Dancing With The Autobots
Chapter 2: A Network
O.O.O
Word of Jazz's crazy little notion got around weeks before it ever had the chance to become an officially sanctioned project. A formal agreement had yet to be made with a network or a sponsor, but that hardly seemed to matter. A highly contagious form of Saturday Night Fever went dancing through the Ark and Autobot City on a Monday through Sunday basis. At that very moment, the contagion was lilting its way to the Command Center of the city.
"This is an excellent proposal, Prowl," Optimus complimented his main Strategist as he scanned the words scrolling on the data pad in his hand. "Have you gotten Ultra Magnus's input on the possibility of offering part of our facilities as a liaison office to Earth Defen-"
"Annnd, one two three, one two three, one two three!"
Admirably, or so Prowl thought, Optimus Prime managed not to cringe visibly as the reinforced command doors slid open to admit a familiar figure making entirely unfamiliar moves. Elita One glided into the room on the tips of her tarsal plates, stepping and spinning gracefully in time to the three-part rhythm she was counting out. Her odd, sweeping gait carried her in looping waves across the Command Center.
Prowl took just a moment to feel sorry for his commanding officer. Somehow, Jazz and Elita had manipulated things so that Optimus, despite any protests that he might make, would have to mimic those same, odd steps that she was dancing. On live television. In front of a worldwide audience. The Strategist could think of few things that he found more embarrassing.
But it wasn't Prowl that was going to be up there humiliating himself in front of the cameras. Optimus was a mature mech, and, oh, by the way, he was the Prime. If anyone should be able to get himself out of such an embarrassing situation, it was he. The fact that he hadn't acted to extricate himself so far was beyond Prowl's sphere of authority, so the matter being out of his hand servos, the Strategist decided to absolve himself from any worry about it.
"One two three, one two three, annnd, good morning, Prowl," Elita greeted Optimus's advisor as she twirled to a stop before the two of them.
"Elita," Prowl nodded in return.
"And good morning to you, Optimus, even though I've already said it to you three times today," she continued. "Now then, what have we on the docket today?" Down from her toe plates and now down to business, she accepted the data pad that her sparkmate offered her, taking a moment to read through Prowl's proposal intently. After a thoughtful pause, she handed the pad back to Optimus. "It would appear to be an excellent plan, so long as the humans are in agreement," she stated simply.
Prowl refused to let it stir his ego too much, but he could not deny how good it felt to know that neither Optimus nor Elita had found fault in this, the first draft of his proposal. Usually, the revisions were extensive. "Thank you," he said evenly. "As far as other items on the docket, Elita, has everyone on your team undergone weapons testing for the quarter?"
"Everyone except Moonracer," the femmes' Commander said after a moment's recollection. "She still considers herself the 'best shot in the universe,' and whether she's joking or not, she doesn't always understand how important a proficiency test is to prove it. I'll explain it to her."
Prowl tried not to comment that he didn't care whether Moonracer 'understood' or not. Regulations were regulations, and this particular regulation stated that all Autobots, whether warriors or support personnel, were to go through weapons proficiency testing every quarter. The problem was, after living, fighting, and surviving underground together for thousands of vorns, the femmes' team had become more of a close-knit family in which Elita One 'explained' things to her charges rather than issued orders like a commanding officer should. As far as the Police 'Bot was concerned, Elita's casual way of doing things was a huge burr in the shoulder of his otherwise organized life.
Still, Prowl couldn't deny that her small group was highly trained and efficient, so the Strategist was smart enough not to call her to task over it; certainly not if the end result of Elita's 'explanation' was that Moonracer would just take the slagging proficiency test. On the other hand, he was more than ready to be done with the reports, and was willing to stoop pretty low to make sure it happened by the end of the day. "If that's the case," the Strategist said neutrally, consulting yet another of his endless supply of data pads, "you might also want to explain to the 'best shot in the universe' that Arcee outshot her top score by two points last week."
Under normal circumstances, Elita One was just as good at maintaining a calm appearance as Prime or Prowl was, but her momentary expression of surprise was almost comical. "Really?" she asked with quickly forced neutrality, wavering between surprise on Moonracer's behalf, and pride in Arcee's accomplishment. Arcee was the Autobots' only female who had not been a member of Elita's underground resistence team, but the femmes had rapidly cured that by adopting her into their group within the first five minutes of meeting her. This, of course, added a new dimension to the friendly rivalry that sometimes manifested itself between the good-natured females. "Well, then, I certainly shall inform her - stop that!"
