Author's Note: For the most part, I made up the pet names that Jazz has for the femmes, however, it was in someone else's fanfic that I picked up his nickname for Elita, "the Little Pink Bulldozer." I would love to credit the author who came up with that, unfortunately, it's been so long that I don't remember what fic that was or who wrote it. I'm more than happy to give credit wherever credit is due ... wherever that may be.

O.O.O

Dancing With The Autobots

Chapter 4: Drama

O.O.O

Blaster had a very special skill that few Autobots had ever, or would ever, achieve. He was completely unaffected by the chaos of Jazz's quarters. While most mechs would have itched to compulsively organize the manic array of memorabilia, magazines, computer equipment, and other mysterious objects into some semblance of order that made sense to anyone else besides Jazz, (perhaps after first shooting holes in the high-tech sound system currently booming out deafening rock music), Blaster seemed rather at home as he leaned back in the chair, his foot servos resting casually on a recently unearthed patch of clean desktop.

Thumbing his way through the readout on a data pad, the Communications 'Bot suggested, "What about Ultra Magnus?"

Almost a week after having booked Autzen Stadium, thus setting an official date for the live finale of Dancing with the Autobots, Blaster and Jazz were busy with the task of selecting the judges for their show. After watching enough human musical and dancing competitions to get the feel for how it all worked, they'd decided on a particular format for the judges' panel: They needed one mech who could only be called "flamboyant and fabulous," a blunt, gruff, straight-talking mech who wasn't afraid to tell it like it is, and a perky, effervescent femme.

Flamboyant and fabulous was easy. Tracks, who had long since resigned himself to that kind of innuendo from the people of this planet, was more than happy that Jazz had appointed him to the panel of judges. Certainly, the idea of throwing around the weight of his opinion while posing his showy self for the camera had its appeal to the rather stuck-up Autobot, but mostly, he knew that being a judge essentially negated any chance of Jazz 'recruiting' him for the all-mech dance squad. He'd practically tripped over himself in his haste to agree to the assignment.

Blaster and Jazz were having a little more difficulty deciding on the gruff straight-talker, surprisingly enough. Originally they wanted Ironhide to fill the role, but quickly realized that since they'd already put him and Chromia in the commercial, it was highly likely the old warhorse was going to be a competitor instead.

Half obscured by the trophy that still dominated the desk, Jazz also leaned back and kicked his foot servos up. "Magnus? Hm. Dunno about that. Sure, he's blunt when he wants to be – which is pretty much all the time – but don't ya think it'll weird everyone out, havin' to dance in front of a superior officer an' all?"

"Maybe, 'cept for Prime and Elita," Blaster mentioned.

Jazz laughed. "That'll be even worse, my man."

Blaster thought about that for a moment. "Y'think he won't be able to criticize Prime if he screws up?"

"Nah." Jazz shook his head. "Magnus's got himself a cast iron manifold. It don't bother him to look his bro right in the optic an' tell him he did somethin' wrong." Shrugging, the Specialist added, "Though it don't hurt that Prime deliberately asks all of us for that kind of feedback. I'm just thinkin' Magnus would have an epic fail when it came time to criticize Elita."

Blaster thought this over and realized that Jazz had a point. Then, at the same moment, both mechs grinned at each other, held up their left hands with last digits extended, and symbolically wrapped Ultra Magnus around Elita One's little finger.

"Okay, that's settled," Jazz laughed. "How 'bout Perceptor? He could do a scientific analysis of each dancer's, y'know, rhythm an' dynamics of motion an', um, their interpretation of the, uh, mathematical basis of the music an', y'know, stuff. Plus, we all know he can do it without gettin' all emotional about it. Believe me, he can tell it like it is."

Blaster gave Jazz an even look. "An' tell it, an' tell it, an' tell it..."

