Yellow Ribbon postscript
I was just going through my old files, and came across the short postscript that I considered adding to the end " Yellow Ribbon". It was one of a couple of scenes that didn't really work as part of the emotional arc of the main story, but I think it stands pretty well as a kind of epilogue, so I thought I'd share it, in case anyone was looking in my journal for more and might enjoy it. You may (or may not!) recall that we last saw Prowl and Jazz leading the Autobots home from battle, while Sunny and Sides streaked off to work some mysterious mischief...
- - -
Title: Yellow Ribbon - postscript.
Rating: G
'Verse: G1
Characters: Jazz/Prowl, Sunny, Sides, Bluestreak
Warnings: none.
Bluestreak saw it first, the sharp-eyed gunner slowing suddenly as they crested the hill and forcing the whole convoy to react. Vehicles slewed to a halt with a squeal of brakes and a cloud of dust, strident complaints rising from further back in the column as wheels skidded on the dry dirt track.
"Oh! Oh, sorry, guys. I guess I should have said something, and I'm really sorry. I really didn't mean to..."
"Bluestreak." Prowl's voice was very calm, long accustomed to soothing the younger mech's nervous babble. The black and white police car moved back from the lead of the column to park beside his protégé. "Is something wrong?"
Bluestreak bounced on his wheels. "Well, I know it's probably nothing and I shouldn't really have slowed down like that, and I really am sorry, you know, but... does the Ark look kind of weird to anyone else?"
Attention shifted, the assembled mechs squinting past the silver-grey Datson and across the plain that separated them from their distant home. To either side of Prime and his officers, vehicles spread out along the ridge. Mechs peered down towards the mighty starship buried deep in the side of Mount St. Hilary, trying to see what had bothered their young gunner, a few of them transforming to use their optics directly.
"I see nothing," Optimus Prime admitted after a long moment. There was a rumble of agreement, a few dissenting voices raised above it.
"Hound?" Prowl snapped the name in place of a question as the Scout's jeep alt-mode moved up towards the front.
"I'm not sure, Prowl." Still in vehicle mode, the scout edged forward, his frown unseen but clear in his voice. "It does look a little... odd. Sort of... the wrong colour?"
"Decepticons!" Red Alert's instant conclusion didn't come as much of a surprise to anyone. The Security Director's engine revved, sparks shivering across his hood. He moved restlessly on his wheels, boxed in between the solid mass of Prime on one side and Inferno on the other, with Ratchet thankfully close behind. "They must have doubled back and...."
"Aww, c'mon, Red." Inferno was as accustomed to easing Red Alert's nerves as Prowl was Bluestreak's. His voice was an oasis of security in the Lamborghini’s embattled world. "Those 'Cons weren't going nowhere but a repair bay, little buddy."
"And it's not like we've been attacked, is it?" The contribution from Ironhide was rather less helpful. A silent 'yet' seemed to hover on the end of his sentence. "We're not exactly hard t' see up here."
"Prowl." Optimus Prime's engine rumbled, air venting from his brakes as he tried to back his trailer up a few yards to give himself a better view. "Suggestions?"
Prowl shifted slightly, angling himself towards his Prime. "I believe this may be more of a home-grown circumstance."
"Guess I'll go take a look-see." Jazz moved before any of them could react to his offer, the Porsche rolling over the crest of the ridge and onto the wide plain that separated the Autobot crew from their base.
For a moment, Prowl's engine revved as if he wanted to follow his mate, but the fast-moving sports-car was already well ahead, moving openly across the desert scrubland. As Ironhide had noted, their approach had hardly been clandestine. There was little point changing that now.
"Wow." Whatever the Autobot convoy, still tense from battle, expected, it wasn't the stunned and faintly-amused tone in Jazz's com. Prowl's engine revved again, his attention on the distant saboteur and the Datsun ignoring the rumble of Prime moving up close behind him. "C'mon down, mechs. Ya've gotta see this."
