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*puzzled*
I fear I can't differentiate crack bunnies from normal bunnies anymore (I blame that Raving Rabbids game I just got). Help?
Title: Rollcall
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
“Hm… We got an Autobot incoming.”
“Who?”
“Dunno, haven’t seen them before. Black and white paint… Ah, he’s transforming. A red chevron, basic rank marks and ooh, he’s got doorwings-”
“Doorwi- Frag. Go out and meet him before he hits the border line, and ask him who he’s looking for. Tell him I sent you.”
“Eh?”
“Just go! And then come back with the list and we’ll take it from there. Don’t let him come in. You’re new, I’ll explain later, now for the love of shiny credits go!”
“Fine, fine, on my way.”
= = =
“ ‘Scuse me sir, Crosscut sent me. Who’re you looking for?”
“Who am I not looking for.” The mech cycled air in what might have been weary amusement, had those faceplates not been impassive. Yet there was a certain flicker in this bot’s optics that he liked. The chevroned officer held out a datapad, which he took. “I have a list.”
“I see that. And frag, what a list.” There was a whistle as he scrolled through the file. The doorwinged mech shrugged, doors flicking casually.
“The usual, actually. If these individuals want to expend their wage on such pursuits during their off cycle, fine, I’m not their creator. But they could have the decency to not get carried away and report in on time.”
“Heh, I hear you. Not fun trying to clean up after them.”
“Oh, do I need to make a trip in again?”
“No, don’t think so. Cross said to get this back to him and he’d do the rest.”
“I’ll wait out here then.”
“Ta. Back as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.”
= = =
He watched in amazement as Crosscut scanned the list, then pinged the network of bar owners and ‘others’ in their shady little commune. In moments, mechs and femmes were shooed out of doorways and alleys, a few out and out laughing as they trooped to the public exit of their favourite ‘den of iniquity’, as some termed it, calling back promises to visit again soon.
The mech outside watched as the bots filed past him, looking like he was ticking them off against a mental checklist (and for all he knew, this mech probably was).
“S’that all of them?” He’d been sent out again when the mech frowned at the retreating back of the last individual to leave.
“I’m afraid not.” The mech looked up at the entrance, and Crosscut came hurrying out.
“Frag, there’s a problem with the last one.”
“… I have to go in, don’t I.” The Autobot officer was resigned, and Crosscut wrung his hands in despair.
“Don’t, please.”
“Crosscut, I don’t want to do this either, but I do have to get them back before it’s time for them to report in.”
He stared again as his boss sighed and patted the officer on the shoulder, replying genially. “Curse of your rank. High enough to be given these orders, not high enough to delegate them. Do us all a favour and get promoted soon.”
“I fear I will still have to do this, even if I become the Prime’s Second.”
Crosscut shook his head at the dry response. “You are too effective. There’s another problem right there.”
“I can’t change who I am.”
Now the chevroned mech smiled, and he found his processors stuttering, causing him to blurt out a questioning, “Crosscut?”
“Right. You don’t know. This here is Prowl, an Autobot officer who has to ensure that certain Autobots get back in line after their cycle off. The last time he had to enter, it took us decacycles to get bots spending again.”
“Whoa. Why?”
“Look at him! All authority and noble and dignified like. He shames our beloved riffraff into being good bots and going home to their creator just by being there. Profits crash like an addict out of stims. So we’ve come to an agreement. He gives us a list, we kick ‘em out, how he gets them back to base is his problem, but he doesn’t have to come in.”
“Crosscut.” Prowl groaned, looking a little embarrassed. “You’re stalling.”
“Yes I am. And here’s why.” His boss waved at the hulking mech who dropped the offline chassis of another bot at the officer’s feet. “Needed time to get his aft here. You’d have been your fragging efficient self and gone in if I hadn’t. Sorry.”
Another chuckle, and his processors skipped again. The doorwinged mech looked at the limp form, and glanced wryly up at the sky as if asking Primus for patience.
“I’ll help you lug him back.”
Both Prowl and Crosscut blinked at him now, and he grinned, ignoring the sudden fluttering of his fuel pump. “Well, it’s good business to be friendly with you, apparently, and you ain’t getting this one back on your own. I remember him. He’s heavy.”
The officer paused, then nodded in acceptance of his offer.
= = =
Mech dragged back (Prowl had connected tow cables to both their vehicle forms and then attached them to the bot, he felt like the chevroned mech thought it served this one right), he stood outside the base as the black and white Autobot supervised the transporting in of their ‘passenger’. When Prowl turned back to him, he grinned and saluted him sloppily, gleaning a tiny huff of amusement from the mech.
“Welp, gotta get back to Crosscut. Poor slagger’s probably pining.”
“Thank you for your help. I’m afraid I don’t know your designation.”
“Name’s Jazz. See you next time your charges get an off cycle, Prowl?”
“Of that I have no doubt. Good bye, Jazz. ”
He smirked, saluted again, then transformed and sped off, circuits strangely singing with glee.
