Dancing With The Autobots

Chapter 5: Auditions - Part I

O.O.O

A little more than three weeks later, all optics in the Decepticon command center were glued to the viewscreen. The only time any gazes ever strayed from the human programming was when an impatient individual here or there cast an irritated glance at the chronometer which was set to display the current local Earth time. According to the broadcast schedule the humans had published – and the Decepticons tended to sneeringly dismiss the possibility of human scheduling systems ever being totally accurate – the first episode of Dancing with the Autobots would begin to air in a little less than a breem.

With a brooding Megatron at the forefront of the crowd, the Decepticons refrained from making any lewd comments or rude speculations regarding what they were about to see. Instead, they all stood or sat in nearly identical postures of mild disgust, with arms crossed belligerently and scowls of distaste on the faceplates that were not obscured by protective masks.

There was not a single Decepticon in the room who would even consider the possibility that such a pandering debacle as the Autobots were about to present could have even the remotest bit of merit. Of those present, some were there to glean what intelligence and information they could from the broadcast. The rest were there just to have a nasty laugh at their enemies' expense.

O.O.O

Scenes somewhat similar to the one on the Decepticon bridge were forming throughout the Autobot territories, but none so large as in the main rec room in Metroplex. Like the Decepticons, the Autobots crowded in front of the big-screen monitors, impatient for the show to start. However, while the Decepticons were the very image of disdain, Autobots everywhere were a rowdy, laughing picture of happy camaraderie.

Currently well into the third week of filming, the Autobots already knew how this first episode was going to turn out. In fact, it was common knowledge which seven acts had made it through auditions and had been selected as competitors, and that the semifinalists, working with their human dance instructors, were well on their way into polishing their routines for the final, live performance. But that in no way diminished anyone's excitement, here and now, at watching the televised, edited production of the first round of auditions.

'Bots were overcrowded onto the multitude of mismatched chairs and sofas cramming the room, with servos kicked up on every table and foot rest in sight, or else they were sitting or lying on the floor like excited children about to watch their favorite Saturday morning cartoon. No matter where one turned, there was a great deal of friendly jostling and jockeying for the best viewing position. In the back of the crowd, the overly large Skyfire had the much smaller Cliffjumper and Wheelie perched on his shoulders. Chromia, calmly and logically pointing out her willingness to "sacrifice her comfort to offer a seat to Groove," was shamelessly sitting on Ironhide's lap.

In the interest of opening up some extra seats in the crowded rec room, a few had even transformed and tried to watch in vehicle mode, however, in ten nanokliks or less, they all found themselves being used as improvised foot rests, so that was the end of that.

At the front of all this friendly chaos, a small space had been carefully reserved for the Witwicky family, including pajama-clad Daniel, who had been allowed to stay up past his normal bedtime just to watch Mom and Dad and all his Autobot friends on TV. Bumblebee was the only non-human allowed in this otherwise 'Bot-free safety zone, and he was lying on the floor, elbows propped up and chin resting on hands to watch the screen, in an almost mirror-image of little Danny's childish pose.

Platters of energon goodies and beverage cylinders of gasoline, diesel, and jet fuel were passed, or tossed, back and forth, accompanied by all the rowdy excitement that humans showed at Superbowl parties. At one point, Hound was about to hand a fuel cylinder to Optimus, when Sideswipe dove in from out of nowhere to snatch the container out of the very startled Hound's hand with hasty and completely incoherent apologies. Optimus was fairly certain this odd behavior meant the Lamborghini twins had been distilling their less-than-entirely-legal high-test again, and he'd very nearly inadvertently gotten his hands on the evidence. However, he was in a good enough mood that he decided not to say anything about it. For now.

With only a few minutes to go before showtime, the program's co-creators made their grand entrance into the rec room. While they had publicly kept quiet about their major behind-the-scenes roles, here amongst friends, Jazz and Blaster were playing the high-style up to the max. Each of them strutted into the room like an A-list celebrity, with gold plastic chains and other obviously fake bling draped around their necks, and with beautiful, smiling fembots hanging off each arm. The ladies – all sparkling from fresh paint jobs they'd gotten when filming began - were doing their best to look the part of vacuous, bubble-headed supermodels. Most of them were failing miserably at the vacuous and bubble-headed parts, though for whatever reason, Moonracer had the expression down to an art form. Either way, the two grinning stars of the scene projected the image of Hollywood royalty, soaking up the thunderous round of spontaneous applause at their entrance.