If Prowl was the first over the ridge after his mate, none of them saw fit to comment on his haste. Optimus followed quickly, the rest of the officer corps on their rear bumpers, and the other Autobots jockeying for position as they reconverged on the dirt road that offered the easiest path down to the desert plain.
They'd travelled perhaps half the distance when the convoy slid to a halt for a second time… less anxiously now, but with a collective intake of air through their vents.
Buried in Mount St. Hilary, the Ark was a shadow of the ship she'd once been. Only her engine assembly stood proud of the volcano's slopes, its vibrant orange plating merging into the pale brown earth. At least, that was how the mechs of the Ark were accustomed to seeing their home.
Today was different.
Paper streamers hung from every prominence, hooked over the edge of hull plates and from vents and sensor nodes. Confetti covered every flat surface. A curtain of gauze almost concealed the Ark's main entrance and swathes of fabric draped across the manifolds, everything from slender ribbons to complete bolts of cloth fluttering in the desert wind. Barely a square foot of their home was left bare. And every inch of the paper decorations, every ribbon of fabric, was the same vibrant shade as Sunstreaker's plating.
"Yellow ribbons." Optimus Prime murmured the words, his voice carrying to every mech in the party.
"Sparkplug was talking in the Rec Room one day. Told us about a human tradition..." Ratchet volunteered.
"There's a song..." Bumblebee added, his voice trailing off just as the medic's had moments before.
"Yeah." Jazz stared quietly at their decorated ship. "I'm guessing Sides was there? Or Sunny maybe?"
Beside him, Prowl gave a quiet sigh. Optimus didn't quite hide his amusement, a suspicious coughing sound from his vents punctuating his speech.
"Prowl, I'll leave this matter in your capable hands."
"Prime," Prowl acknowledged softly, tilting on his wheels to lean against his mate.
They watched as Ratchet chivvied a glitching Red Alert past on their left, Ironhide leading the rest of the crew towards the Ark and past them on their right. Prime rumbled away, a data burst inviting the pair to debrief over a cube of high grade whenever they were ready.
The two waited until the desert fell silent. For all their scolding words on the battlefield, neither could be angry or embarrassed about the Twins' final recognition of the ordeal behind them. Music played softly from Jazz’s speakers - the ballad of longed-for return and affectionate loyalty that Bumblebee had mentioned. Looking up at the Ark there was no ignoring the message each yellow ribbon sent: that they were missed, that they were loved and that they were wanted back. Bumper to bumper they shared the moment, revelling in the spark-felt welcome both had despaired of ever knowing again… and enjoying the audacious prank that marked a new start for them all.
It was a long breem before Prowl transformed, his door-wings hitching high on his back and his hands on his hips. "Is cleaning the Ark a significant enough punishment, do you think?"
"Ya've got to catch them first." Jazz transformed beside him, studying the ribbon-adorned ship with arms folded across his chest. "Ya know half the crew will step up t' help them, right?"
"Officially... I have no idea.” Prowl had a strained tone in his voice. He looked at the Ark with a strange expression, his systems whirring audibly as he surveyed the incongruously arrayed vessel with practical optics once more.
Jazz shifted a little sideways, nudging his silent mate’s chestplate. "Alright there, Prowler?"
"Five breems. Six at the outside."
"Ya ain't goin' to crash on me now, right, love?"
"How in the Pit did they get hold of all of this in five breems?"
Prowl's scowl was audible. Jazz laughed, the sound rich and warm and glad.
"You're askin' the wrong question, Prowl. These are our Twin Terrors we're talkin' about, right?"
"Evidently." Prowl's voice softened, his engine revving gently as he gazed at the beribboned Ark.
"Right, so if I were you, I wouldn' be askin' where they got the yellow decorations so fast."
Prowl groaned, shaking his helm. "You'd ask where they're hiding the red ones."
"'Xactly.” Jazz laughed again. He looked up at the ship, his visor saving a snapshot of the image, his spark dancing. “C’mon Prowler, let’s go home."
- - -
The End
For the record, the music Jazz chooses could be either "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" or "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the ole Oak Tree". Both capture the old tradition of using yellow ribbons to symbolise remembrance of those absent, and acceptance and welcome after a separation.
