Mission: Sundance
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"Do you want to dance?" Jazz asked the table of mechs seated in back of the rec room.
"No, thanks," Mirage said, grabbing a brightly colored cube of energon and sipping it.
Hound waved his hand in front of himself, his optics wide and terrified. "I don't dance, Jazz."
"Come on, Man. That's the whole point of these shindigs!" Jazz said, pointing to the middle of the room where Bumblebee was giving Tracks a lesson that mimicked the dance Spike and Carly were performing. "It's all about learning new things, expanding horizons, getting crazy from time to time."
"No, thanks," Mirage repeated, giving the newly installed dance floor a distasteful look. "Besides, these aren't true dances. They look more like electrocution or uncontrollable spasms."
"That's just the style," Jazz said, waving a dismissive hand.
"Lack thereof," Mirage amended, rolling his optics as Tracks tried a more complicated pattern and overbalanced, landing on his aft.
"You're just a stuffy bot," Jazz frowned, pointing to the far corner where Prime was currently trying to remember the correct steps to Ironhide's line dance. "See, even Prime's enjoying himself."
"Insufferable," Mirage huffed, finding the whole scene to be well below him.
"Everyone needs a way to cut loose sometime," Jazz said defensively, finding the rest of the Autobots acclimating just fine with the assortment of dances. Though Jazz was a little worried about Ratchet and his version of a fox trot. Wheeljack looked determined to keep up.
"Whatever happened to the old ways?" Prowl asked from the nearby table where he and Trailbreaker were watching Sideswipe perform some rather expressive street moves.
"The refined dances of Cybertron," Mirage added, his tone a little wistful. "Where society was at its best and moves were practiced until second nature."
"True dances," Prowl agreed, sipping on his energon. "The old ways have long since been forgotten I'm afraid."
Mirage gave the Praxian a look that clearly meant he didn't think Prowl held the proper breeding to know the intricate dances, let alone be allowed to perform with the social elite.
Sideswipe joined the group, bent double, grasping his lower back. "I think I hurt something."
"Your dignity?" Prowl asked as Jazz examined the carmine frontliner.
"Looks like you pulled a wire loose." Jazz offered after a moment of close scrutiny.
Sideswipe opened his mouth to ask for a remedy so he could return to the dance floor when Jazz took the initiative and twisted the wire back into place. Sideswipe let out a startled squawk but his pain subsided and he was able to return to an upright position.
"Thanks," Sideswipe said, turning back to the floor and wiggling his aft in time to the music Blaster was providing.
Sunstreaker chose that time to enter the rec room, his stern countenance flashing to the room at large. Sunny didn't like crowds, and liked loud music even less. The fact that so many were present and apparently enjoying themselves also gave him a magnified sense of anger.
"Here comes our little social butterfly," Jazz commented before Sunstreaker joined their table.
Sideswipe sauntered over to his brother, intent on pulling him into a dance, when the golden warrior placed his palm on his brother's face and gave a hard shove. Sideswipe went staggering back but laughed it off, knowing his brother just wasn't the dancing type. He was lucky he got off so easy. Sunny could just as easily ripped his pedes off and not giving it a second thought. He must have been in one of his more somber moods. Probably art related, if the irritated thrum in his spark was any indication. Sideswipe returned to his boogie without another thought.
Sunstreaker stalked up to the table, his gaze locked onto Prowl. "Do something about Red Alert before I do something drastic."
"What is he doing now that upsets you?" Prowl asked placidly, knowing Sunstreaker was fired up enough to go on a full out raging massacre.
"He refuses to okay the latest shipment of paint, saying it was from a district known for Decepticon activity," Sunstreaker spat. "He's gone too far!"
Prowl offered a slight incline of his head, his optics dimming to signal his internal comms to keep the frontliner assuaged.
"Disgusting," Mirage offered another sniff, watching the conglomeration of mechs trying to imitate human dances.
Sunstreaker glanced to the towers mech, his fists clenching at his sides.
"Relax, man. Mirage just doesn't like human dances," Jazz said, recognizing the situation and trying to defuse it before it exploded.
"They're appalling," Mirage added, nodding toward Ironhide who was hitching up imaginary pants and scuffing his pedes. "He looks like he stepped in something unpleasant."
There was a distant clang as Ratchet took out some frustration on an apparently rhythmless Wheeljack. The two started a mild argument that evaporated into another attempt at a fox trot.
"Mirage is a difficult mech to please," Jazz said, giving his special ops agent a long suffering look.
