Dancing with the Autobots
Chapter 7: On to the Finals
O.O.O
In the end, it was not the threat of Astoria Carlton-Ritz's reaction to Moonracer that caused Powerglide to pull out of the competition. It was the threat of Moonracer herself.
Most 'Bots never quite realized that Moonracer's reputation for clumsiness did not stem from any unusual "ditziness" or physical lack of coordination. Her difficulty sprung entirely from her natural tendency to focus with nearly microscopic detail on what she was doing. While this might, on the surface, appear to be a benefit rather than a problem, what it came down to was that whenever she concentrated so narrowly on perfecting her own actions, she tended to lose track of everyone else around her.
Powerglide knew this. Therefore he really had no excuse, and no one to blame but himself.
It was near the beginning of the third episode, in one of the first lessons with Madiera, that Moonracer was concentrating on getting a particularly sharp arm gesture exactly right as she came out of a flourishing twirl. Her focus on her movement was absolutely complete: She knew exactly where her feet were to fall, she could feel at exactly what angle her hips were to sway, she remembered precisely how far to snap out her extended arm.
She completely forgot where Powerglide was.
Unfortunately it was her elbow that located him first, in a random but forceful encounter with his left optic. The cameras, of course, recorded every moment of the action, from Powerglide dropping like a rock with a howl of pain, to a visibly mortified Moonracer's profuse apologies, to Ratchet's first on-screen appearance when he showed up to haul the half-blind dancer to Medical.
Though Powerglide's optic was quickly repaired and as good as new, his dancing never quite recovered. From his unconscious but obvious leaning slightly back on his heel plates, it was clear to Madiera and the audience that he was constantly on the ready to dart out of Moonracer's reach at a nanoklik's notice. Though Moonracer was one of his dearest friends, his trust in her as a salsa partner was shot, and his dancing suffered for it. By the middle of the episode, Powerglide regretfully realized his confidence was never going to recover in time to throw himself back into the dance with no reservations, and Madiera recommended he withdraw from the competition to allow Moonracer to find a better-suited partner.
An emergency request had been sent out to any Autobots interested in another shot at the competition. By the end of the episode, Mirage had accepted the challenge. The aristocratic Autobot had auditioned for the show and danced quite well, though his act was eliminated because of two partners who hadn't taken it quite as seriously as he. Fine dancing, as Mirage explained when he stepped in for Powerglide, had been an elegant and refined pastime of Cybertron's upper class before the war.
He of the upper class was felled by an accidental uppercut to the chin before the episode was even over.
By the start of the fourth episode, while the other competitors were rehearsing their individual dances as well as working together on a group performance that would begin the live show, Moonracer was burning through partners at an alarming rate. Of all 'Bots, Perceptor volunteered to be her next partner, believing that the experience would be an invaluable first-hand lesson in the dynamics of rehearsed versus impromptu motion, and the effect of audible rhythm on both conditions.
Shortly after beginning the session, Perceptor received a very educational knee to the nuts and bolts and decided the lesson was over.
On the condition that he could dance with his force field in effect, Trailbreaker volunteered to be Moonracer's next partner. The field did save him once or twice, but Madiera had to tell him, in polite but firm terms, that he was just too clunky of a "dancer" (she used the term loosely) to stand a chance.
Creatively, Hound offered to use his hologram projector to cast an illusion of himself dancing with Moonracer, thus eliminating any physical danger to his chassis. He certainly was commended for original thinking, however, after some thought, the show's creators decided it was far too easy to make a hologram dance even better than the person who was projecting it. While Jazz and Blaster never accused Hound of it, they dismissed the idea as opening the door to cheating.
Near the end of the fourth episode, Optimus Prime and Elita One had mastered the waltz so well that they nearly appeared to be floating across the stage. Ironhide and Chromia, as crabby as they were behind the scenes, were absolutely joyful in their exuberance for Swing dancing. The Lamborghini twins were proudly flaunting their bad-boy attitudes with masterful hip-hop, and Arcee and Springer, when they could be prodded into focusing on dancing instead of each other, had polished their tango into an art form. Inferno and Firestar quickstepped like nobody's business (which was exactly how they felt about a certain someone's repeated efforts at imposing "schtik" upon them), and even "The Jazzy Boys" squad was strutting with a casual, synchronized confidence that was a joy to watch.
At the same time, while the long string of volunteers left Moonracer pleasantly surprised to learn just how many mechs she actually had wrapped around her little finger, she despaired of ever finding a suitable dancing partner with only one episode's worth of filming to go. Even Madiera had given up hope, and both were ready to withdraw from the competition entirely.
Breaking Jazz's cardinal rule about friendly cooperation being bad for ratings, a depressed Moonracer sought out her surrogate mother figure, Elita One, for a long, consoling talk. It was during this conversation that Elita, ruminating on what kind of dance partner would best suit Moonracer, had commented that whoever he was, he would have to not only be light on his feet, but fast and dexterous enough to dodge gracefully before Moonracer herself realized her attention had slipped.
Whether Elita intentionally had a particular mech in mind when she made that statement would never be known, but the thought lit Moonracer up like a supernova. There was a mech who fit that description! Even though he hadn't volunteered to dance when the call was first issued, Moonracer knew how to work her feminine wiles to convince him that, against all the impossible time constraints, dancing with her in the competition was exactly what he wanted to do.
