Verse: pre-earth G1 AU
Pairings: Prowl/Jazz
Rating: M, cuz I'm paranoid (blame Red Alert, he's been whispering in my ear again)
Note: this is my first fanfic and I don't have a beta, so it is likely to be rife with grammer and punctuation problems, homonyms, and other errors. Sorry in advance and please help me out by letting me know where the errors are so I can remove them. I will be updating this fic as the muse allows since I currently have about four different stories running through my head all vying for writing time.
Also, I like to make OCs for the purpose of being redshirts, so if I kill one off but you liked the name, please feel free to take it (note: only adopt names of DECEASED OCs).
Vorn = 83 years
Decacycle = 3 weeks
Orn = 1 day
Joor = 1 hour
Dark-cycle = nighttime
Light-cycle = daytime
Klik = 1 minute
Nanoklik or Astroklik = 1 second
Chapter 1:
The shuttle descended towards Iacon slowly, circling the once proud towers and revealing the massive armaments that guarded the gargantuan underground Autobot base. A black and white mech sat fairly glued to the window panel in amazement. Blackshot chuckled softly in his seat across the deck. The head of spec ops and current TIC of the Autobots was amused by the young mech. He was acting every bit the new recruit he was purported to be, only Blackshot knew otherwise. This innocent seeming mech, designation Jazz, was one of the most talented recruits ever to be courted by Blackshot's department. The mech could fade into any background, becoming invisible, without the energy consuming addition of a phase disruptor. Jazz truly was youthful and exuberant, but, when he went into mission-mode, a darker construct emerged. Blackshot had chosen to mentor the younger mech after witnessing one of his more flamboyant missions, a highly impressive piece of work that would sadly never see the light of orn to receive the adulation it should have earned.
Now, technically, when a new spec ops recruit was brought in, it was performed in secret and most mechs never saw them unless they managed to become one of the few soldiers deemed worthy enough to serve on a mission with them. However, Blackshot had a need for his newest asset to be highly visible.
A slight jolt from the shuttle told the TIC that they had landed and the crowd of new soldiers on the deck preparing to disembark encouraged him to find his charge. Blackshot had just reached Jazz's side when he happened to look out the window. What he saw made him swear audibly, "Frag, it's the stick-aft."
Jazz's eyebrow rose in clear mirth at his commander's words, but wisely allowed his mentor to elaborate without comment.
"You, lad are about to meet one of the stiffest, coldest sparks ever to be spat out of the Pit." Blackshot growled. "Our illustrious SIC has apparently decided that today's influx of newsparks should be inducted into the ranks with a 'proper' post-disembarking inspection. If you have any contraband items on you, I suggest you place them in your spec ops subspace because all other subspaces are subject to this farce."
The young agent gave a nod to his superior and began to empty his belongings into a highly secure subspace within a subspace. After he finished, Jazz slipped into the crowd and followed them out onto the runway. A tall black and white of Praxian origins awaited them along with a massive red mech whose favored weapon appeared to be the set of cannons he sported on his forearms. The red one quickly ordered them to line up in parade rest beside the shuttle. The twenty or so freshlings did as ordered, but not without a bit of nervous muttering. The Praxian snapped his doorwings back in a severe motion as he strode down the line examining the troops. He addressed them as he neared the end of their group, "I am Autobot Prowl, second-in-command of the Autobots, and chief tactical officer. I am responsible for your discipline, your schedules, and your duty assignments. If you show yourselves to be mature additions to our ranks then you will be rewarded accordingly, however, if you choose to exemplify attitudes of disorder or otherwise attempt to encourage troublesome behavior, I will see to it that you are paid in kind. Please remember that you are part of a unit now and can no longer afford to think solely for yourselves."
As the officer droned on about the importance of proper behavior whilst on base, Jazz could not help but find his attention waning. He did think that the mech had a nice vocalizer, a deep baritone that drifted soothingly through his auditory processor, but Jazz ultimately found himself agreeing with Blackshot, Prowl was a stick-aft. Apparently, several of the recruits thought so too, for a soft call of "hardaft" wafted down from the other end of the line. It would have gone unheard, but Jazz's audials were hypersensitive as was befitting a mech of his calling. Jazz found it mildly surprising when Prowl turned to face the grunt that had spoken with unerring accuracy, since he knew that Praxians did not naturally come with enhanced hearing. He was drawn from that curious line of thought though, by the SIC's response. "Soldier, what is your designation?"
The recruit looked back brashly answering, "Gravwell… sir."
The soldier's ill-advised decision to tack on the 'sir' as if an afterthought sealed his fate, the SIC drew himself up straighter in an even more severely perfect posture. "Private Gravwell, for the crime of slandering a superior officer in effort to undermine said officer's authority, you are hereby sentenced to one orn in the brig, followed by six cycles of cleaning duty under the supervision of corporal Huffer. Ironhide, please escort our brig's inaugural guest to their cell."
The recruits were stunned into silence after that, and Jazz with them. He was most shocked by the fact that the officer had shown no sign of any emotions during the entire speech and had not even raised his voice during the young soldier's sentencing. Jazz groaned; it was bad enough that he had to pretend to be a typical grunt to the populace at large on the base by request of his commander, but he would also have to suffer under the harsh regime of a SIC who clearly would not know a joke from a death threat. It was going to be a long vorn.
-TBC-