Mission - Angels and Demons
Wow, mission'verse has continuity. Who'd've thought?
Title: Mission - Angels and Demons
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Elita. Jazz. Prowl. Optimus. Ironhide. Spike.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
When they arrived on Earth, it was safe to say that Elita-1 had not been expecting the sight that met them. The femme commander rebooted her optics, and when nothing changed, turned to the bots behind her, tilting her helm at said sight, silently asking if they saw the same thing. They nodded, all as lost for words as she was.
Optimus stood before them, as expected, but flanking her mech were two others.
One all black, his grin just a shade shy of demonic, the audial projections of his helm doing a fine job of implying horns of a more supernatural nature. A familiar visor glowed an unfamiliar, menacing yellow, and dear Primus, was that a trident? Why any bot would carry such an unwieldy, impractical and primitive weapon was beyond her.
The other’s expression was preternaturally calm, as if unconcerned by the petty troubles of the mortal plane, doorwings held regally behind him. While this was not unusual for the mech Elita was accustomed to seeing at the Prime’s right hand, the fact that he was all white with a gold chevron at his brow was.
The new arrivals stared. Optimus glanced ruefully up at the sky. Elita buried her face in a palm.
“Dare I ask?”
The Prime shook his head.
“Better not.”
= = =
After settling in the bots from Cybertron, Optimus sat in his office, his co-leader unsuccessfully hiding her amusement at his situation, and his two top officers looking at him guilelessly. Shuttering his optics for a long moment, the red and blue mech gathered the resolve to raise his question.
“So. Is there an explanation, or should I just file this under ‘Things to not think about before I recharge’?”
“A list which has grown exponentially since you became acquainted with the Ark’s crew, I presume?” Elita gently teased her mech, laughing softly when the truck only muttered indistinctly in agreement. Jazz patted Optimus comfortingly on the shoulder (as much comfort as a mech looking like the saboteur currently did could provide, anyway) before he made his reply.
“Well… This time, it wasn’t technically my fault. Or Sideswipe’s. Or Slingshot’s. Or Air Raid’s. Or-”
The Prime cut him off. “Jazz, if you name every troublemaker we have in our base you’ll just depress me further. Who’s responsible then?”
“Spike.”
Optimus looked at the Porsche, then glanced at Prowl. The tactician cycled air slowly and nodded, elaborating.
“He made a comment on our current appearances, likening them to certain supernatural human concepts.”
“And the crew just took that and ran with it. You have to admit he had a point, they fit the angel and devil thing pretty well. Jazz is all chaos and trouble and mischief, and Prowl is order and calm and regulation. And both of them are always by your side. At least now they finally look the part.”
Turning to the smirking red mech who’d entered the room, the Autobot leader shuttered his optics once more.
“Thank you, Ironhide. Alright. I can understand Jazz going along with this. But you, Prowl?”
“They promised me two months of model behaviour if I agreed to let them gild my chevron.” The Datsun explained
“… Jazz and Prowl are going to be my shoulder demon and angel for two months. Primus preserve me.” At Ironhide’s bark of laughter, the humour of the situation finally got to him and Optimus cracked a grin behind his battle mask.
“Would’ve been three, if they’d managed to make Prowler’s sword. But we ran out of supplies at that exact moment. Very inconvenient, that.” Jazz said, giving his ‘pitchfork’ a careless twirl as he spoke. While both commanders paused to contemplate the Ops mech’s statement, Jazz waved his new plaything at the still chuckling weapons master. “Hey, Ironhide, think Wheeljack can mod this thing to fire off energy blasts or something?”
Before the mech could answer, Prowl cut in (something Elita-1 was thankful for, she didn’t want to contemplate the mental images the Autobot TIC’s question conjured), shooting the pouting saboteur a stern look at the same time.
“Actually, we will only look this way for another couple hours. Then we go off duty and can get our regular paintjobs back.”
As the visored mech muttered ‘Spoilsport’ under his breath, Elita frowned in confusion. “That’s… a rather small payoff for two months of good conduct. How on Cybertron did they agree to that?”
The tactician’s tone was carefully neutral. “Our agreement only involved the colour of my chevron. That no one realised the paint supplies had arrived is not my problem.”
“I knew you gave in too easily.” Ironhide laughed, and Jazz slung an arm about the white mech’s shoulders, smirking.
“You’d think they’d have realised Prowl only looks like an angel. The rest of him’s still the same.”
“Which means I still have the same work to do. Let’s begin, shall we?”
Briskly, battle plans were brought out and tactical charts winked onto the screen as Optimus and Elita pored over the displays with their officers. The young man who peeked into the room found himself stifling a laugh at the exchange he overheard.
“Jazz. You can’t just blow it up.”
“Why not? Gets rid of the building, gets rid of the slag in the building, and at the risk of repeating myself, gets rid of any ‘Con ‘unfortunate’ enough to be inside.”
“Unrestrained destruction is not a means to an end.”
“Dunno, Prowl. Sounds good to me.”
“Ironhide!”
“Just sayin’.”
“Playing devil’s advocate, you mean.”
Optimus caught his eye, winking briefly at him before interrupting the three mechs’ repartee with, “Well, Jazz does need all the help he can get against you.”
At the currently all black mech’s half-indignant “Hey!”, Spike gave up the fight and collapsed into a helpless pile of laughter.