Fortunately, with all his other talents for speed, Blurr was a fast learner, too.
O.O.O
"Yo! Blaster, my man! Partner extraordinaire! How goes it?"
With his foot servos resting on the console he was working on, Blaster glanced up and grinned as Jazz made his noisy entrance into the secondary communications center. "Polished and shining, that's a fact!" he answered, holding out a fist in Jazz's direction. The Specialist obliged with a friendly knuckle-bump, then grabbed a chair, spun it around, sat down straddling the backrest, and took a moment to grin at a monitor that was playing last week's episode of Dancing with the Autobots. Blaster continued typing with one hand more efficiently than most people typed with two, while his other hand hung over the side of his chair to absently pet Steeljaw, who was pawing through an old copy of Elle magazine to sniff happily at the perfume samples.
"Cool. Well, I just wanted to make sure you got your stuff packed for Eugene," Jazz mentioned after craning his neck strut to see what Rewind and Eject, seated at smaller consoles to the left of Blaster, had on their screens. "An' NO complainin' from any of you that we're missin' karaoke night 'cause we're gonna be at the finals, either. You won't believe who all's whinin' about that! Sheesh, what's one karaoke night, folks?"
"Not a peep from me," Blaster answered with a gesture of concession. "Can't gripe about the schedule when I'm the one who booked the stadium, can I? But speaking of complaints ..." Pausing, the Communcations 'Bot turned his attention to a stack of data pads. Selecting one, he handed it to his production partner. "Got this li'l missive from Moon Base Two today."
"Moon Base Two?" Jazz repeated, accepting the data pad and scanning the familiar communique it contained: a letter from Lancer and Greenlight, their two femmes who were currently serving off-planet, signed by several other Autobots stationed on base with them. Once again, the message opened with the usual castigation for Dancing with the Autobots being filmed when those on Moon Bases One and Two were unable to participate, but, to Jazz's surprise, this time the letter went on to provide a detailed proposal of the next reality show they felt Jazz should produce in order to make it up to them. He read it carefully, his mandible falling a fraction further with each word.
"Survivor: Moon Base?" Jazz spluttered, then stealthily glanced up to see if anyone had noticed how close his carefully-maintained cool had come to being very uncool indeed. They hadn't. Good. Of course, if there was any mech in this universe who could witness Jazz losing his cool and keep his lip plates zipped, it was Blaster. "Uh, you answer this already, man?
"Yeah," Blaster nodded, and Jazz secretly dreaded the conclusion until Blaster finished, "Took it upon myself to tell 'em that we weren't at the point of considering anything else until we hear if the network decides Dancing with the Autobots is enough of a hit to pick up a second season."
"Brilliant," Jazz complimented, handing the data pad back. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to go through all the work and stress of coordinating another round of Dancing with the Autobots, but for moment, he firmly decided to not even think about it until the first season was done. "Glad you're on my side, pal. Anyway, like I was sayin', I just came to tell you that the Boss says we should prob'ly roll out in a couple hours."
"Driver's seat!" Eject immediately proclaimed, quickly raising both hands in the air.
Jazz just laughed, and shook his head. "Sorry, man, as much fun as you had freakin' out that poor cop who pulled us over last time, what with him expectin' a human driver an' all, I think it's Rewind's turn to take the wheel."
Eject just muttered something inaudible. It didn't help that Rewind turned in his seat and victoriously thumbed his olfactory housing at his brother.
"So," Jazz continued, while he and Blaster pretended they hadn't witnessed any of this typical sibling rivalry, "Prime's havin' a last-minute conference with Magnus and Red Alert, makin' sure Metroplex is in good hands while we're gone. An' the Techies are just finishin' uploadin' that Synergy program into Teletraan-2 so it'll be ready for tomorrow's dress rehearsal."
"Sounds like they were happy with the coding, then," Blaster surmised. Unquestionably, the Technobots would not have even considered introducing a foreign program into Metroplex's main computer if they had suspected it of even the slightest security risk.
"Happy with it?" Jazz laughed. "Computron's so impressed with the programmin' that I think the big nerd's tryin' to figure out how to ask it out on a date! Anyway, that's all gonna take a bit still, so we got a little time before we roll. Any last minute surprises from the court o' public opinion I should know about?"
"Not much," Blaster answered, clicking through to a new screen. "The little dudes are just finishing up some blogging, and they found something in the replies that'll just floor you. Me, I been tracking the trends that we can see in the comments on all the online fan sites - which, in case I didn't tell you, a good portion of those sites were set up by Extensive Enterprises, though I'm pretty sure they don't know I know that."
Shrugging it off, Jazz reasoned, "Makes sense to me. They're gonna make all their money from the voting at the finals. They gotta drum up as many voters as they can if they want to up the ol' profits, but they don't want it obvious that all them 'unofficial' fan sites are official, any more than we want the audience to know that a certain two competitors are the show's creators, y'know? So, anyway, what did the dudes find?"
"Go ahead and read it, Eject," Blaster said, waving with a flourish toward the bluer of the cassette twins.