"We only allowed the timeless dances of old Cybertron to be performed in the Towers," Mirage supplied, resisting the urge to smack his CO. They had a long career together, and though they came from different backgrounds, they got along like old friends. Including the odd scuffle, shouting matches, and drunken nights that ended up with both in the brig. And once, even woke up to wearing pieces of each other's armor, though neither ever admitted to it.
"Not everyone was privileged enough to learn those, Tower Brat," Jazz teased with a roll of his optics.
"They were the only ones worth learning," Mirage supplied, giving the air a disdainful sniff.
"Well?" Sunstreaker demanded of Prowl, waiting for the Second in Command to finish his conversation with the Security Director.
"We seem to be having a disagreement," Prowl intoned, a slight frown forming.
"You out rank him. Threaten to send his aft to the brig!" Sunstreaker snapped.
"And have Ratchet beat your aft because Red fritzed out for being sent to the brig he always protects?" Jazz asked, optics wide.
"Might do him some good," Sunstreaker grumbled.
"Oh, for the love of all things honorable," Mirage moaned, burying his face in his servos.
Everyone turned to see what had made the tower mech so upset and there in the middle of the dance floor was the minibots, lead by Bumblebee, doing the 'robot' dance. Spike and Carly were laughing off to the side. Huffer and Cliffjumper looked ready to commit suicide, but kept the Volkswagen happy by finishing the dance. As soon as the music stopped, they bolted, earning a sad puppy dog look from Bumblebee who shouted something about a 'sprinkler'.
"Is it safe to look?" Mirage asked from behind his hands, refusing to take the first wave of assurances.
A low growl came from Prowl, indicating his rising fury. His optics brightened, signaling his cut connection, and if the drawn brow and slight snarl were any indication, he didn't get any further with Red Alert than Sunstreaker's last attempt. He pushed off from the table, his hands shoving the half finished cube of mid-grade away. His optics dimmed again in a last ditch effort to appeal to Red Alert.
"See what I mean?" Sunstreaker felt it necessary to say. He pulled his gaze from Mirage, who was going through a plethora of emotions.
"Oh, sweet Primus, I think I'm going to self terminate," Mirage said with exaggerated disgust.
"If you don't like it, go show them a thing or two," Hound said, getting a little miffed at the Tower Mech's attitude.
"I don't think the commoners would know what to do if they saw a traditional dance of the elite," Mirage said, earning a mixture of looks. Prowl was the only one who didn't seem to mind the conversation. Even Jazz was giving his subordinate a cross look.
"Too important for the lower class, huh?" Sunstreaker asked with a half sneer. He really didn't get along with the Tower Mech. The twins were raised on the streets of Kaon and fought in the gladiator rings when debts had nearly ended both their lives from 'unsavory' characters.
"Precisely," Mirage said, not catching the sarcasm directed toward him from multiple angles. "Hardly a proper dance when only Prime and myself would be allowed to join."
"Complicated?" Sunstreaker asked, not noticing Prowl's gaze returned to normal and join the conversation.
"The more ancient dances were performed only by the upper class, usually led by Prime," Mirage recited, his optics going distant as he remembered times past. "The Prime would step forward, begin the dance, where the next dancer, usually his mate, would join him, mirroring his movements."
The collected mechs remained silent, allowing the Tower mech to reminisce.
"When they moved as one, it was beautiful," Mirage said, his voice going soft with memory. "Then the elite would fall into their rightful position, joining the ranks, their bodies blending with the most prestige, until everyone was moving as one. Sometimes there were over a thousand mechs moving in time to the ancient rhythm."
"Sounds awesome," Jazz commented only half heartedly. He was a little irked that he himself wasn't one of the privileged few who had witnessed, let alone participated in the dance that seemed to mean so much to the Tower mech.
Prowl offered a grunt, his optics narrowing as he received an update from Red Alert. Apparently the nervous Lamborghini was only half way through his security checks and thought the Second should be made aware of a strange substance that was now slowly leaking from the package.
"What could be leaking that's considered a possible Decepticon threat?" Prowl wondered out loud, without realizing who was nearby.
"It's probably linseed oil," Sunstreaker growled. "Prowl, you have to admit, this is going too far! He's threatening my paints with his errant paranoia. Who knows how long he's had them in his office!"
"Point taken," Prowl admitted with a grudge. His optics dimmed for a moment before he returned his attention back to Sunstreaker. "I have informed Red Alert that his safety measures are adequate and that he is causing a health and safety issue by allowing your personal property to come to ruin and that he may be responsible for the items lost."
"Slagging right he will be," Sunstreaker muttered, already guessing which color was losing its cohesion. Cadmium yellow was just as temperamental as the artist which is probably why he preferred it.
