::Comm Speak::

An Invitation: Jazz and Prowl

:;Hey Prowler. Ya busy?::

The unexpected comm broke into Prowl's awareness with the subtlety of an air raid siren. Doorwings flicked up and down, expressing irritation to an empty room.

::You commed me during office hours, Jazz. Of course I'm busy::

Some of the irritation leaked over into the Tactician's voice, but that was only to be expected. Now that the Autobots had an alliance with the dominant sapient species of the world, Prowl's workload had taken a sharp increase. Dealing with a mixed-species army unit was the special kind of Pit he wished he'd never gotten the chance to experience.

::Yeah. Silly question, Ah know. Gotta klick?::

Prowl rolled his shoulders, considering the question. Hydraulics throughout his arms and torso complained at the prolonged lack of movement they'd been subjected to as he weighed his options.

Judging by how unrepentantly cheerful the TIC sounded if Prowl didn't let him get this off his chest now then he would assuredly be getting pings and text messages several times an hour until the end of his shift. That would slow him up more and create a greater desire to throttle his fellow office than a brief conversation now would do.

Having made his decision, Prowl placed the datapad he was working on back on his desk with a definitive click and braced himself to bite the proverbial bullet.

::You have five minutes, Jazz. What is it?::

He could practically feel the Saboteur's glee at his easy success from clear across the Ark. It definitely carried over their commlink, making Prowl's lips twitch in what was definitely NOT a smirk at Jazz's predictability.

::Awesome. Ya know that Earth thing, Valentine's Day?::

A frisson of apprehension flickered through Prowl's neural net at the question. Where was this going?

::I do. What of it?::

Prowl's reply was cautious. Everything could go to slag very, very easily right now if he didn't maneuver around his Battle Computer with extreme caution. He had too much to do without crashing and wasting wasting half the day in Med Bay.

::Em-Kay has jus' been tellin' meh of an interestin' an' uncommon tradition fer that par-tick-you-lah day::

Even over comms, Jazz's voice sounded like that of a cat that had gotten itself shut in an aviary full of small, flightless birds. Extremely pleased with himself and so blasted smug he would be absolutely unbearable in person.

From his vorns of experience with Jazz Antics, Prowl could picture the precise variation of Slag-Eating Grin that would no doubt be gracing the Saboteur's faceplates right about now.

Since he was alone in his office, Prowl indulged himself in an ex-vent that was very much like an aggrieved sigh. By now Jazz was well aware of the limits that the Tac-Net and Battle Computer placed upon Prowl in regards to his ability to interact with others. Still, the irrepressible mech was intent on pressing their luck more often than was probably safe.

::And just what would this tradition be, Jazz?::

Prowl sent that in a carefully bland tone, one devoid of any and all emotional modulations.

::A Girls' Night Out:: Came back cheerfully over the comm. ::Jus' a group of friends getting' together an' hangin' out. We'll have some fun t'gether an' celebrate all of us bein' free of romantic attachments.::

Prowl processed this for a full minute, examining the concept from every possible angle.

::I. . . . See::

While he genuinely did see what Jazz meant, for the life of him Prowl couldn't figure out just where this was going. He deliberately tried to think as little as possible about his friendship and definite NON-RELATIONSHIP with Jazz to avoid triggering the coding restrictions that would send the Tac-Net and Battle Computer into a spectacular crash. There was just one small issue currently niggling at the Battle Computer, though.

::You do realise that neither you nor I are human females, correct?::

Over the vorns of their association, Prowl had developed the ability to convey the idea of a raised optic ridge through tone of voice alone.

::Prowler; we're not human so th' girls said it don' matter. Aaanyway I was thinkin' that since we all happen t' have off-days on th' 14th and 15th, that mebby we should have ourselves a little get-t'gether on th' 14th t' just hang out an' celebrate that none of us have to do all that mushy stuff::

Jazz positively twinkled with mischief over the commlink. With a nearly audible clunk, comprehension bloomed in Prowl's processor in a way that was completely harmless so far as upsetting the Battle Computer was concerned. Jazz had found a way for them to have a date-that-was-not-a-date and to be together on what was, honestly, a rather nauseatingly romantic day.

::I assume that by 'We' you are referring to yourself and Miss Banes. What did you two have in mind?::

Prowl wasn't sure if he should be looking forward to this or preparing for imminent disaster. Anything that Jazz and Mikaela Banes planned together tended to be rather . . .spectacular. In any and all senses of the word. Mikaela's knowledge of contemporary American culture combined with Jazz's well-honed party planning skills in some very interesting ways.

::Maggie's just got back from Oz an' she's still on holiday, so Em-Kay suggested we all go down to Th' Track an' have a bit of a race. Loser supplies th' highgrade for drinks and talkin' after.::

Ok, Prowl could definitely look forward to this. Ratchet was constantly on at him for not moving about as much has his Enforcer-built frame needed, even threatening to lock Prowl out of the Ark or set the Lamborghini Twins on him if he consistently failed to get enough physical activity.

