Part Eight
"Absolutely not!" insisted Red Alert, practically foaming at the mouth. "If you allow this, there's no telling what could happen!"
"Red," Ironhide said calmly, trying his very best not to reach out and throttle his security director. "It's only for a week. Two tops."
"With all due respect, Sir, I have long suspected those two of working both sides. How often do they disappear for days on end without telling anyone?"
"They're scouts," Ironhide clenched his jaw in frustration. "It's their function t' go off wanderin'. Trus' meh, Red, th' day Hound 'n Trailbreaker join th' 'Cons is th' day ol' Ratchet goes off th' deep end."
Red Alert gave him a look.
"Alrigh'," he sighed in acquiescence. "Bad example. It ain' like we got a lot o' choice in th' matter. They're th' only ones free all week t' take night sentry duty while Smokescreen 'n Tracks are in th' medbay."
"I am sorry, Sir, but I must insist someone else do it."
"Then who would you recommend?" Ironhide tried. His deputy looked up at him in complete confusion.
"I haven't any idea. I was not given a list of the soldiers' schedules. Only officers are given that. But surely there is someone else."
Ironhide looked at the ceiling for a moment as though it held the answers. Red Alert waited patiently for a solution. "Y'know what, Red? You're jus' gonna hafta deal with it. There ain' nobody else."
Ignoring his sputtering security director, the red mech turned and left, feeling a headache coming on. By Primus he hated Monday mornings. Monday mornings meant briefings, and debriefings, and new schedules, and confusion. Give him a 'Con and a gun any day. Leave the administrating to Prowl who was sick enough to like that sort of thing.
Grabbing a quick mug of energon before he returned to his office, he stole a glance at the only other 'bot present, Jazz, who was seated at a table. Mug half-drained and forehead on the table, the special ops officer didn't seem to be having the best of Monday mornings either. The poor young thing looked too tired to even pretend to be cheerful and energetic.
"Had a li'l too much fun las' night?" he greeted the black and white as he sat down next to him.
Jazz had the good graces to tilt his head to the side, though no light came from behind the visor indicating that he did not want to activate his optics just yet. "That's the last time I try to out drink Prowl, man. I don't know where all that energon goes, but it ain't in his energy converter, that's for sure." His head tilted back to its original position.
Ironhide chuckled heartily. "Son, yeh shouldn' have even tried. There ain' a mech alive that'll hold his energon better'n Prowl. Bet yeh didn' even see him tipsy." Somehow the thought of someone having a worse day than he served to cheer him up considerably.
"Not even buzzed," Jazz affirmed. "An' I'm no lightweight."
The elder mech chortled again at the mental images this was giving him. The only reaction the very hungover saboteur made was to wrap his limp arms around his head as though to ease his headache.
Merrily bouncing in, Sideswipe flipped the lightswitch, illuminating the room with the two officers. "Morning!" he chirped, his more subdued brother stumbling in after him blearily.
Jazz whimpered pathetically, wrapping his arms tighter.
"What was that?" the elder officer asked as he bent down to listen.
Mumbling something about murdering the Lambo, the black and white ended by mewling, "…the light's too loud."
Laughing once more, but quieter out of consideration, the security officer downed the rest of his energon and fled the scene. The officer's lounge should really get an energon dispenser installed. If he weren't afraid of half the Ark getting blown sky high, he'd ask Wheeljack to work on it.
Had poor Jazz the willpower, he'd have called Ironhide a traitor for leaving him at the mercy of the morning shift 'bots, none of whom knew the meaning of the word 'quiet.' As it was, all he could do was try to pull himself together to face the rest of the day in top form.
Jazz fought down the nausea that came when he reactivated his optics. Alright, mere functioning form would have to do. The only reason Prowl had agreed to the contest was because his colleague had sworn it wouldn't affect his performance the next day. That and the fact that the younger officer now owed his friend 30 credits and Lambo-sitting for the next two weeks.
Standing upright, squaring his shoulders, and even forcing a blissful smile on his face, Jazz dumped the remainder of his drink and left to face the world.
'The world' for the time being consisted of a briefing with his subordinates and the Protectobots, paperwork, and his monthly tune-up with Ratchet. He winced slightly at the thought of that last task before he went off-duty for a few hours starting at noon. If he wasn't over his hangover by the time 1100 hours rolled around and he entered that med-bay, ol' Doc Ratchet would surely beat it out of him. He was such a kind, gentle soul to his dear patients…
Ten minutes into his brief, Jazz lost all hopes of losing that hangover in time. Ah well… he hadn't gotten the manifold kicked out of him in such a long while it may help to break the monotony.
"Jazz?" Hotspot ventured hesitantly seeing his superior stumble over the mission he was trying to get across to those present. "Boston is not located in Oregon."
