ante_luce | Mission... (not so)Impossible?

Late nights and deadlines inspire procrastination!crack. At least, in my case they do.

Title: Mission... (not so)Impossible?
'Verse: G1 Transformers.
Rating: ... Y'know, I have no friggin idea, so have an M (and M).
Warnings: Slash. Crack. Writer has thrown what they know of canon and characterisation to the four winds and written like a delirious giggle hound.

He was staring.

He shouldn’t. He had a mission, and staring while on a mission, particularly the ones of the type he was on right now, was a Very Bad Thing because it drew attention to you and whatever you were staring at, but in this case everyone else was staring as well so he might as well join in.

Not that he could stop himself if he tried.

Somewhere in the back of his processor a little voice nagged about priorities and mission objectives, and the fact that the entire team was pretty fed up with the lack of headway they were making with their mark, but… Primus.

Absently, he wondered just how they were going to get close to the mark now, with the mech clearly preoccupied with the same sight he was staring at.

= = =

It had been an easy task, or so they thought. Tail the mark, then get the information out of him by means fair or foul or a mix of both. But the mech was slagging hard to close. Ambushing the mark and getting the info by force had been vetoed. Mech was top of his game, and didn’t get there by being easily taken down. Even with the full team on him the odds of succeeding had been too poor to risk it. That left trickery, and frag, could the mech read minds or something?

Every attempt they’d made to be friendly had been rebuffed. The only femme on their team had tried as well, and not many would pass up on the chance to get a little interactive with a femme. Femmes were rarer than almost anything else on Cybertron, and this mech had brushed her aside like he was spark-bound to another. He wasn’t. Their background searches had confirmed that. And it was driving him crazy.

They’d even gone to the lengths of collaborating with some of the other teams assigned this mission (their superiors really, really wanted this mech’s info), professional rivalry put aside for now.

All of them had crashed and burned on their own. One of the teams even had to pull out because they’d blown their cover, making things oh so much easier for the others, sarcasm fully intended, and had done so by trying to attack the mark. The fact that they’d failed and were now all in the Med Bay had cemented the decision to avoid brute force. As such, they’d come to an agreement, why not pool their resources and work together?

So all of them were here, in this halfway to seedy bar, watching their mark laugh it up with his associates, putting away the high grade like there was no tomorrow. At least, his associates were drinking. Their mark wasn’t, or else he could hold his high grade like a tanker.

Then the aforementioned preoccupying sight had walked in, and everyone else in the bar had stopped dead.

= = =

The first thing that caught their attention was the paint job. Gleaming softly in the dim light, a lovely, almost pearlescent white. Already out of place in a joint like this, the paint was supplemented by a sleek, smooth chassis that he suddenly wanted to touch. Optics that brought to mind the Crystal Gardens of Praxus were set in that face, the crowning jewels of an already very appealing form. Were there more attractive mechs? No doubt. But something about this one drew their attention like cyberflies to fresh, sweet energon.

So, he stared.

And so did everyone else.

The pale mech moved through the crowd, shying a little at the hungry looks directed at him, and by the time he reached the bar and murmured his order, the other occupants of the establishment had started plotting. A daring hand reached out to graze across that tempting paintjob, resulting in a wide opticked flinch. Primus, this mech would not survive the next cycle.

He’d moved to be near the mech, offer a word of advice or some form of protection, but was stopped by a look from their mark. It chilled the energon in his lines and froze him in place until their mark reached the white mech, settled next to him and… did absolutely nothing.

Until the next time someone attempted to lay hands on him.

A lightning quick grab and twist, and a whimper of pain as the unfortunate spark backed off clutching his wrist, and the white mech turned startled optics onto his ‘defender’. Their mark leaned over, keeping a gentlemechly distance (and here he mentally scoffed. This mech was certainly no gentlemech by any stretch of the probability circuits.) and murmured low and nearly soothing into the white mech’s audio. Nearly soothing, because the undercurrent of desire was pretty fragging obvious to him. But the white mech didn’t seem to consciously pick up on it, and was nodding and thanking the mark with a shy little smile.

More murmurs were exchanged; a soft laugh and an embarrassed expression, then the white mech looked to the door in concern, only to have his attention drawn back by the mark, who’d gotten closer and laid a ‘concerned’ hand on the white mech’s.

“My friend was supposed to meet me here after four breems. Our agreement was if I managed to stay here that long on my own, he’d not bother me about going bar hopping with him for the next five decacycles.”

“Perhaps he was delayed?”

The white mech’s face gained a look of utter worry, and he made as if to stand and head out to look for his friend. The mark stopped him with a hand on a shoulder.