Jazz grinned, conceding the point, and then both mechs were suddenly chanting in unison, "...an' tell it, an' tell it, an' tell it!" When they stopped, they both had a hearty laugh at themselves, and, with a somewhat self-deprecating gesture, Jazz snickered, "'Kay, let's just chalk that one up to what was I thinkin' there an' move on. Who else we got?"

"Sky Lynx? He can pull off arrogant and aristocratic like nobody's business." Drawing himself up formally, Blaster put on a disturbingly weird-sounding, stuffy accent and, waving a stiff finger servo in the air, intoned, "Your attempt at 'dance,' as we shall so graciously call it, was performed with a fluidity matched only by frenzied Sharkticons! It seemed as though you were trying to free one another from the surface of the planet Goo!"

Jazz laughed at the accuracy of the impression, but after a moment, his lazy smile faded. "Y'know, he'd be perfect if he wasn't so darned big. I dunno if we could fit him in the stadium when it comes time for the live show."

"Um ... he could watch from orbit? Y'know, we could send him a live video feed through Skyspy?"

"It might work. But let's just keep him in mind an' put him on reserve for now," Jazz suggested. "Unless we don't got anyone else?"

"There's always Kup. Probably shoulda thought of him first."

After a thoughtful moment, Jazz nodded. "Crotchety ol' timer who ain't got no problem offerin' his opinion, 'specially to them turbo-revvin' young punks. But, uh … when it comes to the li'l ladies, don't ya think he's kinda like this?" Jazz held up his little finger again.

"Well, yeah," Blaster agreed. "But it's pretty obvious that all the ladies got him wrapped around their little fingers, so that kinda levels the playing field. And you know how much he loves having an audience."

"Righty then, Kup it is!" Jazz pronounced.

In organizing Dancing with the Autobots, Jazz and Blaster had developed the habit of simply appointing various individuals to whatever task they were most suited for, and informing them of their assignments at a later time. In their enthusiasm, they'd pretty much bypassed the step of asking said individuals if they were willing to participate in the first place.

Yesterday, Spike and Bumblebee had been notified of their appointments as the show's hosts. Neither of them had to really listen to Jazz's "showcase of the finest example of human-Autobot friendship" spiel, or Blaster's "both of you are already comfortable in front of a camera from your Ambassadorial and Spokesbot roles" logic. They just looked at each other in amusement, surrendered to their fates, and agreed to whatever Jazz wanted.

"I'm not wearing a tux!" was the only protest Spike had made.

In a show of solidarity, Bumblebee had crossed his arms and proclaimed, "Me neither!"

Knowing Jazz and Blaster, this meant that Spike would definitely wind up in a tuxedo at some point, and Bumblebee would at least be stuck with a bow tie.

"Okey dokey," Jazz continued, making a quick note on his data pad. "We got flamboyant an' fabulous, an' we got gruff an' straight-talkin'. Now we just need our perky femme judge."

For a long moment, the two mechs fell uncharacteristically silent. Each of them had just now, for the first time, realized the corner they had backed themselves into by making sure all the femmes wanted to participate as dancers in the competition. Not a single female Autobot currently stationed on Earth, perky or otherwise, was left available to judge.

If it weren't for the stereo system blasting AC/DC at top volume, the silence in the quarters would have stretched for almost a full minute. Then, as if on cue, both mechs hit on the same idea, looked up at each other, and pronounced with utter finality, "Carly."

O.O.O

Somehow, over the next few weeks, everything started falling into place. The training room that had served as a commercial set was now officially converted into an audition hall. The network which had picked up Dancing with the Autobots had procured enough sponsors to make the show a financial success, and, at long last, Prowl had given security clearance to enough camera and sound operators, set riggers, costume technicians and makeup artists to comprise a feasible film crew. Any bumps along the road had been relatively minor and easily remedied.

