Random bunnying is random!
Title: Contracts
'Verse: 2007 Transformers
Characters: Ironhide. Smokescreen. Jazz. Bluestreak. Prowl.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Smokescreen dared a glance at the imposing black mech (Ironhide, the Lord Protector’s right hand bot) who accompanied them through the myriad of hallways (Primus, he was going to get lost here, he just knew it), and unconsciously tightened his grip on his brother’s hand. His brother squeezed back, and he smiled faintly at the younger mech, knowing that Jazz was just as intimidated as he was, but was trying to comfort his sibling regardless.
The black mech stopped abruptly outside a door, and the two younglings stopped next to him. He took in their hesitant looks, and sighed. Wrapping an arm about his silver brother for support, Smokescreen drew up enough courage to ask.
“Sir, what will be expected of us?”
“As per the agreement your creators have with our household, you will be accompanying the young masters in their daily lives. Beyond that, I don’t know. The Lord Protector isn’t much for sharing details when he’s in this sort of mood.”
“Ironhide… We know about the rest of the deal.” Smokescreen almost stalled when he heard Jazz speak up. Ironhide sighed, rubbing his nasal bridge slowly as he pondered his answer, only for the door to open, prompting him to immediately snap to a sharper stance.
“Ironhide, it’s just me.”
The young bot at the door grinning up at the weapons master was about their height, mostly grey, silver and red with a red chevron and wing-like panels sitting just below his shoulders. He caught sight of the two younglings with Ironhide, and smiled reassuringly at them, before looking back at the adult mech when he queried.
“Where’s your brother, and just where are you going?”
“He’s gone to try and convince our creators that this… situation… is untenable. I’m going to try and convince him to give up before he fries a logic circuit, again. Could you please help Jazz and Smokescreen... it is Jazz and Smokescreen, right?” The youngling glanced at them for confirmation, and at their nods he turned back to the black mech. “Settle in first? I’ll be right back with Prowl.”
“Very well. Be quick.”
“Sure thing, ‘Hide!”
The young mech ran off, and they lost sight of him as Ironhide herded them through the door, gruffly trying to encourage them. “They’re good sparks, Bluestreak and his brother; for all that they’re highborn. You’ll be fine, as long as you keep your heads down and your afts out of trouble.”
= = =
Ironhide left them shortly after that (Jazz had to hold back the shaky chirr that almost escaped when the only familiar thing in this new and slightly daunting place appeared to abandon them), but Bluestreak soon returned, another youngling with him.
The newcomer (Prowl, his processors supplied, there was no one else it could possibly be) had white plating where Bluestreak was grey, and black where he was red, excepting Prowl’s chevron, which was the same as Bluestreak’s, but that was the extent of their physical differences.
The pair were so similar in likeness that Jazz nearly asked if they were spark twins. However, a sudden bout of insecurity had him keep his vocaliser muted. These younglings were not like he and Smokescreen. Prowl and Bluestreak had been crafted with the finest of materials, programmed with the most exacting care, and it showed.
“Prowl, this is Smokescreen, and this is Jazz. You remember the discussion we had with our creators.”
Prowl sighed, nodding to Bluestreak as he moved forward to offer first Jazz’s older brother, then Jazz, his hand in welcome.
“It is good to meet you. I apologise that I was not able to change their minds.”
“It’s alright. We’preciate that you tried, and it’s the thought that counts.”
He could hear the false note in his red and blue sibling’s easy assurance, and it seemed Prowl could do the same, because the other youngling’s tone immediately shifted to one that was less formal, and more kind.
“Smokescreen, Jazz. Neither I nor my brother are naïve enough to expect love from a contract. All we ask is that you don’t try to kill us in our recharge.”
Jazz had to stifle a giggle at that, Bluestreak giggled as well and Prowl smiled faintly at them. Smokescreen chuckled, his tension slowly fading.
“I highly doubt that’s going to happen.”
Bluestreak shrugged. “We’re working off the only precedent we have any experience with, so forgive us if our calculations are a little dire.”
Jazz blinked. “There’s a precedent?”
The white and black youngling nodded. “Our own creators were also joined by contractual obligation, though not at the same age as we find ourselves.”
All four startled when a loud bellow echoed through the building, followed by the sound of weapons fire.
“Starscream! You incompetent waste of resources! Get back here!”
“Frag you to the Pit, Megatron! You can’t order me around like some lowborn lackey!”
Jazz turned a wide opticked look at the two highborn younglings, who had resigned expressions on their faceplates.
“Wow. You sure that prediction was dire enough?”
Prowl cycled air slowly, gazing off in the direction the shouting had come from.