“Wait. If you leave now he may enter and miss you completely, and claim you didn’t keep your end of the deal. Stay, if this place makes you uncomfortable, there are rooms upstairs.”

Oh. My. Fragging. Primus.

“I’ve got an in with the owner here.”

Hah. He was the owner.

“You can wait there. I’ll stay with you and my friends can keep an eye out for your one, and let him know where you are.”

The white mech (on one hand, it warmed his spark that there were still innocents like this in the world. On the other, he wanted to beat his head in on a convenient hard surface because there was such a thing as too innocent) wavered, unsure.

“It’s no hardship to offer you this favour. All I ask is the pleasure of your company for a while.”

The white mech nodded finally, and was swiftly escorted away. He stopped himself from following. Abilities and ‘unfair advantages’ notwithstanding, if he up and disappeared right now every bot in the room would be trying to scan for him. So he stood and made his way out, intending to find a convenient dark alley, vanish and come back to keep an eye on the hapless spark upstairs.

He returned as quickly as he could, having to wait outside the door for someone to go in or come out in order to avoid giving himself away. The mech that had entered was a greyish and dark nondescript, the typical customer expected at this joint, but Nondescript’s words to the nearest visible bot stopped him in his tracks.

“’Scuse me, you seen my friend? All over white, he is, and we agreed to meet here.”

This? This was that mech’s friend? What kind of friend are you, to send an innocent like that one into a place like this? All things considered, at least this place wasn’t the worst of locations, and the white mech had likely encountered no more than an outrage of modesty (their mark, while all kinds of greasy, did not force his partners in that manner, for which he was immeasurably thankful).

“Oh, you’ve finally made it!” He whirled, nearly colliding with another mech (and wouldn’t that be a pretty mess to explain away) and stared some more. The white mech was trotting down the stairs and across the room to Mr Nondescript, relief in his optics and a pleased expression.

“Yeah, sorry I made you wait.”

“It’s alright. Someone kept an optic on me. But can we go, please?”

“Of course. But I should thank whoever took care of you first.”

“Oh, he was tired and in recharge when I left. I have his contact info though. We can thank him later.”

The innocent words caused him to reboot his audios and check his memory data to see if yes, indeed the white mech had said exactly that. Glancing around the room, he could see all his team mates and colleagues looking as stunned as he felt. Nondescript also shuttered optics in a blink, then nodded.

“Well then. Let’s be on our way.”

The white mech smiled and he tugged his friend towards the exit. The last words he heard from the pair were, “Remember, you said I didn’t have to go to bars with you for the next five decacycles.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember.”

Standing in the shadows, he had to groan mentally. They’d scoped out the upstairs rooms before, and if their mark was in recharge, he’d be in one of the most heavily protected ones. They’d not be able to get in before someone noticed, and this was the last day any of them had on this mission before they had to hand over the info, or were pulled out. Frag. Tomorrow was going to be embarrassing.

= = =

As he’d predicted, it was embarrassing. They gathered, all of them, even the ones in the ‘Med Bay’. Their instructor stood at the front of the briefing room, snickering over their abject failure. “Well, my dear little Ops mechs and femmes, all of you working together couldn’t get the job done?”

“Sir, setting us on your brother is a bit unfair.” Came a protest. “He knows all about every one of us.”

“As well he should, the number of times I’ve had to go drown my sorrows in his high grade and whinge about my darling circuit frying recruits. Now now, at least you all still graduate as fully fledged Operatives, this was just an extra credit challenge. Which, by the way, no one’s actually succeeded in yet.”

“What?” There was an outcry and their instructor flapped his hands at the group to shush them.

“Well now, it wouldn’t be an extra credit challenge if it was so easy, any scraplet could do it, would it? So, congrats on your last day as trainees, and… Where’s Jazz?”

They turned, looking for the mech who’d been transferred into the final vorn of Ops training because of his abilities. The black and white had not gotten a team because of his sudden insertion into their batch, when everyone had established their groups and a newcomer would upset the delicate balances required of them, and usually sat out the team training missions. However, this final challenge had been open to all, and while some had chosen to go it alone, most had stuck to their teams. They’d assumed he’d either not bothered, or had tried and like them failed.

“Too ashamed to show his face?” Suggested one of the less tactful bots.

“Didn’t bother in the first place, and is somewhere playing hooky?” Not an unwarranted suggestion, Jazz did exhibit quite the tendency to escape lessons and training with alarming regularity. But this was their final day, and the day they got their certifications. Jazz wouldn’t skip out on this.

