Overcharged (part 1 of 3)
Title: Overcharged
Author: zea_taylor
‘Verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Characters: Jazz/Prowl (established), Beachcomber
Warnings: mild Cybertronian profanity, Cybertronian drunkenness
Author’s Note: Written for the prowlxjazz community’s Anniversary Bingo Challenge. Inspired by a prompt posted by wicked3659. Set on Earth, fairly early in the cartoon continuity.
Comments and suggestions for improvement are always very welcome!
Prompt: Overcharged
“I’m telling you, Prowl, it wasn’t us!”
Sitting behind his office desk, Prowl raised a sceptical brow-ridge. He studied the two front-line warriors in front of him, giving them time to absorb the full force of his irritation.
“Three mini-bots over-charged on duty,” he recapped. “Two of the three subsequently confined to medbay.” He scowled, shaking his helm. “I have checked Teletraan-I’s records. All three drew their standard allocated ration of energon - or less - over the last two orns.”
Sideswipe scowled back, unable to argue with those facts. Sunstreaker just shrugged, indifferent.
Leaning forward, Prowl steepled his servos in front of him and let his weary frown show.
“The only logical conclusion is that elicit high-grade production is once again underway on the Ark. Tell me, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, given your record to date, why should I believe you aren’t involved?”
Sideswipe’s look of outraged innocence was half-way convincing, but it was Sunstreaker’s scowl that did more to convince his commander. The yellow-clad mech snorted, his disdain intensifying as he noticed Prowl’s scrutiny.
“You think we’d waste our brew on Gears and Huffer? It’s hardly worth the effort, even if we’d lost our fragging processors and wanted to. Most minibots don’t have the energon capacity of a half-grown youngling.”
By Sunstreaker’s usual taciturn standards, the rant was unusually outspoken. The front-liner’s optics were brighter than usual, his stance aggressive. For just a moment, as Prowl rubbed his brow-ridge, he wondered if Sunny might be overcharged too, but even the Twins had better sense than to report for duty in such a state.
Shaking his helm Prowl sat back in his seat. Illogical as it seemed, he actually found himself believing the troublesome pair in front of him. He fixed them with a stern look nonetheless, even more concerned than he had been before.
The twins were mischievous, but never stupid. He couldn’t say the same for every other member of the Ark’s crew. If someone else was brewing up high-grade on the sly…? It was worrying, and depressing at the same time. Not for the first time he questioned why he was bothering with an army that seemed determined to implode upon itself at the slightest provocation. Venting a frustrated sigh, Prowl raised a servo to mask his faceplates for a few klicks. He didn’t need this.
“I expect you to report any evidence of misconduct immediately, understood? Wheeljack’s new geothermal condenser is improving our energon situation, not resolving it. While I understand that the product is not to every taste, we are not in a position to be choosy. If we are to bring out remaining crewmates online, it is vital that we conserve - “
“Ahh…” There was a bemused expression on Sideswipe’s face as he interrupted his commander’s stream of words. “Uh, we know? You told us that three breems ago. Prowl, are you okay? You’re looking kinda… tired.”
Prowl rubbed his brow-ridge again, and only realised he was doing it when he saw Sideswipe’s optics following the movement. His door-wings flared in surprise, and that got a frown from his audience too.
The warrior was right. It wasn’t like him to be this demonstrative, or to feel this weary, even so late in the day.
He straightened, deliberately raising his door-wings to their usual erect position. Maybe he was tired. He never recharged well when Jazz was away on a mission. Jazz… he wished his companion was back on the Ark and by his side now. Jazz could handle the twins as well as Prowl could, and with less aggravation all around. Oh yes… the twins.
Prowl shook his helm, dismissing his wandering thoughts.
“You may go,” he said, shortly, and the pair didn’t wait for him to change his mind.
Venting a sigh, Prowl let the door slide shut behind them. For a few klicks, he dropped his face-plates into his servos, trying to fight his unaccustomed sense of being overwhelmed and exhausted by the Ark’s usual chaos. For the second time in as many minutes he wondered why he kept going, and what there was for him beyond the endless round of duty, destruction and drudgery.