Eject, who had found the questionable post in the first place, immediately clicked through to a particular screen on his console and began to read. "This was posted yesterday by someone calling himself Sonyguy_RIBFIR," he stated.
"Sonyguy_RIBFIR," Jazz repeated with a carefully neutral expression beating down the amused grin that was battling for its rightful place on his faceplate.
"Yep," Eject agreed, "and he says, quote, 'dansing iz STOOPID &ottobots r STOOPIDER so dansing ottobots iz teh STOOOOPIDEREST i hope tehy BLOW UP wel OK the femz are hawt but DESEPTIKONS R KEWL &oyah i hope that slime pRIME dont win &he loozes cuz he SUx!1!' End quote."
It never occurred to Jazz to ask how Eject was able to so accurately pronounce the bad capitalization, lousy punctuation, and terrible spelling inherent in that post. In fact, it never even crossed his mind that those things should have been utterly impossible to verbalize. "Femmes," he noted with a wry expression, attempting to pronounce it 'femz' and not succeeding nearly as well as Eject had. "Huh. Well, now, all I can say is humans usually don't use that word when they're referrin' to our gals."
"That's what tipped me off in the first place," Eject agreed.
"And who d'you think Mr. Sonyguy_RIBFIR's secret identity is in real life?" the Specialist grinned.
"It ain't Soundwave, that's for sure," Blaster reasoned. "The guy never uses complete sentences, but from all his communications I've intercepted, I can tell you that at least he knows how to spell." With a shrug, he added, "Gotta be either Rumble or Frenzy."
"'Course it's gotta" Jazz grinned. "An' y'know what this means, right?"
Ramhorn, who seemed to be in one of his better moods today, flicked a mechanical ear and looked up from where he'd been lounging in the corner, staring with sour disapproval at Steeljaw's perfume obsession. "It m-means the l-l-little p-p- the little punks c-can read," he said in his bizarrely characteristic stutter.
Everyone in the room let out a hearty bark of laughter at that assessment, even Steeljaw, the confirmed feline.
"Well, yeah, that too," Jazz smiled. "But me personally, I was thinkin' it means that the 'Cons def'nitely ARE watchin' this, so let's not remind the Pink Lady, 'kay? Once she figured that li'l fact out in the first place, took me two days to talk her into keepin' up the whole sexpot routine for the rest of the show." With a faint grimace, he added, "An' even that was only after I bent over an' let her kick my aft halfway to Montana."
"Aw, c'mon," Blaster said with a friendly shove at Jazz's shoulder. "Admit it, my man, you loved it."
"Every slaggin' minute of it," the Specialist confessed freely, but then he frowned slightly. "'Course, then Springo had to get in a kick for good measure too, an' that part wasn't so pretty."
"It's called suffering for your art," Rewind suggested innocently.
Jazz promptly grabbed the nearest paper printout, rolled it up, and whacked the cassette twin smartly over the head. "Anywho," he continued calmly, "I just wanted to see what we're lookin' at from our adorin' public with only two days to go before – oh, hey!" he interrupted himself excitedly. Pointing at the television monitor, Jazz quickly thumbed his visor back, giving Blaster and his deck crew a very rare, bright twinkle of his actual optics. "This here's my favorite part of the whole episode!"
"Oh, yeah, good ol' Chromia!" Blaster laughed. "This part was hysterical!"
"Sshhh! Sshhh!" Jazz demanded, frantically waving his hand to demand silence just as onscreen, Spike and Bumblebee approached the closed doors of one of Metroplex's gymnasiums.
O.O.O
"-even though everyone has been working together on one showstopper of a production number that includes all the competitors," Bumblebee was explaining to the camera, "the individual routines that will be danced in the competition itself have been kept as closely guarded secrets."
Not entirely true, Jazz thought. They had been closely guarded secrets right up to that precise moment when the third episode began showing all the dancers' choreography for the whole world – including every competitor with access to a television – to see. But what the hey, it was almost true.
"So now that the competitors have rehearsed their routines to the point of perfection," Spike continued when Bumblebee left off, "why don't we drop in on some of the final products and see if we can have a sneak peek at how our professional instructors have whipped their raw talent into shape over the past few weeks?"
Keying in the code to open the door, Bumblebee stepped through the threshold first, and over the sudden sound of Big Band Swing music, explained to the camera, "Here's Ironhide and Chroma, practicing their -"
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Chromia's furious shout interrupted Bumblebee, and the little Minibot shut his mouthplates and turned with an expression of startled horror just in time to see the blue femme stop dancing, grab a chair provided for their human instructor, Bob, and hurl it at Bumblebee's head. "HERE TO SPY ON US, IS THAT IT?"
Shrieking in terror, Bumblebee dropped to the ground and covered his head as the chair came flying at him. The plastic shattered against the wall a few yards to his left, and he scrambled to his feet and fled for the exit as Chromia charged at him, shouting, "GET YOUR AFT OUT OF HERE, YOU SLAGGING GO-BOT!"
"YOU HEARD CHROMIA!" Ironhide added, grabbing the small table that matched the chair, scattering their instructor's warm-up clothes and extra shoes. Brandishing it like a bizarre club, he chased after Bumblebee, shouting, "NOW GIT!" just before the doors slid firmly shut.