"Would you like to join me in retrieving your property?" Prowl asked, knowing how volatile Sunstreaker could be when his art was involved. It wasn't a good idea to send the frontliner alone when he could snap at any moment.
"Yes," Sunstreaker said, motioning for Prowl to lead the way. The two barely reached the middle of the room when Sunstreaker got an idea. He grabbed Prowl's wrist, earning a startled beep. When Prowl turned to face him, he muttered, "Wait until the fourth count, then do the opposite."
Prowl stood transfixed, unable to comprehend what the sociopathic Lamborghini was saying, when Sunstreaker got that abnormal glint in his optic. Prowl prayed his battle computer wouldn't crash as he watched Sunstreaker move in slow motion, turning left, then right, dipping on one knee, then taking three steps forward, one to the right. Prowl gave a slight nod, following suit, mirroring the golden warrior step for step.
Though the rhythms were foreign, Sunstreaker's pace seemed to blend the ancient Cybertronian dance into something that could adapt to the odd pulse of the Earth music that Blaster was providing.
Prowl kept his gaze locked onto Sunstreaker, calculating the next move, his own movements slightly delayed as he learned the steps to a dance that had thought been long dead. He was barely aware of someone else joining their steps and when he swayed left, he caught the Prime's brilliant red armor glinting beside his right shoulder in perfect tandem.
Step, step, sweep. Arch to the side, glide three paces and turn, perfectly synced with the other partners of the dance. Ratchet joined next, having witnessed the dance from the Golden Age, though he had never been allowed to join until now. His moves were a little awkward at first, but after a minute, he settled into a natural rhythm, allowing the music and the ancient steps to be centered by the leader in his rightful place.
Bumblebee watched with wide optics, unable to comprehend the complexity of the motions and all seemed to move as one. A seamless unit, choreographed through the ages and only practiced by those of breeding and power. Moves that looked far too complicated and cumbersome were performed with ballet-like ease. The bulk of armor and gruffness associated with war-time mechs evaporated, replaced by graceful, flowing lines, gentle sweeps, elegant dips, all matched to a perfect elegance.
Sideswipe stepped forward, unaffected by the magnitude of the occasion. Three steps later, he was lost in the moment, sweeping to and fro, bowing to the music, twisting to the time, the rhythm flowing through his lines as easily as any nobles. He had attended only one such dance in his life, but the moves were forever etched in his processor. Now that social caste was virtually eliminated by a more liberal Prime, the 'common' frontliner could participate, and there would be no reprimand from the upper echelon.
And if Mirage said anything, Sideswipe would be more than happy to punch the mech's face in.
Blaster had managed to reset the beat of the Earth music, making it match the perfect sweep of the Cybertronian dance. He had witnessed a couple of the gatherings before, but being like most of the other mechs on the Ark, he wasn't considered refined enough to be taught or allowed to participate in the ancient ceremony. A few seconds later, he too was lost in memory, gliding to the rhythm of a world long forgotten.
The music faded.
The few gathered mechs who had performed were under the spell of the dance, unable to move and break ranks lest they'd lose that part of their heritage forever. A moment passed of complete silence.
Then as he had begun the choreographed tradition, Sunstreaker offered a brisk nod to Prowl and exited the room, the Second in Command soon following.
A stunned silence followed them. Sideswipe felt his spark pang in regret and grabbed of cube of mid-grade from the dispenser and join the table where Prowl had vacated. He downed the Second's cube without thought, then downed his own, shifting so his pedes rested on the chair opposite.
When he looked to the table beside of him, Mirage and Hound were giving him looks of shocked incredulity.
"What?" Sideswipe asked, eyeing the cube in Prime's hand as he neared the table.
"Where did Sunstreaker learn to dance like that?" Prime asked before Mirage could formulate the words.
Mirage sputtered a moment, trying to recollect his wits and added, "How could a commoner perform that dance? It was only for the upper class!"
"Sunny's been around," was all Sideswipe would say before he got up for another cube. He could hear the cogs working in Mirage's privileged processor and added, "Nothing like patterns and poise to capture an artist's attention. I have a feeling he could show you a thing or two about refinement."
Without another word, Sideswipe left a very surprised yet confused Tower brat, a gratefully amused Prime, and a secretly proud Ratchet.
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Speaking as someone who lives with an artist, its true. They can pick out patterns and complicated rhythms like no other and it really drives me nuts sometimes.
And I really wanted to put Mirage in his place. He seems to be such a stuffy prat that I want to slap him silly and what better way to best someone who thinks they are of the upper class than to bring them down a few pegs and have a street dwelling waif show that they too can be sophisticated and "lordly".
Money and power doesn't make a person better than anyone else.