The answer came to him before he had time to dwell on the question, and with it the image of a frown on familiar faceplates: Jazz. It wasn’t long now before the saboteur was due back. And he’d have Prowl’s plating if he saw the tactician in this state.
Raising his helm, he pushed up from his seat. Technically he’d been off-duty for an hour already. Perhaps it was time to make that more than a technicality. A quick trip to the Rec Room for his ration cube, and he would take an early recharge.
The mystery of the over-charged minibots could wait for another day.
“Attention Autobot Jazz. Attention Autobot Jazz. This is Teletraan-I. Please respond.”
“Oh man, that isn’t good.”
Jazz’s engine skipped a cylinder, his vents stuttering as he picked up the call. His sensors snapped out, the thorough scan for Decepticon activity automatic. Technically he’d left the Nemesis’s patrol zone a precise three klicks before Teletraan called, but an Ops mech didn’t survive six orns of clandestine infiltration by being careless.
“Jazz here, Teletraan. What’s up?”
“Autobot Jazz: return to Ark with maximum velocity.” Teletraan-I’s comm-voice never lost its flat intonation, but the imperative in his words was unmistakable. “Your presence urgently required.”
“Understood.”
The saboteur was flying along the dirt road before he completed the acknowledgement. He put the pedal to the metal, his powerful engine giving him all the speed it could and a cloud of dust billowing from his tyre tracks. Already he’d fired off pings to Optimus Prime and to Prowl.
He tried not to worry when neither mech responded. Even for the ever-cool saboteur that effort was doomed to failure.
Returning to the Ark after time away usually meant a spectacular round of parties. There’d be music and high-grade. There was even a chance the stuff might be officially sanctioned, if ‘Jack had done as he’d promised and finally got his gadget on line. There’d be reunions too. One of those in particular, he looked forward to above all others. After six orns - almost eighty Earth days - away from the Ark, he’d anticipated Prowl waiting on the perimeter, with his schedule clear and his priorities clearer.
After Teletraan’s call, Jazz hardly dared guess what to expect. He slowed before approaching the perimeter, avoiding the main road he’d usually take and dodging Red Alert’s sensors. Until he was sure just who was watching them, it seemed kind of smart not to take chances.
Prowl’s usual vantage point where the perimeter met the main road was unoccupied. Backed into the shadow of the rock outcrop there, Jazz watched the road for long enough to decide that it wasn’t just Prowl breaking his routine. There should have been a patrol along by now, if not two. Instead, the dirt track remained devoid of any sign of activity, until…
A cloud formed on the horizon, silhouetted against the rising Sun. It grew fast, spreading until Jazz’s sensitive visor could distinguish two distinct plumes - each rising in the tracks of a dark speck.
The vehicle in the lead was blue, streamlined, and moving fast enough that Jazz could hardly focus on it, let alone consider stepping into its path. The second was different. Jazz knew that chunky shape, and the two-tone grey colour scheme it sported. Quite why the young mech was racing Blurr of all people, the saboteur couldn’t imagine, but… Jazz hummed, rocking a little on his pedes.
Frag, if he was ever going to find out why Prowl and the others weren’t answering, he had to start somewhere. This was a mech he was more than willing to take a chance on.
“Bluestreak!”
Okay, so maybe stepping out of cover and yelling wasn’t the subtlest way of announcing your presence. Jazz still wasn’t expecting the young sniper to startle, swerve off the road, drop a tyre into a gulley and roll twice before coming to an unsteady stop.
“Primus, Blue!”
