Dancing with the Autobots

Chapter 8: The Pre-Show

O.O.O

Bluestreak, engrossed as always in chattering incessantly with everyone around him, forgot to pay attention to his scans of the terrain ahead. Embarrassingly, he blew out a front tire when he ran over a lost drywall screw in the road, holding up the entire caravan and enduring the good-natured ribbing while he quickly repaired himself.

At one point, Topspin had to physically tackle his brother to keep the unstable Twin Twist from attacking and destroying a rock formation along the side of the road that had "looked at him funny."

Ironhide somehow drifted out of his lane and nearly ran himself and Brawn right off the road. Eventually, he shamefacedly admitted to Jazz that his attention had slipped because he'd been too busy watching Chromia's back bumper to actually watch the road.

The fliers had a little scare when Fireflight flew a bit too low as they crossed the Cascade mountain range, but fortunately, the other Aerialbots shouted at him loudly enough to snap him out of his daydreams just before he crashed.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, showing off as usual, raced ahead at twice the speed limit, and were immediately pulled over by the human police and issued speeding tickets. It wasn't the fact that Prowl unyieldingly required them to pay their fines that annoyed them the most – truth be known, the Lamborghini twins had begun taking modeling jobs for the covers of various high-end automotive magazines to earn the money to pay their impressive stacks of citations. It was the fact that Blurr, the fastest Autobot known to exist, smugly laughed at them the rest of the way while he drove a sedate and consistent 68 miles per hour.

There were three near-accidents involving Swerve. But then again, there usually were. The Autobots just wouldn't have given him the Earth-name of Swerve if they expected careful driving out of him.

A road construction delay in rural Lane County threatened to hold everyone up for at least half an hour. Rather than wait, the Autobots transformed back into their robot modes, and, to the surprise of the workers and the cheering of dozens of delayed motorists, calmly walked through the hay field along the side of the highway until they'd passed the construction site, got back on the road, transformed, and drove off as if this sort of thing happened every day.

Other than that, and the surprisingly messy incident involving a flock of pigeons that everyone vowed never to speak of, the trip to Eugene for the finals of Dancing with the Autobots was largely uneventful.

O.O.O

"This looks good, man," Jazz said proudly to Blaster as he surveyed the scene before him. "This looks real good."

It was the day before the live performance, and the Autobots were making last-minute arrangements and putting the final touches on the modified arena that was Autzen Stadium. Grapple, Hoist, and their work crew and security detail had arrived four days prior, to build the Autobot-sized stage and set.

The stage, judges' platform, and pedestal where the Iacon Trophy would sit, waiting for the winning dancers to claim the top prize, were all impressively understated, just elegant enough to fit the mood of the show without outshining the performers. In addition, to protect the stadium's regular turf, they had covered the entire field with a thin but sturdy plating that would support the weight of at least twenty Autobots without damage, and which looked very much like a Cybertonian causeway. But the artistic Grapple hadn't stopped there. The tunnels normally used by the football teams entering the field from their locker rooms had been surrounded by gilded archways designed to look like landmarks familiar to anyone who had been to Cybertron, and were draped with blue velvet stage curtains. Flags printed with Autobot insignia hung interspersed with sponsors' banners throughout the stadium. Jazz had even noted a massive Autobot sigil carefully stenciled squarely in the center of the University of Oregon's iconic yellow "O" over Autzen's main entrance. Grapple himself was currently fussing loudly about the way the velvet curtains draped while vigorously polishing the archway until it shone; his best friend Hoist followed him with an air of long-suffering patience and an occasional placating nod of agreement.

Jazz smiled as he looked around at the Autobots organizing themselves in preparation for today's dress rehearsal. On the stage itself, Bluestreak and Hot Rod were carefully pacing off the distance from the center to the corners and from side to side, while Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were bouncing on their tarsal plates and making a few practice jumps, testing the resilience of the stage's surface. Each group was casually working around the other, peacefully and without conflict, unlike what the world had seen during the five episodes already aired.

