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“Look,” Jazz growled over his comlink, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate that you’re looking out for me, but really… this isn’t my first rodeo.”
Prowl did not acknowledge the comment. “According to the blueprints, personal quarters are coming up on your left.”
“I know,” Jazz hissed.
“Don’t forget the traps.”
Jazz just muttered angrily. He knew about the traps. Shockwave always had traps. They were never on the blueprints he filed with Megatron in Kaon so getting around the traps was kinda an improv sort of thing, but they were always there and Jazz so did not need Prowl to remind him about them.
Fortunately for Jazz’s health and sanity, he didn’t need to actually get around them this time; he just released the little spy drones he’d brought and the tiny little things would make their way into the assistant’s quarters and hopefully get packed up with the other personal effects when this base was evacuated. How did Jazz know this base was going to be evacuated?
All part of the plan.
The plan Jazz knew. The plan Jazz really needed Prowl to shut up about.
“The detpacks should go—“
“I know where the fragging detpacks need to go. You gonna try telling me how to arm them too?” No verbal response from Prowl, but the blueprints for the explosives suddenly shoved themselves into Jazz’s communications suite like a dose of bad energon, along with step-by-step instructions for safe handling and arming the things. Jazz was extremely pleased with himself that he didn’t snarl as he replied. “You realize I built these things, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
Jazz let off a string of expletives that would have made a dockworker blush — and had, on at least one occasion in the past. Prime was so easy to embarrass sometimes.
Honestly he didn’t know how Prowl had the processing power to try and micromanage Jazz’s mission, given he was busy doing the same for the attack on the energon convoy ten klicks away that had emptied this base of its guards so Jazz could do his thing. But since he did, Jazz did know it was just reflex on Prowl’s part to do so; Jazz, like many of the combatants, was feeding the tactician his sensor data, so it was just automatic to Prowl to give him instructions like he was the rest of the Autobots. Jazz understood.
Understanding, he thought to himself, still muttering angry-oh-so-angry things about the tactician in the safety of his processor as he set the detpacks on the base’s primary structural supports, did not make it any less annoying. Because really, he had read the blueprints before he'd left, and even if he hadn't he was perfectly capable of identifying a building's weak points on his own thank you very much; he didn't need a slagging play by play.
Before the next time Jazz was sent out on a mission while feeding Prowl the data in real-time, he was going to insist that Prowl install some sort of processor-filter so he could just shut the frag up and leave Jazz’s part of the mission the Pit alone. This? This was a vow. This was a vow Jazz was making right the frag now and if Prowl put up a fuss about it, so help him Primus, second in command or no second in command he was going make Prowl sleep in the Primus-damned rec room.
He finished setting the last detpack and stood, idly brushing the oxide dust that swirled through this base off his hands.
“Now—“
“Primus-damnit Prowl!” That was it. The last, the absolute last of Jazz’s frayed patience “I know the slagging PLAN. Will you just SHUT THE PIT UP AND LET ME DO MY JOB?”
The base rang in the silence following Jazz’s outburst, like the last few seconds before an acid storm hit. Of course his words hadn’t been out loud — no amount of frustration would make Jazz that careless — but that didn’t change the sense of foreboding.
And then the storm broke, the first burning raindrop falling, in the unmistakeable sound of a heavy footstep.
Optic band lowered from where he’d been glaring in the direction of the tactician’s little cloaked hidey-hole a hundred klicks away, he met the single-opticked gaze of the patrol form of one of Shockwave’s Guardian drones. And there Jazz was, right in the thing’s laser-sight without a scrap of cover to dive into. Wonderful. This mission just couldn’t get any better could it?
Of course Prowl saw it too, though his sensor link with the saboteur. “I was going to say that now you need to avoid the Decepticon patrols as you escape, but fighting your way out should be effective as well.”
And Jazz saw red. Literally. His optic-band flashed ruby as his temper fully took over his cognitive functions. With a snarl he overlayed Prowl’s image over the guardian’s form on his HUD as it shifted to battle-mode and lunged.
He had the wonderfully visceral pleasure of blowing the imagined-fragger’s head off a dozen times, as a moment later the base’s alarms went off and he was mobbed by guardian drones. He hoped Prowl was watching that modified sensor feed. Closely.
.
.
.
End