To promote the show, the hosts and judges, either individually or as a group, had granted numerous magazine requests and had appeared on a total of seven televised interviews, ranging from Entertainment Tonight to Good Morning America, though they had specifically avoided an invitation to appear on Hector Ramirez's Twenty Questions. Yes, they wanted publicity, but not that kind of publicity. As requested, the judges had all played up their personas to the extreme: Kup sounded like a demented drill sergeant as he kicked his feet up and chomped on a cy-gar during the interviews, Tracks laid on the fabulous flamboyance so thick that he wouldn't live the innuendo down for the next five hundred vorns at least, and Carly was so bubbly that several manufacturers of carbonated beverages offered deals for her to be their next spokesmodel. On the other hand, as the hosts, Spike and Bumblebee didn't want to steal the show, and so by simply being their own charming selves during their interviews, they were quite toned-down in comparison. Either way, the publicity worked. Blaster was tracking an average of thirty-seven new fan sites on the internet each day, and the show hadn't begun airing yet.

In this case, Jazz and Blaster were uncharacteristically avoiding the spotlight. Even though they were the show's co-creators and therefore would have been highly in demand for talk shows and interviews, they kept their lip-plates sealed and would not let their names be publicly connected with the development of the show. Both of them wanted to compete in the all-mech dance squad they were forming, and they rightly felt the voting would be impacted if the audience knew the creators of the show were vying for the top prize.

For the most part, Jazz was very pleased with the progress of his project. But this morning, he had seen something that made him ... well, it was far, far too much to say he was losing his cool. No matter the circumstances, Jazz never lost his cool. But he had noted something that was perhaps cause for a little bit of concern.

"Hot Rod!" Jazz nearly shouted, practically flinging open the sliding doors to Metroplex's monitor hub when they didn't open fast enough for him. But he wasn't losing his cool. No, of course not. Far from it. "I need drama!"

Slumped in a chair and looking bored out of his skull housing, the young mech turned his slightly glazed optics away from the array of security monitors covering the wall. "Really?" Hot Rod asked dully, gesturing at the banks of screens. "Because I could use a little less drama in my life right now."

"Wha-?" Pausing, Jazz shifted mental gears and took a moment to comprehend Hot Rod's situation. "Oh, right. Monitor duty."

"Triple shift," Hot Rod agreed listlessly. "Magnus thinks I was behind the squirrel incident."

"Oh, man," Jazz nodded in sympathy. A few days ago, it seemed that some prankster had gone to the effort of rounding up about two dozen golden-mantled ground squirrels from the desert areas beyond the perimeter of Autobot City, sugared up the little rodents up with candy acquired from the human section of the city, and then turned the hyperactive buggers loose in Ultra Magnus's office.

By the time the City Commander discovered the prank, the furry little whirlwinds had gnawed up everything in his office that was gnawable, shredded everything that was shredable, and piddled on everything else that wasn't. And they steadfastly refused to be caught, by Magnus or anyone else, until Optimus, taking sympathy on his brother, enlisted the nature-loving Hound and Beachcomber to round the little devils up. The benevolent 'Bots, with their natural affinity for animals, somehow convinced the squirrels to calm down and hop into the fabric-lined, treat-filled box they carried. They then proceeded to do some quick, painless genetic testing to track down the proper burrows when returning them to the wild.

Ultra Magnus, however, had not been quite so calm about the whole situation. His furious questioning of all the usual suspects brought him little success; known pranksters Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Air Raid and Bluestreak all, surprisingly, had airtight alibis, and so did their usual accomplices and even the less usual suspects. The only one not able to prove his innocence beyond a reasonable doubt was Hot Rod - mostly because the young mech usually was guilty of having a hand servo in the prank of the day, and so had very little real practice in successfully making his superiors believe when he had nothing to do with it. Unfortunately, this was enough to convince Ultra Magnus that Hot Rod was the perpetrator, and had assigned him a triple shift of monitor duty as punishment.

"I didn't even do it," Hot Rod protested half-heartedly, though the argument was all but useless now. His assignment was two-thirds over already. "Wouldn't mind monitor duty so much if I'd actually done something to deserve it. Anyway, what's got your fuel injectors in a knot?"