Up in the stadium bleachers, Rewind and Eject were rehearsing their way down the stairs. The little dudes had been distracted by the arrival of their big brother Slamdance when he finally flew in from his archiving mission on Moon Base One earlier today, but after an excited reunion that involved at least one of them getting dunked in the Willamette River, (Blaster wouldn't say which one, but Jazz had his suspicions), they had settled in to the task at hand.

Most of the dancers wanted to come up with entrances a little more impressive than just walking onto the field. Jazz's group had decided on starting at the top of the stadium and dancing their way down through the audience, hoping the proximity would give them a closer connection to their fans. As for the other acts, he was pretty sure that Springer, being the only competitor who was flight-capable, intended to fly himself and the Pink Lady in for their entrance. Sunny and Sides, on the other hand, were being fairly secretive about their grand entry, and Jazz was pretty sure that, in keeping with their on-screen (and real-life) personas, Ironhide and Twinkie weren't even going to be bothered with working out an entrance. They'd gone sightseeing for an hour or two instead. Inferno and Hotpants had informed him they had "something" planned, but, to Jazz's endless frustration, politely declined to tell him exactly what. He did know that Blurr had worked out a "magical" appearing act by asking for a half-second blip in the stage lighting, during which he would rush himself and Bubbles onto the stage so fast that, when the lights came back up, it would look like they'd come out of nowhere. Blurr was currently explaining this idea to Hound, whose experience in the field of holographic projections had earned him the position to liaison to the Synergy program that would be controlling the show's special effects. Or, at least, Blurr was trying to explain, Hound was trying to understand, and Moonracer was trying to get Blurr to either slow down to something like fifty words a second or to put a sock in it entirely so she could explain the concept herself. Powerglide, who was attending the dress rehearsal as Moonracer's number one fan, was off to one side laughing hysterically, and being no help whatsoever.

Just then, Optimus Prime, transformed into truck mode, came barreling out of the curtained tunnel. Racing about halfway down the field, he suddenly slammed on the brakes and turned hard, deliberately skidding and fishtailing into a 180-degree spin. When he came to a stop, the back end of his trailer dropped open. Nothing came out, but then again, at the moment, nothing was supposed to. During the live performance, the plan was for Elita to emerge from the trailer, using Optimus's momentum to throw herself out of the trailer and into a powerful twirl as he transformed. However, she had insisted he practice the move a few times first, a decision that turned out to be wise: the first time he tried it, Optimus had embarrassed himself by losing control, flipping and rolling himself halfway down the field, while letting out an extensive string of flowery vocabulary that no one ever suspected would have come out of the Prime's vocal processor. He'd quickly disappeared, heading to the nearest truck stop, and came back an hour later with a quick wash, a thorough buffing, and a fresh coat of wax to hide all the scratches he'd given himself. Not surprisingly, all Optimus had to do was offer everyone a stern glare upon his return, and not a single word was spoken about the incident.

Not within his range of audio reception, anyway.

For just a moment, the Specialist wondered exactly where the Little Pink Bulldozer was while Optimus was out there perfecting his technique, but then he remembered she and Firestar had promised an interview to the local media. The two of them, along with some, if not all, of their human instructors, were probably in the parking lot of the Register-Guard right now, answering questions for the region's newspaper and television channels. He hoped they'd be back soon; the dress rehearsal couldn't start without them.

According to Blaster, Slamdance had gone along as well, to record the interview for the Autobots' own archives, but his main function for this event would not begin until tomorrow night, when he would anchor the live, pre-show broadcast that the network had set up.

Others were missing too, and Jazz resisted calling them to tell them to hurry it up. Bumblebee and Tracks had taken Spike and Carly to pick up Carly's parents at the airport, and while they were out, to show themselves off a bit and generate a little last-minute publicity. Tracks had radioed back that the plane was delayed by about an hour. Inferno, with nothing else to do until Firestar got back, had pulled up some information about a nearby restaurant called "Pegasus Pizza" and offered to take Daniel and Spike's parents to get some lunch.