"Thank you, thank you!" Jazz crowed when the appreciative clapping died down to a manageable level. He sounded like he was already making his Emmy Awards acceptance speech. "An' no autographs, please. Well, everyone, we've driven a long road to get to where we are tonight, an' me an' Blaster just wanna thank everyone for puttin' so much effort into makin' this silly li'l dream of ours come true. So let's all kick back an' enjoy!"

There came another round of applause, and Jazz turned to the ladies he had on his arms – Elita and Moonracer – and gave each of them a quick peck on the cheek, while Blaster did the same to Firestar and Arcee. As Jazz and Blaster went to their reserved seats of honor, the femmes, who had willingly participated in the goofy celebrity act from the beginning, quietly separated to find seats next to their favorite mechs.

With the already limited seating, these last few additions made it even more crowded. The couch that Inferno sat on was already filled to capacity by Red Alert and Ratchet, but this didn't deter Firestar. Before the three surprised mechs even knew what was happening, she was comfortably lounging across their laps as if they'd all suddenly become a part of the furniture themselves. Moonracer wasn't quite so bold, and ended up perched precariously on the arm of the couch where Powerglide sat. This led to some whispered wagers in the back of the room as to how long it would take before she slipped off and landed on her aft. Arcee made the mistake of trying to claim her usual spot between Springer and Hot Rod, which required so much wedging herself into such a tight place on the overcrowded couch that when she finally made herself fit, it was with such force and vigor that her petite little self abruptly disappeared almost entirely between the two larger mechs and halfway into the couch's padding. Hot Rod and Springer, of course, immediately locked shoulders and somehow managed to be of absolutely no assistance whatsoever as she attempted to fight her way out of her predicament.

On the other hand, the crowd of mechs parted like the Red Sea at Elita One's approach, and she found a queenly seat next to Optimus with no difficulty whatsoever. Settling herself and accepting a fuel cylinder that was handed to her, she glanced around at the audience, noticed who was not present, and asked, "Where's Magnus?"

"Watching from the Command Center," Optimus answered. "You know Magnus. He wanted to make sure that someone remained on duty while we-"

"YAIIEEAAUUGHH!"

All optics quickly turned at the startled screech. True to his name, Springer had abruptly sprung several lengths across the room and was looking very, very shocked. Arcee, in comparison, was now sitting primly and comfortably with a very self-satisfied little smile on her faceplate, while Hot Rod, and next to him, Blurr, were howling like lunatics and nearly sliding to the floor in their hysterics.

Whatever it was that she had grabbed or poked, Arcee clearly knew the exact spot to get Springer to leave the couch in a hurry. The room erupted into a roar of laughter and clapping.

"SHUSH!" someone suddenly shouted. Over the general din of the room, it was nearly impossible to tell who. "It's starting!"

"It's starting!" someone else yelled back.

"Quiet!"

"SHHH!"

"Pass me the energon goodies!"

"Shut up!"

"Hey - who backfired?"

"SHHH!"

"Quiet!"

"Shut up already!"

The audience got settled and general silence fell just in time, as the last pre-show commercial faded to black.

O.O.O

"Silence!" Megatron shouted. "This farce is about to begin."

It was interesting to note that other than the very faint hiss of Soundwave's recording system, none of the Decepticons had been making a sound at the time. Apparently, even Megatron found some habits hard to break.

O.O.O

Daylight faded into the image on the screen, illuminating the massive ramp that comprised the main thoroughfare into Metroplex. The camera panned in close, revealing a relatively small, yellow Autobot sitting at the base of the ramp, and a human male wearing a brown blazer over a tan shirt and tie standing just a couple paces up. This neat bit of staging put the two of them roughly at the same height for the camera.

"Hello!" Bumblebee addressed the camera cheerfully. "Greetings to Earth and Cybertron, and to the rest of the universe, bah-wheep graaagnah wheep ni ni bong!"

"Welcome to Dancing with the Autobots!" Spike continued. "I'm your host, Ambassador Samuel James Witwicky."

"But we all call him Spike," Bumblebee chimed in. "And I'm your host, Autobot Bumblebee."

"And we only call him that because no one can pronounce his Cybertonian name without a digital synthesizer for a voice box," Spike quipped easily. "Tonight begins the first round of auditions for the new show, Dancing with the Autobots. All over Metroplex here in Oregon, Autobots of every description are lining up for a chance to strut their stuff in front of our panel of judges, and maybe earn a place in the finals, five weeks from tonight. But before we meet our contest hopefuls and see how the auditions are going, let's go learn a little more about our special presentation, and what the dancers are competing for." Turning to Bumblebee, he asked, "Shall we?"

"Sure!" Bumblebee agreed, then stood up and transformed into his vehicle mode. With a wave to the camera, Spike climbed into the driver's seat, and Bumblebee drove up the ramp and into Metroplex's massive entryway.