A loud, splintering crash sounded against the other side of the closed doors, but Bumblebee had already skittered safely away from the fury of two of the most heavily armed and trigger-happy Autobots in the entire solar system. He sagged against the wall, clearly relieved to be still alive, as the camera crew caught up to him.
"Heh," Bumblebee managed weakly when he realized the cameras were still rolling. "A little testy today, aren't they? I guess that means they'll still be keeping their final routine a closely-guarded secret for the time being."
Spike, who had somehow outrun Bumblebee in all the excitement, nervously appeared in the camera again, and peeked around in several directions to make sure it was indeed safe. "Um," he asked, genuinely confused for once, "Go-Bot?"
"Erm," Bumblebee hedged, looking a bit embarrassed by the question. "It's a ... it ... Cybertonian legends," he finally managed with a dismissive wave of a hand servo. "Early breakaway sect, well before the Golden Age. There was supposedly a mass exodus right after we Autobots first developed the art of transforming during the Second Great War. We call them Go-Bots because they decided to go and desert Cybertron when the war was almost won. It's a bit of an insult because they're considered inferior by pretty much all Cybertonians, IF they existed at all, that is. Only Vector Sigma knows for sure, and it isn't talking."
"Oh. Well, then ..." Spike continued onscreen, but everyone in the communications center was laughing too hard for the rest of his lines to be heard.
O.O.O
"Scrap, that just gets more hysterical every time I watch it!" Jazz managed as he finally got his laughter under control again. "'Course, anyone who knows Twinkie is gonna see that if she missed by that much, then she MEANT to miss, but still. Poor Bee didn't even know that was comin' so he prob'ly didn't have time to think about it. Bet he never realized he was gonna be takin' his life into his own hands by hostin' this show."
"Th-the lady h-h-has s-style," Ramhorn stuttered, which, coming from the foul-tempered rhino-bot, was a high compliment indeed.
"And attitude aplenty," Blaster laughed. "I just can't believe Spike's been hanging with us for more than half his life, but he never heard of a Go-Bot before. But y'know, I kinda liked the part in this ep where they visited Jack's lab, showing off some of the souvenirs that are gonna be available." With a wicked grin worthy of some Decepticons, he fast-forwarded to the segment in question. "Poor Bee, it was bad enough that Chromia tried to take his cranium housing right off his shoulder struts, but to nearly get killed twice in the same episode? Too much, man, just too much!" He let his finger servo off the forward button when he reached the right point in the video, then casually laced his arms behind his head and sat back to enjoy.
O.O.O
"-is Wheeljack," Bumblebee was explaining to the audience, introducing a sporty mech whose oddest quirk seemed to be that parts of his helm lit up brightly when he spoke. "Even though he's not a competitor, he's still super-stoked about all the energy and enthusiasm going into Dancing with the Autobots. Wheeljack, why don't you tell us a little about how you've decided to commemorate the competition?"
"Sure, Bumblebee," Wheeljack answered, and the helm flanges framing his half-masked faceplate flashed accordingly with clear, blue light. Leading the hosts over to a table that was just a bit too tall for either of them to comfortably see over, he motioned to a shapeless lump veiled with green cloth. "Take a look. It's my prototype for the official Dancing with the Autobots 1:24th scale articulated souvenirs."
Standing on the tips of his tarsal plates and staring at the veiled object with an obvious sense of unease, the little Minibot ventured, "You ... made collectible sculptures based on the competitors?"
With a flourish that made Spike momentarily duck for the relative safety of the underside of the table, Wheeljack unveiled his newest invention. "You bet!" he said, and though his mouthplate was not visible beneath the mask that protected the lower half of his face, the triumphant smile was clearly present in his voice as he beamed with pride over a model of what was supposed to be two robots dancing. "See, it even looks like them."
Bumblebee appeared to be trying to figure out which couple it was meant to be. This should not have been as difficult as it seemed, considering that the participants all had distinctive features and paint jobs. "Er ... if you say so ..."
"And watch!" Wheeljack continued, oblivious to the clear consternation in Bumblebee's demeanor. Pressing a button at the metal statuette's base, he explained, "It dances, too!"
"Well, it's ..." Bumblebee began, but he was not able to come up with a compliment that suited the situation. Backing away slowly, watching the dangerously whirling model the entire time, he commented, "Er... it's not dancing so much as it is spinning ... really, really fast ... Wheeljack, are you sure this is supposed to ... WHOA!" He barely ducked in time as the dancing toy suddenly rocketed off its base and missed clipping his forehead by mere centimeters.
"WATCH OUT! I mean ... um ... Heh," Wheeljack laughed uncomfortably as the hosts hit the deck and stayed there. The souvenir-turned-high speed missile was already lost to view. "Well ... erm ... I'm pretty sure Hasbro toned it down a bit before they put them into production. Heh heh."
There was a loud howl of, "OWWWWWWW!"somewhere off-camera, and a moment later, Grimlock, in Tyrannosaurus mode, lumbered into view. He was rubbing his dented snout with one undersized T-Rex hand, and clutching the broken remains of the dancing toy with the other. "Why Wheeljack hit my nose?" he demanded in a very hurt and confused tone.
