Title: The Grunt's Guide to Warfare
Author: Tirya King
Summary: G1. Some things are universal throughout the galaxy. The rules of warfare being some of them. If you wish to be a proper soldier, you must learn these very important laws and incorporate them throughout your daily life.
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, and I'm too tired to think up a witty saying to go with the disclaimer.
A/N: This will be a series of one-shots demonstrating the Murphy's laws of warfare, doctors, police, etc. I obtained the lists by googling it, so I don't own the list either. Some one-shots will be funny, others less so. This is one that I found to be a nice mixture of both and decided it would be the one to start us off.
"You're slaggin' me, Prowl. You want me to what?"
"Sunstreaker, I've known you since you were a mere million years old. You should know by now I don't slag. And I believe you heard me the first time."
The yellow warrior in question crossed his arms indignantly. "So send 'Sides. He's better at this sort of thing than I am."
"Which is precisely why I'm sending you. You need more experience in the field."
Sunstreaker's ice blue optics widened incredulously, not sure that he was actually hearing this. "I need more what in the what!"
"If your audio sensors are malfunctioning, I suggest you see Ratchet before you go."
Of course they both knew the melee warrior would go a week without waxing before he would dare bother Ratchet unless he totally had to. The CMO had a habit of inflicting more pain on his favorite set of twins than the enemy when he thought his time was being wasted.
"Prowl, I kill things for a living! I'm big and mean and a conceited sociopathic Dandelion of Death!"
There was a hint of upturned lips from the Vice Commander. "Your words, Sunstreaker. Not mine."
The dry humor, and even the uncharacteristic sparkle in Prowl's optics, didn't register with the self-appointed sociopath. Trying his best to glower down, and thereby intimidate the smaller mech, Sunstreaker said in his best 'I'm really pissed off and have enough firepower to eradicate all evidence of your existence' voice, "The point is, Prowl, I don't play with carbon-based squishies. You want a PR man, ask one of your civis."
Prowl wondered, in the back part of his mind, if either twin would ever learn that while they could strike the fear of Primus into the majority of the fleet, he was not intimidated so easily. All Sunstreaker managed to achieve was the appearance of a very self-righteous and very ridiculous sunflower.
"I wouldn't let any of the Witwickys hear you refer to their species as 'carbon-based squishies' if you don't fancy waking up one morning with the central processor of a fledgling femme. And I would think you would be a bit more excited about showing yourself off to the general population. My 'civis,' as you call them, do this sort of thing all the time. I believe you can sacrifice one evening to expand your horizons beyond your sociopathic pastimes."
From the expression on the melee warrior's beautiful face, one would think he'd just been ordered to roll in a large mud puddle.
Seeing that logical arguments had failed on the logic-obsessed officer, the young mech resorted to his fallback strategy. "But Proooowl!" he whined loudly and obnoxiously. "You can't possibly..."
"Care less, I assure you." He handed a datapad to his subordinate, allowing himself to enjoy the fact that he was torturing the Deadly Dandelion half as much as he was tortured on a daily basis. Being the resident twin-sitter had to have its perks after all. "Here are the directions, the Ops order, and the names and pictures of every orphan you will be meeting at the house."
"Prowl, c'mon," Sunstreaker continued, unable to admit defeat. "Miniature humans? They're messy and loud and annoying and…"
"And you're going to be their best friend if you don't want to join Trailbreaker and Hound on their next off-road trip."
He looked positively scandalized. "You wouldn't dare!"
"I'll even pick out the perfect route for you three. Now shoo, I have quite a bit of work to do and not much time to do it." He picked up the nearest datapad to emphasize this fact.
The Vice Commander narrowed his optics in annoyance and dropped his datapad. "Are you aware, Sunstreaker, of just how many swamps exist in the state of Oregon alone?"
Sunstreaker, defying the laws of Cybertronian physiology, visibly paled at least 10 shades. "Can't I take Sideswipe with me at least?" he asked meekly.
Shaking his head, Prowl picked up the datapad again. "He is your twin, not your shadow. Besides, this will be a good learning experience for you. If it will ease your mind, you may think of him in a less pleasant situation."