Jazz was pretty sure that was because Daniel loved blasting Inferno's siren in the middle of traffic, and everyone else just loved humoring the boy.

A humming motor in the sky announced the presence of the well-known icon of one of their main sponsors: the Goodyear Blimp. Red Alert, in his constant state of paranoia, had actually come up with this helpful idea. Jazz had been concerned about the possibility of paparazzi trying to get a scoop by shooting photos from helicopters over the stadium, but the slow-moving blimp had right-of-way, essentially prohibiting other low-flying aircraft from entering the local airspace and ensuring the show a certain amount of secrecy.

Of course, Slingshot and Air Raid chose that exact moment to streak overhead, proving they either didn't understand or simply didn't respect the whole concept of FAA right-of-way. Jazz could hear Silverbolt yelling at them over the general communications link a moment later.

Off to one side, security for the show was being organized as Springer issued orders to a small but dangerous-looking group of Autobots all known to be on the roster of the Wreckers: Twin Twist, Topspin, Broadside, Sandstorm, Whirl, Devcon and a few others; even Kup was listening in. A few steps to Springer's left, Arcee appeared to be consulting a data pad, listening to Springer, and holding a conversation on her private communicator, all at the same time. Jazz guessed she was coordinating the Wreckers' orders with those of the Aerialbots, the Protectobots, and the lighter gunners and lookouts, like Cliffjumper and Windcharger, who could be seen choosing their posts up at the top of the stadium.

"There he goes again," Jazz observed as Optimus made another practice run onto the field and executed a nearly-perfect fishtail. "That's seven in a row now that he ain't flipped himself. If he makes ten, he figures he's got it."

"Seems kinda like a weird entrance to me," Blaster commented. "I mean, it works, I guess, but ..." The Communications 'Bot trailed off with a vague shrug.

"Nah, the Boss always got a reason," Jazz answered. "Says he's sick of people always askin' him where his trailer goes when he transforms, so he wants to settle it once an' for all by transformin' on national TV like that. Says everyone can just see for themselves."

A sly grin crept on to Blaster's faceplate. "Oh, well, if that's the case ..."

Jazz let out a smug laugh. "Already on it. I told the crew to make sure they're pointin' the cameras every which way but at Prime's trailer tonight."

"You're the man!" Blaster laughed the distinctly Earthen compliment. They exchanged a congratulatory high-five, then quickly dropped the topic when they heard a familiar voice in a one-sided conversation coming up behind them.

"Yes … yes … understood," Prowl said, speaking to someone over his personal communicator rather than through the general link. "Excellent. Let Springer know that I'll coordinate with the Aerialbots as soon as Silverbolt chases down those two delinquent brothers of his and gets them back on the ground. Apparently Air Raid and Slingshot somehow got the idea that it would be fun to go on a strafing run of the State Capitol up in Salem … Repeat that, please?" Whatever was said on the other end of the line almost caused the Police 'Bot to crack a smile. "Arcee, that 'giant glowing disco ball of a supercomputer' has a name. It's Vector Sigma, and tell Springer that Vector Sigma did give the Aerialbots a brain when it gave them life. One brain for all five of them. It went about ninety percent to Silverbolt, seven percent to Skydive, and the rest divided between the other three … No, divided equally. I'll let Slingshot know you said so. Prowl out."

Jazz and Blaster put on their blandest expressions the moment Prowl clicked off his communicator and turned his attention to them. "Howdy, Sheriff," Jazz casually drawled in his worst Old West accent.

"Jazz, Blaster," Prowl nodded, stepping up next to Jazz to observe the organized, if bustling, activity on the field before them.

"How goes the stage managing?" Blaster asked with innocence that nearly rivaled Jazz's legendary cool facade.