O.O.O
Jazz, Blaster, and everyone else in the communications center didn't wait for Wheeljack's reply; again, they were laughing far too loudly to hear it.
"Oh, scrap," the Specialist laughed, mirthfully pounding the back of the chair he was still straddling. "That's so funny, it hurts, man! Good thing Grimmy knows Jack is his creator, otherwise I think he woulda chomped him right there!" Eventually getting a grip on himself, he popped his visor back into place over his optics and added, "But enough of that for now, 'kay? I was just wantin' to go over all the details one last time before we hit the road."
"Best news is, the whole stadium sold out weeks ago," Blaster answered, shutting off the video and turning to a screen full of facts and figures. "And we already got about half a dozen letters from different hotels and restaurants in Eugene, thanking us for all the tourist business we're bringing to town. The VIP box is all full with our happy, happy sponsors' reps, too. Let's see ... who we got coming? Aside from Spike and Carly's parents, we got everybody. Symultech, the Shore Foundation, Pepsi, Hybrid Technologies ..."
"Astoria?" Jazz interrupted.
"Yep," Blaster nodded. "She'll be there in person again, too bad Powerglide ain't dancing any more. Who else we got? Um, Goodyear, Meguiars, Quantum Labs ..."
"Y'know, I like Quantum a whole lot better since Chip took over as CEO from Paul Gates a couple years ago," Jazz mused, a point which actually had very little to do with the conversation.
"Yeah, good ol' Chip, we ain't had any evil sentient computers taking over the planet's machines since he steered the company away from the evil sentient computer business," Blaster agreed absently as he scrolled through the sponsors' guest list. "And we round out the guests in the VIP box with Earth Defense Command, Hasbro, Columbia Sportswear, Extensive Enterprises, Capezio ... wait, hang on a nanoklik ..."
"Someone missin'?" Jazz asked, then realized the answer to his own question. "Wait, what about Starlight Music?"
"Well, Starlight's represented," Blaster answered, but he truly sounded disappointed for some reason. "It's just, their representative is somebody called Rio Pacheco. Who in the Pit is he? Well, scrap. There's a note here, says Miss Jerrica had a prior commitment and might not be able to make it, or if she does, she's gonna be late. Didn't see that before now."
Jazz was just as disappointed as Blaster; he'd been looking forward to meeting the young woman his friend had raved so much about. "She musta had a pretty good reason. Slag it, I wanted to thank her for roundin' up Jem an' the Holograms for our opening act. Well, let's keep our finger servos crossed that she's just a li'l late, an' maybe wants to come back stage for a meet-n-greet when the show's over." Allowing himself a moment to sulk, Jazz then wiped the slightly pouty expression off his faceplate, turned to the cassette twins, and changed the subject. "So, li'l dudes, how's the bloggin' goin'?"
"I can't tell you how many times we've answered the question about why we picked such an odd number as seven acts," Eject answered.
"I can," Rewind interrupted his twin. "Four hundre-"
"PENTALTY BOX!" Eject shouted before his brother could finish. Rewind just stared blankly at him, as if he had no idea what that phrase or any of its accompanying hand gestures meant.
"What kinda answer you givin' 'em?" Jazz directed the question to Blaster rather than risk riling up the cassette twins again.
"Something to the effect of, 'well, don't forget that there's another act with all the dancers together, so that makes eight. We also got Jem and the Holograms for a half-hour set before we start, and Brick Springstern for what we're calling the halftime show. Then we got a number that the instructors are gonna be putting on, and the Aerialbots are gonna perform an airshow when the voting starts. Add in all the time the judges are gonna take commenting and everything, plus time for commercials, and a duet or three between Jem and Brick during the time it takes to tally the votes, and seriously, we're not even sure this is gonna fit in the three hours of airtime we have.' By the way," the Communications 'Bot mused at the end of his recitation, "how ARE we gonna fit all that in three hours?"
Shrugging, Jazz pronounced confidently, absolving himself from all responsibility, "That's the stage manager's job, man."
Blaster just shook his head. "Prowl's gonna scatter your atoms from here to Cybertron for this, you know that, right?"
The Specialist cheerfully laughed off the possibility. "Sheriff can't catch me, I are sexy Porsche! I go zoom zoom!"
"He'll set a speed trap," Blaster suggested with a grin. "With tire spikes."
"Yeah, well, we all know he's got a broomstick up his tailpipe," Jazz assessed bluntly, then turned the conversation back to the original topic. "So, what do all them advanced polls tell us?"
"Nothing as clear-cut as the Top 40 Countdown," Blaster admitted. "We can kinda track the comments on the fan sites, but we're being unscientific enough that we'd give Perceptor the glitches if he saw it."
"Do tell," Jazz grinned.
"Rewind?" Blaster prompted, ignoring his own monitor at this point. "Skip the fine details and give us a general overview, 'kay?"
From memory, the trivia-loving twin began to recite the unofficial data they had observed. "Without attempting to predict who will win overall, I can say that each set of competitors seems to appeal to a different segment of the population. For instance, Ironhide and Chromia show the greatest concentration in the older population, what humans call their Baby Boomer generation."