"What?" Optimus quickly looked up from readout he'd been studying, and bravely faced down the glare his sparkmate was shooting in his direction. "Stop what, exactly?"
"Stop grinning at me like that!" Elita demanded, fists firmly planted on her hips.
Neither confirming nor denying anything, Optimus simply reached up and lightly tapped one finger servo against the solid mask protecting the lower half of his face. "I'm not entirely certain how you can tell," he said innocently.
"Honestly, Optimus," she answered with a fond shake of her head, "as many vorns as we've been together, how in the name of Vector Sigma do you think I can't?"
"I work hard to maintain my simple delusions, my love. That's all there is to it," Optimus answered affectionately.
Prowl heavily considered crawling under the floor and slinking silently out of the room if this embarrassing conversation threatened to get any worse. He cast a glance down at one of the thermal tiles, wondering how hard it would be to pry a corner up with his bare hands.
"Now then," Optimus continued in a businesslike tone, to Prowl's infinite relief. "Regarding your question as to what else is on the schedule for today." Thumbing through a few screens on the data pad he held, he read the items aloud as they scrolled by. "Let me see. Calibration of the perimeter defense systems ... We're expecting the shipment of beryllium steel from Symultech Industries today ... Rewiring of the communications systems on level three ... Hound and Trailbreaker are switching quarters - now how did that item get on my docket? Hm."
Prowl tried to explain that Ultra Magnus had approved the move and they both believed in keeping their leader informed of these personnel details, but before he could say a word, Prime just shrugged it off and kept going. "Battle stations readiness drill at 1500 hours - that's supposed to come as a surprise, so tell no one. And one other thing," he added, setting the data pad next to one of Teletraan II's work stations. "Jazz called from New York."
Elita's optics lit up briefly. "Oh?" she asked, feigning casual interest.
"Skyfire left to pick them up an hour ago," Optimus explained. "Jazz and his entourage report success and will be returning with two contracts in hand."
Gone was the calm, businesslike demeanor, as Elita clapped her hands together in bubbling excitement. "It's really happening, then?" she grinned. "We really are going to produce Dancing with the Autobots?"
Prowl groaned inwardly. Even the name was embarrassing.
"Jazz wasn't just coming up with his usual crazy ideas because he was bored," Optimus Prime answered. "They've already signed a distributor and partnered with a production company."
Prowl said nothing, but he still couldn't understand why Prime hadn't put a stop to this ridiculousness weeks ago, when Jazz first suggested it.
"And we shall dance all night!" Elita exclaimed, leaping as gracefully as a human ballerina towards her sparkmate. As Elita One had been all for the concept of this silly dance show from the moment Jazz brought it up, her enthusiasm now did not surprise Prowl. What did catch the Strategist off-guard was how Optimus caught her easily, spun her around once, and then, taking one of her hands with his and putting his other hand on her waist, began counting a beat out loud along with her. "Annnd, one two three, one two three, one two three!" they laughed, moving together in what was an admirable attempt at a simple, Earth-style waltz.
Prowl just stared. His jaw dropped. And then he stared some more. He simply could not come to terms with the sight of Optimus Prime gliding around the Command Center to a ridiculous beat, stepping on his sparkmate's tarsal plates just as often as she was stepping on his, and nodding acknowledgment to the grinning Autobots who turned from their workstations to cheer and applaud.
More than anything else, though, what Prowl absolutely could not come to terms with was the fact that his commanding officer was not the least bit embarrassed by the spectacle he was making of himself now, and, by theoretical extension, the spectacle he would probably make of himself on national television. In fact, the Strategist realized with a sinking sense of horror and a tingle in his neural net that forewarned of a minor logic glitch, Optimus Prime was enjoying it.
"That's just ... not right," Prowl said feebly, even though no one listened to him.
O.O.O
Skyfire flew as calmly and sedately as he could manage, which meant that he made the round trip from Eastern Oregon's high desert to New York and back in just over three hours. Much to Jazz's relief after yesterday's embarrassing debacle with the Federal Aviation Administration, Skyfire had even remembered to file a flight plan so the humans at LaGuardia Airport wouldn't be quite so surprised by his unexpected arrival this time. Jazz wasn't sure who in the Autobot ranks had gotten Skyfire's fines from that incident waived, or how they'd done it, but a lesson had definitely been learned, and it wasn't likely to happen again.