"Dancin' with the Autobots," Jazz said urgently. "I need your help, man!"

Hot Rod's brow ridge creased faintly at this. "Thought you said everything was taken care of."

"I did, an' it is," Jazz answered, with a slightly manic edge to his voice. "But the film crew is s'posed to get here an' set up an' start filmin' in two days. An' d'you know what I saw just this mornin'?"

"Um?" Hot Rod shrugged helplessly.

"Hotpants an' Bubbles an' Twinkie were all standin' around a monitor, watchin' instructional dance videos," Jazz exclaimed, waving his hands for emphasis, "an' they were all giddy an' excited an' tellin' each other that 'This would be a good dance style for you to try,' an' 'I think you two would be great at this style' an' so on!"

Jazz, of course, was the only mech who had ever dared to give all the femmes silly nicknames and use them regularly, in public anyway. His amazing accomplishment was not simply that he avoided the wrath of the females in doing so, but that they had actually pronounced his nicknames for them 'endearing.' But only when he alone used them. Firestar duly became Hotpants due to her fearless ability to run high-risk rescue missions during fires and high-temperature conditions. Moonracer earned the name Bubbles because of her cheerful personality. Only Jazz and Primus Himself knew why Chromia had been dubbed Twinkie; even Chromia had no idea how that had come about. But considering that Jazz hadn't had his aft pounded into the ground over it, apparently she liked it anyway.

Unfortunately, if Jazz expected sympathy towards his current plight, he had clearly failed to make his point well enough for Hot Rod to commiserate with him. "Oooh," the younger mech said after an expectant pause, as if waiting for a punch line that never came. "Autobots helping and encouraging each other? By Primus, the humans might start to think we almost like each other or something!"

"That ain't the point!" Jazz … well, he didn't yell. That would be too close to losing his cool. Stopping and deliberately forcing himself to count to a billion (which, with his computerized neuroprocessor set on its lowest clock speed, took exactly three point seven seconds), he calmed down and tried to explain in a more reasonable voice, "You watch enough reality shows to know that they don't get high ratin's by everyone gettin' along all lovey-dovey, right? They thrive on personality conflicts, rivalries, back-stabbin', that kind of stuff. Y'know, drama! But you're right, we do like each other a lot. It ain't easy to drum up those kind of conflicts. So I'm tryin' to get the competitors to play up the extremes for the camera, like our judges do. So far, all I got is Chromia an' Ironhide promisin' to portray themselves as the abrasive, mouthy, don't-take-no-scrap-from-nobody couple."

"In other words," Hot Rod pointed out, turning back to watch the monitors as per his current duty, "they agreed to act like themselves."

"Pretty much," Jazz nodded disconsolately. "Man, I ain't havin' much luck with this. A couple days ago, I tried askin' Hotpants an' Inferno to pretend to be a high-maintenance, bickerin' couple an' maybe make up a few arguments to get into in front of the camera."

Hot Rod shook his head, still observing the multiple video feeds. "Won't work. They've been working together so seamlessly for so long, I don't think they know how to bicker any more."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out," Jazz agreed. "An' then I made the mistake of remindin' Springer an' Arcee to make sure they put a little extra sexy in it, not just their dance routine but the way they interact in front of the camera too, 'cause they're portrayin' the hot young couple, an' I hear sex sells as far as humans are concerned. First thing they did was go online an' research 'How To Sex It Up Like A Human' or somethin'."

Hot Rod cringed visibly, but couldn't hide the grin on his faceplate. "Oh, let me guess. They did it without turning 'Safe Search' on, right?"