"Is he in a less pleasant situation?"
Prowl's mouth twitched into a faint shadow of a smile. "No. But you may think of him as such."
"But that's not…"
"Dismissed, Sunstreaker. Interrupt me again and you will spend every waking moment of next month's leave in the foulest swamp I can find."
Knowing that not only did his Vice Commander not bluff, but that he also had a wicked sense of humor when pushed, the yellow warrior wisely chose to give up this battle. He wouldn't win and he knew it.
Besides, it was just a few human fledglings right?
A house of human fledglings. Fledglings who were sloppy and loud and annoying and about as bright as Sludge…
Primus, what had he done in a past life to deserve this?
"Ah, it's ol' Sunny back from his day of Show and Tell," Sideswipe sang from his position at an image console.
Looking like a shining golden Angel of Death, Sunstreaker sent a murderous glare in his brother's direction, making the temperature of the room drop by a few degrees.
"Eat slag and die," he growled, engine revving dangerously.
However, the effect, intimidating as it was, was lessened by the fact that all shades of crayon decorated his exterior. No doubt the interior of his alternate mode was quite… creatively decorated as well. Smears of what looked suspiciously like macaroni and cheese covered his legs and something green and drippy hung off an audio panel. A wreath of daisies hung around his neck like some exotic award.
The great Sunstreaker himself looked like he had taken on an army straight from Lord of the Flies and lost most beautifully.
Where oh where was a camera when one needed it?
A brilliant flash originated from the corner of the room where stood young Outback looking positively jolly. Ah, there was that camera. As Sunstreaker turned his currently green and slimy head toward the mini-bot, Outback seemed to realize just what he had done.
Those not laughing their processors out silently mourned their comrade's imminent deactivation by way of 3 tons of laser sword-wielding sunshine.
They had never seen that little bot move so fast. After safely subspacing his camera first, of course.
An hour later, having just returned from delivering the very sorry little gunner to an apoplectic Ratchet, Sunstreaker finally made it to his quarters. He needed a good half-megacycle or so in the wash rack just to get rid of the marks and he didn't want to know how long it would take to work out the dings and scratches…
Looking behind him to make sure no one, especially his brother, was there, he reached behind his neck and unhooked the daisy chain gingerly. He walked to a spot on the wall marked with a nearly indistinguishable scratch. Not even his brother knew of this secret compartment. Sliding the section open, he placed the daisies inside, careful not to harm the delicate things.
Looking over his shoulder again in a good imitation of poor paranoid Red Alert, he quickly summoned a piece of paper from subspace. Giving it another once over, he made out the tall yellow figure that was supposed to be him with the little smiling people around him who were apparently the children and their caretakers. A house was in the background next to a large happy sun and little birds on the wing. On the back it was signed by 'Samantha' to her 'favrit Atobot Sunstreecer.'
Rolling up the little piece of paper he stuffed it in alongside his other little trinkets. Well, it wasn't like he was keeping them for any sort of real purpose anyway. Just a reminder of what a hellish day he'd gone through. He was Sunstreaker, the great handsome melee warrior. Not some little soft human lover like Bumblebee. He wasn't sentimental like that to keep some child's gift just because she didn't look at him like the Autobots did with nervousness and distrust in their optics. Or like the Decepticons did filled with fear.
Of course not.
Now, about that date he had with that wash-rack…
Murphy's Law of Warfare: Decisions made by someone over your head will seldom be in your best interest.
A/N: This was once a story all by itself, but when I couldn't go any further with it, I decided to put it on the 'hiatus' pile. A few weeks later, I re-read what I had and decided: hey, wouldn't this make a fun Murphyism?
A/N 2: For those of you waiting for the next part to 'No More Mr. Nice Guy,' don't fret! Ti is working on it diligently and it is about half-way done. (Real life is a real pain at times.) As I will be leaving for two months next Sunday, this week I will scramble to update what I can. After the 26th, there will be complete 'radio silence' until I get back. The good news is that I will be writing with good old fashioned pen and paper while I am away teaching so expect a very very huge bunch of updates upon my return.