Tune in Next Time, For Another Exciting Episode of...
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Prime surveyed the glum faces of the other five bots surrounding the polished black table. Elita, Ironhide, Chromia, 'Spark, and Megatron all fiddled with their drinks in awkward silence. It was as if they expected the glowing cubes of fuel to reveal some hidden wisdom for the evening – or explode.
Prime sighed. Once more, he'd failed to factor in the Megatron Effect. By this point, he was so settled in their bond of brotherhood, so used to having the big lug around, that he forgot that others did not feel the same way. It was the old difficulty of wanting all his friends to get along with one another – an impossibility no matter where one hailed from in the universe.
He tried to be sensitive – he understood his fellow Autobots' aversion to their ancient enemy as well as anyone. But sometimes he forgot. After all, it was several vorns now since the Ceasefire and the two leaders' spark-bonding. And some days Prime just plain got tired of pussyfooting around the whole issue.
He hadn't hoped that Chromia would suddenly choose Megatron for a best friend. But it would have been nice if the blue femme could have put aside a little of her bitter resentment.
They'd met for the evening at Spangle's place, The Hub. The plan was that they'd share a few cubes of high-grade, and maybe a story or two. The underlying hope was twofold: to help 'Spark feel more at home with the group, and to give Megatron the chance to spend time with her that he would never request outright, but was always angling for.
They'd chosen a big round booth in one corner, where they could all sit together, avoid being too much the center of attention, and (as per longstanding habit) keep one optic out for trouble as they sipped their fuel. Prime had to admit the place had style – slick black furnishings were lined with blue, green, pink, and orange neon strips along their curved edges; colored lights broke the big room into small circles of different, blending hues; and always there was the thumping undercurrent of music from the dance hall on the roof. The Hub was just far enough out of everyone's comfort zone to put old bots and the newling on pretty much equal footing. Things ought to have been going swimmingly.
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men gang aft agley,a famous human had once said. Prime still wasn't quite sure what to make of that last bit, having never had the time to learn old Scottish dialect. But he could tell the night was pretty far agley right now.
He huffed, and looked across at Ironhide, catching the shorter red mech's eye. His bodyguard gave an eloquent grimace, and shrugged a single shoulder.
Suddenly, Optimus laughed. "You know, Ironhide," he said, "This whole evening is like something out of that TV show we all used to watch on Earth. Remember As the Kitchen Sinks?
Now it was Ironhide's turn to grin. "You mean the big meeting of family elders, where they all sit glaring at each other around the table, and make barbed small-talk until someone drops a bombshell?"
"Precisely! Which episode was that in?" Prime asked, still chuckling.
"Ya mean, which one wasn't it in, dontcha Optimus?" Ironhide drawled. "All the plots were the same."
"And yet, somehow, we couldn't stop watching..." Prime's optics dimmed in reminiscence. "Remember when Darla threatened to shoot Sunny, because he'd stolen her father's prize pigeon, only it was really Steve who-"
"I'm pregnant," interrupted Ironhide.
Prime's vocalizer hitched. He blinked. And then he gave the old red mech a predatory grin. "You little hussy!" he thundered. "Who's the father?" His voice sank to a venomous whisper. "Or do you even know?"
Ironhide stiffened in affronted self-righteousness. "Of course I do, you horrible old dictator!" He leaned forward, optics narrowing. "She's sitting right beside you."
Prime turned to Elita in horror. "Tell me it isn't true!" he gasped, putting one hand to his 'heart' in a melodramatic pose. "Tell me you did not have sexual relations with that... mech!"
Elita had a hand over her face. She was shaking her head at the unfathomable antics of mech-kind. But still, she played along. "It's true, Optimus," she said. "He's carrying my child." Flashing a fiery grin, she added with a burst of feigned malice, "And he's so much more of a real mech than you ever could be!"
Prime turned his smoldering gaze slowly back to Ironhide. "How dare you?" he thundered. "I will have your guts for garters!"
Megatron raised a quiet hand. "Not 'guts for garters,' Optimus. That's the wrong tone for this show. They'd say something more like..." He mused in silence for a moment. "I'll have you up on charges. Yes. That's what that pompous airhead Druthers was always harping on about."
Ironhide blinked at Megatron in shock.
"What?" demanded Megatron. "It's not like there was anything better on during the daytime! Sheesh!"
"Shush!" said Prime. "You'll ruin the scene!"
Megatron humphed. 'Spark gaped in obvious confusion. Chromia and Elita both looked like they thought the mechs had all gone off the rails of sanity.
Optimus rose, leaned both palms on the table, and glared down at Ironhide. He'd brought all of his powers to bear, and even though the bots were fairly certain he was joking, the in-your-face Prime-Loom(tm) still had its usual effect. Ironhide drew back a little in his chair.
"How dare you." The voice of the Autobot Commander held dire threat in its dark thunder. "I will have you up on charges!"
Their corner of the room went quiet, as other guests began to crane their necks to gawk at them in wonder and concern.
"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" said Ironhide, his rough-cut face like granite. "But I've got a hold over the local DA that you never can match." He smirked, crossed an ankle over his knee, and spread his arms expansively. "Face it, Mussolini. There is nothing you can do."
"And what, pray tell, is this influence you claim to have over the judgment of a fine, upstanding officer of the law?" growled Prime.
Ironhide waved a hand as if the question were a buzzing little fly. "Oh... let's just say that my first child bears a striking resemblance to our esteemed Attorney."
"No!" gasped Prime."
"Yes," Ironhide nodded primly.
"You... you trollop!" Prime choked out.
"She was a Seeker," Ironhide declared. "I simply couldn't help myself."
At this point both mechs lost composure, and dissolved into helpless fits of laughter.
Feeling more of a newling than ever, RainbowSparkle edged her chair back a few nanometers from the table (where the two red Autobots now had their heads down on crossed forearms, and were pounding their fists against its shiny black surface, chortling in glee). "Can... any of you tell me what in Primacron's domain this... conversation was about?" she asked.
The blue and pink femmes shook their heads. "Earth," Elita explained, as if that single word should make everything clear.
It didn't. "Um," Spark looked askance at Megatron. "Is it even possible for a transformer to become... what was the word? Pregnant?"
"I don't think so, sweetie," Chromia told her soothingly.
Megatron leaned in, and put an arm around her shoulders. "You wanna try it?" he asked with a lascivious, toothy grin.
'Spark slapped him hard, and added a sharp elbow to the side-struts for good measure.
In the sudden, awkward silence, Optimus lifted his head to meet the glaring optics of a trio of affronted femmes.
"Megatron," said Elita with exaggerated patience, "About flirting with girls..."
The Autobot Commander let his head fall thunk back down upon the table. The Megatron Effect had struck again.
A/N: Look! A Funny!
This little scene unfolded in my mind one night, and I proceeded to laugh about it for the next three days at least. I'm sure I've mangled the comedy with wordiness. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
Note that it's thanks to a suggestion by fellow-author Coraxonyx that Megatron is familiar with As the Kitchen Sinks.
Inside jokes galore:
– Chromia saying she doesn't think TF's can get pregnant had me in stitches. As it will for anyone who knows her in real life, I hope... (See author TSBP and WiEGoP for the reason why)
– 'Spark elbowing Megs in the side-struts should by rights be akin to a sharp kick to the groin... but since this is my universe, not [author X]'s, he doesn't have Those Kind of Struts.
– And then Bill Clinton's infamous denial sneaked in... mechanized, of course.