Kick in the Head - Prom Night
Title: Kick in the Head: Prom Night
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Wheeljack, Jazz, Blaster, Perceptor
Rating: PG
Summary: Stifled and confined, Wheeljack escapes his duties.
Warnings: N/A
Notes: I've never been a TF fan until the first movie came out, so I had to look up all of the G1 characters on one of the TF Wikis. And one thing that immediately drew me to Wheeljack was the concept of a mad scientist that was also known for his boss moves on the racetrack.
So, obviously, Wheeljack and Jazz would go out and Saturday Night Fever it up at the bar together.
Also inspired by working at a job where free will is questionable and individuality tends to be frowned upon.
Also: I've spent about forever mentally building up the Glances/KitH version of Cybertron. Is anyone interested in sort of a 'Idiots Guide to a world Sae spent way too much time thinking about'?
o o o
The very existence of imaginations such as theirs defied everything their world was: structured, regulated, defined. They took boundaries and smashed them, they stretched the rules into warped parodies and their world benefited from their madness.
The Academy was about as structured as they could become and not lose that madness, not lose that bizarre tightrope between instability and logic that allowed them to dream and build and create. A structured military setting was not for them. They could only do so much when their time was managed for them, divided into musters and evacuation drills and long, pointless briefs on how much further the Decepticons were in their technology, but not listening to their ideas on how they might improve things for themselves. They were supposed to be the Autobot think-tank. Instead, they were a base full of duds, waiting to be bulldozed beneath Decepticon tires.
So, they escaped.
If anything, the Autobots were leaps and bounds ahead of the Decepticons in encryption and stealth technology, since the scientists spent so much time giving the guards at Isabax the slip. The technology was tested on base, against roving guards and suspicious officers, and sent to the front lines. Eventually, it would get implemented into Isabax and they'd have to develop better versions.
They had to. Escape from the stifling compound was the only way to keep their minds from rusting. They slipped past the gates and down into the neutral city at the foot of the mountain, where there was always something to do, something new to see and experience and inspire.
Highslam's guards patrolled the city relentlessly, looking for the wayward scientists. Frivolous activities were anathema to the straight-laced, uptight general, and he heavily enforced rules against them. The more scientists that were caught in the city, the harder Highslam bore down on their free time, and the closer to burnout the less defiant scientists became. And still they were pushed, to create in an uncreative atmosphere, to be inspired without inspiration. Primus, Highslam wouldn't even give them details of the trials and issues Autobots were seeing in battle, citing 'confidential' and 'security risk' at them, as if they didn't have the highest security clearance codes a non-officer could have.
They were given nothing. And so they escaped to find something.
Wheeljack relished the feel of smooth road beneath his tires. Behind him, Highslam's stifling, gray compound fell behind, and ahead lay Isabax, in all of its glittering debauchery. He mused as he drove, hoping that his plan worked. He knew Ratchet had some sway in the high chain of Command - how much, he didn't know - and he'd sent a missive to his new friend, detailing the situation at the Isabax base. If anything could be done, he hoped Ratchet would be able to tell him.
The road rose into a high overpass, and thoughts of Ratchet passed to a lower processor. Isabax washed over him like a soothing oil bath, riotous and calming both. Music caught his audial and he followed it through the winding streets, to an outdoor... festival? Event? Random gathering of mechs? It didn't matter. What mattered was the music, the movement, the beauty in the physics of motion and interworking pistons and hydraulics and gears. He transformed at the edge of the crowd and watched.
A random gathering, he decided eventually. A scarlet comms mech stood over the gathering, his solar arrays spread like iridescent wings and music pouring from speakers somewhere within his chassis. Mechs danced at his feet and sometimes on his feet, using his legs as support or stages or seats. A lovely silver mech Wheeljack's size perched on his shoulder, swaying with the music and occasionally dancing across the broad expanse.
Wheeljack's wheels itched. It had been vorns since he'd last performed, just before the war broke out. There weren't many like him, who moved more gracefully on their wheels than they did on their feet, and even fewer took that skill beyond the race track and into dance. Unfortunately, that meant there were few dances laid out with wheels in mind, and he wondered if the big red mech knew any of the songs.
The comms mech looked directly at him and smiled behind his face guards.
The music changed, and the silver mech scrambled down the comms mech to the ground. A space cleared out, and the surrounding crowd must have known something Wheeljack didn't, for they all leaned forward eagerly, all optics on the silver mech. His visor slid beck and he deliberately winked at Wheeljack, then started to move.