"Baby Boomers, huh," Jazz mused, giving this information a moment's worth of careful consideration. "Well, there ain't no school like old school, an' those two are def'nitely old school. If I'm rememberin' my recent human history right, Swing was big when them Baby Boomers were young an' trendy. Plus Hide and Twinkie are a li'l older an' all, so yeah, that's prob'ly the demographic that's gonna identify with 'em an' root for 'em. No surprises there. Okay, so how 'bout the Boss an' the Li'l Pink Bulldozer?"
"Optimus and Elita's fans seem to generally be of a slightly higher class," Rewind answered, "who consistently cite their elegance and grace, and well-spoken eloquence, as their major appeal."
"Aw, c'mon, EVERYBODY loves the two of 'em," Jazz laughed. "My credit says they take it all. But ignorin' that, how's it lookin' for everyone else?"
"Springer and Arcee have a major following in the under-thirty crowd."
"I knew it!" Jazz crowed proudly. "Man, I don't care how hard they kicked my aft, I'm so glad I talked them into bringin' the sexy back. I totally figured they were gonna nail that demographic with it!"
"Which I totally don't get," Blaster admitted.
Giving his friend a mock-patronizing expression, he asked bluntly, "All right, man, what is it about a hot young couple revvin' each other's engines that you don't get?"
"Careful," Blaster said in feigned seriousness, nodding his head towards the cassette twins. "There's little audio receptors tuned in."
"Okay, kiddos," Jazz immediately instructed, "plug 'em."
Glancing at each other in disbelief, Rewind and Eject shared a moment of disgruntled solidarity over the First Lieutenant's command. Then, with identical expressions of mild outrage, they made an elaborate show of dutifully clamping their hands over the sides of their cranial housings.
"Humans, they like to live vicariously," Jazz explained, even though he knew the twins could likely hear every word he said. "They see a sexy couple shiftin' it into high gear, they get a thrill outta projectin' themselves into that same situation, y'know?"
"I get that," Blaster admitted with a wave of his hand. "I'm totally the first one to admit I do it too sometimes, and I bet I ain't the only one, huh?"
Grinning guiltily, Jazz nonetheless proclaimed, "You can't prove nothin'."
"It's just I think humans must have the wrong impression, or something," Blaster continued. "I mean, seriously, how sexy would they think it is if they found out that our main method of reproduction ain't necessarily a mech and a femme putting the key in the ignition so much as it is a big giant shiny orb of a supercomputer named Vector Sigma, that oh by the way also controls most of our freakin' planet?"
Finally understanding, Jazz just laughed and slapped the back of his chair again. "Blaster, my man, you of all 'Bots oughta know there's loads more to it than just that. Just ask any of our resident happy couples -"
"What, like Optimus and Elita?" Blaster interrupted nonchalantly.
Realizing what he'd just implied, a look of horror passed over Jazz's features before he grabbed his head in a panic. "GAH! BRAIN BLEACH! BRAIN BLEACH!" he howled.
"Looks like I win that round," Blaster smugly informed Ramhorn as Jazz banged his forehead repeatedly against the back of the chair he was straddling, trying anything he could think of to dislodge the very icky mental image of a lovey-dovey Optimus and Elita that he'd inadvertently conjured. "But I get you. Give the audience what they want to see, and forget about Vector Sigma 'cause that ain't what's important to them. Of course," he added slyly, "if you want to up the ratings another notch, we could always bring the sexy back even more by having Prime and Elita -"
"LA LA LA NOT LIIIIIIISTENING!" Jazz sang loudly enough to drown out the horrible, evil suggestion he knew Blaster had been about to make. Springer and Arcee were one thing, and even Ironhide and Chromia's cuddly moments didn't bother him, but there was just something about the thought of his commanding officer gettin' down with the Li'l Pink Bulldozer that gave Jazz's circuits the twitchy glitches.
"How about I pretend to unstopper my audios and finish reporting the trends now?" Rewind offered politely. At Jazz's frantic, please continue, my hero gesture, he calmly recited from memory, "Sunstreaker and Sideswipe seem to have cornered a particular segment of the male, age sixteen to twenty-four bracket."
"Jocks an' bad boys, I betcha," Jazz nodded, finding himself back in more comfortable territory and feeling eternally grateful to Rewind for the change in conversation. "Right up Sunny an' Sides's alley. Well, now, see? What was I sayin' before you went an' totally corrupted my image of the Chief? Everybody likes to identify with things like themselves."
"Or with things they want to be like," Blaster suggested. "Bad-boy wanna-bes?"
"Or things they simply sympathize with," Rewind countered. "Moonracer and Blurr have broad-spectrum support from many sections of the population who want them to succeed despite their adversity. With all the trouble Moonracer's trying to overcome, she's viewed as, to borrow the human term, the underdog, while Blurr is being lauded as a real trouper for coming through for her at the last moment."
