Another little crackfic, I'm seriously getting lazy with my other stories.
This one came while I was listening to Technologic.
Usual notes:
Jazz it alive, accept it. I'm not going to come up with an excuse as to why he's alive in a crackfic. Deal with it, m'kay?
Prowl's, for those who want to know, alt mode is a 2010 Camaro Police Cruiser. I picked it because when I saw it it scream "Prowl".
At least it did to me.
Once again, I'd like to warn everyone: I'm used to writing horror, regardless of how many crackfics I seem to be pushing out these days.
I'm sorry if you don't like my idea of humor.
Er, T again, because I like to be careful, though there's nothing, I can find, that's really all that bad.
If you squint your eyes and turn your head at a twenty-degree angle, I guess you can find a spot that looks like Prowl/Jazz.
Reviews, as usual, are appreciated.
Technologic
Once he landed on Earth, Prowl was welcomed with work. Piles and piles of it. His optic twitched and he had nearly screamed in rebellion. Instead, he got to work. It was obvious everyone had ignored their duties to protect the humans from the Decepticons, but really? Not even one tenth of the work was done!
He was grateful Jazz was around, today. He was grateful for his friend's eagerness to help. What he wasn't grateful for was just how Jazz was helping. Yes, he was helping organize everything, gathering everything that needed to go from point A to point B - but that song. Oh, Primus, that song!
"Will you stop, Jazz?" Prowl finally snapped as the song came to it's sudden halt. Jazz looked up and grinned.
"Aw, c'mon, Prowl," Jazz offered forth a grin. Prowl glared.
"No, do you know how many times they say the word 'it' in that song? Three-hundred-fifty times. Three-hundred-fifty!" Jazz's optics lit up.
"Really? Let's find out!"
"Jazz, no!" Too late. Jazz had hit the Play button on his speakers, and the song started for the umpteenth time.
Buy it, use it, break it, fix it.
Trash it, change it, mail – upgrade it.
Charge it, point it, zoom it, press it.
Snap it, work it, quick – erase it.
Write it, cut it, paste it, save it.
Load it, check it, quick – rewrite it..
Plug it, play it, burn it, rip it.
Drag it, drop it, zip – unzip it.
Lock it, fill it, call it, find it.
View it, code it, jam – unlock it.
Surf it, scroll it, pause it, click it.
Cross it, crack it, switch – update it.
Name it, read it, tune it, print it.
Scan it, send it, fax – rename it.
Touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it.
Turn it, leave it, start – format it.
Prowl pressed his hands to his audio receivers, groaning in agony. It hadn't been so bad at first. Prowl had actually laughed at the lyrics, but now, Primus have mercy on him!
"Jazz!" He cried in desperation, he was begging someone, anyone, to come and rescue him. Jazz laughed, snapping his fingers in tune to the song. Prowl whimpered, pressing his hands harder against his audio receivers. This is it. I'm a goner. My processor is going to explode, and I'll offline. He realized.
"Jazz! When I offline, I demand you stay away from the funeral!" He cried, causing Jazz to laugh.
"Aw, Prowl. Why you gotta be like that?" Jazz asked, the song continuing.
Technologic.
Technologic.
Technologic.
Technologic.
Buy it, use it, break it, fix it.
Prowl half wondered why he was Jazz's friend in the first place. The two had nothing in common. Prowl like quiet, and preferred to keep to himself; Jazz liked loud music and being around people. The two were polar opposites; water and fire; yin and yang.
Surf it, scroll it, pause it, click it.
Cross it, crack it, switch – update it.
Name it, read it, tune it, print it.
Scan it, send it, fax – rename it.
Prowl vaguely wondered exactly how many times he had heard the song. It had to be more than ten – by a long shot – but, had it entered triple digits? Prowl offlined his optics and tried his best to tune out the song, but found the more he tried, the more it leaked through his fingers.
Jazz laughed and began to dance, obviously forgetting the work they were supposed to be doing. Prowl pressed his hands tighter around his head, and wondered how much more pressure it would take to crush it.
The two were only vaguely aware of the door sliding open and Bumblebee entering, carrying a stack of datapads. He stopped and stared at the two. Jazz was, as earthlings would say, getting down with his bad self and Prowl looked ready to end it all. Bumblebee cocked his head to a side, listening to the lyrics.
Plug it, play it, burn it, rip it.
Drag it, drop it, zip – unzip it.
Bumblebee chirped, saving the song to his memory banks. He sat the stack down next to Prowl and patted the black mech. Prowl looked up, almost hopeful, but the yellow scout left, a few cords of the song echoing out of his own speakers. Prowl groaned in agony.
Technologic
Technologic.
The song ended, again. Prowl slowly removed his hands and looked up at Jazz.
"Please, for the sake of Cybertron, don't play that fraggin song again!" Jazz laughed.
"A'right, a'right. Keep your tailpipes cool." Jazz held up his hands in surrender. Prowl sighed and reached for a new datapad and scanned over it.
Jazz seemed to be looking for a new song, and Prowl decided anything would be better than hearing that other song.
Work it.
Make it.
Do it.
Makes us.
Harder.
Better.
Faster.
Stronger.
More than.
Hour.
Our.
Never.
Ever.
After.
Work is.
Over.
Prowl relaxed, thanking Primus it wasn't the same song. Little did he know that in the next few mega-cycles, Prowl would be chasing Jazz down the hall, throwing datapads at his friend, screaming "I'll show you! Work it harder! Make it better! Do it faster!" with an audience of every last Autobot and a few humans, looking on in confusion, and slightly unsure of what to make of the context.