As if summoned by their discussion, the mech waltzed into the room, a smile on his faceplates and a spring in his step.

“You’re late Jazz.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry. In fact, he looked smug. “I brought you a present though, to make up for it.”

“Ooh. Gimmie.” Their instructor’s dry tone was replied to with a laugh, and a datachip flipped into the air, which he snagged with ease. As the mech went through the datachip, his optics glowed brighter, and brighter and he finally looked up at a now wildly grinning Jazz in shock.

“How? When?”

Jazz tapped a finger on his lips, coyly smirking. “My little secret. Last night.”

“Show and tell time Jazzy. They worked hard, and deserve to know. Don’t you want to gloat?”

“Nah, I don’t gloat.” It was true, even when the mech outstripped them, he was hard to dislike because he never made a big deal out of it.

“I concede that. But I want to know as well.”

“Ask your brother.”

“If he didn’t tell me anything about this last night, he wouldn’t know either. And that’s dangerous for him and me.” Their instructor was serious now, and Jazz nodded in acquiescence.

“Fine. I had a partner who got the data for me, so you’d really have to ask him.”

“Who? You didn’t ask any one of us to work with you.”

“Didn’t say it was one of us.” Jazz was grinning again.

“That’s… got to be against the rules.” This prompted another laugh.

“We’re Special Ops, my mech, we make our own rules.” As the assembled bots burst into a flurry of discussion, their instructor laughed as well and they quieted.

“Quite true, but don’t break the official rules too often now Jazzy, or at least, don’t get caught too often. It makes the higher ups twitch.”

“Yessir.” A mock salute, and a cool, bored sounding drawl came from the doorway, startling the rest of them. They hadn’t heard, or noticed the newcomer.

“Jazz, stop tormenting your colleagues.”

Standing before them was a mech. A mech with a fragging familiar chassis, doorwinged frames were almost as rare as a femme, though the paintjob was different and eerily similar to Jazz’s. But remove the black and…

“Oh. Frag.” Every trainee in the room stared once more.

“Gentlemechs and Femmes, this is Prowl, one of the tactician trainees, he’ll be a real one in a few decacycles, they just gotta get off their afts and dig out the correct datapads for an early certifying. Prowler, these are my Ops buddies. Be nice and say hi first, they’re a little shell shocked.”

The mech in the doorway flickered his doorwings in amusement as he walked in. Gone was the shy innocent in the bar, in his place stood a mech that commanded attention and radiated competence.

“Wha?”

“Well now.” Their instructor was quiet. “He did mention you. Thought he was doing a good deed, keeping the pretty innocent away from the wandering hands of the bar.”

“To replace those wandering hands with his own.” Prowl replied, tone dry.

A shrug. “Never said he was all spark. How did you get the info?”

“Let him seduce me, and once he jacked in, looped his overload ‘till he couldn’t tell up from down and took what I wanted.” The suggestion in the mech’s voice, as professional as it was, sent shivers down the back struts of every bot in the room. Including Jazz.

“Ooh, talk to me Prowler.”

“Insatiable, aren’t you, Jazz.”

“Got a thing for your voice and authority.” Jazz leered, and Prowl promptly smacked away a wandering hand creeping along his doorwings. Faintly, he heard their instructor mutter something like ‘Quit the shameless flirting in public.’

“But. But you came out looking like he never even touched you!” Came a bewildered sputter.

“Well, I didn’t overload with him. Besides, Jazz took care of that for me later.” The matter of fact answer was met by more stares, before one bot thunked his head onto the table in front of him.

“T. M. I.”

“Primus. I need to scrub out my CPU now.”

“What? Us two sweet pieces of chassis together doesn’t tingle your circuits?” Jazz teased.

“Make him stop.” A pathetic entreaty, and Prowl tilted his head back and cycled air resignedly before cuffing Jazz upside the head.

“You heard the mech. No more kiss and tell.”

“Or else what?”

“You get nothing else to kiss and tell about.”

“Now that’s just cruel.” Jazz pouted, and he had to admire the tactician trainee’s ability to ignore that pout. It even worked on their instructor.

“Jazz.” The silky tone, equal parts promise and threat had the black and white Ops mech instantly agreeable.

“Yeah, sure. Fine. Anything you say.”

It was a long time after that before he could look either mech in the optic again.

And it didn’t help, even vorns later, when he saw the crew list for the Ark expedition and realised that oh Primus both of them were on that list, that he caught Jazz smirking at him and then grabbing Prowl and quite audibly suggesting a lengthy make out session.

Mirage fled with a whimper.