Round her neck, she wears a yeller ribbon,
She wears it in winter, and the summer so they say,
And if you ask her: "Why the decoration?"
She'll say "It's for my lover who is far, far away. -- George A. Norton
- - -
Title: Yellow Ribbon - postscript.
Rating: G
'Verse: G1
Characters: Jazz/Prowl, Sunny, Sides, Bluestreak
Warnings: none.
Bluestreak saw it first, the sharp-eyed gunner slowing suddenly as they crested the hill and forcing the whole convoy to react. Vehicles slewed to a halt with a squeal of brakes and a cloud of dust, strident complaints rising from further back in the column as wheels skidded on the dry dirt track.
"Oh! Oh, sorry, guys. I guess I should have said something, and I'm really sorry. I really didn't mean to..."
"Bluestreak." Prowl's voice was very calm, long accustomed to soothing the younger mech's nervous babble. The black and white police car moved back from the lead of the column to park beside his protégé. "Is something wrong?"
Bluestreak bounced on his wheels. "Well, I know it's probably nothing and I shouldn't really have slowed down like that, and I really am sorry, you know, but... does the Ark look kind of weird to anyone else?"
Attention shifted, the assembled mechs squinting past the silver-grey Datson and across the plain that separated them from their distant home. To either side of Prime and his officers, vehicles spread out along the ridge. Mechs peered down towards the mighty starship buried deep in the side of Mount St. Hilary, trying to see what had bothered their young gunner, a few of them transforming to use their optics directly.
"I see nothing," Optimus Prime admitted after a long moment. There was a rumble of agreement, a few dissenting voices raised above it.
"Hound?" Prowl snapped the name in place of a question as the Scout's jeep alt-mode moved up towards the front.
"I'm not sure, Prowl." Still in vehicle mode, the scout edged forward, his frown unseen but clear in his voice. "It does look a little... odd. Sort of... the wrong colour?"
"Decepticons!" Red Alert's instant conclusion didn't come as much of a surprise to anyone. The Security Director's engine revved, sparks shivering across his hood. He moved restlessly on his wheels, boxed in between the solid mass of Prime on one side and Inferno on the other, with Ratchet thankfully close behind. "They must have doubled back and...."
"Aww, c'mon, Red." Inferno was as accustomed to easing Red Alert's nerves as Prowl was Bluestreak's. His voice was an oasis of security in the Lamborghini’s embattled world. "Those 'Cons weren't going nowhere but a repair bay, little buddy."
"And it's not like we've been attacked, is it?" The contribution from Ironhide was rather less helpful. A silent 'yet' seemed to hover on the end of his sentence. "We're not exactly hard t' see up here."
"Prowl." Optimus Prime's engine rumbled, air venting from his brakes as he tried to back his trailer up a few yards to give himself a better view. "Suggestions?"
Prowl shifted slightly, angling himself towards his Prime. "I believe this may be more of a home-grown circumstance."
"Guess I'll go take a look-see." Jazz moved before any of them could react to his offer, the Porsche rolling over the crest of the ridge and onto the wide plain that separated the Autobot crew from their base.
For a moment, Prowl's engine revved as if he wanted to follow his mate, but the fast-moving sports-car was already well ahead, moving openly across the desert scrubland. As Ironhide had noted, their approach had hardly been clandestine. There was little point changing that now.
"Wow." Whatever the Autobot convoy, still tense from battle, expected, it wasn't the stunned and faintly-amused tone in Jazz's com. Prowl's engine revved again, his attention on the distant saboteur and the Datsun ignoring the rumble of Prime moving up close behind him. "C'mon down, mechs. Ya've gotta see this."
If Prowl was the first over the ridge after his mate, none of them saw fit to comment on his haste. Optimus followed quickly, the rest of the officer corps on their rear bumpers, and the other Autobots jockeying for position as they reconverged on the dirt road that offered the easiest path down to the desert plain.
They'd travelled perhaps half the distance when the convoy slid to a halt for a second time… less anxiously now, but with a collective intake of air through their vents.