They didn't need a flight plan to land back at the Autobot base, though, and in a relatively short time, an ecstatically bouncing Jazz led two other mechs as they disembarked from the oversized jet. Skyfire transformed and followed them into the city, a slight smirk on his otherwise firmly sealed lip plates. Jazz had spilled all the details of the contracts during the quick flight home, because the Specialist just couldn't help himself in excitement, but then he had adamantly sworn Skyfire to secrecy until the details of the contract were heard and ultimately approved by Optimus Prime.
"Success! We have success!" Jazz exclaimed as he bounded into the Command Center, proudly brandishing two paper printouts as if they were his medals from the Galactic Olympics. Nearly everyone in the room jumped at least half a meter at the suddenness of his flamboyant entrance.
Right behind him, and only slightly more sedate, was Blaster, and following him at a much more reasonable pace came Smokescreen and finally Skyfire
"So we've been told," Optimus Prime answered coolly, one of many who had reflexively gone for his weapon when Jazz burst into the room so loudly. Now that the others realized the explosion of chaos was just the Specialist being his usual exuberant self, those who were excited about Dancing with the Autobots stopped what they were doing and crowded around the First Lieutenant, eager to hear news of the project's status.
"We got us a distributor!" Jazz crowed, to a response of smiles and scattered exclamations of excitement from his fellow Autobots. "We got us a production partner! An' we got us a honey of a deal, too! That's because Smokescreen here is DA MAN!" Throwing his arm around the blue and red mech's shoulder struts and pointing at Smokescreen repeatedly and triumphantly, he repeated, "I say it again, folks! When it comes to negotiatin', this here's DA MAN!"
Smokescreen just grinned. Jazz hadn't been able to stop singing his praises since they'd left the media conglomerate's headquarters with the signed contract.
"You renegotiated the contract?" Optimus asked carefully. He was very well aware of Smokescreen's propensity for fast talking; it didn't take a genius to see that he was afraid of the direction things might have gone. "I thought the details were already solidified and your trip to New York was just for signing purposes."
"They were, it was, an' yeah, I thought so, too," Jazz agreed, then somehow gave the impression of frowning despite the visor that covered the upper third of his face. "Extensive Enterprises def'nitely gave us the sweetest deal from the get-go, but it was kinda weird. Halfway through, it felt like they were tryin' to give us the ol' switcheroo or somethin'. Didn't help that they had identical twins doin' the talkin' from the beginnin'. I kinda felt like maybe they were tryin' to keep us a li'l off-balance or whatever."
"Identical twins?" someone in the collected knot of Autobots asked. Jazz thought it sounded like Skids. "Really?
"Yeah, man," Jazz answered, and finally, he laughed again. Humans hadn't figured out yet how different even 'identical' twins appeared to an Autobot's highly sensitive optic sensors, even if one of the two hadn't had that obvious scar on his faceplate. "Well, more like mirror image twins, but yeah. Dunno what they were tryin' to pull, but I figured, hey, two could play at that game. That's why I brought Smokescreen with us. They started to get a little ruthless, and do things like dictate to us where and when we were allowed to stage our performance, so I let him take over and do what he does best. Poor guys, they tried like the devil, but they didn't know what hit 'em. He charmed 'em, dazzled 'em, wowed 'em, talked circles around 'em, outmaneuvered 'em, an' five minutes later, practically had 'em willin' to pay us for the privilege of hostin' our show!"
"I think you're exaggerating a bit," Smokescreen said then, with humility that was only about sixty percent genuine.
"Okay, then, seven an' a half minutes," Jazz shrugged. "A breem, tops." Smokescreen just grinned wider.
"You did, at least, leave the company with ownership of its own building?" Optimus asked. With Smokescreen's reputation for wheeling and dealing, their leader was probably only half-joking.
"Honestly, it wasn't in a great location," Smokescreen answered with a perfectly deadpan expression. "I didn't think we could use it."
"Tell ya what. Smokey, my man," Jazz said with a sweeping gesture towards his new favorite negotiator, "Why don't you just go on ahead and lay it out for the Boss?"
"Well, sir," Smokescreen said, taking the first of the contracts from Jazz's hand and spreading it out on the nearest flat surface for Optimus Prime's perusal, as the avidly interested Autobots pressed closer, "it's like this."