"Huh?" the hungover bot asked, still trying to hide his embarrassing affliction from the others. He finally realized that for the last 5 minutes, he had been trying to explain a stakeout outside of Fenway Park when the map he had on the overhead clearly outlined the city of Portland.
"Are you ok, Jazz?" Bumblebee asked. Leave it to the other espionage bots under him to notice their happy-go-lucky Porche wasn't quite himself today.
"If you will excuse the phrase," Mirage added delicately. "You look like warmed-over slag."
Before Jazz could defend himself, weak though it would be, First Aid cocked his head to the side. "Perhaps you should lay down for a few megacycles. I could give you a once-over, or I could get Ratchet…"
Oh good, let's bring in Ratchet to end his misery.
"We haven't finished our briefing yet," Mirage shook his head. "I'm afraid we should continue."
"Slag that, let the poor guy rest," Bumblebee argued.
"If those above us aren't able to do their job, how are we supposed to?" the larger spy shot back, growing annoyed at the little cheeky mini-bot.
"Hey, c'mon," Groove said gently. "Just chill out, he's not feeling good."
"Mirage is right," Blades interrupted his brother. "We're expected to be here fully functional, so…"
Jazz sighed as he struggled to keep up with the growing fight over his well-being. Finally giving up, he tossed the datapads and projector-clicker to the table and stumbled out the door. To Ratchet it was.
The good doctor, as expected, was ready to beat the living tar out of him.
When he was done chewing out the poor hungover bot, Ratchet stalked back to his office to try to get some more work done. Well he'd offered Jazz a mild sedative to sleep it off, so he'd slagging well done his job. No need to get all sympathetic because some punk was stupid enough to challenge Prowl to a drinking contest. Even Ratchet, who could hold his energon like a tanker, wouldn't do it. He was smarter than that.
Not half-way through an inventory report and Ratchet already heard the cheerful pitter-patter of two pairs of feet. Two large pairs of feet. Most likely with Lamborghinis attached to them. He'd expect nothing less from karma on a Monday morning.
Entering, as expected, were Sideswipe and Sunstreaker and whatever hair-brained scheme they had this time. "No," he said before either even said a word. "Whatever it is, no."
Sideswipe pouted while his other half gave a look that seemed to say 'I told you so.' "But Ratchet, you haven't even…"
"The answer is no." He signed another release form absently.
"Are you sure?" His optics suddenly shined with the innocence of youth as though to change his mind.
Looking up with mild annoyance, Ratchet frowned at the two Lamborghinis. "I already told you 'no.' Now scram."
Unperturbed, the large bundle of mischief shrugged. "Ok, you're the boss."
"Damn straight I'm the boss. Beat it."
"Thanks! You're the best!" the warrior grinned as he pranced to the supplies box, taking out many different… things, and making a mess of the rest. And the CMO had just finished carefully putting everything in order too. Oh, that demon-spawn was in for it! Before he could even give out a good curse, the yellow one started in on the tools on the counter. Tools just recently cleaned and sharpened. With less prancing involved of course; he was the pinnacle of dignity and self-respect.
"What the slag are you doing?" Ratchet wailed, leaping to his feet faster than either twin thought possible.
Sideswipe paused from his supplies raid, a large joint ring hanging off one of his 'horns' and an armful of spare parts and tools. "But you said 'no.' Didn't he, Sunny?"
"That's what I heard," his brother nodded as he subspaced a rather expensive arc welder. He lifted a large vibro-blade and eyed it appreciatively.
Taking a deep breath to calm his frazzled circuits, Ratchet clenched and unclenched his fists, imagining two pairs of Lambo-necks in them. "And what exactly," he growled in a dangerous undertone, "was the question?"
"We were just wondering if you minded us borrowing a few of your tools," Sideswipe answered casually, not pausing from his closet-raid. "And you said no, so…"
The CMO sprang at the red hellion, intent on ridding the universe of one more useless waste of space. Unfortunately for him, Sideswipe was well used to being attacked violently, by both friend and foe alike, and he jumped out of the way easily.
"You're the best, Ratch!" Sides grinned as he made his hasty exit, grabbing his brother by the arm as he did so. The loud gleeful yells and clangs of metal on metal momentarily woke the slowly recovering Jazz who moaned pitifully at the noise they made before drifting off once more.
With wide disbelieving optics, Ratchet watched them go, his CPU trying to process just what in the Matrix was going on. After a cycle or so he came to the realization that yes indeed those two children of the Unmaker had blatantly ignored him, made a slag-hole of his med-bay, and then proceeded to run out with his best tools.
Oh, that was it!
"Prowl!" he hollered as he stomped toward the exit. "Prowl, I need a word with you!"
In his apoplectic wake, one sick special ops officer managed to whimper even as he curled into a tight ball.
OoOoOo
He gave an uncharacteristic groan as the footsteps got louder. Oh no, not another one.
"Prowl!" Ratchet burst into his office, not even bothering to request permission first.