O.O.O

In the rec room, during this momentary pause, Optimus commented approvingly, "I realize we're only a few seconds into it, but it looks good so far."

"Thanks!" Spike and Bumblebee said in cheerful unison, never turning away from the viewscreen.

O.O.O

Onscreen, Spike and Bumblebee were now in a room that was a part of Metroplex's museum of pre-war Autobot artifacts. Soft overhead lighting fell on a white-enameled display table, illuminating a golden statue that was at least twice as tall as the human, and probably equal in height to the little Minibot himself.

"The Iacon Trophy!" Bumblebee announced to the camera, with a gesture towards the sculpture that Grapple had created. "This will be awarded to the Autobots who best learn and perform a dance style – any style – for our judges and for you, our viewing and voting audience. The competitors are free to choose anything from ballroom to breakdance, but mostly, you'll see them performing different modes of dancing from Earth. To be honest, there hasn't been much dancing on Cybertron since the era of these artifacts around us." Bumblebee gestured to the displays in the museum, a few of which were shown in a quick camera montage. "This was the Golden Age of Cybertron, which ended over a hundred thousand vorns ago - that's about nine million Earth years. There are very few Autobots now who are old enough to remember how we used to dance back then. A great deal of knowledge of our own culture has been lost forever. But how lucky we Autobots are to have the beautiful new cultures of Earth all around us."

"Music and dance, as you all know, are phenomena that occur in nearly every society we've encountered in our galaxy," Spike continued, picking up Bumblebee's narrative smoothly. "Fortunately, as we've seen over the last twenty years, the Autobots are eager to embrace new cultures, and have demonstrated, time and time again, their willingness to find a way to assimilate themselves into all aspects of our society."

"You want an example? You haven't lived until you've seen Optimus Prime shooting hoops in a basketball game," Bumblebee interjected with a sly smile, as if he were announcing a shocking secret to the world.

The video cut to a famous archival clip of Optimus Prime making a slam dunk over the heads of several other Autobots, from a fund-raising game they'd played for charity a few years prior. He was then promptly tackled by Grimlock, who had clearly gotten his games confused again.

"Heck, I'm the one who taught him how to play in the first place," Spike bantered as the camera came back to them. "If you ever want to get a clear picture in your head of how invincible teenagers think they are, just imagine a sixteen year-old kid showing a forty foot tall robot how to make a jump shot." The casual ease with which he always chatted with Bumblebee shone through beautifully in their on-camera interaction now, which was exactly what the creators of the show had been hoping for all along. "So, in the spirit of bringing Earth and Cybertonian culture together, Dancing with the Autobots was born, and instead of one crazy kid teaching basketball to someone seven times his size, we'll be watching seven professional human dance instructors teaching our finalists the dance style of their choice."

"But first," Bumblebee picked up the narrative, "our competitors have to earn that right by passing our first round of auditions. Now, it may seem crazy that the contestants have to successfully dance to prove that they deserve the chance to be taught how to dance, right? Well, that's not what our judges are looking for right now. In these rounds of auditions, what they're hoping to find are the Autobots who display a natural rhythm, a certain amount of grace, and a little pinch of showmanship." Pantomiming 'a little pinch' for the camera, he explained, "In other words, the professional dance instructors want a bit of raw talent that they can whip into shape over the course of a few short weeks."

"And we're going to find out how that's coming along," Spike finished, "right after this word from our sponsors."

The image faded out on their charmingly smiling faces and into an image of an Autobot symbol with the glittering, rotating Iacon Trophy in front of it. "Dancing With the Autobots will return in a moment," the announcer recited, and the image trailed into a commercial for Meguiar's Fine Car Care and Detailing Products.

O.O.O

After a few minutes of commercials, during which the Autobots joked and laughed and passed around the energon goodies and plasma bytes, and the Decepticons sneered and mocked and swilled cheap-grade ethanol (except for a privileged few to whom Mixmaster granted access to his 'special' concoctions), the show came back on with a long pan of a line of Autobots queued up at the doors of a training gymnasium. Some of them were bouncing energetically on their tarsal plates, practicing a few dance moves as they waited, while others leaned nonchalantly against the wall or gabbed with their neighbors. Some of them were wearing rather … interesting costumes of all varieties. All of them had numbered cards taped to their chestplates, representing the slots they had drawn on the tryout roster.

Spike, alone, came into the view of the camera. "Hi!" he said on cue. "Ambassador Witwicky here again – but you can call me Spike. We're back with Dancing with the Autobots, and here with me now are some of our contest hopefuls. Let's have a word with a few of them. Hi there," he said to a tough-looking, military green and orange Minibot, labeled #16, who was watching the whole scene with a casual sort of machisimo. "Why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself to our audience?"