Title: Rollcall
'Verse: G1 Transformers
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
“Hm… We got an Autobot incoming.”
“Who?”
“Dunno, haven’t seen them before. Black and white paint… Ah, he’s transforming. A red chevron, basic rank marks and ooh, he’s got doorwings-”
“Doorwi- Frag. Go out and meet him before he hits the border line, and ask him who he’s looking for. Tell him I sent you.”
“Eh?”
“Just go! And then come back with the list and we’ll take it from there. Don’t let him come in. You’re new, I’ll explain later, now for the love of shiny credits go!”
“Fine, fine, on my way.”
= = =
“ ‘Scuse me sir, Crosscut sent me. Who’re you looking for?”
“Who am I not looking for.” The mech cycled air in what might have been weary amusement, had those faceplates not been impassive. Yet there was a certain flicker in this bot’s optics that he liked. The chevroned officer held out a datapad, which he took. “I have a list.”
“I see that. And frag, what a list.” There was a whistle as he scrolled through the file. The doorwinged mech shrugged, doors flicking casually.
“The usual, actually. If these individuals want to expend their wage on such pursuits during their off cycle, fine, I’m not their creator. But they could have the decency to not get carried away and report in on time.”
“Heh, I hear you. Not fun trying to clean up after them.”
“Oh, do I need to make a trip in again?”
“No, don’t think so. Cross said to get this back to him and he’d do the rest.”
“I’ll wait out here then.”
“Ta. Back as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.”
= = =
He watched in amazement as Crosscut scanned the list, then pinged the network of bar owners and ‘others’ in their shady little commune. In moments, mechs and femmes were shooed out of doorways and alleys, a few out and out laughing as they trooped to the public exit of their favourite ‘den of iniquity’, as some termed it, calling back promises to visit again soon.
The mech outside watched as the bots filed past him, looking like he was ticking them off against a mental checklist (and for all he knew, this mech probably was).
“S’that all of them?” He’d been sent out again when the mech frowned at the retreating back of the last individual to leave.
“I’m afraid not.” The mech looked up at the entrance, and Crosscut came hurrying out.
“Frag, there’s a problem with the last one.”
“… I have to go in, don’t I.” The Autobot officer was resigned, and Crosscut wrung his hands in despair.
“Don’t, please.”
“Crosscut, I don’t want to do this either, but I do have to get them back before it’s time for them to report in.”
He stared again as his boss sighed and patted the officer on the shoulder, replying genially. “Curse of your rank. High enough to be given these orders, not high enough to delegate them. Do us all a favour and get promoted soon.”
“I fear I will still have to do this, even if I become the Prime’s Second.”
Crosscut shook his head at the dry response. “You are too effective. There’s another problem right there.”
“I can’t change who I am.”
Now the chevroned mech smiled, and he found his processors stuttering, causing him to blurt out a questioning, “Crosscut?”
“Right. You don’t know. This here is Prowl, an Autobot officer who has to ensure that certain Autobots get back in line after their cycle off. The last time he had to enter, it took us decacycles to get bots spending again.”
“Whoa. Why?”
“Look at him! All authority and noble and dignified like. He shames our beloved riffraff into being good bots and going home to their creator just by being there. Profits crash like an addict out of stims. So we’ve come to an agreement. He gives us a list, we kick ‘em out, how he gets them back to base is his problem, but he doesn’t have to come in.”
“Crosscut.” Prowl groaned, looking a little embarrassed. “You’re stalling.”
“Yes I am. And here’s why.” His boss waved at the hulking mech who dropped the offline chassis of another bot at the officer’s feet. “Needed time to get his aft here. You’d have been your fragging efficient self and gone in if I hadn’t. Sorry.”
Another chuckle, and his processors skipped again. The doorwinged mech looked at the limp form, and glanced wryly up at the sky as if asking Primus for patience.
“I’ll help you lug him back.”
Both Prowl and Crosscut blinked at him now, and he grinned, ignoring the sudden fluttering of his fuel pump. “Well, it’s good business to be friendly with you, apparently, and you ain’t getting this one back on your own. I remember him. He’s heavy.”
The officer paused, then nodded in acceptance of his offer.
= = =
Mech dragged back (Prowl had connected tow cables to both their vehicle forms and then attached them to the bot, he felt like the chevroned mech thought it served this one right), he stood outside the base as the black and white Autobot supervised the transporting in of their ‘passenger’. When Prowl turned back to him, he grinned and saluted him sloppily, gleaning a tiny huff of amusement from the mech.
“Welp, gotta get back to Crosscut. Poor slagger’s probably pining.”
“Thank you for your help. I’m afraid I don’t know your designation.”
“Name’s Jazz. See you next time your charges get an off cycle, Prowl?”
“Of that I have no doubt. Good bye, Jazz. ”
He smirked, saluted again, then transformed and sped off, circuits strangely singing with glee.
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