Jazz sighed mournfully. "I ain't never gonna hear the end of that one. But I guess I shoulda been careful what I wished for, 'cause this morning, after I saw the gals around the monitor, I heard some laughin' an' dancin' goin' on in the gym, so I thought I'd pop in an' see how everyone's doin'. Well, there was Springer an' Arcee, rehearsin' how to put the sexy in their moves, just like I asked 'em to, but the real problem was, Optimus an' Elita were in there practicin' too. I dunno how long they'd been at it, but by the time I got there, it turned into one of them, y'know, friendly competitions or something, seein' who had the hottest moves. Prime an' Springer were all pelvic action an' macho poses," the Specialist explained, demonstrating exactly what he meant, much to Hot Rod's horror, "an' The Pink Lady an' The Li'l Pink Bulldozer were all wiggles an' shimmies an' Primus knows what else."

The Pink Lady and The Little Pink Bulldozer were Jazz-speak for Arcee and Elita One, respectively.

"And this is a problem, why?" Hot Rod asked curiously. "Doesn't that qualify as drama?"

"OPTIMUS PRIME TRYIN' TO OUT-SEXY ANYONE IS JUST PLAIN WRONG!" That time, Jazz really did shout. Then, upon hearing what he sounded like, he stopped, forced himself to be calm, and gathered the tattered remnants of his cool back around himself.

"Oh, I don't know," Hot Rod said nonchalantly. "I suppose that really depends on one thing."

Mentally counting to a billion again, Jazz asked warily, "Like what?"

Flashing a boyish grin, the younger mech asked, "Was he winning?"

Jazz froze, seething dangerously as he glared energon daggers at the brat in the monitor seat. "Hot Rod, there ain't enough brain-bleach in the world to get that image outta my head."

Hot Rod just chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and turned back to the monitors again. "You did it to yourself, Jazz-man. So, that being said, you got any sort of back-up plan to get your drama?"

"I hear Brawn's been working on his ballet," the Specialist suggested slyly.

"That'll suck," Hot Rod proclaimed calmly. "But I've heard a lot of the guys are gonna audition even though they're terrible and know they don't stand a chance. They're doing it for laughs and a shot at being on the camera. Happens in those human competition shows all the time. And sorry, but bad dancing isn't exactly drama. What else you got?"

"Well, I was thinkin' about waitin' until a camera was in Powerglide's mug before someone told him that Hybrid Technologies is one of our sponsors," Jazz said with a slightly evil grin.

Hot Rod showed very little reaction to the name, beyond a vaguely blank stare and a faint, one-shouldered shrug.

"Y'know," Jazz continued after a second of awkward silence, "Hy-Tech? The company owned by Astoria Carlton-Ritz?"

After a beat, Hot Rod's youthful face lit up in recognition. "Oh. That rich human heiress that went all squealing fangirl on Powerglide. Right. Um ... why is that drama?"

"Because Powerglide's auditionin' with Moonracer!" Jazz explained emphatically. "It's totally gonna put P.G. in a majorly awkward position when Astoria sees that! The Pit ain't got no fury like a femme scorned, y'know."

Hot Rod gave a slight chuckle. "Powerglide and Moonracer have been good friends practically since they were protoforms. Very good friends, Jazz. Not a romantic item, so Astoria's got no reason to be jealous and pull her sponsorship or anything."

"You know that, an' I know that," Jazz hinted, "but Astoria don't know that. I still think Powerglide's gonna overreact when he hears it."

"Sorry, Jazz-man, you're grasping straws here," Hot Rod told him with utter certainty. "You need some real drama. Wish I could help."

Unseen by Hot Rod, who was dutifully monitoring the security feeds, Jazz grinned triumphantly. That was just the opening the Specialist had been aiming for when he started this conversation. "Actually," he said conspiratorially, "you can help with some real drama."

A brief flash of panic flickered through the younger mech's bright blue optics, and he not-so-subtly shifted his body language until his posture practically screamed, Very very busy with monitor duty right now, can't help, nope, not at all...

"See," Jazz continued, ignoring the nonverbal cues that Hot Rod was shouting at him, "Sunny an' Sides are puttin' together a hip-hop routine. I need you to join their team."