"Yo, name's Brawn," the Minibot answered with a lazy salute. The tough-guy image he exuded was nothing short of incredible, considering that he was, in fact, wearing a fluffy, white tutu.

Primus only knew where he'd gotten a tutu that fit him.

"Well, Brawn," Spike continued with an admirably straight face and not even a hint of a quaver in his voice, "what are you going to present to our judges today?"

"Me and Huffer are gonna dance a duet from Swan Lake," Brawn answered. "That's a ballet, in case ya didn't know."

"I see," Spike answered evenly. "And which role will you be portraying?"

"Gonna dance the part of Princess Odette," Brawn answered. He pronounced it 'Odettey.'

"Ah. Well, good luck to you," Spike said with a nod, and moved down the line a bit.

O.O.O

In Metroplex's rec room, Spike turned around to face the enthralled audience. "Took us eight tries to get that scene," he explained. "Eventually we had to leave Bumblebee out of it altogether, because he couldn't stop giggling!"

As a matter of fact, the little Autobot in question was giggling even now. His hands were clamped over his mouthplates, trying unsuccessfully to muffle the uncontrollable sounds bubbling from his vocal synthesizer, and his shoulder struts were shaking visibly from the effort. In between it all, he could just barely be heard spluttering the word, "Tutu!"

All optics then turned to Brawn, who looked completely unfazed by everything that had just happened onscreen. "You got brass lugnuts, buddy," Ironhide informed him with a certain amount of admiration.

"Figure if I was gonna be bad," Brawn answered as philosophically as possible, "why not just go ahead and be really awful? It got me screen time, didn't it?"

O.O.O

On the show, Spike quickly went through a couple more mini-interviews. One was with a blindingly psychedelically-painted 'Bot - it turned out to be Beachcomber under all those day-glo colors - who claimed to be the Disco King, man. In one of the more puzzling moments in a show full of head-scratchers, the next interviewee was Broadside, with several dozen yards of plaid fabric wrapped around his waist, claiming he was going to dance the Highland Fling.

"Well, the excitement's clearly building," Spike told the camera. "But before we check in with our judges, let's drop in on a few rehearsals and see if we can see some of the routines our contest hopefuls are going to present."

The scene cut to the entrance of one of the smaller gymnasiums, where Bumblebee was already waiting as Spike appeared in the picture. From inside the gym came the sound of raised voices, and those voices were definitely not raised in laughter or merriment.

"Hey, Bumblebee, what's going on?" Spike asked in mild concern. Other than the Autobots who were in on the production from the beginning, most of the viewing audience would never suspect that he already knew the answer to his own question.

"Well, some of the dancers, um," Bumblebee hedged, "let's just say they're still working out some of the details." He looked appropriately nervous, and seemed to be subtly blocking the camera crew from the door. "Maybe we shouldn't bother them."

"Nah, let's check it out!" Spike countered cheerfully, and Bumblebee let him push past and key in a code to open the sliding double door.

"...CAN'T PAY MORE SLAGGING ATTENTION TO WHAT YOU'RE DOING, THEN I WILL PERSONALLY SHOVE YOUR USELESS CRANIUM UP YOUR OWN SLAGGING TAILPIPE!"

Both hosts reeled slightly as the raised voices turned into crystal clear words as the doors opened. Bumblebee looked particularly shocked at the choice vocabulary being hurled about by a bright yellow and chromed mech, but the language was not bleeped out since the humans in the network's editing room hadn't actually known what Cybertonian swear words sounded like.

"WELL, KEEP YOUR SLAGGING FOOT SERVOS OUT OF MY WAY AND I WON'T STEP ON THEM!" a flame-emblazoned mech shouted back just as furiously.

"TRY SHOWING UP FOR PRACTICE NEXT TIME!" a third mech, this one mostly candy-apple red, added to the argument. "THEN MAYBE YOU'D BE ABLE TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN SLAGGING FOOT SERVOS HIT THEIR MARK!"

Looking first at Spike, then at the camera, Bumblebee said dryly, "Well, now."

"Okay, let's try this again," the red mech, Sideswipe, said after the trio of dancers had seethed dramatically for a moment.

"Fine," Sunstreaker snarled.

"Whatever," Hot Rod snapped back.

"Music," Sideswipe ordered, and immediately, something techno and catchy and far too loud to identify came blaring over the gymnasium's sound system.