O.O.O
In a currently undisclosed location, a man whose head was entirely encased in a disturbing, steel mask entered the office of the operation's supreme commander. His intelligent eyes, the only feature of his face that could even remotely be seen, were shrewdly scanning a sheaf of paper that lay in an open manila folder in his hands.
Behind the carved desk that was large enough to merit its own area code, one of the few men in the world who wore an even more disturbing mask looked up sharply at his entrance. The curved mirror that entirely hid his face from the world reflected everything and revealed nothing of the man beneath. Perhaps that was for the best. Annoyed by the interruption - he was about to beat his personal high score at Arcade Classics Donkey Kong, but now had to put the game on hold and hide it with a quick screen saver - he hissed, "Destro. Is that the contract Extensive Enterprises negotiated with the Autobots for their ridiculous dancing show?" He sounded like he'd just bitten into an underripe lemon as he spat those last two words.
"Indeed, Cobra Commander," Destro answered, flipping through the papers and reading the final page. "This is a notarized copy of the original, shrunk down to a size feasible for mere humans such as you and I. It arrived only minutes ago." Scowling beneath his mask, he reread some of the language that had made its way into the binding agreement. "Signed by their representative ... Jazz, if I'm reading this atrocious handwriting correctly, with the authority of their leader Optimus Prime. Bu-"
"Perfect!" Cobra Commander interrupted, not hearing the beginnings of the 'but' that he'd cut off. "Once those simpering Autobots gather on our stage for the night of their performance, we shall strike! The captured robots will be researched for new weapons and technology beyond our wildest imaginations, to say nothing of the officials, sponsors, and celebrities we will kidnap from the audience! We will hold them for ransom, and when they are finally released, the world will never suspect they will have been replaced by our synthoids! Ha, hahahaha!"
"I hate to cut off a good rant, Commander," Destro interrupted, though in truth, he wasn't the least bit sorry. In fact, he was more than a little glad to have done it. Sometimes, that screeching voice of the Commander's could really get on a person's nerves. "But it seems the robots will not be relocating to our site after all." Destro decided that the wave of smoldering silence suddenly emanating from the Commander was actually more unpleasant than his psychotic laughter. A lesser person might have been unnerved by it. "According to this," he added, indicating a three-page report hastily included in the folder, "the Autobots' reluctance to stage the event too far from their primary headquarters and their new facility proved adamant."
Cobra Commander was speechless for a long moment. His jaw was probably working silently behind his mirror mask as he fought for control of himself. "We squandered millions renovating the site of our attack into an appealing venue from the moment the robots first engaged in talks with Extensive Enterprises," he finally seethed, slow and dangerous. "Weeks worth of coordinating the resources for the operation will amount to nothing! How did our brilliant Crimson Guard Commanders allow those walking toasters to simply waltz out of that end of our deal?"
Thumbing through the pages of notes typed hurriedly after Extensive Enterprises' face to faceplate meeting with the Autobots, Destro made a mental note that the peace-loving alien robots had clearly grown wise to human wiles in their relatively short time on this planet. "It appears this Jazz brought in an advocate of his own, apparently someone clever enough to out-negotiate even the keenest business minds COBRA could buy. Hmph." Beneath his steel face, the weaponer smirked, utterly confident that if he had handled the negotiations instead of those mirror-image buffoons, the deal would have gone very differently.
"Preposterous!" the terrorist leader shouted furiously. "Xamot and Tomax were educated at... gah! Never mind!" Throwing up his hands in genuine frustration, the serpentine commander paced for several moments, in clear agitation. He tried to think of several angles through this major setback he had been handed. "Ssso long as they managed to retain control of the audio/visual systems," he finally mused, his sibilants becoming more pronounced as he grew more and more perturbed, "COBRA will still be able to infuse our mind control programming into the broadcast. Hm. Yesss. This will enable us to brainwash those drooling couch potatoes in their comfortable homes into doing our bidding! Ha, ha-"
"I'm afraid that will not be happening either, Commander," Destro casually interrupted once again before the maniacal laughter could gain momentum. Amazingly enough, in the near silence that followed, the weapons supplier could have sworn he heard the sound of furiously grinding teeth coming from the vicinity of the supreme leader of COBRA. "As per the contract, signed and agreed to by your authorized agents, the Autobots have retained complete creative control, and will be handling the audio and visual portions of the show themselves in cooperation with..." he flipped the page over and quickly looked for an addendum he'd noted earlier, "Starlight Music."