"Yeah, they'd be gettin' the sympathy vote, all right," Jazz reasoned. "I can't imagine people wantin' to actually identify with the kinda troubles poor Bubbles has been havin', but they respect her gumption for stickin' it out, an' who wouldn't root for a guy for runnin' to the rescue of a damsel in distress? 'Course, knowin' Blurr, he was prob'ly runnin' at like five hundred miles an hour, but hey, whatever works. At least they really can dance when it comes right down to it, so whatever votes they get, they earned 'em fair an' square. How 'bout Inferno an' Hotpants?"
"Comments indicate that a large portion of their fan base is a sector of the population that appreciates the fact they're acting mature enough to stay out of the petty squabbles and over-the-top behavior that most of the other competitors are displaying," Rewind answered, not noticing that Eject, behind him, was currently holding two finger servos over his head in a classic "bunny ears" position.
"Huh," Jazz grunted noncommittally, which, in this case, could roughly be translated as, Well, cover me in scraplets, I can't believe that schtik actually worked, an' I sure ain't gonna admit to it! "Okay, so everybody else seems to be doin' just fine. I guess the big question is, what about our team? Who's out there rootin' for us?"
"Decepticons and the 'Vote for the Worst' crowd," a grinning Blaster interjected before Rewind could reply. Jazz made a rude Cybertonian gesture at him for that, and when Blaster cheekily made an even cruder gesture right back, the Specialist grabbed a stylus off the nearest data pad and chucked it at his friend's head. He missed entirely, though not by intention. Blaster just laughed, and Steeljaw leaped up from his magazine to pounce on the stylus as it skittered across the floor.
"No, seriously," Jazz asked Rewind, turning back to face the cassettes with what was for him an utterly deadpan expression, so as to not give away anything about Eject's silent, brotherly taunting. "Who we got in our corner?"
"Seriously?" Rewind repeated with a random glance at his twin, who, just in the very nick of time, whipped his hand out of the bunny-ear gesture and back down to his keyboard. "Well, actually, it's kind of a bizarre trend. Our fan base is heavily skewed towards age sixteen-and-under high school girls."
Jazz considered this blankly for a moment. Then, realizing what the demographic implied, he dropped his head onto his folded arms and lamented, "They think we're a boy band!"
"S-s-sucks to b-b- sucks to be y-you," Ramhorn offered bluntly.
"Aw, it can't be that bad. If we're a boy band, then Hot Rod's our Justin Timberlake," Blaster explained, which earned him an openly curious expression from Jazz. "He's like some sort of celebrity god now. It's like you figured, man. People either love him or hate him, there ain't no middle ground. His popularity went through the roof 'cause tons of people think the Lambo Twins treated him so unfair. A lot of the girls in our audience say he's totally dreamy - cuter than Bee and Spike put together - and they think he's even more of an underdog than Moonracer, so people want him to win so he can rub it in the twins' faceplates. 'Course, your jocks and bad boys who are voting for Sunny and Sides don't seem to agree, and they think they were totally right for kicking his clumsy aft off the team. Some people are even campaigning to vote him off the show entirely, 'cause they figure him for nothing but trouble."
"Well, he is ..." Jazz mused thoughtfully.
"Yeah, he sure plays it to the hilt sometimes. Makes for a lot of nasty name-calling and trolling on most of the fan sites, believe me."
"So Roddy's got himself some notoriety," Jazz assessed approvingly. "It ain't quite as good as fame, but it's loads better than obscurity. Is that the hot topic of the week?"
"Chromia going ballistic on Bumblebee in the last episode definitely got a surge in the comments," Rewind replied at an encouraging glance from Blaster. "At least as much as that third-episode meltdown Darius had when Sunstreaker and Sideswipe decided they wanted to work transforming into their routine even though he kept telling them it wasn't a legitimate human dance style. Still, it all comes back to Roddy. One of the most divisive topics on the fan sites is that punch Springer threw at him way back in the second episode."
"Really?" Jazz commented with a certain amount of proud satisfaction. "Wow. Wish I'd been the one to think of it, if that's the case!"
"You got your drama, that's for sure," Blaster continued where Rewind left off, pulling up a forum on a random fan site and glancing over the comments. "Like they're saying right here," he explained, pointing to a discussion thread on the monitor. "On the one hand servo, we got the Roddy-fans who say he was just being all gracious and polite by congratulating another competitor when he kissed Cee's hand, and that Springo was way too jealous and over-reacted with totally unnecessary violence. So they think Roddy, and, oh yeah, the rest of us poor suckers on his team ... HIS team, mind you, deserves the win just because he's put up with way more scrap than anyone should have to. On the other hand servo, we got just as many people dissing Rod and calling him all sorts of arrogant scum 'cause he's already rubbing the twins' faceplates in it, and he ain't even won yet. Their take is that he was way out of line by kissing a girl who ain't even HIS girl without her permission, so they're all jumping on the Springer bandwagon 'cause they totally admire a guy who's ready and willing to step up and defend his mate like that."
"Not that our gals need all that much defendin' in the first place," Jazz mused, certain of what he spoke through personal experience, some of it fairly recent. "Man, if people knew what was really goin' on there ..."
"Nobody's figured it out yet, and I ain't gonna tell 'em," Blaster countered, then paused to look slightly startled when Steeljaw unexpectedly hopped into his lap and settled down comfortably, the sad, gnawed remains of the stylus dangling from his fanged mouthplates. "Either they never knew, or else everybody just conveniently forgot that Roddy and Springo are best buds in real life, so that means a lot of people are tuning in hoping for another smackdown. Heck, as much as Cee and Springo are obviously into each other, there's a portion of the commenters that think she ought to completely ditch him and hook up with Roddy."