The Ops mech was at Bluestreak’s side before the dust settled. Blue transformed with a wince. The young Praxian cycled his optics a few times, a little too fast. He sat, legs splayed out in front of him, servos bracing him against the sun-baked ground. Jazz’s inspection was rapid but thorough. Bluestreak’s windscreen had a hairline crack - enough to earn him a scolding from Ratchet but hardly a crisis. The saboteur got a servo on the young mech’s back, supporting his door hinge and scanning it at the same time. Blue’s door-wings were intact, despite their rather alarming twitch, and his helm should have been fine, protected within his alt-frame.
Jazz was just about ready to back up when he looked again and stayed, squatting at the younger mech’s side.
He’d known Bluestreak since the kid was a tiny mechling, and helped Prowl drag the infant up in the heart of a civilization-ending war. They’d done their best for their charge, but trauma couldn’t be entirely forgotten. Both Jazz and Prowl had learned to worry when the young mech’s optics were over-bright and his door-wings mirroring every fleeting thought that passed across his expressive face-plates. Jazz was worried now.
“Blue?” he asked, tone cautious. “You okay there?”
“Jazz?” Blue cycled his optics again, shaking his helm to clear a program loop before actually focussing on the Ops mech. “Jazz!!!”
It couldn’t in all fairness be described as anything but a squeal. Blue threw himself forward, his arms almost throttling the surprised saboteur. “You’re home and that’s so exciting, and it’s been ages, and I’m so glad!”
“Whoa!” Jazz disentangled himself with difficulty, having to use more force than he’d like to put some space between himself and the younger mech. His servo brushed Bluestreak’s door-wing and he was surprised to hear a surge from the younger mech’s engine, and see the sensory appendage twitch violently at the brief contact. Bluestreak started talking, so fast that not even Jazz could make it more than a word or two from the stream. He shook his helm, raising a hand to gesture for the youngster to back up. “Slow down, Blue! I’m going to mistake you for Blurr if you’re not careful!”
“Blurr’s faster than I am.” Bluestreak frowned, one servo making a sweeping gesture as he imitated the purr of a Cybertronian race engine. “Zooommmm! But I thought it might be kind of fun to have a race and the road seemed to be as good a place as any and no one was really bothering about patrols and I reckoned Prowl might be kinda upset about that, and Prowl’s been kind of upset about just about everything lately, so I thought why not?” Bluestreak’s door-wings slumped, his expression melancholy. “But Blurr’s gone now, and he’s left me behind.”
Looking up, Jazz noted with some bemusement that the racer was indeed gone. Either Blurr hadn’t noticed his companion fall off the road or didn’t care. The blue mech was already out of sight, only his dust plume betraying his direction. All things considered, that might be for the best. If Bluestreak was speaking this fast, Blurr would be beyond comprehension.
Standing, pulling the still-clingy Blue with him, Jazz shook his helm.
“What the frag is going on here?” he asked, voice soft with bewilderment.
“Ooohh, you said a naughty word!”
Jazz gave the youngling he’d helped raise a level look. “Bluestreak, you were raised on an army base, amongst some of the foulest-mouthed Autobots I know, and it’s been a fragging long time since you were innocent enough for any of them to watch their language around you.” Well, Prowl was the exception to that rule but, then, wasn’t he always? “You’re a grown mech now. Last I checked, grown mechs aren’t known for giggling at their sub-commanders.”
By rights, his stern tone should have reminded Bluestreak that he was a soldier now, and Jazz was Prime’s Lieutenant. Instead, the young warrior leaned against his former guardian’s shoulder, cycling his optics sleepily.
“Blue, are you wasted?”
This time it was Blue’s turn to gaze back in blank incomprehension. The way his sensor panels wavered, never coming to rest as even the light breeze stimulated them, was another hint. Jazz already had more than enough of those.
“Hammered? Three sheets to the wind? Drunk?” Jazz shook his helm, his servos on his hips as he gazed at the sleepy youngling. “Overcharged?”