The Commander somehow looked completely dumbfounded, even behind his concealing silver mask. "Starlight Music?" he demanded.
"A major studio and recording label," Destro explained calmly. "I am quite certain you have heard of Jem and the Holograms?"
"Of course I know Jem and the Hologramsss!" Cobra Commander hissed. "I have - wait." Suspiciously, he cut himself off and studied Destro intently. "And just how do you know Jem and the Hologramsss?"
"Er," was all a suddenly uncomfortable Destro could say. At that moment, both men abruptly found it much more interesting to study the nap of the carpet, or the texture of the walls, or the dead fly on the windowpane, anything but look the other squarely in the mask. Each had gotten an unexpected glimpse into the other's taste in music, and neither entirely liked what he saw. Finally, his Scottish brogue becoming a bit thicker in his discomfort, Destro managed to come up with a feeble excuse. "I know of them because ... er ... the Baroness ... has ... has a copy of their music in her quarters."
It was important to note that the Baroness was not in the room to defend herself at this time.
Just as awkwardly, Cobra Commander replied, "Yesss, the... televipers informed me of ... of the Baroness's music downloads. As a security matter, to ensure the security of our ... uh ... data." That being said, he slammed his hand emphatically on his desk. "That's how I know of Jem and the Holograms!"
The Baroness was, however, listening on an unsecured intercom channel that Cobra Commander had forgotten to turn off. She was, at this moment, not very pleased. No, not very pleased at all.
"Well, then," Destro quickly agreed, never suspecting the tongue-lashing they would both be in for shortly, "it would be wise to keep such data from being exposed."
"Indeed, so let'sss just keep this between ourselves, shall we?" Cobra Commander suggested decisively. Getting back to the subject at hand, he demanded, "What I want to know is if that wheeling and dealing Autobot negotiator left us with ownership of our own buildings! Is there any more bad newsss?"
"I would say the Autobots saw no use in our real estate, because Extensive Enterprises is still in possession of its own properties," Destro answered, adding another notch of sarcasm every time Cobra Commander got angrier. "However, the Autobots have renegotiated the sponsorship deals so that they will receive seventy percent of the advertising revenue above expenses - I'm rather impressed they got that number past Tomax and Xamot, I thought they were reputed to be a bit more ruthless than that - and have retained the television rights to any subsequent re-airings. Oh, dear, it looks like they even lost the bid for production of commemorative souvenirs."
Cobra Commander felt a migraine coming on. "Did those twin dolts manage to get us anything from this endeavor?"
"Airtime, Commander," Destro explained patiently. He, at least, could see that there was a silver lining to what otherwise appeared to be a complete debacle perpetrated by COBRA's supposedly most brilliant businessmen. Searching the document for the exact numbers, he furthered, "Extensive Enterprises will distribute the program to a national broadcast network as well as its international affiliates. Most importantly, those 'twin dolts' ensured our telecomm providers will receive thirty-six percent, and Extensive Enterprises, as the distributor, will receive an additional ten percent of the revenue generated from the text and 1-900 numbers to be used in the voting process."
"WHAT?" shouted the commander, now insulted on top of enraged. "PENNIES!" he spat. "They expect me to fund COBRA with pennies?"
"Indeed, Commander," Destro said with such placid calm in the face of the storm that even Buddha could have taken lessons at his feet. "Pennies. Just think. The Autobots have played their cards well and have parlayed their presence here into an immense popularity with the citizens of the world. And now, the whole world will be tripping over itself to watch this program. From what we have seen of similar shows, millions upon millions of our drooling public will be clamoring to pay a nominal fee to cast multiple votes for their favorite robotic darlings. Billions of pennies will add up quite nicely, wouldn't you say?"
"Billionsss, you say?" In just the ticking of a few seconds, the man in the mirrored mask had gone from completely furious to rather pleased with the world. "And just how many times can a person vote for this meaningless drivel, noble Destro?"
Consulting the contract once more, Destro noted, "From all of the various media involved... up to twenty."
Rapidly doing the math in his head, Cobra Commander came to a resolute decision. "Call Extensive Enterprises immediately!" he ordered. "Have them contact the Autobots and generously offer to raise it to thirty."