"For not being my first choice of assignment, it's going quite well, actually," Prowl answered as he checked the readout on one of his endless supply of data pads. Then he looked across the field and to the stage with a rare smile. Hot Rod and Sideswipe, both moving backwards while pacing out their respective steps, had accidentally bumped shoulders. Though it was a little too far away to hear what was said, it looked like the two of them traded quick apologies and then stepped around each other without further incident. "I must say," Prowl continued, "I'm pleasantly surprised how civilized everyone is finally behaving now that we're at the finals. This is coming together seamlessly. I have to commend the two of you for pulling this together so well. But if you'll excuse me, I need to go check with Hound to make sure the Synergy program is ready for a trial run."

"Sure, no prob, buddy," Jazz nodded as Prowl turned away, already speaking into his private communicator. Blaster and Jazz grinned coolly until their reluctant stage manager transformed and drove out to meet with Hound, putting him well out of audio range.

"Civilized, huh?" Blaster commented with a knowing shake of his head.

Jazz smiled. "Can't wait to hear what he says when we go live an' everybody pulls out those extra-special on-camera personalities."

"I'm telling you," Blaster laughed. "You. Your atoms. Scattered to Cybertron and back when Prowl gets done with you!"

"You an' me both!" Jazz agreed heartily. Then, he turned and offered his hand for Blaster to shake. "Then I guess I should go ahead an' say it now before he gets his hand servos around both our neck struts. It was good knowin' ya, buddy!"

O.O.O

"Well," Starscream said as a triumphantly grinning Skywarp clicked off the video demonstration. His tone was calm and slightly thoughtful, though if he had given voice to the shriek of disgust running through his cranium, windows as far away as Bolivia would have shattered instantly. "I can certainly see how this is … er … an entirely appropriate plan for a jet attack on a dancing competition."

Skywarp beamed.

"I will, of course, refrain from the initial attack so that I can locate the trophy while you draw the Autobots' attention with your … brilliant maneuvers," Starscream continued, with the full intent of absolving himself from any responsibility for this debacle whatsoever. "Otherwise, you have complete aerial command of all the Seeker forces. And I will be certain that Megatron knows that the cunning mind behind this … unique strategy was yours, and yours alone, Skywarp."

O.O.O

And so the night of the finals arrived. Dusk was barely hinting at turning the clouds red and orange as Spike and Bumblebee returned to their dressing room, about half an hour before Jem and the Holograms would strike the first note of their opening act. They had just finished hosting a back-stage tour for the sponsors' representatives and twenty lucky families who managed to score special tickets to this exclusive look behind the scenes.

Expecting his makeup and wardrobe artists to arrive in a few minutes to help him prep for the live cameras, Spike checked his reflection in the full-length mirror and tugged irritably at the tuxedo jacket he was wearing under protest. "I can't believe Jazz actually made me wear this monkey suit," he muttered, though without much real rancor.

"Yeah," Bumblebee agreed, tugging at the red silk bow tie that was tied firmly under his chin, "and I can't believe he made me wear this monkey … uh, tie. I mean, seriously, do you know how many Autobots have ever worn a bow tie?"

Spike looked at his friend in the mirror and smothered a grin as Bumblebee held up two finger servos. "Two!" the little 'Bot exclaimed as angrily as he could, which, considering that it was Bumblebee, wasn't very much. "That's counting me! The other one was Grimlock, for crying out loud! And both times, Jazz was involved!"

"Proving that either Jazz is a way smoother operator than any of us ever realized," Spike answered, unable to hide the good humor any longer, "or else Grimlock just didn't get the joke. Besides, it's just because none of you had ever heard of a bow tie before you came to Earth. Who knows, you might start a fashion trend. Anyway, what are you complaining about? It's just a bit of fabric around your neck. Jazz could have made you get a whole new paint job for the show."

Bumblebee paused, frowning a little in confusion. "I did get a new paint job for the show," he finally said. "We all did. They wanted us to look our best for the cameras. You know, the same reason they make you wear that makeup stuff."

