the situation was lost on no one.