Hot Rod looked like he needed a minute to work out the logic on that one. Failing that, he admitted, "Okay, you lost me. I'm pretty sure I've been showing up for rehearsals for the past couple of weeks, so you're gonna have to excuse me for thinking that meant I was on your squad."

"You are, man, you are!" Jazz assured. "But just for starters, I want to put you on their team."

"Uh ... why?"

Jazz beamed. "So Sunstreaker can kick you off!" He grinned at Hot Rod, watching as the flame-emblazoned 'Bot again tried ineffectively to grasp at any wisp of logic that might have existed in this conversation. "Seriously," he finally explained, "don't blame me. Sideswipe came up with this one. He just wanted a third mech on the team that maybe wasn't so good at dancin', or was a bit of a slacker when it came to rehearsin' or somethin'. Then Sunny could have one of his spectacular hissy fits on camera, an' kick the poor ringer off the team. 'Course, originally they asked Red Alert if he'd be the third dancer, 'cause they were tryin' to keep with a 'Team Lamborghini' theme, but Red kinda got that glitchy look of his just at the suggestion, so they backed off fast. So at that point, I thought of you. You're perfect for it!"

"Okay ... why do I want to do this?" a very bewildered Hot Rod asked.

"DRAMA!" Jazz proclaimed, extravagantly flinging his hands into the air. "Sunny finally gets to tell you off, which he's wanted to do ever since he first got a look at your flashy paint job, an' it seals the twins' rep as arrogant bad boys." With increasingly emphatic gestures, as if he were directing a play that only he could envision, the Specialist continued, "But you? You're gonna be the poor, wronged, innocent victim, who's gonna persevere despite the horrible setback! Your popularity will go through the roof, my man! Fans will be crawlin' out of the weldin' joints!"

Hot Rod grinned at Jazz's enthusiasm, but managed to admonish, "Seems like you're planning and scripting everything. I thought this was supposed to be a reality show."

"Oh, come on, Roddy," Jazz sighed. "You and I both know just how much actual reality makes up a reality show."

"Well, you got me there," Hot Rod admitted with a gesture of concession. "Okay."

"Okay, you'll do it?"

"Okay, I'll do it, if I can get back to finishing off my monitor shift like a good little 'Bot, despite the injustice of it all." Once again, the sporty mech turned back to the banks of monitors.

"You must be bored silly," Jazz mentioned sympathetically. "We ain't heard a peep from the 'Cons for weeks."

"Not since the commercials started airing," Hot Rod observed seriously. "They're planning something."

Jazz nodded. He figured the same thing too. Once the date of the live show had been set, they couldn't help but announce to the world when and where the event was going to be; this not only told the Decepticons exactly where to expect Optimus Prime and the others involved in the competition, but when Autobot City was going to be half-deserted and running on a skeleton crew. Of course the Decepticons would see it as an opportunity to attack. Jazz knew that, and had been preparing for it from the beginning.

"Don't worry, kid," the Specialist assured him. "Prowl and Red Alert, they're workin' overtime on security for the show, an' I heard a rumor that Springer's got himself a highly trained, super-secret, hush-hush, mum's-the-word, crack team that nobody's s'posed to know about an' we're all s'posed to pretend don't exist-"

"The Wreckers?"

"Way to blow my groove, man," Jazz sighed theatrically. "Anyway, yeah. He's gonna have them planted around the stadium, in case anything happens. So you don't you worry about nothin' but dancin', 'kay? Anyway, I gotta roll, there's one last detail I gotta take care of. An' thanks again for helpin' me with the drama."

"No problem," Hot Rod answered with a wave as Jazz turned to leave the room. "Anything for the Jazz-meister."

