Hello, people! Here is the fourth silly, not-to-be-taken-seriously story you were promised in the pirate story! There is nothing you need to know for this story that the other silly ones haven't already told you, so I'll just say that this story is the fault of one of my best friends and leave it at that. If you've only read Universe, however, there may be some mild spoilers regarding minor plot points, most notably something involving the twins and Red Alert. And don't worry, chapter three of Universe is in the works and is currently about half done. If all goes according to plan, expect it within the next month or so. *Crosses fingers.* In the meantime, maybe this can bring you some laughs.

Without further ado, enjoy the story!

-In Which Optimus Prime and Jazz Experience the Frightening Phenomenon of Senility-

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 6:32 AM

It started fast, Prowl would later find as he analyzed this horrifying event in Autobot history. Too fast to prevent through normal means. The first sign of the developing madness in the Autobot command element was Jazz forgetting a maintenance appointment with Ratchet. Prowl always knew Jazz would be the first to go. He just hadn't expected it to happen so soon. Jazz's descent into madness quickened at an alarming pace however.

Prowl was minding his own business as he waited for Jazz to arrive. He was taking unusually long though, it had been several minutes since the tactical officer had contacted the saboteur.

"Hey Prowl!" a chipper voice called from behind.

"It is about time," Prowl huffed, turning to face Jazz. "I need you to find Sideswipe. He has been avoiding me, so he has clearly been involved in something inane and pointless."

"Gotcha!" Jazz said with a playful salute, spinning on his pede to find the frontliner.

Prowl sighed and pulled out a data pad to go over some reports when he heard the sound of pedesteps behind him. He turned and was surprised to find that it was Jazz. "Did you find him already?" he asked, raising an optic ridge.

"Find who?" Jazz stared at his best friend with a look that could only be described as total confusion.

Prowl blinked. "Sideswipe," he replied in complete deadpan, "the mech I asked you to find thirty seconds ago."

"Ya did? I was certain I just got here." Jazz crossed his arms. "Welp, whatever the case, I'll get right on it! Later Prowler!"

"Do not call me that," the Autobot third-in-command snapped before turning his attention back to the reports. That was strange. He hissed an aggravated hiss when he was tapped on the shoulder, groaning inwardly when he saw that it was Jazz. Again. "What now?"

"I thought ya wanted ta see me," the saboteur huffed, placing his servos on his hips. "If I'm bothering ya I can go, but ya DID call me here."

Prowl leveled Jazz with an unamused yet bewildered stare. "Jazz, this is the third time in the last minute that you have walked in here."

"Really? Well, whadda ya know. So what did ya want?" Jazz asked with a grin.

Prowl clenched his denta before taking a deep vent. "Sideswipe. Find. Him," he ground out irritably. "And Primus help you if I have to tell you again."

"Oh, well why didn't ya say so?" Prowl felt a sudden urge to wring Jazz's neck. "Later!" His fellow third-in-command wandered over to the door, pausing for a second looking a bit thoughtful. "Oh, and if ya see the screaming gopher, let me know would ya?" The door hissed shut as he waltzed out.

Prowl stared at where Jazz had been standing, thoroughly befuddled. "The . . . what?" He furrowed his optic ridges before shaking his head and returning his attention to the reports. The words on the data pad swam in front of his optics, and the phrase 'the screaming gopher' refused to leave his CPU. He drummed his digits on his desk as his frown deepened, then set the data pad down with an aggravated sigh. ::Hound, remind me again, what is a gopher?::

::A gopher? It's a burrowing rodent with fur-lined pouches on the outside of its cheeks, found in North and Central America,:: came the amiable reply. ::Why?::

Prowl was going to verbally pummel Jazz if this was a joke. ::I am incredibly doubtful of this due to the source, but is there a type of gopher known as 'the screaming gopher'?:: He could not believe that combination of words came out of his mouth. Although, he had started to grow accustomed to odd, organic-related sentences as of late. He had been questioning his life choices recently as well. Whether or not the two were related was up for debate.