That got a response. Bluestreak shook his helm so hard, Jazz had to catch his arm for fear he’d overbalance. “I’d never get overcharged. Prowl would kill me. Well, not kill me, not really, but get really annoyed, you know, and disappointed, and disappointed is much, much worse than annoyed when you think about it, and I’d be in so much trouble.” He cycled his optics, his burst of protest fading into bleary-opticed tiredness. “Besides, Prowl was really cross about people getting overcharged, and I heard he told the twins off, and the minibots, and then just about everybody, and last I saw him he was even going on about Wheeljack and that doesn’t make sense ‘cause everyone knows that Wheeljack is away on a break anyway, after getting the new converter on line, and that means he wasn’t on duty, and why shouldn’t he have fun if there was… was…what were we talking about?”
Maybe Jazz’s grim expression distracted Bluestreak halfway through the explanation. Maybe he’d lost the thread without any help. It hardly mattered. Jazz had heard enough.
It took a few minutes to persuade the youngling he needed to change into his alt-mode, and longer for Bluestreak to remember his own transformation sequence. Jazz ended up folding Blue’s door-wings himself, easing the over-sensitised panels into place with the delicacy he’d show with a new spark, and trying to ignore the way the young mech shuddered and twitched in discomfort. It faded fast. Bluestreak dozed off in recharge, the youngling’s systems resetting as they dispersed the excess energy, by the time Jazz got a grip with his magnetic towline. Towing a full-sized Datsun was not exactly a cake-walk but Jazz had managed heavier loads. It did mean sticking to the road though. He stayed alert, scanning his surroundings, his internal scowl deepening by the moment.
Blue’s account might be hazy but it confirmed that there was a wide-spread issue among the Ark crew. That would be bad for the crew, and worse for their officers. If he hadn’t just come back from a quiet Nemesis, Jazz would be worrying about some Decepticon plot underway. As it was, he was pretty slagging sure that Megatron had nothing more immediate on his processor than a hunt for some semi-mythical Mesoamerican treasure or other. The other Decepticons were too busy squabbling amongst themselves to spare much of a thought for the less tempting targets a few hundred mechano-miles away.
That knowledge brought no comfort. If it wasn’t the ‘Cons, then just what in Primus’ name was going on?
Go to Part Two
Author: zea_taylor
‘Verse: G1
Rating: T/PG-13
Characters: Jazz/Prowl (established), Beachcomber
Warnings: mild Cybertronian profanity, Cybertronian drunkenness
Author’s Note: Written for the prowlxjazz community’s Anniversary Bingo Challenge. Inspired by a prompt posted by wicked3659. Set on Earth, fairly early in the cartoon continuity.
Comments and suggestions for improvement are always very welcome!
Prompt: Overcharged
“I’m telling you, Prowl, it wasn’t us!”
Sitting behind his office desk, Prowl raised a sceptical brow-ridge. He studied the two front-line warriors in front of him, giving them time to absorb the full force of his irritation.
“Three mini-bots over-charged on duty,” he recapped. “Two of the three subsequently confined to medbay.” He scowled, shaking his helm. “I have checked Teletraan-I’s records. All three drew their standard allocated ration of energon - or less - over the last two orns.”
Sideswipe scowled back, unable to argue with those facts. Sunstreaker just shrugged, indifferent.
Leaning forward, Prowl steepled his servos in front of him and let his weary frown show.
“The only logical conclusion is that elicit high-grade production is once again underway on the Ark. Tell me, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, given your record to date, why should I believe you aren’t involved?”
Sideswipe’s look of outraged innocence was half-way convincing, but it was Sunstreaker’s scowl that did more to convince his commander. The yellow-clad mech snorted, his disdain intensifying as he noticed Prowl’s scrutiny.
“You think we’d waste our brew on Gears and Huffer? It’s hardly worth the effort, even if we’d lost our fragging processors and wanted to. Most minibots don’t have the energon capacity of a half-grown youngling.”
By Sunstreaker’s usual taciturn standards, the rant was unusually outspoken. The front-liner’s optics were brighter than usual, his stance aggressive. For just a moment, as Prowl rubbed his brow-ridge, he wondered if Sunny might be overcharged too, but even the Twins had better sense than to report for duty in such a state.