"Okay, five, six, seven, go!" Sideswipe counted, and the three of them launched into what appeared to be a coordinated hip-hop routine. It only lasted about ten beats before something went wrong. It was hard to tell who actually made the mistake, but someone turned in the wrong direction, and Sunstreaker and Hot Rod ended up crashing into one another.

"THAT IS IT!" Sunstreaker shrieked, waving his arms in the air in wild frustration. "I HAVE HAD IT! I CAN'T WORK WITH THIS SLAGGING IDIOT!"

"I'M NOT THE ONE WHO-" Hot Rod began, but Sunstreaker quickly cut him off.

"I DON'T CARE!" Sunstreaker screamed furiously. "DO I LOOK LIKE I CARE? BECAUSE I DON'T! I CAN'T WORK WITH YOU, YOU CLUMSY, OBSOLETE, UNDER-CHARGED PIECE OF SCRAP!

"Oh, Primus!" Sideswipe suddenly exclaimed, studying his twin brother intently. "Sunny, LOOK AT WHAT HE DID TO YOUR PAINT JOB!"

"I ... my wha-?" Sunstreaker gasped, staring down at his chest to where Sideswipe pointed. The camera couldn't quite detect that there wasn't so much as a scratch. Nonetheless, Sunstreaker reacted as if he'd sustained the worst chassis damage in the history of the automobile. "You ... you ... my ... YOU SON OF A GLITCH!" he spluttered, gesturing wildly, quite convincing in his near-incoherence. He charged at Hot Rod, fists raised, but violence was prevented by Sideswipe, who literally threw himself between the two of them and physically restrained his brother. "THIS PAINT IS ... YOU... IT ... GAH! THAT'S IT, YOU WORTHLESS, FOUR-CYLINDER CARGO SLED! GET OFF MY TEAM! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR UGLY FACEPLATE HERE AGAIN!"

For a moment, Hot Rod looked like he was going to erupt as violently as Sunstreaker, but then he put on an admirable show of restraining himself. "Fine," he spat coldly, fists clenched so tightly that the joints in his fingers squealed from the stress. "Screw your nuts with a torque wrench, you crankcase brain! I'm outta here." Whirling on his heel plate, the hot-tempered young mech exited the gymnasium with dramatic fury. On the way out, he made a strange motion of the finger servos towards the twins, which did not get censored because the humans in the editing room hadn't known what rude Cybertonian hand gestures looked like, either.

The camera lingered on the fuming twins for a moment longer, before Spike began with a polite, "Excuse me?"

Instantly, the Lamborghini brothers whirled on their hosts, looking no calmer than they had at the height of the screaming. "What?" Sideswipe demanded furiously.

"Uh, nothing, nothing at all," Bumblebee quickly babbled, grabbing Spike by the shoulder and steering him unceremoniously towards the door. "Just wanted to wish you good luck on your routine, that's it, and we're going to go check out the judging, bye now!"

O.O.O

On board the Victory, the Decepticons laughed so hard that some of their vocal synthesizers actually overmodulated and shorted out. Those idiot Autobots having a foul-mouthed shouting match was the highlight of their day, week, and month.

"Those 'Bots sound just like you guys, Drag Strip!" Blitzwing mocked the Stunticons. "Must be a car thing."

Drag Strip took the ribbing in his signature style. "Want your tank barrel shoved up your afterburner, Blitzwing?" he offered dangerously.

"They sound more like the chatter from those conehead Seekers," Thundercracker interrupted before Blitzwing could make his reply.

"Hey, you're a Seeker too, Thundercracker!" Dirge felt obliged to point out.

"Yeah," Thundercracker agreed patronizingly, "but not a coneheaded one, Dirge."

"SILENCE!"

Megatron's furious command was only moderately successful; though the Decepticons immediately stopped bantering and shouting back and forth, there was still a great deal of snickering that simply could not be stifled.

Sadly, only about six Decepticons ever caught on to the fact that the whole scene that amused them so much had been entirely scripted and staged in the first place.

O.O.O

In Metroplex's rec room, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were loudly congratulating themselves on stirring up so much drama barely ten minutes into the series. "That looked great, bro!" Sideswipe cheered, aiming a friendly slap at his twin's back. "We really-"

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

Startled enough to flinch visibly, Sideswipe just stared at his twin, who refused to look embarrassed despite several blunt demands for quiet. He quickly removed his hand from his brother's shoulder, but the screeching that had begun from the impact of his original slap did not cease. "You have got to be kidding me," Sideswipe muttered, to this day remaining in awe of Sunstreaker's sociopathic tendencies.

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!

"Sunstreaker!" Prowl barked. "You know the rules! No car alarms indoors!"

