I can't believe I forgot to post this here...
On The Proper Use of Datapads
Author: Thalanee
Prompt: Daring Rescue
Verse: AU- premovie
Word Count: 1600 words
Rating: nc-17 (just to be sure)
Warnings: crack, implied mechxmech, violence
Disclaimer: Not mine…
Summary: Everyone knows how dangerous Ratchet’s wrenches are… watch a poor Decepticon spy as he finds out why the same goes for Prowl’s datapads.
Author’s Notes: Once again I have no idea where this one came from. As crazy as it is, I think it belongs in the same verse as the other ones (Bluestreak as Prowl’s creator). *author turns to bunny and speaks* I hereby dub thee the “A World Gone Crazy- verse”. All stories thou hast inspired me to write or to write in the future shall henceforth be referred to as belonging to this verse.
I’m not really sure what to think of this one…
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Jazz sat perfectly still.
He wasn’t going to move while the Decepticon intruder held a gun pointed at his head. Unfortunately the ‘Con also knew enough about the proper use of a gun to stay out of the saboteur’s reach, so grabbing the gun and assaulting his opponent was out of the question. The risk was too high.
No one else in the room moved, too surprised to act.
Everyone’s optics were on their silver saboteur and the Decepticon who seemed on the verge of fritzing himself when he realized just where he actually was. Instead of the quiet vent, where he would have been out of sight and could have listened to what the Autobots were planning the Decepticon spy called Stalker was now standing in the middle of the room. Not strong enough to support his weight for so long, the metal the vent was made of had given in and dropped him in the middle of the officer’s meeting, attended by the most feared Autobots: there was the merciless black Weapons Master Ironhide, cannons whirring loudly in the perfectly silent room and aimed at the intruder.
Their chartreuse medic was openly snarling at him. Earlier he had aimed a wrench at the ‘Con, but had handed it over when the spy had threatened to shoot the silver saboteur, who sat motionless in his chair, feet still up on the table. Every Decepticon knew about the medic’s deadly aim, as sure as the pit he wasn’t going to let the chartreuse mech throw one at him.
Their mad inventor watched him with flashing sidebars, having stopped tinkering with whatever he was working on. The suspicious bundle of parts in front of Wheeljack might be a bomb of some kind. Then again if his reputation was in any way based on facts, it didn’t even have to be a bomb in order to explode.
The red and white Security Director was twitching away in his seat, blue arcs of electricity spasming between his helm horns. When Stalker had dropped onto the table the mech had begun to screech something about an intruder but soon shut up when the spy’s second gun was aimed at him.
The imposing Autobot Leader, sat still in his place at the head of the table, his face concealed by a facemask, intense blue optics narrowed at Stalker. For some reason the Prime’s gaze made the Decepticon want to give up his weapons and apologize. He shuddered and looked at the figure to the Prime’s right.
Black and white paintjob, red chevron and doorwings clearly identified him as the Autobot SIC. His slightly clawed fingers and golden optics were signs of a mixed heritage and yet the Praxian had chosen the Autobots over the Decepticons. Small loss there, Stalker thought, since the emotionless tactician was considered nothing more than the Prime’s personal assistant. Therefore Stalker didn’t pay much attention to him.
He should have.
For Prowl was infuriated that a Decepticon would dare threaten his Jazz. Anyone close to Prowl would have known by the way his optics were blazing and doorwings raised up high in a sharp V-form. But the Con didn’t know that.
“That is a very bad idea.” Even his voice was perfectly flat, no emotion audible in it.
“What, shooting you all? Lord Megatron would be very pleased.”
“I highly doubt that, since your Lord has often announced his wish to be the one to kill Optimus Prime. Additionally the likelihood of you accomplishing this is lower than twenty percent. You will be dead before your first shot hits its target. Surrender now and you will live.”
Stalker sneered, trying to conceal the fact that he knew Prowl was right. He would most likely die. But even if he only took one of the mechs in the room with him, his name would be remembered forever. And he would start with the saboteur who had thwarted so many of his master’s plans. The spy laughed and turned back to the saboteur.