Shaking his helm Prowl sat back in his seat. Illogical as it seemed, he actually found himself believing the troublesome pair in front of him. He fixed them with a stern look nonetheless, even more concerned than he had been before.
The twins were mischievous, but never stupid. He couldn’t say the same for every other member of the Ark’s crew. If someone else was brewing up high-grade on the sly…? It was worrying, and depressing at the same time. Not for the first time he questioned why he was bothering with an army that seemed determined to implode upon itself at the slightest provocation. Venting a frustrated sigh, Prowl raised a servo to mask his faceplates for a few klicks. He didn’t need this.
“I expect you to report any evidence of misconduct immediately, understood? Wheeljack’s new geothermal condenser is improving our energon situation, not resolving it. While I understand that the product is not to every taste, we are not in a position to be choosy. If we are to bring out remaining crewmates online, it is vital that we conserve - “
“Ahh…” There was a bemused expression on Sideswipe’s face as he interrupted his commander’s stream of words. “Uh, we know? You told us that three breems ago. Prowl, are you okay? You’re looking kinda… tired.”
Prowl rubbed his brow-ridge again, and only realised he was doing it when he saw Sideswipe’s optics following the movement. His door-wings flared in surprise, and that got a frown from his audience too.
The warrior was right. It wasn’t like him to be this demonstrative, or to feel this weary, even so late in the day.
He straightened, deliberately raising his door-wings to their usual erect position. Maybe he was tired. He never recharged well when Jazz was away on a mission. Jazz… he wished his companion was back on the Ark and by his side now. Jazz could handle the twins as well as Prowl could, and with less aggravation all around. Oh yes… the twins.
Prowl shook his helm, dismissing his wandering thoughts.
“You may go,” he said, shortly, and the pair didn’t wait for him to change his mind.
Venting a sigh, Prowl let the door slide shut behind them. For a few klicks, he dropped his face-plates into his servos, trying to fight his unaccustomed sense of being overwhelmed and exhausted by the Ark’s usual chaos. For the second time in as many minutes he wondered why he kept going, and what there was for him beyond the endless round of duty, destruction and drudgery.
The answer came to him before he had time to dwell on the question, and with it the image of a frown on familiar faceplates: Jazz. It wasn’t long now before the saboteur was due back. And he’d have Prowl’s plating if he saw the tactician in this state.
Raising his helm, he pushed up from his seat. Technically he’d been off-duty for an hour already. Perhaps it was time to make that more than a technicality. A quick trip to the Rec Room for his ration cube, and he would take an early recharge.
The mystery of the over-charged minibots could wait for another day.
“Attention Autobot Jazz. Attention Autobot Jazz. This is Teletraan-I. Please respond.”
“Oh man, that isn’t good.”
Jazz’s engine skipped a cylinder, his vents stuttering as he picked up the call. His sensors snapped out, the thorough scan for Decepticon activity automatic. Technically he’d left the Nemesis’s patrol zone a precise three klicks before Teletraan called, but an Ops mech didn’t survive six orns of clandestine infiltration by being careless.
“Jazz here, Teletraan. What’s up?”
“Autobot Jazz: return to Ark with maximum velocity.” Teletraan-I’s comm-voice never lost its flat intonation, but the imperative in his words was unmistakable. “Your presence urgently required.”
“Understood.”
The saboteur was flying along the dirt road before he completed the acknowledgement. He put the pedal to the metal, his powerful engine giving him all the speed it could and a cloud of dust billowing from his tyre tracks. Already he’d fired off pings to Optimus Prime and to Prowl.
He tried not to worry when neither mech responded. Even for the ever-cool saboteur that effort was doomed to failure.
Returning to the Ark after time away usually meant a spectacular round of parties. There’d be music and high-grade. There was even a chance the stuff might be officially sanctioned, if ‘Jack had done as he’d promised and finally got his gadget on line. There’d be reunions too. One of those in particular, he looked forward to above all others. After six orns - almost eighty Earth days - away from the Ark, he’d anticipated Prowl waiting on the perimeter, with his schedule clear and his priorities clearer.
