Title: Vanity

Characters: Tracks

Genre: Humor

Setting: Earth - Present day

Warnings: "Harsh" language

Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure that we all know I don't own any of these characters in any way, shape or form.

Enjoy!


"You want me to do what?!"

"Listen, Tracks," Blaster held out his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I'm all for keeping the paint job clean and shiny, know what I'm sayin'? But these are Prime's orders." He gripped the other mech's shoulder and squeezed softly. "Sorry, brother. Just have a rinse when you get back." With a last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder, the crimson tape deck turned and walked off, leaving a very pissed off Tracks behind.

Recon in the damn Sahara? Does Optimus think of me as some sort of off-roader now? The multi-colored Autobot crossed his arms and stalked back to his quarters, gritting his denta to keep from screaming at the walls of the base. How unfair! Of all the places to go scouting, he had to be the one going to one of the largest and sandiest deserts on Earth. Why couldn't Hound go in his place? He was a stunningly handsome sports car, for Primus' sake, not a jeep! It would take Tracks weeks to get all the dirt and dust out of his plating. Weeks and weeks of picking out all the small granules of sand trapped in his joints and cabling. The thought made him shudder in revulsion.

Wrapped up in these nightmarish scenarios, he didn't notice Jazz or the inquiring look the other gave him as he passed. "Hey, uh, Tracks, you okay? Look like you're…uh, havin' a breakdown or somethin'," The spy placed a comforting hand on the mech's shoulder, and tried to peer at his face to see what was upsetting him so much.

"No sir, I am not okay. Prime has me set for reconnaissance in a desert." His mouth fell into a grimace of distaste. "A desert."

There was a long stretch of silence as Tracks waited for the horrifying news to sink in. He had been expecting at least a groan of sympathy from the other, since Jazz was a tidy and clean mech himself. What he actually got was very different.

He laughed.

That son of a bitch laughed. As if it was the funniest thing in the world! The red and blue Autobot jerked back away from his superior's hand and glared at him hatefully. "What in the Pit's so funny about that? You wanna be cleaning sand out of your chassis for a month?!"

"No," Jazz breathed, still chuckling. "Primus, no. It was the way you acted about it. You're always so dramatic, Tracks. Lay off the theatrics, alright man? Just get Sunstreaker to help ya with your bodywork when you get back. Both of ya are obsessive about that kinda thing; I bet the only kinda payment he'll ask for is some assistance in cleaning his frame in return!" The silvery mech pretended to wipe away a coolant tear from underneath his visor. "Seriously though, don't freak out about it. I'll make sure Prowl puts you somewhere else ne-"

Tracks stood straighter when he heard Prowl's name and interrupted Jazz. "Prowl? Prowl put me in the desert?"

The other waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and pulled a data pad out of subspace. "Yeah, Prowl schedules patrols, remember? Must've forgotten how much you hate sand. Anyway, I'll make sure he knows how peeved you were about it and hopefully it won't happen again." He started down the hallway again, throwing a last, amused smirk over his shoulder. "See ya later, Tracksy-boy. Have fun playin' in the desert."


An hour later found Tracks rapidly scrolling through a series of videos on a site known as 'YouTube', one that he had become quite fond of in the years that the Autobots had spent on Earth. You could find nearly anything on there: music videos, news reports, American Idol, or, say, how to remotely cause a car's transmission to go out. Or maybe even how to rig car speakers to stay set on a very, very loud volume, while the stereo blasted horrible rap music on repeat. He'd have to look that one up.

And probably get Spike to buy one of Lil Wayne's albums for him.

He closed the videos and left his quarters to go on patrol. Prowl wanted to stick him in desert dunes? Fine. He could deal with that. He could deal with weeks of cleansing and waxing. He could deal with Sunstreaker's condescending voice grating on his audio receptors for hours as he picked out each individual granule of sand. He'd be fine. Pissed off the whole time, but fine. Maybe Jazz was right; maybe he was a little dramatic.

But now he knew what cleaning chemical was best for corroding a gas tank!