A long-buried part of Prowl shuddered in pure delight at the mention of The Track.

The war builds had their underground coliseum-style training area for hand-to-hand combat and there were several firing ranges for the gunners. Then for those whose frames were built for speed and pursuit there was The Track. The Track wasn't its official name, but characteristic human nicknaming had stuck it with the simple, descriptive moniker.

It was a large ground level area with drag strips for sprints and an asphalted, vaguely Daytona-inspired looping track for basic endurance. These civilised amenities only took up about a third of the area that had been allocated for The Track. Occupying the final two-thirds was a large off-roading area which contained a metalled dirt track unlike anything to have ever been found on Cybertron. This road wound around and through the heavily rutted sections of the more 'hardcore' off-roading area, providing a truly intoxicating challenge for anyone possessed of a need for speed.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced Prowl became that this idea was verging on genius.

::How do Miss Banes and Miss Masden benefit from the racing?::

Prowl was 90% certain that everything had been decided in advance and now all that was required was for him to agree to go. Jazz's reply immediately confirmed this suspicion.

::They'll ride wit' us fer th' warm-up laps, then hop out an' play judges fer th' real deal.::

There was a 75% likelihood that by now Jazz had kicked his pedes up onto his desk and was tilting his chair back while aiming that slag-eating grin at his own office ceiling. It was fifty-fifty as to whether Jazz had his servos behind his helm or was using them to illustrate his points to empty air as he conversed with Prowl.

::Would it be correct to assume you have already us sorted into appropriate teams for this endeavour?::

Prowl's voice was dryly amused, even over the commlink. While chaos was Jazz's stock-in-trade, in some things he was eminently predictable.

::Mech, ya know meh too well. When Em-Kay an I talked it ovah we figured that since Mags has broken more human laws, she'll go wit' you and Em-Kay will stick wit' meh. Ya'll keep Mags from breakin' any more rules an' Em-Kay can borrow one o' Th' Hatchets wrenches to keep meh in line::

A rich chuckle underlaid Jazz's response. Prowl briefly wondered if the human gesture of face-palming would be appropriate in this situation.

It was absurd for Jazz to suggest that Mikaela would be able to lift a Ratchet-sized wrench, let alone wield it with force sufficient to pose enough of a threat to force the Saboteur to modulate his behaviour. The absurdity was probably the point, so Prowl forcibly reigned in his Battle Computer before the blatantly illogical statement made it pitch a fit.

::I believe what you mean to say is that since Maggie has spent less time with us she will be reassured by the sense of safety she subconsciously associates with my alt-mode. Whereas Mikaela has had more experience with Cybertronians and will thus be able to handle your usual shenanigans with greater composure::

::Ya wound meh, Prowler! D'ya really think Ahm that connivin'?::

Excessive use of melodrama detected. 95% probability of Jazz having just faked a theatrical over-reaction to an imaginary chest wound to his empty office.

Prowl's doorwings twitched with amusement. Few of the Autobots got his sense of humour. It wasn't until some human soldiers introduced the Autobot SIC to British comedy shows that he realised some of their organic allies actually noticed when he was being deliberately humorous.

Pleasure at the prospect of the upcoming social event (Outing with friends, "Girls' Night Out" Not a date) prickled through Prowl's systems, allowing him to slide some rare teasing past the Battle Computer's restraints on his social interactions.

::No.::

::No?!::

::At the very least, I believe the correct description would be 'Positively Machiavellian'. Why you of all mechs became an Autobot will forever elude me.::

There was a full three seconds of dead silence over the commlink before Jazz erupted into peals of laughter that hissed into static as the force of his mirth shorted his vocaliser.

::These people have been good for ya, Prowler. Ah'll let Em-Kay an Mags know 'bout th' 14th. Meetcha at th' gates at 1000.::

::That sounds excellent, Jazz. Thank you for going to the trouble of arranging this::

::Mah pleasure, Prowler. Ah'll let ya get back t' work now::

Even though he couldn't see Jazz, Prowl was certain that the Saboteur was positively glowing with triumph right about now. Pushing his luck with the Battle Computer, Prowl made a calculated risk and borrowed a phrase he'd frequently overheard the human members of NEST use when one of their friends had inconvenienced them.

::By the way, Jazz? That was seven minutes. Not five. You owe me.::

Smugly Prowl ignored the Saboteur's flabbergasted splutters and cut the commlink.

As he returned his focus to the datapad patiently waiting on his desk, the Battle Computer helpfully supplied the information that there was a 15.7% chance he'd just managed to make Jazz fall out of his chair.