"Eh, whatever," Sunstreaker snapped back.

"Sunstreaker -"

"The next Autobot who drowns out the audio of the show will report to Ultra Magnus's office at 0500 hours tomorrow," Optimus interrupted calmly. "That includes you, Prowl."

It worked. Optimus's simple statement shut the Autobots up far more quickly than Megatron's worst shouting could ever silence the Decepticons - and Prime hadn't even needed to say what it was they'd be reporting for.

O.O.O

Onscreen, the camera followed Spike and Bumblebee into the main gymnasium, which was hardly recognizable as the training arena it was originally intended to be. A raised stage, curtained with half a mile of blue velvet, had been built at one end, and much of the rest of the room had been overcome by rows of stadium-type seating. Hopeful contestants mingled with enthusiastic audience members on these Autobot-sized bleachers.

Facing the stage was a slightly raised dias, on which two Autobots and one human sat behind an elegantly draped table. They were taking notes on the computers before them, and at the same time seemed to have just finished critiquing the last act to have auditioned.

"... so if you remember this simple little tip of counting one, two, three, four, over and over - it's real easy - you guys might actually have a hope of developing a sense of rhythm," Kup could just be heard saying to Pipes, Cosmos, and Outback. Then the three dancers took a final bow, to the scattered applause of the audience, and exited the stage.

To the left of the judges, the space shuttle-sized Sky Lynx lounged with the superior air of a pride lion on the Serengeti, taking up far more floor space than was entirely convenient. Though he had not been selected as a judge, he seemed to have positioned himself so that he could set forth the importance of his opinion whenever he felt like it.

"So here we are in the midst of auditions," Bumblebee told the viewing audience as they strode through the bleacher aisle and towards the dias. "And let's take a moment to meet our judges. Hi, everyone," he called, bringing the judges' attention to the camera. "Let me introduce you all. On the end closest to us is Tracks."

The sleek blue Autobot was so into his onscreen persona that, much to everyone's surprise, he actually blew a kiss at the camera.

"This is Kup, short for picKUP truck, and nobody knows if that's his real name or not," Bumblebee quipped as Kup leaned back in his chair and casually saluted by tapping his cy-gar to his forehead. "And this is one of our human friends who has achieved the status of honorary Autobot," Bumblebee finished, "Dr. Carly Witwicky."

"Who also happens to be my lovely wife," Spike added with a wink at the camera.

"They met because of me," Bumblebee interjected with a cute little grin. "I take full credit for their marriage."

"And yet he never baby-sits our son," Spike lamented, casting his eyes Heavenward. Turning to the judges, he asked, "So, lady and gentlebots, how are auditions going so far?"

"Fabulous!" Tracks beamed.

"I've survived worse," Kup growled.

"It's all very exciting!" Carly bubbled.

"Have you found anyone you think is worthy of a call back for a second round of auditions yet?" Bumblebee asked, which brought a disparaging snort from Kup.

"Are you kidding?" the old warhorse asked. "This is worse than sorting through a barrel of shattered glass to try to find one little diamond!"

"Oh, it's not that bad," Carly scolded cheerfully. "Why, just a few minutes ago, Inferno and Firestar did a wonderfully energetic Quickstep. That's a complicated dance to have pulled off with so little formal training." As she spoke, the scene cut to a brief snippet of the partnered emergency rescue workers dancing across the stage with far more speed and intricacy than anyone would have thought possible from someone whose alt-mode was a cumbersome fire truck.

"And it was very nice to see Wreck-Gar and his lovely lady friend Nancy fly all the way in from the Planet of Junk to audition," Tracks added as the camera came back to them.

A vague frown crossed Kup's already gruff expression. "Nancy? I thought her name was Pancho."

"And I thought I heard Wreck-Gar call her Mrs. Cleaver," Carly added to the confusion. "Well, whatever her name, they were inspired by a PBS broadcast of Riverdance, and brought along a chorus line of Junkion back-up dancers to all give their best shot at Irish step-dancing."

"How did they do?" Spike asked.

"Eh," Kup answered as he chewed the end of his cy-gar. "I guess they started okay, but about halfway through, they fell apart."

"You mean they lost their places in the routine and messed up the steps?" Spike asked for clarification.

"No, he means they fell apart, poor darlings," Tracks explained. "Irish dancing is so physically demanding. We had Junkion body parts flying everywhere. Just terrible. Of course, with a disaster such as that, we had to disqualify them."

At that comment, the scene cut to another snippet, this one of Wreck-Gar being escorted off by two stage hands in the form of Hot Spot and Streetwise. Between them, the Junkion leader was hopping along on his right foot while brandishing his detached left leg like a weapon, shouting, "Nobody puts Nancy in the corner!" in his quirky 'teevee talk.'