After Teletraan’s call, Jazz hardly dared guess what to expect. He slowed before approaching the perimeter, avoiding the main road he’d usually take and dodging Red Alert’s sensors. Until he was sure just who was watching them, it seemed kind of smart not to take chances.
Prowl’s usual vantage point where the perimeter met the main road was unoccupied. Backed into the shadow of the rock outcrop there, Jazz watched the road for long enough to decide that it wasn’t just Prowl breaking his routine. There should have been a patrol along by now, if not two. Instead, the dirt track remained devoid of any sign of activity, until…
A cloud formed on the horizon, silhouetted against the rising Sun. It grew fast, spreading until Jazz’s sensitive visor could distinguish two distinct plumes - each rising in the tracks of a dark speck.
The vehicle in the lead was blue, streamlined, and moving fast enough that Jazz could hardly focus on it, let alone consider stepping into its path. The second was different. Jazz knew that chunky shape, and the two-tone grey colour scheme it sported. Quite why the young mech was racing Blurr of all people, the saboteur couldn’t imagine, but… Jazz hummed, rocking a little on his pedes.
Frag, if he was ever going to find out why Prowl and the others weren’t answering, he had to start somewhere. This was a mech he was more than willing to take a chance on.
“Bluestreak!”
Okay, so maybe stepping out of cover and yelling wasn’t the subtlest way of announcing your presence. Jazz still wasn’t expecting the young sniper to startle, swerve off the road, drop a tyre into a gulley and roll twice before coming to an unsteady stop.
“Primus, Blue!”
The Ops mech was at Bluestreak’s side before the dust settled. Blue transformed with a wince. The young Praxian cycled his optics a few times, a little too fast. He sat, legs splayed out in front of him, servos bracing him against the sun-baked ground. Jazz’s inspection was rapid but thorough. Bluestreak’s windscreen had a hairline crack - enough to earn him a scolding from Ratchet but hardly a crisis. The saboteur got a servo on the young mech’s back, supporting his door hinge and scanning it at the same time. Blue’s door-wings were intact, despite their rather alarming twitch, and his helm should have been fine, protected within his alt-frame.
Jazz was just about ready to back up when he looked again and stayed, squatting at the younger mech’s side.
He’d known Bluestreak since the kid was a tiny mechling, and helped Prowl drag the infant up in the heart of a civilization-ending war. They’d done their best for their charge, but trauma couldn’t be entirely forgotten. Both Jazz and Prowl had learned to worry when the young mech’s optics were over-bright and his door-wings mirroring every fleeting thought that passed across his expressive face-plates. Jazz was worried now.
“Blue?” he asked, tone cautious. “You okay there?”
“Jazz?” Blue cycled his optics again, shaking his helm to clear a program loop before actually focussing on the Ops mech. “Jazz!!!”
It couldn’t in all fairness be described as anything but a squeal. Blue threw himself forward, his arms almost throttling the surprised saboteur. “You’re home and that’s so exciting, and it’s been ages, and I’m so glad!”
“Whoa!” Jazz disentangled himself with difficulty, having to use more force than he’d like to put some space between himself and the younger mech. His servo brushed Bluestreak’s door-wing and he was surprised to hear a surge from the younger mech’s engine, and see the sensory appendage twitch violently at the brief contact. Bluestreak started talking, so fast that not even Jazz could make it more than a word or two from the stream. He shook his helm, raising a hand to gesture for the youngster to back up. “Slow down, Blue! I’m going to mistake you for Blurr if you’re not careful!”
“Blurr’s faster than I am.” Bluestreak frowned, one servo making a sweeping gesture as he imitated the purr of a Cybertronian race engine. “Zooommmm! But I thought it might be kind of fun to have a race and the road seemed to be as good a place as any and no one was really bothering about patrols and I reckoned Prowl might be kinda upset about that, and Prowl’s been kind of upset about just about everything lately, so I thought why not?” Bluestreak’s door-wings slumped, his expression melancholy. “But Blurr’s gone now, and he’s left me behind.”
