Mission - Drop In
Jan. 14th, 2009 04:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ante_luceAnother 'verse that was due some attention. At least the bunny is starting to be linear again. And demanding a return to its more cracky beginnings.
Title: Mission - Drop In
'Verse: G1 Transformers.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF Cussing.
“So… Come here often?”
“What are you doing out of Medical?”
“Can’t a bot visit a friend, Prowl?”
“Not when said friend is sitting in the brig.”
“Hah, you said that we’re friends out loud!”
“Jazz…”
“Fine, fine. I really did come to visit you. Yeah, I know I’m breaking regs left, right and all over, but they’re not gonna keep me from dropping in on the mech who masterminded the hauling of me and my team back from the Pit.”
“That is part of my job description, Jazz. And was that where you were? Odd, I seem to be there once again.”
“And you’re making funny. Just my luck no one’s around to hear it.”
“Fine, you’ve visited, now will you get back to Medical? Ratchet is going to take you apart, undoing all my work to get you back here in mostly one piece.”
“Ratch’ll have to catch me first. Ain’t no medbot sparked that can catch ol’ Jazz.”
“Ratchet will just wait until you get totalled on your next mission, and ‘forget’ about turning off your pain sensors.”
“Why Prowl, I knew you cared.” With an aggravated twitch of his doorwings, Prowl turned back to his datapad.
“Jazz, go back to the Med Bay, I have work to do.” This prompted a surprised shuttering of optics.
“You’re in the brig, what work?”
“The Ark doesn’t run itself, and if I leave the paperwork to everyone else, I’ll just have more work to do when I’m released.”
“So… Instead of sitting in your office all day, doing paperwork and planning missions, you’re sitting in the brig, doing paperwork and planning missions. How is this supposed to be any different from what you normally do?”
“Prime had no idea what else to do. I broke regulations, disregarded his orders, albeit implied ones, left without informing anyone, and allowed others to go with me. But I got his bots back, bots which destroyed a Decepticon operation as I did so, and he knows just how capable he is with paperwork.”
“… Welp. I’m here now, and your ‘punishment’ just got even less like one.”
“I’m not too sure about that.”
The Spec Ops head pouted (though the effect was ruined by the smirk threatening to take over his faceplates). “Very funny. Budge over.”
“… Jazz, do I want to know how you were able to deactivate the bars without the access codes?”
“Hmmm. Nope.” The blithe reply was answered with shuttered optics and a pinched nosebridge.
“Primus.”
“Hey, you swore too! This day is just full of things no one’s ever gonna believe.”
“Jazz, if you’re going to torment me, at least be quiet about it.”
“Gotcha, hushing up now.”
The Porsche huddled against the tactician, going quiet. Neither spoke for the next couple of breems, content in each other’s presence. Then, both suddenly looked up… at a patch of empty space.
“Can’t fool either of you, huh.”
Came the observation, made with resigned amusement as a pair of mechs, one green, one blue, appeared out of nowhere.
“Nope. You’re lucky you’re on our side.” Jazz grinned, while the Datsun sighed.
“Mirage, Hound.”
“Escaped from Ratchet as well, I presume, ‘Raj?”
“Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll just be imposing on your hospitality.” Both entered the cell, settling on either side of the black and white mechs. Prowl groaned again.
“Ratchet is going to deactivate me.”
“Hah. We’ll protect you.” The visored mech’s confident declaration was overshadowed by Hound’s proviso.
“We’ll try, at least. Ratchet could scare the slag out of the Unmaker.”
“Hey guys! Sorry I’m late!”
And thus Prime found them that way, after getting past Smokescreen’s numerous delaying and obfuscating tactics (and a certain gunner’s big blue optics), a bumblepuppy pile of Special Operations mechs pressed tightly around his SIC (still working away, datapad in hand), who wore a look filled both with longsuffering and, to those familiar enough with Prowl’s subtle expressions, fond amusement.
“At least they’re in recharge. One less thing for Ratchet to rail about.”