“Foolish Autobots. You cannot stop me. I will finish my mission.”
“As you wish.”Prowl’s voice betrayed nothing of his growing rage, as he idly tapped his chin with a datapad.
Stalker thought the tactician was bluffing. So he didn’t think much about it when the doorwinger eyed the spy with a calculating look in his optics and raised the datapad in his right to absently tap his lips with it once again. Stalker was so concentrated on the dangerous saboteur and the Weapons Master that he didn’t see the way Prowl’s cables tensed, didn’t see the slight movement of Prowl’s right arm.
The last thing he saw (before he was knocked unconscious) was a datapad flying through the air towards him at lightning speed, filling his field of vision.
They all watched the datapad hit the ‘con right in the face with a force so hard, the pad actually left a very large dent in the spy’s face- or what would be a large (but not life threatening) dent, once someone took away the pad now stuck in the Con’s face with a corner…
They all looked at the downed spy, at their extraordinarily smug tactician, the pad… and the cackling saboteur.
“Nice aim, Prowler.”
“You are welcome, Jazz.”
“Wait a moment!” Ironhide called, interrupting their chatter, everyknow knew would descend into shameless flirting if they weren’t stopped. “How did you even knock him out using a datapad? Scratch that, how did you even come up with the idea of using one like that?” Ironhide blurted out, as baffled as everyone else in the room, while he slapped some stasis cuffs on the unconscious spy’s wrists.
“I am sure you recall the incident at the start of the war that prompted me to ask you for fighting lessons?”
“Sure I do. That ‘Con assassin got way too close to you, good thing Jazz was there.” Ironhide frowned at the memory of entering the tactician’s office to find Jazz pinning down a ‘Con assassin with his claws to protect a wounded Prowl.
“That is exactly what Jazz thought too. However he wasn’t satisfied with the extent of my lessons and his reasoning was perfectly sound. As proficient as I was becoming at handling firearms, the likelihood of my having one at hand at every time or being able to draw it fast enough was slight, since I was mainly occupied in my office. For that reason Jazz started to teach me to disable and if need be kill an opponent with items I was most likely to have at hand, the most prominent of which are datapads.”
His audience gaped at him. Everyone recalled instants when they had been called into the SIC’s office for some reason or other and entered to see Prowl sitting at his desk. A desk littered with datapads. A desk in an office filled with cabinets full of datapads. It also brought to mind the fact that Prowl was almost never seen without some of his beloved paperwork…
“…You are serious.” Prime warily looked at the innocent seeming pads in Prowl’s white servos.
“Of course, I am. I do not joke about such matters. Now if you will excuse me, I have to confer with Red Alert about the proper measures that should be taken to prevent an escape.” That said, Prowl nodded to Prime and left the room with Red Alert whose security team had arrived to escort the spy to the brig. As soon as the door closed behind them all optics in the room turned to Jazz who was still sitting in his chair, peds up on the conference table.
Silence reigned before Wheeljack finally voiced what they all thought. “So that means every time Prowl is slagged of at us we’re looking at a mech who has his servos full of potentially deadly weapons?”
“Yep.” Jazz seemed to be strangely pleased about that, especially considering the fact that it was usually the saboteur (and the twins) who stirred the tactician’s wrath.
“You like to live dangerously, don’t you?” Optimus asked.
“Hey, OP, Ah’m a saboteur, course Ah do.”
“But did you have to teach him that? As if having to deal with Ratchet wasn’t bad enough!” the black warrior exclaimed, conveniently forgetting that the medic was standing right beside him.
Jazz chuckled. “Prowler promised only ta use his powers for good. Besides Ah only came up with the idea and provided the materials he needed, ya know for reinforcing his favourite pads’ frames to make them harder and such. Tha teaching part wasn’t my fault.” A silver servo pointed at the evilly grinning medic.
When they all just stared at him, jaws almost hitting the floor, he snorted and throwing up his arms, asked pointedly: “Who did you think taught Prowl how to throw like that?”
The End