There was silence on the other end of the commline for several agonizing seconds. ::Uh . . . no?:: Hound finally replied, voice laden with confusion. ::Did someone tell you there was?::

::Not exactly.:: Prowl was starting to really hate being third-in-command of the Autobots. They were large children, the lot of them. At least Ultra Magnus and Rodimus were back from Tahiti, so he had some backup. ::Jazz told me to keep an optic open for the screaming gopher, and I am trying to find out what he meant.::

::Alright then.:: Hound still sounded confused, but slightly less so than before. ::I'll let you know if I see anything that might resemble a 'screaming gopher',:: he offered.

Prowl allowed himself to indulge in a small smile. Hound was always so reliable and helpful. Unlike some other bots. ::That would be much appreciated. Thank you, Hound.:: That didn't save him from being branded as a child though. He was just one of the favorites.

::No problem, sir. Hound out.::

The praxian once again turned his optics to the data pads in front of him, only to stamp down a frustrated growl at the sound of his door opening for the fourth time in the last two minutes.

"Prowl! Proooowl!"

The voice that accompanied the door, thankfully, was not Jazz, but someone else entirely. ::Jazz, Sideswipe has just stampeded into my office. There is no need to search for him.::

::'Kay. But I don't remember ever starting.:: Jazz replied cheerfully, signing off before Prowl could properly chew him out.

"PROWL!"

"What is it, Sideswipe? What have you been up to?" Prowl asked, narrowing his optics at the frontliner.

"What? Oh. I dumped some paint on Huffer when he was on his way to the washracks," Sideswipe answered quickly. "But that's not important right now. I need you Prowl it's terrible it's horrible it's the worst possible thing—" Bluestreak and Red Alert were starting to rub off on Sideswipe it seemed. The lamborghini resembled them both with the rapid babbling and panicked wringing of his servos.

"Did you see a boar in the hall?"

"What!? NO!"

Thank the matrix. "I am afraid I cannot help you if you do not tell me what is wrong," Prowl said calmly, hoping to distract Sideswipe from his tirade.

Sideswipe shook his head and planted his servos on the desk. "Optimus has gone loopy, Prowl!" he exclaimed, his expression one of horror. "Bluestreak, Hot Rod, and I were going to see if he'd play some basketball with us and he was just . . . just . . ." He stopped talking and gave Prowl a considering look. "Actually, I bet he's still there. C'mon Prowl, I'll show you what's wrong!"

Prowl figured it would be best to hurry to his pedes and follow the other mech before Sideswipe decided it would be a great idea to physically drag Prowl to whatever their destination was. "Very well, Sideswipe. Lead the way." It was with great sorrow that Prowl bade goodbye to his office, and hello to what appeared to be another round of divine torture from Primus.

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 6:47 AM

"What the heck is wrong with him?"

Prowl found himself unable to answer General Nelson's question, as he himself was unable to process the sight before him. Sideswipe, Bluestreak, and Hot Rod were to the left of him, and General Nelson was to his right. Optimus Prime—the Autobots' respected leader—was staring down a column with the focus of a sniper, a Cybertronian sized tennis ball and racket in his servos. "You think you can defeat me at tennis, Hot Rod? Well, we'll just see about that!" he said, adding a maniacal laugh for good measure.

"Uh, Optimus? I'm over here."

Hot Rod's words went unheard as Optimus Prime took a couple steps back, winding up a serve and sending it flying at the column at high speed. The ball bounced off with a loud clang and slammed into Optimus Prime's face, knocking the semi off his pedes.

The ground shook when their leader hit the floor, the ball bouncing down the hall. "I repeat: what the heck is wrong with him?" General Nelson asked, staring at the downed Autobot.

"See? I told you Optimus went loopy!" Sideswipe said, wildly gesturing down at the mech in question.

Prowl moved to get a better look only to leap back when Optimus Prime suddenly sat up ramrod straight. "Not a bad return serve, Hot Cod, but you shan't defeat me!" he declared, brandishing his racket.

". . . Hot Cod?" Bluestreak repeated. "Isn't cod a type of fish?"

"Optimus, sir?" Prowl tried, waving a servo in front of Optimus Prime's face.

"Ah! Prowl! Came out to get some air, did you? Good for you, staying in your office all day can't be healthy," Optimus Prime stated, getting to his pedes.

Prowl inwardly thanked the powers that be that Optimus Prime had noticed him. "Err . . . I appreciate you worrying about my . . . health, sir, but with all due respect I am worried about yours."

