0700 hours at the Ark, and Prowl was walking towards the Common room, a mug of energon in one hand and the day's schedule in the other. However, he stopped short at the doors and froze in open-mouthed astonishment. There in the center of the room, were Jazz and the twins doing the Cancan and cajoling other Autobots into joining them. The 2IC let out a world-weary groan, doorwings wilting. "It's too early for this." He muttered, executing a perfect paradeground about-face and retreating with some haste.
Rule One of surviving the Ark- If in doubt, don't ask.
0105 hours found Prowl lying on his back under a computer terminal, attempting to figure out why it wasn't functioning properly. As he worked, he couldn't shake the strange feeling that he was being watched. Nevertheless, he continued his task. Reaching up, he unscrewed another access panel and released a shower of rubber spiders.
"Gyaa!" Prowl yelped, batted at the spiders, automatically bolted upright…and smacked his head into the underside of the terminal. Through the haze of disorientation, Prowl distinctly heard a muffled laugh and the sound of someone beating a hasty retreat.
There were only three people who knew of his distaste for arachnids. One was currently in Michigan, it wasn't in character for the other, and the third was going to have sanitary duty in morning.
Rule Two of surviving the Ark- If you think you are being watched, you probably are.
When he got a break at 1230 hours, Prowl made a beeline for the safety of his quarters. However, his trip was interrupted by a flying red projectile better known as Sideswipe as he was violently ejected from the repair bay, Ratchet's curses echoing after him. The red warrior picked himself up, quite unconcerned by the fact that he appeared to be foaming at the mouth, grinned at Prowl, and jogged down the hallway.
Ratchet emerged from his territory a moment later and canted a glance in the stunned 2IC's direction. "What's your problem?" The irritated CMO asked.
"Sideswipe was foaming at the mouth. Is that possible?"
The medic made a vague gesture with one hand. "He ate a box of soap flakes."
Prowl blinked. "…soap flakes?"
"He was bored." Ratchet shrugged.
Rule Three of surviving the Ark- If it involves a bored twin, don't ask.
It was a very wary Prowl that reclaimed his workstation at 1800 hours.
He had just finished typing up a report when Jazz sauntered in and leaned against the wall beside him. "So, whadda ya think?" The Porsche asked, grinning. Prowl did an abrupt double take as exactly what Jazz was talking about registered. Somehow, the Special Ops officer had gotten his hands on what Prowl recognised as an Autobot-sized baseball cap.
"…a hat?" Prowl finally asked.
"Yup. Cool, eh?" Jazz beamed, adjusting the brim slightly.
"Yes…cool." The Datsun replied carefully, turning back to his work. He was not going to even think about the logic of it. Sideswipe was bad enough.
Rule Four of surviving the Ark- If asked an opinion, at best be positive, at worst, be ambiguous.
At the end of the day at 2100 hours, it was a rather concerned Optimus who finally found Prowl slumped at his desk, head buried in his arms. "Prowl? The CIC asked. "Are you alright?"
The Datsun raised his head just enough to confirm who it was. "It's a plot." He mumbled. "They're planning to drive me insane."
Prime nodded sagely. Reports had filtered through about the day's antics, and quite frankly the Prime had nothing but pity for his somewhat frazzled tactician. Stir crazy warriors were every commander's worst nightmare, and that all resulting 'events' had somehow gravitated towards Prowl had not helped the 2IC's mental state in the slightest. "Something tells me the next few days are going to be very interesting." The Prime mused.
Rule Five of surviving the Ark- If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.