"I don't mean a fresh coat of the same paint you've always worn," Spike answered, ignoring the makeup comment and the thoughts it dredged up of his wife's gentle ribbing on the same topic. Carly gleefully pointed out to anyone who would listen how a nice matte foundation really made the shade of his eyes pop. "I mean a whole new color, like I'm wearing a whole new style of suit that I hate. Jazz really goes for the glitz and glamor and bling, so I can just picture him making you go with, oh, maybe a nice metallic glitter flake gold. That would really shine under the stage lights, wouldn't it? Heh, then we'd have to call you Mr. Gold-Bug or something."

Bumblebee looked utterly horrified. "Uh, no, I'll just stick with being plain old highlighter-yellow me with a bow tie, thanks anyway," he said decisively.

"You get to stick with yellow, but I'm still stuck with a tuxedo -"

Fleedle eedle eedle eedle eeee!

"Your butt's ringing," Bumblebee pointed out helpfully as Spike flinched, then dug in his pocket and produced an Autobot-designed cell phone prototype that wouldn't be on the general market for another two years.

Recognizing the number that displayed on screen, Spike glanced up just in time to catch his friend's reproachful glare. "I can't believe you had that in your pocket the whole time we were hosting the tour," Bumblebee scolded. "With the ringer on, even!"

"Hey, you never know when the President might need to call Ambassador Witwicky," Spike answered with a shrug and a grin. "Hang on a sec, okay? It's Dad." Touching the screen to accept the call, he held the device up to his ear and said, "Bah-wheep graaagnah wheep ni ni bong!" Then, after a pause followed by an amused eye roll, he said, "Thanks, Dad, I'm glad you and Mom liked the tour even though you've seen ninety-nine percent of it already. How do you like the VIP seating? ... Uh huh ... yeah ... oh, Bee says hi," he added when he noticed the Minibot waving at the phone cheerfully. "Anyway ... what? Why are you asking me if Danny can have soda and cookies? You're his grandpa, isn't spoiling your only grandkid while his parents' backs are turned what you're supposed to do? Do I have to send you to Grandparenting 101? ... what? What do you mean, 'you already asked Carly, and she said no?' What are you trying to do to me here ... Revenge? For what? … Are you kidding? I was the perfect kid! Any parent would kill to have a kid like me! No trouble whatsoever, no sir ... What? No, Dad, this is not the time to talk about the time I carried Soundwave into the Ark thinking that some loser just happened to drop a perfectly good boom-box in the middle of the slagging desert! ... Yes, I did just use a Cybertonian swear word. As Ambassador to Cybertron, it's only right that I immerse myself completely in the culture of the people I'm ambassadorizing. Besides, you should see Bumblebee, for having a metal skin, he all but blushes every time I swear."

Caught, Bumblebee quickly turned to the state-of-the-art monitor that had been installed in their dressing room, and started nonchalantly punching buttons to tune in to Slamdance's pre-show program.

"Anyway," Spike continued, "as far as feeding Danny goes, right now, it's your call. Just remember, if he gets so hyper that he annoys the sponsors or has to go potty eighty times during the show, it's all your fault. Anyway, how's everyone else getting settled? Does Chip have good wheelchair accommodations up there? Uh huh ... uh huh ... oh. Astoria, huh? Well, when you get the chance, tell him I'm sorry he got stuck sitting next to her, but I didn't have anything to do with the seating ... wait, what? WHAT? ... Are you kidding me? Whoa ... really? You seriously can't tell which one's flirting with the other more? Okay, that was the last thing I was expecting. You're sure they're not just discussing a corporate merger or something? ... I see. Well. ...Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Look, Dad, I gotta go, the makeup department is going to be here any minute ... no, a little matte foundation does NOT make my eyes pop! Dork. ... What? No, I said, 'love you, Dad.' Bye!"

As he ended the call, the slightly shocked expression that had emerged on Spike's face during the conversation split into an amused grin. "Did you hear that, Bee?" he laughed. "The Uber-Geek thinks the Power Princess is a hottie! Holy scrap, I don't know where that's going, but I'm sure not gonna let Chip hear the end of it!"