Muttered the large mech, faceplates buried in one palm as the tactician looked up at him from his seat on the ground, smiling wryly in agreement.
Title: Mission - Drop In
'Verse: G1 Transformers.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF Cussing.
“So… Come here often?”
“What are you doing out of Medical?”
“Can’t a bot visit a friend, Prowl?”
“Not when said friend is sitting in the brig.”
“Hah, you said that we’re friends out loud!”
“Jazz…”
“Fine, fine. I really did come to visit you. Yeah, I know I’m breaking regs left, right and all over, but they’re not gonna keep me from dropping in on the mech who masterminded the hauling of me and my team back from the Pit.”
“That is part of my job description, Jazz. And was that where you were? Odd, I seem to be there once again.”
“And you’re making funny. Just my luck no one’s around to hear it.”
“Fine, you’ve visited, now will you get back to Medical? Ratchet is going to take you apart, undoing all my work to get you back here in mostly one piece.”
“Ratch’ll have to catch me first. Ain’t no medbot sparked that can catch ol’ Jazz.”
“Ratchet will just wait until you get totalled on your next mission, and ‘forget’ about turning off your pain sensors.”
“Why Prowl, I knew you cared.” With an aggravated twitch of his doorwings, Prowl turned back to his datapad.
“Jazz, go back to the Med Bay, I have work to do.” This prompted a surprised shuttering of optics.
“You’re in the brig, what work?”
“The Ark doesn’t run itself, and if I leave the paperwork to everyone else, I’ll just have more work to do when I’m released.”
“So… Instead of sitting in your office all day, doing paperwork and planning missions, you’re sitting in the brig, doing paperwork and planning missions. How is this supposed to be any different from what you normally do?”
“Prime had no idea what else to do. I broke regulations, disregarded his orders, albeit implied ones, left without informing anyone, and allowed others to go with me. But I got his bots back, bots which destroyed a Decepticon operation as I did so, and he knows just how capable he is with paperwork.”
“… Welp. I’m here now, and your ‘punishment’ just got even less like one.”
“I’m not too sure about that.”
The Spec Ops head pouted (though the effect was ruined by the smirk threatening to take over his faceplates). “Very funny. Budge over.”
“… Jazz, do I want to know how you were able to deactivate the bars without the access codes?”
“Hmmm. Nope.” The blithe reply was answered with shuttered optics and a pinched nosebridge.
“Primus.”
“Hey, you swore too! This day is just full of things no one’s ever gonna believe.”
“Jazz, if you’re going to torment me, at least be quiet about it.”
“Gotcha, hushing up now.”
The Porsche huddled against the tactician, going quiet. Neither spoke for the next couple of breems, content in each other’s presence. Then, both suddenly looked up… at a patch of empty space.
“Can’t fool either of you, huh.”
Came the observation, made with resigned amusement as a pair of mechs, one green, one blue, appeared out of nowhere.
“Nope. You’re lucky you’re on our side.” Jazz grinned, while the Datsun sighed.
“Mirage, Hound.”
“Escaped from Ratchet as well, I presume, ‘Raj?”
“Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll just be imposing on your hospitality.” Both entered the cell, settling on either side of the black and white mechs. Prowl groaned again.
“Ratchet is going to deactivate me.”
“Hah. We’ll protect you.” The visored mech’s confident declaration was overshadowed by Hound’s proviso.
“We’ll try, at least. Ratchet could scare the slag out of the Unmaker.”
“Hey guys! Sorry I’m late!”
And thus Prime found them that way, after getting past Smokescreen’s numerous delaying and obfuscating tactics (and a certain gunner’s big blue optics), a bumblepuppy pile of Special Operations mechs pressed tightly around his SIC (still working away, datapad in hand), who wore a look filled both with longsuffering and, to those familiar enough with Prowl’s subtle expressions, fond amusement.
“At least they’re in recharge. One less thing for Ratchet to rail about.”
Muttered the large mech, faceplates buried in one palm as the tactician looked up at him from his seat on the ground, smiling wryly in agreement.