O.O.O
"...and there you have it," Smokescreen concluded. "Like Jazz said, it's a honey of a deal for us, but at the same time, the distributor will turn enough of a profit to make the project worth all our while. Everyone's happy if you're happy."
"I am happy, as a matter of fact," Optimus agreed after he'd read and pondered every word of the contract, just to make sure nothing questionable and binding had been slipped into the verbiage. "I'm also impressed with your ... admirable restraint in renegotiating the terms."
"Well, I wouldn't want to drive our partners into bankruptcy or anything," Smokescreen said guilelessly, though everyone knew he could have done it if he really wanted to.
"I suppose that wouldn't exactly be the best way to start a business relationship," Optimus agreed, then gestured to the other contract that Jazz held. "And this, I take it, is a separate agreement with a production company?"
"Yeah, that's my baby," Blaster interjected, taking the contract from Jazz and laying it out on the table that Smokescreen had been using moments before. "While these guys here were wrangling with Extensive Enterprises, me and my boys," here he patted his chest deck with almost paternal pride, "had a nice, long talk with Miss Jerrica Benton, the owner and manager of Starlight Music, and her co-owner sister Kimber. Real nice girls." The musical mech beamed as brightly as his paint job.
There were a few murmurs of surprise and a bit of jealousy at Blaster's apparently awesome New York adventure. Prime, on the other hand, just stared blankly.
"Starlight Music?" Blaster repeated for his commander's benefit. "Major music label, and all?"
Optimus just continued to stare, utterly failing to see the significance.
"Y'know, Jem an' the Holograms?" Jazz suggested hopefully.
"I'm afraid the references are lost on me," Optimus Prime finally admitted.
Looking at each other with such pained expressions that they might as well have just been delivered news of Cybertron's total annihilation, Jazz and Blaster shook their heads sadly. "With all due respect, Boss," Jazz said mournfully, "sometimes you are the epitome of uncool."
"Oddly enough," the Autobot leader shrugged, "I take that as a compliment."
"And that's why we love ya, Chief!" Blaster responded cheerfully. "Now then. Here's what we got. Miss Benton - that's Jerrica Benton, she's the big boss there - agreed to loan us the use of what they call Synergy, which is pretty much the ultimate audio-visual entertainment synthesizer. Once we bounce it through Teletraan-2, it'll handle all the audio/visual effects, lighting, all that scrap. I mean, stuff," he hurriedly corrected his language with a glance at Optimus Prime. "Thing is, this is some pretty top-secret, hush-hush stuff. Nobody knows anything about it. It's Starlight's, well, kinda their secret weapon, so we can use it but we can't say one word about it. They just want us to say that Dancing with the Autobots is created in partnership with Starlight Music, and leave it at that."
"I think we can respect that request," Optimus agreed, "though I want Computron to scan every byte of its code before you download anything into Teletraan-2."
"I told her you'd say something like that," Blaster nodded. "Starlight is officially cool with it, as long as we don't damage the goods. And they did it all for an advertising trade-out, plus ten percent of the gross of both ticket sales and officially licensed souvenirs, with the proceeds going to their main charity, the Starlight House Foundation."
"Sounds like quite the deal." This suspicious comment was from Prowl, who always seemed slightly distrustful of things that involved the word 'deal.' "Did Smokescreen help you negotiate this contract as well?"
"Nah, I had a secret weapon of my own," Blaster said with a casual wave of his hand. "Course, I started by letting Rewind and Eject do the talking at first."
The Autobots had long since learned that even though they had firmly established their peaceful intentions and willingness to cooperate with the peoples of this planet, even the friendliest of humans simply couldn't help but be intimidated in the presence of a thirty-foot tall robot that could easily squash them just by twitching a foot servo in an inattentive moment. The smaller the Autobot, they realized, the less daunting humans found them to be. Of the original Ark crew, little Bumblebee had always been the most easily able to relate to humans, partly because of his infinitely charming personality, but mostly because his relatively small size put him so much nearer the humans' level of comfort.
When Blaster had finally arrived on this planet, he brought with him a small menagerie of cassettes that included two whose humanoid robot modes were only a touch taller than the average earthling. Rewind and Eject were the Cybertonians' idea of identical twins, but with vastly different personalities and areas of expertise.