It had to be a trick, oh, it just had to be, cruel bait set out to catch the scientists in the crowd. The mech was dancing a very specific set of moves, and Wheeljack knew that if a tracer was placed on his left pede just so, the movements would write out the glyphs of Ferroline's equations of the gravitational pull between four moons around one planet, one of the oldest and longest surviving equation sets known to Cybertron. And maybe it was a deliberate trick to catch him personally, because the choreographer Finestep had written 'Ferrous Orbitals' for a wheeled performer.
Not that the silver mech was doing a bad job. On the contrary, he was stunning, absolutely gorgeous, both in form and in movements. But it wasn't quite right. He was putting a personal touch into the moves that skewered the glyphs, and at one point, he even broke away from the routine to freestyle a short amount. Not a lot, no, and certainly not distasteful, but it grated. There were better ways to personalize the routine. The silver mech needed someone to guide him, to write out the base glyphs for him to embellish; he needed a partner, he needed-
Wheeljack's wheels itched again.
His engine roared within his chassis, drawing attention. The silver mech looked up and sent him a wordless ping, questioning and challenging and accepting all at once, and Wheeljack was in vehicle mode without realizing it. Mechs parted to let him through and Wheeljack dove into the routine seamlessly, picking up where the silver mech left off and spinning into the graceful curve of the third moon's interaction with the planet's magma oceans during an eclipse.
Sweet, joyous perfection. The silver mech became an accent to his numbers and drawn out formulas, spending as much time off the ground as he did on it, vaulting over Wheeljack's hood to trip out scintillating notes. Wheeljack was never sure what mode he was in, sliding between upright and wheeled without pause, his hands catching at the ground for friction or at the silver mech for support, and it was as if they had performed together for a lifetime.
If it was a trap, it was perfectly baited and he didn't care. The comms mech angled his panels to focus the music around them, until the air thrummed with noise and rhythm and the scrape of their feet and tires. They spun through the equations fast and hard, harsher than he'd ever performed Ferrous Orbitals in the past, but exquisitely precise, and he suspected the silver mech's embellishment before had been part of the lure. It was fully as good as any interface he'd experienced, and almost as good as the pure joy found in a moment of discovery and invention.
Highslam's guards at the edge of his vision, brazen enough to shove other mechs out of the way, but not enough to interrupt the performance. He ignored them, focused on his partner and their routine, until the music spiraled up into the brilliant finale and he found himself face to face with the silver mech, their engines running hot and their hands clasped to form the final downstroke on the final glyph.
For a brief moment, there was silence. And the crowd burst into raucous, overwhelming applause.
Wheeljack dropped the other mech's hands as if burnt, but he suspected that his vocal indicators were brilliant with the grin his face could no longer form. "Wheeljack," he said.
"Jazz," the other replied. "Just got here, on security detail." He looked around at the patrol, his visor sliding back into place. "And maybe on my way out. You're Ratchet's friend, right?"
"You know Ratchet?" Of all of the ends to this he had calculated, the idea that Ratchet may have sent this mech had never crossed his mind.
Jazz grinned wickedly. "We've met," he said, a vague note to his voice that implied that 'many, many times' should have been tacked onto the end of his sentence. He looked over his shoulder and made a gesture at the comms mech, who nodded once and took off, the backwash from his thrusters knocking over some smaller mechs. "Blaster'll let the doc-bot know I've found you," Jazz said, voice pitched low as Highslam's patrol approached. "Don't worry, mech. The cavalry has arrived."
"Some cavalry," Wheeljack pointed out, grinning again.
o o o
"Pointless!" Highslam spat, all sharp hand gestures and injured Seeker pride. "Frivolous indulgence!" Wheeljack made and constantly recalculated private bets with himself over when Jazz would start fidgeting, and was pleasantly surprised to be constantly proven wrong. "A disgusting waste of the army's time!" Wheeljack debated arguing that point, as he had gone out during his own precious off-time, but he knew better than to interrupt Highslam.
Highslam drew himself up coldly, looking down at them in pained disapproval and disgust. "I have been patient," he stated. "Generous, even. But you continue to throw my good will back in my face. I cringe to wonder what the Prime thinks of the outcome of this compound."
"Actually, he is concerned, but not for the reasons you think he should be." Wheeljack and Highslam both turned to Jazz, one in surprise, one in furious shock. Jazz was still at perfect attention with his visor down, but he was speaking to Highslam as an equal, and Wheeljack debated silently warning him. One of Highslam's peculiarities was a strict adherence to traditional chain of command.
