Breaking the Rules Ch. 3
A/N: I would have had this out a lot sooner, but first I was struck by an evil cold, and then I got a bad case of writer's block. --sigh-- Oh well. I hope this one's worth the wait. This skippyism was suggested by Cereal-Rapist-Spencer, and I had to do it, because who doesn't like to see Autobots get drunk?
It started out with Sideswipe being the star of the show, and then Jazz demanded that it was his turn, and hijacked the whole thing. So just blame Jazz for this whole thing. Yeah. Definitely Jazz's fault...
Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers. You guys are the reason this crazy fic is still going.
And so without further ado, on with the funny.
Whenever the Autobots won a significant victory against the Decepticons, they usually celebrated with a big party. Tonight was no exception. Jazz and Blaster had gone all out with music and decorations, and the twins had managed to smuggle in a few barrels of their contraband home-brewed energon. This was generally accepted as being the best high-grade to be found anywhere on Earth (because it could knock you flat on your aft in 3 seconds), so of course it was in great demand.
The manufacturers of the illegal booze were currently playing a drinking game with Jazz, Bluestreak, Ratchet, and Ironhide. The crowd of onlookers surrounding the table cheered their favorites enthusiastically.
Most of the mechs in the table were already well on their way to being trashed, although Ratchet, at least, seemed to be holding his own. The real competition, however, was held between Jazz and Sideswipe. Neither mech wavered in the least as each lifted his cube of energon and downed it in a single gulp, never taking their optics off one another. Everyone, including the other players, cheered.
Bluestreak wobbled, giggling cheerfully, and then crashed face forward onto the table in sound recharge. This set off a round of laughter as the gunner was picked up and carried over to a corner of the room where no one would step on him.
"Well, one down," Jazz remarked, with a face-splitting grin.
"Y're next," Sunstreaker slurred, finger weaving slightly as he pointed at the saboteur.
"Ain't no way, Sunny m'boy," Jazz laughed.
Ratchet peered blearily up at the yellow twin. "Jazz's right," he barked. "You're even farther gone than I am." Sunstreaker scowled.
"Don't help that he takes two cubes for every one that we drink," Sideswipe snickered. "Hey, whose turn is it, anyway?"
"Ironhide's, I think," said Jazz, who had actually managed to pay attention.
"Hey 'Hide," Ratchet said. "'S your turn." No response. He shrugged to the others, then turned in his seat to poke the older mech.
Ironhide toppled from his chair with an ungraceful crash. Sideswipe giggled as he peeked under the table at the peacefully recharging mech. "Make that two down," he announced.
"Guess that makes it my turn," Ratchet said brightly.
Sideswipe reached out to refill the medic's cube only to encounter a problem. "Uh oh," he said.
"Uh oh?" Ratchet asked. "What uh oh?"
"Uh oh, we're out of high grade," Sideswipe informed him solemnly.
"Oh," Ratchet said. "That's a big uh oh."
"There's only one thing to do, boys," Jazz said, standing up. "We've got to go get some more."
"That is an excellent idea," Sideswipe declared, standing up himself.
Sunstreaker looked up at his brother. "'M staying here," he said sullenly. Sideswipe just shrugged.
"I'll go with you," Ratchet offered generously. He stood, wobbling precariously, then sat back down with a thump. "On second thought, I'll just stay here and keep ol' Sunshine company." There were several chuckles from the audience.
"You ready?" Jazz asked. Sideswipe nodded with a big goofy grin. "Alright, let's go!" The two began to make their careful, slightly unsteady way out of the common room of the Ark.
Once they were out of hearing range of the other partiers, Sideswipe swayed a little on his feet and chuckled. "Whoops, I think I'm a little tipsier than I thought," he said happily.
Jazz snorted. "Well, I'm not, ol' buddy," he replied. "You're gonna lose this game yet."
Sideswipe just looked at him in amusement. "Liar," he said, smirking.
"Say," the saboteur said suddenly. "You know, I think I know a shortcut through here that'll get us to your quarters—and the high grade—a lot quicker." He pointed down a narrow hallway branching off just ahead.
Sideswipe peered blearily down the hallway. "Lead on, my good mech," he said, with a grandiose gesture that nearly overbalanced him. Jazz snickered.
"Slagger," Sideswipe huffed and flounced toward the shortcut. The Porsche followed, trying valiantly to muffle his giggles.
Beyond the common room, the hallways of the crashed spaceship were dimly lit, since most mechs were either on sentry duty or deep in recharge. There was no sense wasting power on needless lights. Unfortunately for the two overcharged mechs traveling down the dark corridors, that made it really easy to get lost.
"I thought you said this was a shortcut," the red Lamborghini whined impatiently.