"I see," Spike commented neutrally as the camera cut back to them. "So, who's up next?"

"Well," Tracks answered, consulting the computer on the table before him, "it looks like ..." He glanced up at the stage in horror. "Oh, dear."

"Aw, slag!" Kup grumbled.

Slag was right. Slag, and the rest of the Dinobots as well, had just lumbered onto the stage. All of them were in their humanoid modes, for a change. Each wore a glossy black top hat and had what appeared to be gigantic white spats wrapped around their enormous ankles.

"Well," Carly attempted, but it seemed like some of the bubbles in her voice were popping even as she spoke, "this should be entertaining."

"We the Tap-Dancing Dinobots!" Grimlock announced, obviously quite proud of the cleverness of the title. He had a placard bearing the inscription #12 taped to his chest plate. It was upside-down. "Me Grimlock know all about dancing!"

"Oh, dear," Carly echoed Tracks's sentiment.

"Me Grimlock say hit it!"

Sludge shrugged and immediately clobbered Snarl, who spun halfway around from the impact.

"No, no, NO! Me Grimlock not say hit HIM, me Grimlock say hit IT!"

"Me Snarl get to hit him Sludge back!" the stegosaurus demanded irritably after popping his jaw hinges back into place. "Only fair!"

"Me Slag want to hit something too!"

Tracks groaned and hid his faceplate behind his hands.

"NO!" Grimlock stomped his foot to get everyone's attention, while in the background, Swoop, the relatively smart one, quietly gave the judges a see-what-I-have-to-live-with expression. "Me Grimlock say everyone hit everyone else AFTER dancing!"

"Me Swoop staying out of this one," the pterodactyl announced firmly, crossing his arms with finality. This was a surprising amount of wisdom, coming from a Dinobot. Other than that, and a few irritated grumbles from the others, there was no further discussion of the matter.

"Now, Dinobots show clumsy Autobots how dancing really done!" Grimlock instructed, and the others shuffled around in an attempt to remember their marks. A wry laugh from beside the judges caught their attention, distracting them from what they were doing. Sky Lynx had chosen the moment to insert his unsolicited opinion.

"Despite your claims," he said, ignoring the pointed scowls from the three judges and two hosts, "I find it highly unlikely that five unrefined behemoths such as yourselves would be able to complete a simple routine without utterly demolishing the stadium in the process."

Grimlock considered that one for a moment, trying to work out if he'd been insulted or not, then brightened as he came to entirely the wrong conclusion. "Me Grimlock think Dinobots know how to bring down the house, too! Dinobots," he ordered, choosing his words a little more carefully this time, "dance!"

If there was music playing, the noise made by five hulking Dinobots attempting to tap dance drowned it out completely. The room began to shake. The audience began to evacuate. Carly looked about ready to join them. A large chunk of tile rattled loose and fell from the ceiling, smacking the haughty Sky Lynx squarely on the nosecone.

"That comment was in no way meant to be an endorsement," Sky Lynx sighed as the destruction continued, "nor was it meant to be interpreted quite so literally."

"Stop! Stop it! We can't have this!" Tracks shrieked, jumping out of his chair and waving his arms frantically.

"NO!" Kup yelled firmly at the same time. "Grimlock! Sludge! All of you, OFF THE STAGE! NO MORE DANCING!"

There was a sudden silence from the Dinobots, who took a moment to comprehend what they'd just been told, then, in typical Dinobot fashion, parlayed their disbelief into the only reaction they really knew. Four of them transformed with primitive, furious roars, though Swoop hung back, obviously trying to decide whether humanoid or pterodactyl mode would be more intimidating in this close-quarters situation.

"You no like us Dinobots?" Grimlock demanded as the others stomped dangerously towards the judges. "Well, us Dinobots no like YOU!"

Kup was on his feet and leaping over the table towards the Dinobots in a nanoklik. Tracks made what appeared to be a nervous step or two in the direction of the nearest escape route, though if the camera had focused on him more closely, the audience might have seen that he was surreptitiously interposing himself between the rampaging Dinobots and the essentially defenseless Carly.

But the focus was on Kup as he stomped towards the Dinobots with equal bluster. "All of you, just stop it, right now!" he ordered. "Now sit! Stay! You guys aren't going beyond this round of auditions, but let me tell you a little story that will explain why."