Jazz grinned to himself as he walked down the hall, feeling confident that the show would have the drama it needed. He was relieved that Hot Rod was willing to play along. The youngster had long since earned himself a reputation as a smart-mouthed trouble-maker, but deep down, he had a truly decent spark and was willing to put the bravado aside to help whenever he was needed. Anyone would count himself lucky to have a friend like Hot Rod.

It was almost enough to make Jazz feel bad about the squirrels.

O.O.O

"Hey! Prowler! There y'are!"

After leaving Hot Rod to the last few hours of his monitor duty, Jazz made the short trip to the Ark in search of the "one last detail he had to take care of" regarding Dancing with the Autobots. That last detail involved Prowl, and after a quick search, he found the Police 'Bot deep in the lava tubes that ran through the mountain behind their crashed space ship.

Prowl looked up warily at Jazz's innocent grin and friendly shout of, "Man, with ya hidin' all the way down here, makes me think you're avoidin' me or somethin'."

"Not avoiding," Prowl answered his friend, displaying a data pad and some sort of scanning equipment that the Specialist did not immediately recognize. "Security survey. Just making sure that all the seals we put on the 'back doors' to this place are still holding up. The last thing we need is the Decepticons tampering with them and finding a way in."

"Don't matter if this ain't our main base of operations no more," Jazz agreed. "It's still home. An' that's why we're all glad to have you here on our team. You're the best!"

Not surprisingly, Prowl looked a little uneasy at the compliment. Prowl had an unnaturally keen sense for when Jazz wanted something and was up to his old tricks to get it – which Jazz rather regretfully acknowledged meant that he was getting predictable.

"Well, it's all about paying attention to the details," Prowl answered cautiously, in what was probably supposed to be carefully modulated neutrality.

"Details! Yep, that's what it's all about," Jazz practically beamed, and watched with a perverse sense of enjoyment as the Police 'Bot's expression started to grow at least as paranoid as Red Alert's, if not more so. "There ain't many mechs who can round up the details like you can, no sir."

Prowl backed up a nervous step, his legendary composure starting to show a few hairline cracks as he surreptitiously glanced around for a route of escape. "Um … Jazz?" he asked uncertainly.

"Plus, Prime did order you to assist me with Dancin' with the Autobots in any way I needed," the Specialist pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Jazz ..?" Prowl was no longer the least bit subtle about looking for a bolt-hole, but as his security scan had just verified, all the tubes and tunnels in this area had been thoroughly sealed years ago. The only way out was through Jazz himself.

"An' your kind of attention to them details," Jazz finished cheerfully, shoving a data pad into Prowl's reluctant hands while throwing a friendly arm around his shoulder struts, "is absotively posilutely what the stage manager for the live performance needs!"

"JAAAAAAAAZZZZZZZ!"

O.O.O

The handful of startled Autobots in the command area looked up at the raging scream echoing through the Ark. They stared at the walls, the ceiling, even the floor for what seemed like an entire minute, trying to discern its source, but the caverns surrounding the space ship were like a massive echo chamber, making the long, agonizingly drawn-out shout seem like it was coming from everywhere at once.

"Wow," Cliffjumper commented calmly when the roar of fury finally died away. "That had to be Prowl."

Unlike Cliffjumper, Silverbolt appeared a little shaken by the angry bellow. The team leader of the Aerialbots looked down at the red Minibot in confusion. "Prowl? How can you tell?"

"I've only ever heard four mechs who could make Jazz's name sound like a swear word," Cliffjumper shrugged casually, "and the other three are all Decepticons."

O.O.O

Somewhere deep beneath the sparkling waters of the Pacific Ocean, the bridge of the Victory hummed with its usual Decepticon activity. Mechs were busy analyzing data, inspecting weapons systems, maintaining and repairing various pieces of equipment, and generally going about their daily duties.

In Starscream's case, he was looking out one of the crashed vessel's observation ports, having a staring contest with some sort of eerily illuminated aquatic creature that resembled nothing so much as a tiny Sharkitcon, minus the claws. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought it was called an "angler fish."