Looking up from his schematic, the Vice Commander took a deep soothing breath in preparation for whatever the CMO had to say. All day he hadn't had a cycle of peace as Autobot after Autobot came to him for one thing or another.
For Primus' sake, he was their Second, not their Creators. He was a very busy mech and had no time to spend playing nanny-bot to the whole base. But should one try to get rid of Ratchet using this excuse, one would most certainly spend the rest of their existence drinking energon through an I.V.
"You bellowed?" he asked instead.
"Damn straight I bellowed! Do you know what those two slag-suckers just did?" the medic further bellowed in a rage.
"By 'those two slag-suckers' I feel it is safe to assume you are talking about Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. And I imagine they must have done something special for you to be this upset."
"You don't punish them enough! They have no discipline! I'm slagging sick of putting up with their crap, Prowl! Do something!"
Prowl gave him a level stare not even the medic could match. "And what do you propose I do? If I punish them any more, we'd have to release our poor maintenance staff from employment. I discipline each transgression as they deserve. You must remember, Ratchet, that they are not my only responsibility. It is my function to keep order, both at the base and on the field. Not only that, but I am the Autobot Vice Commander with all the duties the position entails. Therefore, you must understand that two brothers who find it amusing to place singing fish wall hangings around every corner are hardly my number one priority."
"That isn't fair, Prowl!" Ratchet failed to empathize with Prowl's position.
The tactician watched, mildly amused, and halfway expected the medic to stomp a foot.
Yes this was Ratchet. And yes one must be careful of what one said to Ratchet. But at the moment, Prowl could give a frag what the CMO wanted or didn't want.
"Tough."
Ratchet paused, feeling that strange sense of disbelief once more at having someone completely dismiss him. "What was that?" he asked in a dangerously quiet tone, deciding that he definitely did not want to be so cast aside like some whiny grunt.
Once again, Prowl really didn't care what Ratchet wanted.
"I'm sorry, Ratchet, but you know I am not able, nor willing, to punish the twins just because they frustrate you.
"They stole my slagging equipment without permission!" Now the medic did stomp his foot.
"Then I will investigate the matter, and should I find them guilty, punish them for theft." The black and white paused. He knew how their pair, especially Sideswipe, worked. "Are you positive it was without permission? There is no loophole they might use to their defense?"
Thus ensued a few cycles of indecipherable sputterings and half-explanations and a few curses thrown in for effect. From what Prowl could discern, it turned out that the two bundles of joy could very well claim innocence. After all, Ratchet did say 'no' to their question without even bothering to hear what it was. And besides, the medic should have known better in the first place.
"The point is, Prowl," Ratchet said when he could offer no more defense, "that they are determined to make my life a living Inferno. Do something about it or I will!"
On that pleasant note, the CMO stormed out of his Vice's office.
Resisting the strong temptation to rap his head firmly and repeatedly against his desk, Prowl finished up a report and prepared for his upcoming meeting with his Commander. He had his own couple of bones to pick.
OoOoOo
Prime collapsed into his chair the moment he entered his quarters. In response, the abused piece of furniture gave an irritated creak. Oh Matrix what a day! As if leading a war wasn't hard enough, but now he had his own troops to contend with as well.
Between personnel problems with Ironhide, a severe lack of special ops due to intoxication, a medic on a murdering rampage, and a 2IC ready to snap any cycle, it was all he could do to not hang up his battlemask and go home. He wasn't commanding an army, he was running a madhouse! They were nuts, down to the very last servo!
Ah well, it was just another average day in the Ark. It wouldn't be HQ if it wasn't like that. Or as interesting either. If he had to be a part of this mad assembly, then by Primus, he would be the Head Loon!
And besides, the one good thing about being the Commander of such a motley crew was that they could whine all they wanted, but he could still do as he pleased in the end.
After all, it wasn't as though they were offering any solutions.
Murphy's Law of Warfare: The tough part about being an officer is that the troops don't know what they want, but they know for certain what they don't want.
A/N: Originally this was supposed to be only about Ironhide, but I ran across two issues with that. One: I couldn't seem to make it last very long at all. And two: he isn't the only officer I could poke fun at.
Reviews!
AngelMouse5: Thank you, I always found him so interesting because of his past and how it always came in conflict with his current life. Lol, now you've planted a little bunny, perhaps if I have time, I can write something with the three of them in their early training sessions or something.
DesertCat87: Thanks, it's good to know I did him right. I have such a soft spot for the poor spy, I imagine basic training for him had to be less than pleasant due to his past. Lol, well I think that Jazz definitely would have come across younger than he was, especially back in the early days. Love the Bee, oh how I still love the Bee… ; )
Seekerfemmedraca: Yay, I'm glad you like them! The idea just came to me one day while I was reading some Murphy's Laws and I felt obligated as a person to write it down. Any requests?