Looking up, Jazz noted with some bemusement that the racer was indeed gone. Either Blurr hadn’t noticed his companion fall off the road or didn’t care. The blue mech was already out of sight, only his dust plume betraying his direction. All things considered, that might be for the best. If Bluestreak was speaking this fast, Blurr would be beyond comprehension.
Standing, pulling the still-clingy Blue with him, Jazz shook his helm.
“What the frag is going on here?” he asked, voice soft with bewilderment.
“Ooohh, you said a naughty word!”
Jazz gave the youngling he’d helped raise a level look. “Bluestreak, you were raised on an army base, amongst some of the foulest-mouthed Autobots I know, and it’s been a fragging long time since you were innocent enough for any of them to watch their language around you.” Well, Prowl was the exception to that rule but, then, wasn’t he always? “You’re a grown mech now. Last I checked, grown mechs aren’t known for giggling at their sub-commanders.”
By rights, his stern tone should have reminded Bluestreak that he was a soldier now, and Jazz was Prime’s Lieutenant. Instead, the young warrior leaned against his former guardian’s shoulder, cycling his optics sleepily.
“Blue, are you wasted?”
This time it was Blue’s turn to gaze back in blank incomprehension. The way his sensor panels wavered, never coming to rest as even the light breeze stimulated them, was another hint. Jazz already had more than enough of those.
“Hammered? Three sheets to the wind? Drunk?” Jazz shook his helm, his servos on his hips as he gazed at the sleepy youngling. “Overcharged?”
That got a response. Bluestreak shook his helm so hard, Jazz had to catch his arm for fear he’d overbalance. “I’d never get overcharged. Prowl would kill me. Well, not kill me, not really, but get really annoyed, you know, and disappointed, and disappointed is much, much worse than annoyed when you think about it, and I’d be in so much trouble.” He cycled his optics, his burst of protest fading into bleary-opticed tiredness. “Besides, Prowl was really cross about people getting overcharged, and I heard he told the twins off, and the minibots, and then just about everybody, and last I saw him he was even going on about Wheeljack and that doesn’t make sense ‘cause everyone knows that Wheeljack is away on a break anyway, after getting the new converter on line, and that means he wasn’t on duty, and why shouldn’t he have fun if there was… was…what were we talking about?”
Maybe Jazz’s grim expression distracted Bluestreak halfway through the explanation. Maybe he’d lost the thread without any help. It hardly mattered. Jazz had heard enough.
It took a few minutes to persuade the youngling he needed to change into his alt-mode, and longer for Bluestreak to remember his own transformation sequence. Jazz ended up folding Blue’s door-wings himself, easing the over-sensitised panels into place with the delicacy he’d show with a new spark, and trying to ignore the way the young mech shuddered and twitched in discomfort. It faded fast. Bluestreak dozed off in recharge, the youngling’s systems resetting as they dispersed the excess energy, by the time Jazz got a grip with his magnetic towline. Towing a full-sized Datsun was not exactly a cake-walk but Jazz had managed heavier loads. It did mean sticking to the road though. He stayed alert, scanning his surroundings, his internal scowl deepening by the moment.
Blue’s account might be hazy but it confirmed that there was a wide-spread issue among the Ark crew. That would be bad for the crew, and worse for their officers. If he hadn’t just come back from a quiet Nemesis, Jazz would be worrying about some Decepticon plot underway. As it was, he was pretty slagging sure that Megatron had nothing more immediate on his processor than a hunt for some semi-mythical Mesoamerican treasure or other. The other Decepticons were too busy squabbling amongst themselves to spare much of a thought for the less tempting targets a few hundred mechano-miles away.
That knowledge brought no comfort. If it wasn’t the ‘Cons, then just what in Primus’ name was going on?
Go to Part Two