"Optimus Prime," Starscream heard Megatron mutter over the background noise of work being accomplished, "you are a fool to think you have hidden anything from me."

Shaking his head in annoyance, the Decepticon Air Commander turned away from the observation port. On the other side of the window, the fish flicked its fins and swam away, quite confident it had claimed the victory. "If I may say so once again, Mighty Megatron," Starscream addressed their Supreme Leader with more sarcasm than respect, "I don't believe this so-called trophy of the Autobots is what you think -"

"SILENCE!" Megatron roared from in front of the viewscreen, where he had once again been ruminating over tapes of the commercials and promo spots for Dancing with the Autobots.

Starscream just shrugged. "As you command," he said as he glanced around the bridge, counting how many Decepticons were present. Every one of them had heard him try to point out his doubts about Megatron's desire for the Dancing with the Autobots trophy, and this was the third time he'd publicly registered his misgivings. His opinion was now firmly on the record with at least two dozen witnesses to back him up. It was enough to cause a smug grin to flicker across his faceplate.

"I WILL have that trophy," Megatron said to no one in particular. "I will not be denied!"

"Uh, Mighty Megatron," Ramjet asked, with more respect than Starscream could ever manage, "If I can ask, how are you planning on getting the trophy in the first place? The broadcast says that only Cybertron's finest dancers have the right to claim it."

Megatron gave the Seeker a withering look, and even Starscream very quietly banged his forehead against their crashed spaceship's bulkhead in frustration. Obviously Ramjet was suffering the effects of one too many midair collisions again. How many times did they have to order the blasted idiot to follow through with a little routine maintenance?

"Ah, of course," Megatron said with deeply biting sarcasm that somehow bounced right off Ramjet's cone-shaped head. "How silly of me. Aerial attacks and frontal assaults are useless! I must dance for the trophy." Giving a mocking bow to an imaginary partner, he continued, "Fetch me Nightbird as my partner, and she and I shall gloriously waltz the trophy right out from beneath the Autobots' olfactory housings!"

Behind Megatron's back, Starscream traded glances with Soundwave, and together they briefly cast their optics skyward, silently commiserating on how they had to suffer fools like Ramjet.

Mechs like Starscream and Soundwave were intelligent and experienced enough to know when Megatron was being sarcastic. Mechs like Ramjet, Skywarp, and a handful of others who overheard this conversation, not so much. Unbeknownst to Megatron, Starscream, or anyone else until it was far, far too late, several of them took their leader's acerbic comment to be a literal order.

O.O.O

Within they hour, this hastily thrown-together Decepticon team departed on what they felt was an important mission to track down Dr. Fujiyama, and through him, his creation: Nightbird, the uncontrollable female Ninja-bot that had nearly wiped out over twenty Autobots before being deactivated and ultimately put in storage by her maker. Though she was the invention of a paltry human and therefore not Cybertronian, not a Transformer, and only a she-bot, she had impressed most of the Decepticons (Starscream, as always, being the major exception) with her deadly assassin skills, and had seemed ever so slightly ... attached to Megatron at the time.

Dr. Fujiyama himself did not crack and reveal Nightbird's location when the small group of Decepticons tried to intimidate him with some rather creative threats to various bits of his anatomy, however, one of his younger assistants did. Though they were rather disappointed with the assistant's cooperation because it meant that they didn't get the fun of squishing a few annoying fleshlings today, the Decepticons felt their mission was paramount and only tarried a few nanokliks to cause a little malicious, unwarranted damage before departing to retrieve Nightbird from the secret storage facility.

"Nightbird!" Ramjet proclaimed importantly when Bombshell had fully reactivated the berserk Ninja-bot's brain chip. "The Decepticons have brought you out of stasis so you can help us claim the top prize in a dancing competition-"

Nightbird scowled darkly before Ramjet could finish.

After that, things did not go well for any of the Decepticons involved.

O.O.O

Continued in Chapter 5 ...