Before he could make up his mind, Jazz continued. "The Prime and I spoke when the message came from this place," he explained, ignoring the interesting facial expressions Highslam was making. "As well as a few medics, and the Academy Sines that were at hand. It was determined that while you are one of the Autobot's best recruit trainers and an excellent commander, your particular skills are not what is needed here. I carry your new orders from the Prime."
"Really," Highslam hissed. "And what makes you think that I should trust the word of a foot-soldier who cannot even remain at his post?"
"Oh, right," Jazz mock-lamented. "I forgot to properly introduce myself. My name is Jazz, commander of the Blackrock saboteurs, and second lieutenant to Digger, head of the Autobots Information Requisition Department." The next part was encrypted, and Wheeljack suspected it was Jazz's authentication codes.
Which, if legit, placed Jazz somewhere in the chain just above Highslam and a few mechs below the Prime's bodyguard.
Highslam seemed to believe they were legit, for he straightened up, cold but respectful. "And who is to replace me?" he asked.
Jazz whistled sharply and the door opened to reveal one of Wheeljack's favorite mechs in the world. He hadn't spent long at the Academy, but he'd made several good friends and mentors while there, and the tiny mech crossing the floor brightened his spark. "Perceptor!"
Sine Perceptor swiveled several optics up and a broad smile split his face. "I have long entertained the notion that I would soon find myself in your proximity, Wheeljack." As he spoke he climbed Wheeljack's chassis with the ease of long familiarity, much the same way Jazz had climbed the comms mech earlier in the evening, and settled briefly on Wheeljack's raised forearm. "We shall have to reminisce and excogitate at a later time, when our duties are no longer quite so immenent." A light pinch to Wheeljack's elbow and Perceptor jumped to Highslam's deck, folding half of his limbs neatly beneath him. Wheeljack recognized it as Perceptor's business mode and quietly excused himself.
Just as the door shut, he received a private ping. /You, me, the road to Isabax, and the last of my travel allotment, dusk tomorrow? I'd like to see what other moves you know/ Wheeljack debated only a moment before sending Jazz a positive, and he went back to his quarters with a spark considerably lightened.
Fandom: Transformers
Characters/pairings: Wheeljack, Jazz, Blaster, Perceptor
Rating: PG
Summary: Stifled and confined, Wheeljack escapes his duties.
Warnings: N/A
Notes: I've never been a TF fan until the first movie came out, so I had to look up all of the G1 characters on one of the TF Wikis. And one thing that immediately drew me to Wheeljack was the concept of a mad scientist that was also known for his boss moves on the racetrack.
So, obviously, Wheeljack and Jazz would go out and Saturday Night Fever it up at the bar together.
Also inspired by working at a job where free will is questionable and individuality tends to be frowned upon.
Also: I've spent about forever mentally building up the Glances/KitH version of Cybertron. Is anyone interested in sort of a 'Idiots Guide to a world Sae spent way too much time thinking about'?
o o o
The very existence of imaginations such as theirs defied everything their world was: structured, regulated, defined. They took boundaries and smashed them, they stretched the rules into warped parodies and their world benefited from their madness.
The Academy was about as structured as they could become and not lose that madness, not lose that bizarre tightrope between instability and logic that allowed them to dream and build and create. A structured military setting was not for them. They could only do so much when their time was managed for them, divided into musters and evacuation drills and long, pointless briefs on how much further the Decepticons were in their technology, but not listening to their ideas on how they might improve things for themselves. They were supposed to be the Autobot think-tank. Instead, they were a base full of duds, waiting to be bulldozed beneath Decepticon tires.
So, they escaped.
If anything, the Autobots were leaps and bounds ahead of the Decepticons in encryption and stealth technology, since the scientists spent so much time giving the guards at Isabax the slip. The technology was tested on base, against roving guards and suspicious officers, and sent to the front lines. Eventually, it would get implemented into Isabax and they'd have to develop better versions.
They had to. Escape from the stifling compound was the only way to keep their minds from rusting. They slipped past the gates and down into the neutral city at the foot of the mountain, where there was always something to do, something new to see and experience and inspire.