"You did it again," Bumblebee scolded, his attention still riveted on the television program he had tuned in. "Honestly, you swear more than I do."

"Bee, a nun swears more than you do," Spike answered absently, while still considering all the ways he could tease his old friend Chip Chase, eligible bachelor and CEO of Quantum Laboratories, about asking Astoria Carlton-Ritz, heiress and CEO of Hybrid Technologies, on a date.

"Well, darn it to heck and phooey on you!" Bumblebee exclaimed in a complete and utter foul-language fail. Then, moving over slightly to give his co-host room, he pointed at the monitor and said, "Anyway, check this out. Slamdance is out there doing live interviews with some of the people we just took on the backstage tour."

O.O.O

"...well, thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan," Slamdance was saying with all the poise of a professional telejournalist. "I certainly hope you enjoy the rest of the show just as much. And how about you, young lady?" he asked, turning to a teenaged girl who was attending with her parents. "What's your name?"

"Hi," the redheaded girl said to the camera, not smiling in an obvious attempt to hide a mouth full of braces. "My name's Marissa. Uh, Faireborn." She almost grinned, then, two seconds later, an expression of alarm inexplicably dawned on her face. She glanced at her parents with a wide-eyed, desperately apologetic look, as if she'd just realized she'd blurted out something that maybe she shouldn't have said.

Her parents, in turn, shot each other uncomfortable glances, perhaps at the thought of being interviewed, or perhaps over something else entirely.

In an attempt to keep the conversation rolling, Slamdance, who noticed her discomfort, calmly asked the teenager a neutral question. "Well, Marissa, had you ever met an Autobot before today?"

"No," she answered a little hastily, "but I've always wanted to." In typical teenaged fashion, now that she seemed to have embarrassed herself somehow, she tried to cover by making herself sound more self-assured than she really was. "You know, this whole thing has been so awesome that it makes me want to enlist in Earth Defense Command so I can work with the Autobots when I graduate!"

"Actually," her father suddenly interrupted before the girl could say anything more, "I think she wants to be an Autobot when she grows up."

Any remaining shred of poise instantly evaporated, giving way to the embarrassed horror most teenagers display around their parents. "DAD!" Marissa shrieked, darting away from the camera in a humiliated flash.

Slamdance, professional that he was, did not laugh, but he was the only one. "Ah. And these fine folks must be your parents?" he asked, though Marissa had already hidden herself behind some of the other attendees and was not answering.

The man, who was dark-haired and built like an Army Ranger, seemed hesitant to give his name out live on national television, but eventually shrugged and introduced himself. "Um, yeah, Marissa's our daughter. I'm Dashiell. Dashiell Faireborn. This is Alison," he said, indicating the rather voluptuous woman on his arm.

"When you were on the tour, you mentioned to our hosts that you've come all the way across the country to see the show tonight. Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share?" Slamdance prompted.

"Well, Dashiell and I have actually seen Autobots in action before," Alison responded smoothly, obviously much more at ease in front of the camera, "but it was certainly no time to talk and get to know you. So it's nice to see you all now in a much more peaceful and personable setting."

"Well, I hope you have a wonderful time tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Faireborn, and Marissa, too. And how about you, sir?" Slamdance asked another man, who was incongruously wearing what appeared to be a green knit stocking cap that he occasionally fidgeted with, as if he wanted to pull it down over his face entirely, like a mask. "What's your name?"

He seemed even more hesitant to give out his name than Dashiell Faireborn had. "Uh, Wayne Sneeden," he eventually muttered, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was right then.

"Well, Mr. Sneeden," Slamdance asked, "why don't you tell us who is your favorite dancer tonight?"

"Um … the red one."

O.O.O

A short while later, Dashiell Faireborn strode along the stadium corridor leading to the mens' room after his family had finished the interview and found their seats. Since there was still about fifteen minutes to go before the opening act began, he was taking in the opportunity to see absolutely everything he could see in Autzen Stadium. When he reached the mens' room, though, he did not go inside, but instead quickly ducked away from the growing crowd, slipping down a side hallway and into a service door alcove.