"It is," Jazz insisted. "It takes a lot less time to go this way—cuts right through the officers' quarters."
"I don't see the officers' quarters, Jazz. We've been walking for a couple breems—we shoulda been there by now."
"Trust me."
"We're lost, aren't we?"
"Nope."
"Yup."
"…Well, maybe."
"I knew it!" Sideswipe crowed.
"Just a little," Jazz said defensively. "I think we maybe might have made a wrong turn back there…" He turned to look back they way they came.
"What was that?" Sideswipe teased. "The famous Special Ops agent gets lost in his own base?"
"It's dark!" the saboteur protested.
"Yeah. And?" Sides demanded.
"And maybe I'm a little tipsy too," he muttered.
"Ah ha! I thought so!"
Jazz swatted at the red warrior in mock aggravation. "Let's just worry about how to get unlost, 'kay Siders?"
"Good idea. I mean, those poor mechs are still waitin' for their high grade, y'know?" Sideswipe said philosophically.
"Right," Jazz agreed emphatically. "They're countin' on us! Now, if I could only figure out where we are…"
"Let's go down this way," Sideswipe said, looking down a side hall.
Jazz glanced at him in amusement. "Why that way?"
"Where's your sense of adventure? We gotta come to a place we know eventually, right?" the Lambo asked.
Jazz paused for a moment with chin in hand, pretending to think. "Alright then, that one it is!"
A few breems later…
"Hey, I think I know where we are!" Sideswipe exclaimed cheerfully. "We're nearly at the command center. It's just down this hallway."
"How do you know the back hallways behind the command center so well, Sides?" Jazz asked mischievously.
Sideswipe grinned. "It's best if you don't know, Jazz."
The saboteur grinned back. "Well then, let's skip on through here to your room and grab that high grade at last, shall we?"
"Sounds good to me," Sideswipe replied.
The two attempted to make their cautious, quiet way toward the command center. Both knew that the only mechs likely to be on duty (Prowl, Red Alert, and Prime) would not be pleased with what they had in mind. Especially since Prowl didn't know that he hadn't managed to locate and destroy all of the twins' stash of illegal high grade. Sideswipe had too many hiding places and there was no way the overworked tactician could find them all.
Unfortunately, being overcharged makes it very difficult to be either cautious or quiet.
Prowl glared at the communications console. Here he was, stuck again, doing everyone's work on top of his own. He understood that everyone needed the chance to relax, and to celebrate a victory, but they seemed to have forgotten that they still had responsibilities. They were in the middle of a war, after all. Did they think the base would run itself? The tactician's doorwings twitched irritably as he worked himself into a temper.
Behind the unsuspecting Datsun, two shadows slunk through a small side door and behind banks of computer monitors toward the main double doors to the command center. They paused briefly as they drew level with the 2IC, and hunkered down behind a desk.
Jazz and Sideswipe peeked carefully over the top of the desk at Prowl, and then sank back down with identical smirks. "Man, that guy really needs to loosen up a little," Sideswipe whispered.
"I did try to get him to come to the party," Jazz whispered back. "He said somethin' about somebody needin' to make sure we weren't invaded while no one was in a condition to fight back. I think he's just got a stick up his aft."
Sideswipe couldn't contain his giggle. This set Jazz off, and soon both were in fits on the floor, trying hard to muffle the sounds coming out of their vocalizers.
Prowl started at an unusual sound coming from behind him. Is that…giggling? He got up to investigate. Primus help those Lamborghini twins if they're trying to pull something on me, he thought savagely. They'll be pulling double shifts for a month.
He leaned over the desk the sounds were coming from and just stared for a moment. Sideswipe was pounding the floor in silent laughter, and Jazz lay cackling with his hand over his mouth as if that would help stop the sound from escaping. "Having fun, you two?" Prowl asked dangerously.
This did not sober the two mechs on the floor at all. When they got a glimpse of Prowl's face, it only set them off into fresh peals of laughter.
"Oh man, Prowl, you need to get the stick out of your aft!" Sideswipe chortled.
Prowl spluttered, "What...how dare...what the frag is wrong with you?"
Sideswipe smiled up at the tactician with his most innocent expression. "Why, I don't think anything's wrong with me." He paused for a moment. "But I do think I am drunk."
Prowl just put his hand over his face and shook his head. His vents cycled in a sigh, then he just walked back to his console, sat down, and let his head hit the keyboard with a bang. "Just go away," he muttered, his voice muffled.
Jazz and Sideswipe looked at one another, shrugged, and skipped out of the command center, to fetch their high grade at last.
Rule #130: 'I'm drunk' is a bad answer to any question posed by my commander.