"Mine? Don't be silly, my friend!" Optimus Prime pulled a new ball out of subspace and prepared to serve again. "I'm merely playing a few rounds of tennis with Hot Sod."

"Hot Sod?" Hot Rod huffed, crossing his arms. "I don't even play tennis!"

The serve went off with a similar result to the first. "Optimus, that is a column," Prowl stated, looking down at his leader who was once again on the ground.

"A column? That's not a very nice thing to say about Hot Todd," Optimus Prime tsked. "That, or you need to get your optics checked."

Prowl blinked and contacted a certain comm frequency. ::Ratchet, Optimus Prime has lost his mind. Over.::

::What? What is he doing?:: Ratchet replied, sounding a bit skeptical.

::He is playing tennis with a column that he claims to be Hot Rod when the mech in question is standing not ten feet away from us.::

There was dead silence on the other end for several seconds. ::Where are you?::

::Hall 6-S.::

::I'll be right there.::

There was another loud clang as Optimus Prime knocked himself to the floor again, the other bots backing up a ways. "You're going to do something about this, right?" General Nelson inquired, raising an eyebrow at the tactician.

Prowl looked down at the human. "Yes, I have informed Ratchet."

"Thank goodness," Bluestreak said, moving to hide behind Prowl. "This is getting scary."

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 12:02 PM

"Will he be alright?"

"I am not sure."

"Oh . . . Ratchet has magic healing powers though, so he's sure to be okay, right?"

"Ratchet does not have magic powers, Sideswipe, such a notion is ridiculous."

"Well, I didn't mean it liter—"

"Don't rain on his parade, Prowl, he's just trying to give himself some hope, even though it is a bit ridiculous to think that Ratchet's a wizard—"

"Hey! Blue!"

"What? You think he's got magic powers, and that would make him a wizard, right? Can you imagine if he did have magic powers though imagine the revenge he would exact on all of us and by 'us' I mean Ironhide, Sunstreaker, Sides, and Optimus because they get hurt the most I mean one of them calls a missing limb a scratch, another . . . well, I'm not sure what Sunstreaker does but Sides goes around throwing himself off of cliffs—"

"I have a jetpack, a parachute, and my own personal first-aid kit you know."

"You didn't that one time on Cybertron when you were younger I mean what were you even doing Red Alert said you were like seven stellar cycles old—"

"Did he tell everyone that story!?"

"I dunno, ask Red Alert . . . anyway you do stuff like that and then of course Optimus is just a huge martyr all the time like Optimus no you're our leader quit doing that . . . your face is turning blue Sides, are you okay are you coming down with a virus? Wait . . . you're embarrassed aren't you?"

"No."

"You are what is with you you're embarrassed about jumping off a cliff at seven stellar cycles but you're not embarrassed about eating a banana as an adult of two thousand stellar cycles? I don't get you you're so weird—"

"Is Ratchet done yet, Prowl?"

"Is the door open?"

". . . No."

"Then no."

"Why are you so certain Ratchet's a wizard, Sides, I mean I know that he's great at his job and all but so are First Aid and Hoist did you get inspiration from those movies? You must be so paranoid of human men with bushy black beards thinking they're coming to take him away all like: 'you're a wizard, Ratchet!'"

"Blue—"

"Or did someone else say that I'm not really sure I haven't gotten around to watching those movies yet Sunstreaker saw them on my list and said that the books were better but have you seen those books they're huge when did he find the time to read all of them between shifts—"

"Blue!"

"—Eh?"

"I don't actually think Ratchet's a wizard, I was just embellishing for effect!"

". . . Oh. Heheh, whoops. Silly me!"

Sideswipe rolled his optics, shaking his head at Bluestreak's sheepish response with a little smile on his face as Prowl watched. There was still a hint of blue on the frontliner's face, prompting Prowl to ponder why that story seemed to embarrass Sideswipe so much.

Before he could think on it for too long however, the door to the examination room opened to admit Ratchet and Optimus Prime into the main room of the medical bay. "Well, Ratchet? What is the verdict?" Prowl asked, spying an extremely hopeful look on Sideswipe's face out of the corner of his optic. Though he would never admit it out loud, he too was relying on Ratchet's . . . ahem . . . 'magic healing powers' to save the day.