Flipping open the face on his expensive-looking watch, he revealed a small array of miniature buttons and a tiny monitor. "Flint to General Hawk," he spoke into the device. "Flint to General Hawk. Come in, please."

A tinny voice emerged from the communicator's miniature speaker as the screen focused on a face that was not, in fact, General Hawk's. "Breaker here. I copy you, Flint, or whatever your name happens to be today."

Dashiell Faireborn, codename Flint, grimaced slightly at this. "Weren't exactly expecting to have a camera shoved in our face like that. We coached Marissa not to use our real names before we got here, but I think she just lost it when they put her on the spot. Not much else we could do but roll with it at that point. Beach Head followed our lead, but he's pretty pissed about it right now. Anyway, I need to report to General Hawk."

"General's on his way." There was a crackle on the line that was definitely not static. It sounded distinctly like the casual pop and snap of bubble gum. "How's the surveillance going?"

"We just completed the backstage tour," the man known as Flint answered.

"Yeah, actually saw Beach Head's pretty mug on TV just a little bit ago. Oh, nice suit, by the way," Breaker teased, pausing to blow a watermelon-pink bubble before adding with a suggestive waggle of the eyebrows,"Damn fine dress Lady Jaye was almost wearing, too. So, the kid wants to be an Autobot when she grows up, huh?"

Flint smiled. "You should've seen her when we were backstage meeting some of the Autobots. She went completely gaga. I think Marissa just found her life's calling because I've never seen her this intent on anything, and that's saying a lot, you know. Earth Defense Command isn't quite GI Joe, in my humble opinion, but what can you do?"

"I dunno. Embarrass your daughter on national television, maybe?" Pop. Crackle.

"It got her off camera before she said anything else she shouldn't, didn't it? Anyway, I'm her father," Flint laughed. "Parents are supposed to embarrass their teenage children. I think there's a law about it somewhere. Look it up."

"Oh, I believe you. My parents were sticklers for obeying the letter of that law when I was sixteen, too. Always going on like I had a bad gum-chewing habit, for some strange reason." Snap. Pop. "Oops, here comes the General. Breaker out."

"General Hawk here," came a new voice as the General's image filled the tiny screen. "Report."

"We've been all over this stadium, including the backstage tour," Flint informed his superior officer evenly. "So far, our cover of just being average civilians is holding, and if any of the Autobots recognized us from that time in L.A., they haven't mentioned it." Punching a few of the tiny buttons in his communicator, he added, "I'm transmitting the images we recorded now, but honestly, sir, we found nothing that seemed concerning."

"Mainframe reports all the A/V equipment is either Autobot technology, or from Starlight Music," the General answered, "and the only Extensive equipment he saw at all was a terminal patching in to the telecomm system so they could get instant updates when the voting begins. There's some Autobots operating a few of the systems, but the rest of the crew is either from Starlight or from the network that picked up the show, and however it happened, the network isn't a known Extensive affiliate. There's no sign of anything out of the ordinary."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Flint offered the General his informed opinion. "We're not able to get into the VIP box to ascertain things up there, but honestly, sir, it looks like the fang gang went legit on this one."

"Don't worry about accessing the VIP box," General Hawk replied. "It's covered. But for being as open as they are, it's surprisingly hard to gather intelligence on the Autobots. Still, from what we can tell, they have no real idea of the connection between Extensive Enterprises and COBRA. I think it's just what it looks like: they hired Extensive as nothing more than a legitimate production partner. But how did they manage to block Extensive from exerting any control at all over the broadcast? They must have one hell of a business mind on their end to negotiate that kind of deal."

"I'd have to agree," Flint nodded. "And at the end of the day, the Autobots are good people, or whatever you want to call them. I can't imagine that they would knowingly agree to anything that ultimately put money in COBRA's pocket."