Buried in Mount St. Hilary, the Ark was a shadow of the ship she'd once been. Only her engine assembly stood proud of the volcano's slopes, its vibrant orange plating merging into the pale brown earth. At least, that was how the mechs of the Ark were accustomed to seeing their home.
Today was different.
Paper streamers hung from every prominence, hooked over the edge of hull plates and from vents and sensor nodes. Confetti covered every flat surface. A curtain of gauze almost concealed the Ark's main entrance and swathes of fabric draped across the manifolds, everything from slender ribbons to complete bolts of cloth fluttering in the desert wind. Barely a square foot of their home was left bare. And every inch of the paper decorations, every ribbon of fabric, was the same vibrant shade as Sunstreaker's plating.
"Yellow ribbons." Optimus Prime murmured the words, his voice carrying to every mech in the party.
"Sparkplug was talking in the Rec Room one day. Told us about a human tradition..." Ratchet volunteered.
"There's a song..." Bumblebee added, his voice trailing off just as the medic's had moments before.
"Yeah." Jazz stared quietly at their decorated ship. "I'm guessing Sides was there? Or Sunny maybe?"
Beside him, Prowl gave a quiet sigh. Optimus didn't quite hide his amusement, a suspicious coughing sound from his vents punctuating his speech.
"Prowl, I'll leave this matter in your capable hands."
"Prime," Prowl acknowledged softly, tilting on his wheels to lean against his mate.
They watched as Ratchet chivvied a glitching Red Alert past on their left, Ironhide leading the rest of the crew towards the Ark and past them on their right. Prime rumbled away, a data burst inviting the pair to debrief over a cube of high grade whenever they were ready.
The two waited until the desert fell silent. For all their scolding words on the battlefield, neither could be angry or embarrassed about the Twins' final recognition of the ordeal behind them. Music played softly from Jazz’s speakers - the ballad of longed-for return and affectionate loyalty that Bumblebee had mentioned. Looking up at the Ark there was no ignoring the message each yellow ribbon sent: that they were missed, that they were loved and that they were wanted back. Bumper to bumper they shared the moment, revelling in the spark-felt welcome both had despaired of ever knowing again… and enjoying the audacious prank that marked a new start for them all.
It was a long breem before Prowl transformed, his door-wings hitching high on his back and his hands on his hips. "Is cleaning the Ark a significant enough punishment, do you think?"
"Ya've got to catch them first." Jazz transformed beside him, studying the ribbon-adorned ship with arms folded across his chest. "Ya know half the crew will step up t' help them, right?"
"Officially... I have no idea.” Prowl had a strained tone in his voice. He looked at the Ark with a strange expression, his systems whirring audibly as he surveyed the incongruously arrayed vessel with practical optics once more.
Jazz shifted a little sideways, nudging his silent mate’s chestplate. "Alright there, Prowler?"
"Five breems. Six at the outside."
"Ya ain't goin' to crash on me now, right, love?"
"How in the Pit did they get hold of all of this in five breems?"
Prowl's scowl was audible. Jazz laughed, the sound rich and warm and glad.
"You're askin' the wrong question, Prowl. These are our Twin Terrors we're talkin' about, right?"
"Evidently." Prowl's voice softened, his engine revving gently as he gazed at the beribboned Ark.
"Right, so if I were you, I wouldn' be askin' where they got the yellow decorations so fast."
Prowl groaned, shaking his helm. "You'd ask where they're hiding the red ones."
"'Xactly.” Jazz laughed again. He looked up at the ship, his visor saving a snapshot of the image, his spark dancing. “C’mon Prowler, let’s go home."
- - -
The End
For the record, the music Jazz chooses could be either "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" or "Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the ole Oak Tree". Both capture the old tradition of using yellow ribbons to symbolise remembrance of those absent, and acceptance and welcome after a separation.
Round her neck, she wears a yeller ribbon,
She wears it in winter, and the summer so they say,
And if you ask her: "Why the decoration?"
She'll say "It's for my lover who is far, far away. -- George A. Norton