"I keep telling you all that there is nothing wrong with me," Optimus Prime huffed, crossing his arms indignantly.

"Optimus. Sir. You were playing a tennis match with a column in one of the hallways and repeatedly causing a tennis ball to slam into your face," Prowl replied with exasperation.

"Why do you insist on calling Hot Bod a column, Prowl? That is terribly rude of you," the semi retorted.

"Sir—"

"Rude."

"As much as it pains me to say it, Optimus is right," Ratchet cut in, sounding awfully tired.

Prowl snapped his gaze to the medic. "What?" That couldn't be right. Optimus Prime had clearly gone insane within the last couple of days.

Ratchet sighed. "Medically, I can't find anything wrong. I finally gave up because I've been searching for five and a half hours."

"It's been over five hours?" Bluestreak asked.

"Five and a half hours!? What time is it!?" Optimus Prime repeated in a horrified voice.

"Around twelve o'clock. Why, Optimus?" Sideswipe answered, casting their leader a confused look.

Optimus Prime let out a dramatic gasp. "No! I'm running late!" he cried as he shot out the door.

Prowl blinked slowly. ". . . Late?"

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 12:12 PM

"Autobots and . . ." Jazz paused for a moment as if he wasn't certain what to say, waving a servo in the air as he thought, ". . . Autobots!" he finally decided, donning a face-splitting grin. Optimus Prime leaned over and whispered something to him, causing him to gasp. "Oh! And military personnel! All . . . four of you. Welcome to what will most definitely be the greatest thing you have ever heard!"

When Prowl had followed Optimus Prime with the others, he had not been expecting to find a crude stage set up in one corner of the rec room. Optimus Prime and Jazz were both standing on top of it with identical expressions of excitement—which was quite horrifying, really—and Optimus Prime was holding a large flashlight in his servo, shining it down on Jazz's head like a pathetic spotlight while the rest of the room's occupants looked on in confusion.

"Indeed! Jazz and I have discovered the greatest piece of literature mankind has ever written!" he stated, raising a fist in triumph as he shone the flashlight upon himself.

Prowl sighed and lowered his face into his servo.

"Is it the Iliad?" Phil Mann asked from the corner.

"Nobody likes the Iliad, Phil," John Johnson grumbled.

"Then it will please you to know that it's not!" Jazz replied cheerily as Optimus Prime moved the flashlight beam back to the saboteur. "Ahem, now, without further ado, I bring you: Bantams in Pine-Woods!"

There was a rumbling throughout the duo's mystified audience with the general response of: 'huh?'

Optimus Prime turned off the flashlight—which was rather pointless to begin with as the lights were on—for a moment before turning it back on practically in Jazz's face.

Prowl's fellow third-in-command faced the audience and pulled a large stick—was that a scrub brush?—out of subspace, then held it up to his lips like a microphone.

"Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan

Of tan with henna hackles, halt!"

After that bizarre sentence, Optimus Prime chimed in.

"Damned universal cock, as if the sun

Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail."

And then it went back to Jazz.

"Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.

Your world is you. I am my world."

"You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!

Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,"

"Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,

And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos."

The pair looked stupidly pleased with themselves when they finished their recitation, but their audience seemed far less enthused. A bot could hear a pin drop in the room. Prowl sighed again and glanced over at his companions. At least he could garner some amusement from their bewildered expressions.

Everyone's heads turned as one to look when the sudden sound of someone clapping filled the room. Beachcomber. Of course. "Thank you! Isn't that just the most beautiful thing that a human composed that you've ever heard!?" Jazz asked, either not noticing, or ignoring the fact that no one besides Beachcomber was all that impressed.

"I feel like I should be insulted," General Nelson muttered, staring with narrowed eyes.

"You probably should," Sunstreaker drawled, taking a swig of his energon.

Prowl groaned inwardly before making his way over to the stage. "Jazz, Optimus, what is going on with you both?" he asked, feeling more than a little disturbed. First Jazz's forgetfulness, then the tennis match, and now this. It was a struggle to keep his logic circuits from going bonkers.

"We're simply sharing English literature with our fellow Autobots," Optimus Prime stated sagely, closing his optics and nodding.

"Are we sure that was English?" Vincent Mann asked, glancing at John.

John glanced back. "No. No we're not."

"Prime? Jazz? Are you feeling alright?" Jetfire inquired, tilting his head.