"If there's anything fishy going on there," General Hawk agreed, "it's not with the Autobots' knowledge. Keep your eyes open just in case. Oh, and Flint?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Enjoy the show. Do you have any idea how many Joes actually tried to bribe me to get their hands on those backstage passes?"

"I dunno ... seven?"

"Try twenty-three."

O.O.O

Two minutes to go before the first notes of the opening act. Slamdance had wrapped up his pre-show recap and live interviews with the audience and with various Autobots who had a behind-the-scenes hand servo in the show. Jem and the Holograms were making their way from their dressing room to the outdoor stage to warm up the audience with their truly outrageous mini-concert. And, backstage in the high-ceilinged hallway leading to the entrance to the field, Prowl was just about ready to have a major neural meltdown.

Just as Jazz had predicted, the moment the cameras started rolling, broadcasting live while recording the night's events for the upcoming home video release, the contestants had instantly switched into their on-screen personas. Lost in his delusion that all would be well this evening, Prowl simply hadn't been prepared to handle the chaos at all gracefully.

"Ironhide! Where's Chromia?" the harried stage manager yelled as he desperately tried to enforce some semblance of order on the gaggle of contestants, most of whom were paying little or no attention to him whatsoever. Waving his data pad furiously, he almost shouted, "If she misses your cue, she misses your cue! I'm not rearranging things just because she feels like - Eject! I don't care if this is a football stadium, stop that now before you trip someone! You know better - Sunstreaker! Hot Rod! Both of you, calm down and separate NOW! Elita, Firestar, will you please stop gabbing for a moment and listen to - What?" Grabbing the side of his helm over his audio receptor, Prowl frantically asked into his communicator, "Repeat that? Jem and the Holograms are on? Good! At least we've started on schedule! Prowl out! Now where's my - Powerglide, this staging area is for contestants only, I'm going to have to ask you to leave! Blaster, stop watching the Holograms and pay attention for just one nanoklik! Has anyone seen my - Springer, Arcee, for Primus's sake, not in the hall, please! Will everyone just settle a moment? I need to - Eject! Didn't I tell you that you were going to trip someone? You have exactly five minutes to help Moonracer polish out the scratches you just put in her knees! Rewind, go help him, and no, I don't care that you had nothing to do with it! Bluestreak, shut up! I need to - Gah! Blurr, SLOW DOWN!"

Jazz, the truly guilty party in all this, chose that moment to pretend to sneak casually past Prowl, using an exaggerated, Loony Tunes-esque tiptoe that was guaranteed to attract attention. And it did. The furious Police 'Bot whirled on his friend and leveled him with a glare that all but screamed, I am going to scatter your atoms from here to Cybertron and back for this!

Jazz just grinned innocently, giving Prowl an encouraging two thumb servos up.

Prowl very nearly threw his data pad at Jazz's cranium.

The cameras captured it all for posterity.

O.O.O

Jem and the Holograms finished their half-hour set and left the stage. Then, the lights changed. For a moment, everything went dark, save for a single spotlight shining on the Iacon Trophy, casting a thousand shards of glimmering golden light throughout the stadium.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Spike's voice announced over the sound system. "Welcome to the final competition of Dancing with the Autobots!"

"Tonight," Bumblebee's voice added, "Cybertron's finest dancers will have the chance to claim the Iacon Trophy! And now, ladies and gentlemen, the extravaganza you've all been waiting for!"

It was Optimus Prime's voice that resonated over the sound system, acting as Prime, the Autobot leader, to give the final cue before becoming Optimus, the competitive dancer. "Autobots!" he commanded. "Transform, and roll out!"

In a thunderous rumble of finely-tuned engines and the squeal of multiple tires, every Autobot competitor with a vehicular mode raced out of the curtained tunnel, while those who were not vehicle-capable rode inside or surfed on the hood of one of the other dancers. The capacity crowd roared its deafening approval as the contestants circled the field twice before the dancers took the stage, and the hosts and judges took their places.

The showy, glamourous, three-hour extravaganza that was the final competition of Dancing with the Autobots had begun.

O.O.O

Continued in Chapter 9...