"Pfft! Not gonna happen in this reality," the Specialist shook his head with finality. "So, I kinda got the picture here. But I got one big ol' question in all this. You're sayin' all the competitors are feelin' the love from dif'rent parts of the audience, 'cause of their attitudes, or their can-do spirit, or their level of hotness, or how much of an underdog they are, or ... I dunno, how much drama they're involved in, or whatever, right?"
"Yeah, I'm with you so far," Blaster agreed. "So, what's your question?"
Thoughtfully resting his chin on his folded arms, Jazz, who silently conceded that he was the one who had aimed for all the drama in the first place, was finally forced to wonder aloud, "Anybody out there actually give a rip about our dancin'?"
O.O.O
Why? Why? Why why why WHY did Megatron have to be so dense?
Irritably, Starscream stalked the halls of the Victory, heading for his quarters where he could have the peace to indulge in the luxury of breaking something and pretending it was Megatron's thick head. Their Supreme Leader was really serious about this, wasn't he? He actually intended for the Decepticons to go through with this farce. He had just outlined his outrageous plan to stage a full-scale assault so they could steal the ridiculous Dancing with the Autobots trophy, because he honestly believed it was -
"Um, Starscream?"
"What?" Starscream snapped, whirling on his heel plate and instantly giving Skywarp the Glare of Doom. The Air Commander hadn't heard anyone behind him just a moment ago, leading him to believe his Seeker underling had teleported into the hall with him. Starscream did not like it when people snuck up on him. No, he did not like it at all.
"Uh, I was just wondering," Skywarp hedged, looking nervously around himself before continuing.
Aha, Starscream realized, noticing Skywarp's unease. He doesn't want anyone to see me talking to him. So he DID teleport in. "Wondering WHAT?" he prompted sharply when the silence threatened to stretch forever.
"I was just wondering if, um, you had a plan of attack to get this trophy thing for Megatron?"
Shoving down most of the surge of irritation to the point that he didn't actually feel the immediate need to throttle his subordinate, Starscream snarled, "What more do you want? You heard mighty Megatronjust now. We attack during the Autobots' ridiculous live performance, when we are assured of the presence and location of his precious little prize. Isn't that good enough for you?"
"Well, uh, no, not really," Skywarp admitted in a nearly inaudible but definitely ashamed tone. Glancing around again, checking to see if anyone was listening, he kept his voice low as he explained, "Me and Thundercracker were sorta hoping for something a little more specific. Y'know, like, what exactly are we gonna do when we get there? How are we supposed to actually get the dance trophy thingy? Megatron's plans, well, not that I'm saying anything bad about Megatron or anything, but his plans usually come down to, 'Decepticons, ATTAAAACK!' and sometimes that's kinda vague on the details, you know?"
Despite himself, Starscream almost laughed. Funny thing, how right on the nosecone Skywarp's treasonous little assessment actually was. "Hm," he pondered, giving himself a moment to consider the situation. Frankly, he was convinced Megatron's latest crazy scheme was doomed from the outset, but as Air Commander as well as Second-In-Command, he felt he ought to ...
... he ought to ...
... he really should ...
Oh, to the Pit with it. He didn't want anything to do with this debacle in the making.
"Tell you what," Starscream finally replied with oily, patently false camaraderie, as if a secret were passing between the two of them, "you've been such a loyal soldier all this time, I think perhaps it's finally YOUR turn to shine."
Skywarp looked utterly unsure of where his superior was going with this. "Um?"
"No, seriously," the Air Commander continued with enough 'warmth' to freeze nitrogen, "I am happy to give you this opportunity. Consider it a reward for your vorns of steadfast service. I'm quite convinced that you, Skywarp, are perfectly capable of formulating an attack that is, shall we say, aptly suited to the scope of Megatron's plans." Throwing a deceptively friendly arm around Skywarp's shoulder struts, he offered with uncharacteristic generosity, "Devise it, and I will gladly relinquish Air Command to you for the duration of this mission."
Skywarp beamed with pride at Starscream's encouraging words. "Command? Really?"
"Oh, absolutely," Starscream answered with a smile wide enough to pain the cogs in his mandible, "I am completely confident that your skills are suited to the task. Now you'd better hurry, the Autobots are putting on their darling little dance show in just two days. That doesn't give you much time for planning and implementation, you know."
"Oh! No, of course not!" Skywarp answered quickly. "I mean, I'll get right on it! Thank you!"
Starscream watched the Seeker hurry away with a disgustingly cheerful spring in his step. No doubt the fool was dazzled by the thought of command and already hatching a dozen plans of attack, each more ill-advised than the one before. He suddenly had a worse feeling about things than he had when he'd heard Megatron's unfathomable desire for the trophy in the first place.
"Well," he said aloud to no one in particular, continuing on to his quarters in the quest to now find two things to break, "I certainly hope I live long enough to regret this."
O.O.O
Continued in Chapter 8 ...