While meeting with the co-owners of Starlight Music, Rewind had put them at ease by chatting with them about all sorts of music industry knowledge and trivia in general. Eject had eased into the topic of Dancing with the Autobots by explaining Jazz's vision of the friendly competition being similar to the Olympics in how they acted as a unifying event between the nations of Earth. The show would create a greater understanding and respect between humans and the Autobots who had gone out of their way to assimilate themselves into the culture of their adopted planet - for music and dance are universal aspects found in nearly every culture on the planet and throughout the galaxy.
"The little dudes were great for breakin' the ice," Blaster explained. "You could tell the ladies were sitting there thinking, 'Hey, cool, we're talking with a couple of alien robots and they're just like us!' instead of getting that, 'Holy scrap, he's huge!' look that they got when they first looked up and up and up at me. And that's when I cut loose with my secret weapon. Steeljaw."
"Steeljaw is your secret weapon?" Wheeljack sounded as incredulous as most of the other Autobots looked.
"Lemme show you," Blaster answered, pressing one of the buttons at his waist so that his chest compartment snapped open. "Steeljaw, c'mon boy."
In response, a yellow cassette popped out of the open deck, and transformed into a life-sized robotic lion before landing neatly on all four paws. Swishing his metallic tail in readiness, he looked up to Blaster for instructions.
"See Gears sitting over there at his computer?" Blaster asked, crouching down next to his 'pet' cassette and pointing towards the mech in question. "Pretend he's Miss Jerrica, sitting at her desk there at Starlight Music, and show everyone how you won her over to our side."
Huffing some sound of agreement, the robotic cat padded towards Gears, who was looking a little uncertain at this sudden attention. About two yards away, Steeljaw stopped, dug his front claws in, then bowed his upper body almost to the floor in a languid, uniquely feline stretch so deep that vertebrae would have popped if he'd had an organic spine. Then, pacing forward a few steps, he flung his leonine body against a distinctly uncomfortable Gears's shins and rubbed back and forth a few times before flopping over onto his back at the mech's feet. All four paws splayed haphazardly in the air, the lion let out a deep, rhythmic rumble that could be taken for nothing other than the purr it was.
"Oh," Optimus said, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. "And here I was worried about Smokescreen cheating."
"They thought he was just the cutest thing," Blaster agreed. "Outrageous, even. That was Kimber B.'s exact word. He let them rub his tummy and everything. Personally, I think he just really liked Miss Jerrica's perfume and wanted to stay there sniffing her ankles the whole time we talked."
The twitch of Steeljaw's tail seemed to confirm that.
"After that, we had the contract hammered out in no time like we were all old friends," Blaster continued. "Except for Ramhorn," he added, in reference to his fourth cassette, a violently foul-tempered robotic rhinoceros. Patting his chest deck, which still contained the other Autobot cassettes, he explained, "He was taking a nap."
"Probably for the best," Optimus Prime agreed. "So are we ready to begin production?"
"Oh, sure," Jazz said, bubbling over with positive energy. "Just as soon as we locate us a venue, rebuild it into a suitable performance center, get us some sponsors, hire us some instructors, get us some hosts and judges, start rehearsin', get security clearance for the camera crew, an' film some promo spots to start airin' next month. Then we're ready to dance!"
Trying to make it sound like he was issuing an official command, Optimus ordered, "Then I suggest you get to it."
"No time like the present!" Jazz agreed. "Let's start with the first thing first. Where's our master builders? Grapple, Hoist, have we ever got a project for you! C'mon, let's go have a quick meetin' about it. Blaster, my man, shall we dance?"
"Lead on, my man!" Blaster answered, and the two mechs flung their arms comically around one another, aimed for the door, and, to the laughter of nearly everyone in the Command Center, made their exit with an uncoordinated dance style that resembled nothing on Earth so much as a poorly-run three-legged race. Causing even more mayhem was Steeljaw, who hopped up from his prone position and bounded boisterously around their retreating feet in an apparent attempt to deliberately trip them both.
Caught up in the mood, Hoist and Grapple looked at each other, shrugged, and decided to go with the flow. Locking arms in a very, very bad imitation of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, they drew cheers and applause from their fellow Autobots as they made for the exit with remarkably less coordination than Jazz and Blaster. Apparently, they couldn't even decide who was leading. Laughing mechs dove right and left in an attempt to get out of their erratic path.