Highslam's guards patrolled the city relentlessly, looking for the wayward scientists. Frivolous activities were anathema to the straight-laced, uptight general, and he heavily enforced rules against them. The more scientists that were caught in the city, the harder Highslam bore down on their free time, and the closer to burnout the less defiant scientists became. And still they were pushed, to create in an uncreative atmosphere, to be inspired without inspiration. Primus, Highslam wouldn't even give them details of the trials and issues Autobots were seeing in battle, citing 'confidential' and 'security risk' at them, as if they didn't have the highest security clearance codes a non-officer could have.
They were given nothing. And so they escaped to find something.
Wheeljack relished the feel of smooth road beneath his tires. Behind him, Highslam's stifling, gray compound fell behind, and ahead lay Isabax, in all of its glittering debauchery. He mused as he drove, hoping that his plan worked. He knew Ratchet had some sway in the high chain of Command - how much, he didn't know - and he'd sent a missive to his new friend, detailing the situation at the Isabax base. If anything could be done, he hoped Ratchet would be able to tell him.
The road rose into a high overpass, and thoughts of Ratchet passed to a lower processor. Isabax washed over him like a soothing oil bath, riotous and calming both. Music caught his audial and he followed it through the winding streets, to an outdoor... festival? Event? Random gathering of mechs? It didn't matter. What mattered was the music, the movement, the beauty in the physics of motion and interworking pistons and hydraulics and gears. He transformed at the edge of the crowd and watched.
A random gathering, he decided eventually. A scarlet comms mech stood over the gathering, his solar arrays spread like iridescent wings and music pouring from speakers somewhere within his chassis. Mechs danced at his feet and sometimes on his feet, using his legs as support or stages or seats. A lovely silver mech Wheeljack's size perched on his shoulder, swaying with the music and occasionally dancing across the broad expanse.
Wheeljack's wheels itched. It had been vorns since he'd last performed, just before the war broke out. There weren't many like him, who moved more gracefully on their wheels than they did on their feet, and even fewer took that skill beyond the race track and into dance. Unfortunately, that meant there were few dances laid out with wheels in mind, and he wondered if the big red mech knew any of the songs.
The comms mech looked directly at him and smiled behind his face guards.
The music changed, and the silver mech scrambled down the comms mech to the ground. A space cleared out, and the surrounding crowd must have known something Wheeljack didn't, for they all leaned forward eagerly, all optics on the silver mech. His visor slid beck and he deliberately winked at Wheeljack, then started to move.
It had to be a trick, oh, it just had to be, cruel bait set out to catch the scientists in the crowd. The mech was dancing a very specific set of moves, and Wheeljack knew that if a tracer was placed on his left pede just so, the movements would write out the glyphs of Ferroline's equations of the gravitational pull between four moons around one planet, one of the oldest and longest surviving equation sets known to Cybertron. And maybe it was a deliberate trick to catch him personally, because the choreographer Finestep had written 'Ferrous Orbitals' for a wheeled performer.
Not that the silver mech was doing a bad job. On the contrary, he was stunning, absolutely gorgeous, both in form and in movements. But it wasn't quite right. He was putting a personal touch into the moves that skewered the glyphs, and at one point, he even broke away from the routine to freestyle a short amount. Not a lot, no, and certainly not distasteful, but it grated. There were better ways to personalize the routine. The silver mech needed someone to guide him, to write out the base glyphs for him to embellish; he needed a partner, he needed-
Wheeljack's wheels itched again.
His engine roared within his chassis, drawing attention. The silver mech looked up and sent him a wordless ping, questioning and challenging and accepting all at once, and Wheeljack was in vehicle mode without realizing it. Mechs parted to let him through and Wheeljack dove into the routine seamlessly, picking up where the silver mech left off and spinning into the graceful curve of the third moon's interaction with the planet's magma oceans during an eclipse.
Sweet, joyous perfection. The silver mech became an accent to his numbers and drawn out formulas, spending as much time off the ground as he did on it, vaulting over Wheeljack's hood to trip out scintillating notes. Wheeljack was never sure what mode he was in, sliding between upright and wheeled without pause, his hands catching at the ground for friction or at the silver mech for support, and it was as if they had performed together for a lifetime.
If it was a trap, it was perfectly baited and he didn't care. The comms mech angled his panels to focus the music around them, until the air thrummed with noise and rhythm and the scrape of their feet and tires. They spun through the equations fast and hard, harsher than he'd ever performed Ferrous Orbitals in the past, but exquisitely precise, and he suspected the silver mech's embellishment before had been part of the lure. It was fully as good as any interface he'd experienced, and almost as good as the pure joy found in a moment of discovery and invention.