“You get used to it.”
'Verse: 2007 Transformers
Characters: Ironhide. Smokescreen. Jazz. Bluestreak. Prowl.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Smokescreen dared a glance at the imposing black mech (Ironhide, the Lord Protector’s right hand bot) who accompanied them through the myriad of hallways (Primus, he was going to get lost here, he just knew it), and unconsciously tightened his grip on his brother’s hand. His brother squeezed back, and he smiled faintly at the younger mech, knowing that Jazz was just as intimidated as he was, but was trying to comfort his sibling regardless.
The black mech stopped abruptly outside a door, and the two younglings stopped next to him. He took in their hesitant looks, and sighed. Wrapping an arm about his silver brother for support, Smokescreen drew up enough courage to ask.
“Sir, what will be expected of us?”
“As per the agreement your creators have with our household, you will be accompanying the young masters in their daily lives. Beyond that, I don’t know. The Lord Protector isn’t much for sharing details when he’s in this sort of mood.”
“Ironhide… We know about the rest of the deal.” Smokescreen almost stalled when he heard Jazz speak up. Ironhide sighed, rubbing his nasal bridge slowly as he pondered his answer, only for the door to open, prompting him to immediately snap to a sharper stance.
“Ironhide, it’s just me.”
The young bot at the door grinning up at the weapons master was about their height, mostly grey, silver and red with a red chevron and wing-like panels sitting just below his shoulders. He caught sight of the two younglings with Ironhide, and smiled reassuringly at them, before looking back at the adult mech when he queried.
“Where’s your brother, and just where are you going?”
“He’s gone to try and convince our creators that this… situation… is untenable. I’m going to try and convince him to give up before he fries a logic circuit, again. Could you please help Jazz and Smokescreen... it is Jazz and Smokescreen, right?” The youngling glanced at them for confirmation, and at their nods he turned back to the black mech. “Settle in first? I’ll be right back with Prowl.”
“Very well. Be quick.”
“Sure thing, ‘Hide!”
The young mech ran off, and they lost sight of him as Ironhide herded them through the door, gruffly trying to encourage them. “They’re good sparks, Bluestreak and his brother; for all that they’re highborn. You’ll be fine, as long as you keep your heads down and your afts out of trouble.”
= = =
Ironhide left them shortly after that (Jazz had to hold back the shaky chirr that almost escaped when the only familiar thing in this new and slightly daunting place appeared to abandon them), but Bluestreak soon returned, another youngling with him.
The newcomer (Prowl, his processors supplied, there was no one else it could possibly be) had white plating where Bluestreak was grey, and black where he was red, excepting Prowl’s chevron, which was the same as Bluestreak’s, but that was the extent of their physical differences.
The pair were so similar in likeness that Jazz nearly asked if they were spark twins. However, a sudden bout of insecurity had him keep his vocaliser muted. These younglings were not like he and Smokescreen. Prowl and Bluestreak had been crafted with the finest of materials, programmed with the most exacting care, and it showed.
“Prowl, this is Smokescreen, and this is Jazz. You remember the discussion we had with our creators.”
Prowl sighed, nodding to Bluestreak as he moved forward to offer first Jazz’s older brother, then Jazz, his hand in welcome.
“It is good to meet you. I apologise that I was not able to change their minds.”
“It’s alright. We’preciate that you tried, and it’s the thought that counts.”
He could hear the false note in his red and blue sibling’s easy assurance, and it seemed Prowl could do the same, because the other youngling’s tone immediately shifted to one that was less formal, and more kind.
“Smokescreen, Jazz. Neither I nor my brother are naïve enough to expect love from a contract. All we ask is that you don’t try to kill us in our recharge.”
Jazz had to stifle a giggle at that, Bluestreak giggled as well and Prowl smiled faintly at them. Smokescreen chuckled, his tension slowly fading.
“I highly doubt that’s going to happen.”
Bluestreak shrugged. “We’re working off the only precedent we have any experience with, so forgive us if our calculations are a little dire.”
Jazz blinked. “There’s a precedent?”
The white and black youngling nodded. “Our own creators were also joined by contractual obligation, though not at the same age as we find ourselves.”
All four startled when a loud bellow echoed through the building, followed by the sound of weapons fire.
“Starscream! You incompetent waste of resources! Get back here!”
“Frag you to the Pit, Megatron! You can’t order me around like some lowborn lackey!”
Jazz turned a wide opticked look at the two highborn younglings, who had resigned expressions on their faceplates.
“Wow. You sure that prediction was dire enough?”
Prowl cycled air slowly, gazing off in the direction the shouting had come from.
“You get used to it.”