For whatever reason, the Dinobots had adored Kup from the moment he'd first stepped off the shuttlecraft and onto Earth. Unfathomably, this meant they respected and obeyed his orders and, even more inexplicably, tended to follow him around like excited puppies waiting to hear yet another of his endless war stories. There was a chorus of metallic clunks as they all sat on their rumps to listen raptly, their fury of a moment ago now completely forgotten.

"Kup tell story?" Sludge asked with all the wonder of a toddler.

"Yeah, I'll tell you a story," Kup agreed, sitting cross-legged among them and gnawing on the end of his cy-gar for a thoughtful moment. "And I want you to think about it real hard, okay? Because the moral of the story applies to you guys, all right?"

This got him a round of saurian head-nodding, though some were enthusiastic and others were a bit more dubious.

"See, there was this time back on ... on ... Heliotrex, I think it was," Kup reminisced. "There was a local musket-laser shooting competition that I wanted to enter. I knew I could take the top prize without even straining a piston. I was the best of the best at musket shooting. Better than anyone. Still am," he added with a chuckle.

"Nobody better at musket-laser shooting than you Kup," Swoop agreed, which was actually true, though not in the way the Dinobot intended. No one besides Kup bothered to use the antiquated weapon these days, so Kup's supremacy was entirely by default.

"Thanks," Kup grinned. "But see, when I got to the competition, the judges wouldn't even let me enter!"

The Dinobots all gasped in collective shock. "Why?" Slag demanded angrily. "You Kup better than anyone!"

"Well, yeah, that's what they said," Kup agreed, which earned him five baffled looks. "See, what the officials told me was that I was too good. This was supposed to be an amateur competition, they said. You know, fun for everyone. They figured that having a pro like me mop the floor with all the other competitors was no good for the game. There'd be no excitement for the audience, 'cause they'd already see who was the clear winner, and no real competition for the other contestants because they'd all know they were beat before they even started. Heck, they figured the other competitors would all drop out because it would scare them away when they saw my name. So that's why they told me not to compete. I was too good, and it would ruin the game for everyone else. And maybe," Kup concluded with a generous gesture of his cy-gar, "if you think about it, maybe that's the same reason why I'm telling you guys that you can't dance in this competition. Understand?"

The Dinobots made a silly set of faces as they concentrated very hard and tried to comprehend what Kup had just told them. Finally, Grimlock ventured, "You Kup ... think Dinobots so good, we scare away other dancers?"

"Oh, you'll scare away the other dancers, all right," Kup heartily agreed. "So, you've all shown us what you've got. Now, if you pack it in and go home, guys, even though I don't have a trophy to give you, I'll make sure you all get an extra energon cube just for trying out. Okay? We good?"

"We good!" Grimlock announced happily. "We TOO good! Dinobots," he ordered, as all of them climbed ponderously to their feet and exited, stage left, "we all go laugh at clumsy Autobots trying to dance not so good like Dinobots!"

"Well," Spike addressed the camera once the Dinobots eventually disappeared, after a minor episode of Slag and Snarl getting their pointy bits tangled up in the blue curtains draping the stage. "Disaster has been averted. We'll see how the rest of auditions are going when we return from this commercial break."

The hosts smiled cheerfully as the scene segued into another teaser shot of the Iacon Trophy, then into a commercial for technology by Quantum Laboratories.

O.O.O

There was scattered applause and a few requests for fresh fuel cylinders in the Autobot rec room as the commercials began.

Wheeljack looked around the room quickly, wondering if the Dinobots were in attendance, but all five of them were conspicuously absent. This did not come as a surprise; they had a tendency to get very excited when they watched television, roaring and stomping or throwing things through the screen. Things, or in some cases, other Dinobots. Usually that meant the long-suffering Swoop, because the others had discovered he was the most aerodynamic and therefore the easiest to throw with any real accuracy.

The end result was that Wheeljack had installed a wide-screen television behind several layers of bulletproof glass and heat-resistant transparent aluminum in the Dinobot Lair, and, thankfully for the safety of all, that was probably where they were now watching the episode. So he felt secure in turning to Kup and stating, "Wow, you remembered that story in the nick of time. I don't know if I could have ever gotten the Dinos calmed down if ..."

The Autobots' resident mad scientist stopped and stared. His sudden silence got the attention of several others, who also turned to perceive the half-sly, half-guilty grin on Kup's faceplate.

"You made the whole thing up!" Wheeljack finally blurted, wavering between shock and outright admiration of Kup's blatant chutzpah. Half the room immediately burst out laughing.

"It was a true story," Kup argued with a laugh. "It just wasn't about me. And actually it wasn't really all that true, come right down to it. Now, I believe Metroplex owes me big time for saving his gym from a Dino-rampage."

O.O.O

Continued in Chapter 6 ...