Highslam's guards at the edge of his vision, brazen enough to shove other mechs out of the way, but not enough to interrupt the performance. He ignored them, focused on his partner and their routine, until the music spiraled up into the brilliant finale and he found himself face to face with the silver mech, their engines running hot and their hands clasped to form the final downstroke on the final glyph.
For a brief moment, there was silence. And the crowd burst into raucous, overwhelming applause.
Wheeljack dropped the other mech's hands as if burnt, but he suspected that his vocal indicators were brilliant with the grin his face could no longer form. "Wheeljack," he said.
"Jazz," the other replied. "Just got here, on security detail." He looked around at the patrol, his visor sliding back into place. "And maybe on my way out. You're Ratchet's friend, right?"
"You know Ratchet?" Of all of the ends to this he had calculated, the idea that Ratchet may have sent this mech had never crossed his mind.
Jazz grinned wickedly. "We've met," he said, a vague note to his voice that implied that 'many, many times' should have been tacked onto the end of his sentence. He looked over his shoulder and made a gesture at the comms mech, who nodded once and took off, the backwash from his thrusters knocking over some smaller mechs. "Blaster'll let the doc-bot know I've found you," Jazz said, voice pitched low as Highslam's patrol approached. "Don't worry, mech. The cavalry has arrived."
"Some cavalry," Wheeljack pointed out, grinning again.
o o o
"Pointless!" Highslam spat, all sharp hand gestures and injured Seeker pride. "Frivolous indulgence!" Wheeljack made and constantly recalculated private bets with himself over when Jazz would start fidgeting, and was pleasantly surprised to be constantly proven wrong. "A disgusting waste of the army's time!" Wheeljack debated arguing that point, as he had gone out during his own precious off-time, but he knew better than to interrupt Highslam.
Highslam drew himself up coldly, looking down at them in pained disapproval and disgust. "I have been patient," he stated. "Generous, even. But you continue to throw my good will back in my face. I cringe to wonder what the Prime thinks of the outcome of this compound."
"Actually, he is concerned, but not for the reasons you think he should be." Wheeljack and Highslam both turned to Jazz, one in surprise, one in furious shock. Jazz was still at perfect attention with his visor down, but he was speaking to Highslam as an equal, and Wheeljack debated silently warning him. One of Highslam's peculiarities was a strict adherence to traditional chain of command.
Before he could make up his mind, Jazz continued. "The Prime and I spoke when the message came from this place," he explained, ignoring the interesting facial expressions Highslam was making. "As well as a few medics, and the Academy Sines that were at hand. It was determined that while you are one of the Autobot's best recruit trainers and an excellent commander, your particular skills are not what is needed here. I carry your new orders from the Prime."
"Really," Highslam hissed. "And what makes you think that I should trust the word of a foot-soldier who cannot even remain at his post?"
"Oh, right," Jazz mock-lamented. "I forgot to properly introduce myself. My name is Jazz, commander of the Blackrock saboteurs, and second lieutenant to Digger, head of the Autobots Information Requisition Department." The next part was encrypted, and Wheeljack suspected it was Jazz's authentication codes.
Which, if legit, placed Jazz somewhere in the chain just above Highslam and a few mechs below the Prime's bodyguard.
Highslam seemed to believe they were legit, for he straightened up, cold but respectful. "And who is to replace me?" he asked.
Jazz whistled sharply and the door opened to reveal one of Wheeljack's favorite mechs in the world. He hadn't spent long at the Academy, but he'd made several good friends and mentors while there, and the tiny mech crossing the floor brightened his spark. "Perceptor!"
Sine Perceptor swiveled several optics up and a broad smile split his face. "I have long entertained the notion that I would soon find myself in your proximity, Wheeljack." As he spoke he climbed Wheeljack's chassis with the ease of long familiarity, much the same way Jazz had climbed the comms mech earlier in the evening, and settled briefly on Wheeljack's raised forearm. "We shall have to reminisce and excogitate at a later time, when our duties are no longer quite so immenent." A light pinch to Wheeljack's elbow and Perceptor jumped to Highslam's deck, folding half of his limbs neatly beneath him. Wheeljack recognized it as Perceptor's business mode and quietly excused himself.
Just as the door shut, he received a private ping. /You, me, the road to Isabax, and the last of my travel allotment, dusk tomorrow? I'd like to see what other moves you know/ Wheeljack debated only a moment before sending Jazz a positive, and he went back to his quarters with a spark considerably lightened.