Title: Mission - Angels and Demons
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Characters: Elita. Jazz. Prowl. Optimus. Ironhide. Spike.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
When they arrived on Earth, it was safe to say that Elita-1 had not been expecting the sight that met them. The femme commander rebooted her optics, and when nothing changed, turned to the bots behind her, tilting her helm at said sight, silently asking if they saw the same thing. They nodded, all as lost for words as she was.
Optimus stood before them, as expected, but flanking her mech were two others.
One all black, his grin just a shade shy of demonic, the audial projections of his helm doing a fine job of implying horns of a more supernatural nature. A familiar visor glowed an unfamiliar, menacing yellow, and dear Primus, was that a trident? Why any bot would carry such an unwieldy, impractical and primitive weapon was beyond her.
The other’s expression was preternaturally calm, as if unconcerned by the petty troubles of the mortal plane, doorwings held regally behind him. While this was not unusual for the mech Elita was accustomed to seeing at the Prime’s right hand, the fact that he was all white with a gold chevron at his brow was.
The new arrivals stared. Optimus glanced ruefully up at the sky. Elita buried her face in a palm.
“Dare I ask?”
The Prime shook his head.
“Better not.”
= = =
After settling in the bots from Cybertron, Optimus sat in his office, his co-leader unsuccessfully hiding her amusement at his situation, and his two top officers looking at him guilelessly. Shuttering his optics for a long moment, the red and blue mech gathered the resolve to raise his question.
“So. Is there an explanation, or should I just file this under ‘Things to not think about before I recharge’?”
“A list which has grown exponentially since you became acquainted with the Ark’s crew, I presume?” Elita gently teased her mech, laughing softly when the truck only muttered indistinctly in agreement. Jazz patted Optimus comfortingly on the shoulder (as much comfort as a mech looking like the saboteur currently did could provide, anyway) before he made his reply.
“Well… This time, it wasn’t technically my fault. Or Sideswipe’s. Or Slingshot’s. Or Air Raid’s. Or-”
The Prime cut him off. “Jazz, if you name every troublemaker we have in our base you’ll just depress me further. Who’s responsible then?”
“Spike.”
Optimus looked at the Porsche, then glanced at Prowl. The tactician cycled air slowly and nodded, elaborating.
“He made a comment on our current appearances, likening them to certain supernatural human concepts.”
“And the crew just took that and ran with it. You have to admit he had a point, they fit the angel and devil thing pretty well. Jazz is all chaos and trouble and mischief, and Prowl is order and calm and regulation. And both of them are always by your side. At least now they finally look the part.”
Turning to the smirking red mech who’d entered the room, the Autobot leader shuttered his optics once more.
“Thank you, Ironhide. Alright. I can understand Jazz going along with this. But you, Prowl?”
“They promised me two months of model behaviour if I agreed to let them gild my chevron.” The Datsun explained
“… Jazz and Prowl are going to be my shoulder demon and angel for two months. Primus preserve me.” At Ironhide’s bark of laughter, the humour of the situation finally got to him and Optimus cracked a grin behind his battle mask.
“Would’ve been three, if they’d managed to make Prowler’s sword. But we ran out of supplies at that exact moment. Very inconvenient, that.” Jazz said, giving his ‘pitchfork’ a careless twirl as he spoke. While both commanders paused to contemplate the Ops mech’s statement, Jazz waved his new plaything at the still chuckling weapons master. “Hey, Ironhide, think Wheeljack can mod this thing to fire off energy blasts or something?”
Before the mech could answer, Prowl cut in (something Elita-1 was thankful for, she didn’t want to contemplate the mental images the Autobot TIC’s question conjured), shooting the pouting saboteur a stern look at the same time.
“Actually, we will only look this way for another couple hours. Then we go off duty and can get our regular paintjobs back.”
As the visored mech muttered ‘Spoilsport’ under his breath, Elita frowned in confusion. “That’s… a rather small payoff for two months of good conduct. How on Cybertron did they agree to that?”
The tactician’s tone was carefully neutral. “Our agreement only involved the colour of my chevron. That no one realised the paint supplies had arrived is not my problem.”
“I knew you gave in too easily.” Ironhide laughed, and Jazz slung an arm about the white mech’s shoulders, smirking.
“You’d think they’d have realised Prowl only looks like an angel. The rest of him’s still the same.”
“Which means I still have the same work to do. Let’s begin, shall we?”
Briskly, battle plans were brought out and tactical charts winked onto the screen as Optimus and Elita pored over the displays with their officers. The young man who peeked into the room found himself stifling a laugh at the exchange he overheard.
“Jazz. You can’t just blow it up.”
“Why not? Gets rid of the building, gets rid of the slag in the building, and at the risk of repeating myself, gets rid of any ‘Con ‘unfortunate’ enough to be inside.”
“Unrestrained destruction is not a means to an end.”
“Dunno, Prowl. Sounds good to me.”
“Ironhide!”
“Just sayin’.”
“Playing devil’s advocate, you mean.”
Optimus caught his eye, winking briefly at him before interrupting the three mechs’ repartee with, “Well, Jazz does need all the help he can get against you.”
At the currently all black mech’s half-indignant “Hey!”, Spike gave up the fight and collapsed into a helpless pile of laughter.