"That's just ... disturbing," Prowl commented as Grapple managed to plow Hoist right into the door frame.
O.O.O
Two hours later, Jazz had finished outlining the next part of the project to the utterly enthusiastic Grapple and Hoist, and, after leaving Blaster to the business of scripting a few commercials and promo spots, was now strolling through one of Metroplex's open courtyards, speaking with Prowl and Red Alert.
"... so if you can finish up that list an' get it to Ultra Magnus by the end of this week," Jazz was saying, "then he an' Prime can talk it over an' decide what parts of the city the camera crews can an' can't film in."
"I'd rather not have them here at all," Red Alert answered, the paranoia in his voice probably rating a level of 'yellow' today. "But I trust Ultra Magnus's judgment on which areas are less sensitive and more acceptable for filming. This is 'his' city, after all. He knows it like the back of his hand servo."
"And you want me to run background checks on every person hired for the film and production crew, including the dance instructors," Prowl added. Optimus had unequivocally ordered him to assist Jazz in any way necessary, and despite their widely disparate personalities, Prowl and Jazz were actually very good friends, so the Police 'Bot was obviously doing his best to not let his personal feelings on the matter show.
"Can't be too cautious," Jazz agreed, saying exactly what he knew his buddy wanted to hear. "An' hey! There's two 'Bots I want to see 'bout the next thing on my list!"
Across the courtyard, Springer and Arcee turned quickly at Jazz's shout. They had clearly been discussing something while standing in the shade of a second-story mezzanine, but immediately stopped speaking to one another at the approach of Jazz's little group. The Specialist figured that either meant they were on duty and reviewing classified Wreckers business that not even he was authorized to hear, or else they were off-duty and making some embarrassingly cuddly plans for the evening.
Jazz was far too much of a gentlebot to speculate whether it was the former or the latter. Out loud, anyway.
"Me an' Blaster just got the distribution an' production contracts signed for Dancin' with the Autobots," Jazz explained to the couple, who flashed each other excited grins at the news. "So now we gotta start promotin' it. We got a crew comin' next week to start filmin' a couple advance commercials an' stuff to get people excited. So I'm tryin' to round up some of our contestants to strike a few dancin' poses for the camera."
"Uh, Jazz," Prowl interrupted before either Springer or Arcee could agree to anything. "Look, no offense to anyone, but you haven't even held auditions, so you haven't seen anyone dance yet. Why are you already so certain they'll make it to the finals?"
Giving the Police 'Bot a patient, long-suffering look, Jazz explained simply, "Because they're hot."
The answer got a giggle out of Arcee and a cocky grin from Springer, but Red Alert covered his faceplate with his hands and shook his head slowly, while Prowl merely cast his optics Heavenward and didn't reply.
Jazz, on the other hand, had seen enough televised competitive reality shows to know how the voting really worked. In point of fact, 'because they're hot' was a completely honest explanation for how so many competitors made it as far as they did. Still, in the end, many more contestants advanced because they had real talent and merit. "An' I'll bet ya they've got some pretty sweet moves, too," the Specialist added with just the barest of pauses. "Right, guys?"
"Oh, we've already been practicing," Springer agreed, turning to Arcee. "Observe." With a swiftness that startled even Jazz, the femme gracefully fell forward into her sparkmate's arms. He caught her at the very last second as she kicked up her leg to wrap it firmly around his waist, the two of them striking an almost shockingly sensual pose. Shooting Prowl that cocky grin again, Springer announced with a bad Latin American accent, "We tango!"
Prowl's optics nearly goggled out of his head as the couple, both humming a sultry tune - Historia de un Amor - launched themselves into a provocative display of close, intricate footwork. They moved so intimately with one another that they might as well have been welded together from forehead to waist. It was a good trick, since Springer was at least a head taller than Arcee, but somehow, they managed. Dancing in this position allowed only movement from the waist down; their routine consisted mostly of sensually rolling hips, sinuously intertwining legs, and seductive dips and thrusts.
"Yeee-ow! Woo-HOO! Sexy, sexy, SEXY!" Jazz cheered, clapping his hands in enthusiastic approval. Casting a triumphant look at Prowl and the nearly-glitching Red Alert, he predicted, "That oughta be enough to get 'em to the finals!"
"That ought to be illegal!" Prowl countered adamantly.
O.O.O
Continued in Chapter 3 ...