"Absolutely!"

"Never better, m'mech!"

Prowl narrowed his optics slightly. ::Red Alert, could you please come to the rec room and lend me some assistance?:: If Optimus Prime and Jazz wouldn't listen to him alone, then he was going to need some back-up. ::Rodimus and Ultra Magnus, that request extends to you both as well.::

::If this is about that . . . thing I just witnessed on the rec room camera feed, then I'll be right there,:: Red Alert replied.

::Acknowledged, Prowl. I'm on my way,:: Rodimus stated also.

::I should be there shortly as well,:: Ultra Magnus chimed in.

Prowl chose to stare disapprovingly at his best friend as well as his leader while he waited, the other Autobots behind him either returning to their business or continuing to voice their concern.

"Was this supposed to be a joke, guys?" Crosswise asked, resting his face in his servo.

Gears stared blankly. "I hope you weren't trying to make us laugh, because I've got an ache in my side that laughing won't help."

"Gears, honestly. Stop complaining and go to Ratchet," Brawn grumbled.

"I did. He said my self-repair systems would take care of it."

"I can't believe this! Optimus! What's happened to you!?" Sideswipe looked and sounded very distressed as he sunk down in his chair. "Why are you reciting nonsensical English literature!?"

Bluestreak patted his friend on the shoulder with a look of sympathy. "There there, Sides, I'm sure Prowl will fix it, he always does."

What Bluestreak meant as a compliment felt an awful lot like being thrown under the metaphorical bus, but before Prowl could brood on that—or the dance maneuvers Optimus Prime and Jazz had started performing—for too long, Ultra Magnus and Rodimus stepped into the room.

"What seems to be the trouble, Prowl?" Rodimus asked. His attention was swiftly grabbed by their leader lifting Jazz into the air in a theatrical display of clumsy ballet. ". . . Optimus, what are you doing?"

"Ah! Rodimus! Brother!" Optimus Prime set Jazz on the ground and spun around, grandly holding a servo out to his seconds. "Dance with us as we languish in the grandeur of limber legs and poetic brilliance!"

Ultra Magnus and Rodimus, unsurprisingly, did not move an inch in the direction of Optimus Prime's outstretched servo, instead looking over at Prowl.

". . . That is the trouble," Prowl stated, gesturing at the two mechs behind him in answer to Rodimus's question.

Optimus Prime gasped loudly. "Trouble!? Why, Prowl! Why are you so rude today? Calling your fellow Autobots such cruel names as 'Column' and 'Trouble!'"

Prowl didn't even try to resist the urge as he brought his servo up and slapped his palm to his face. The sound of the door, however, prompted him to remove it in order to see who it was. "Red Alert, welcome," he stated a bit sarcastically when the security director entered the room. "I assume you are already aware of the situation since you mentioned seeing—" An incredibly loud and somewhat shrill gasp interrupted him, causing him to whip his head in the direction of the source.

"You're here!" Jazz squealed excitedly, staring directly at Red Alert.

Red Alert stared back with an unamused expression. "Yes, hello, Jazz." His gaze moved back to Prowl. "And yes, I am aware of the—"

"My screaming gopher!"

"—I beg your pardon!?" Red Alert sputtered, swinging Jazz an indignant glare.

Prowl blinked even as Sideswipe laughed. Red Alert was the screaming gopher? What sort of degrading nickname was that supposed to be?

"I can't believe you're here!" Jazz continued, leaping off of the stage and darting towards Red Alert at full speed. "C'mere!"

Red Alert's indignant expression twisted into panic rather quickly. "Wait, what are you doing!?" he demanded as he began to backpedal. "Stay back!"

"HUUUUGS!" Jazz hollered as he chased the other mech out the door.

"GAH! NO! GET AWAY! HELP!"

"LET ME LOVE YOOOOUUUU!"

"Jazz! Stop that immediately!" Prowl barked after his wayward fellow third-in-command, unfortunately too late as the door hissed shut behind both Jazz and the fleeing Red Alert. "Sideswipe! Go save your brother!" he ordered instead.

"Save him from what? Hugs?" Sideswipe asked, though he stood up regardless. "C'mon Sunny, you're faster," he called as he sprinted out of the room, with Sunstreaker following soon after.

"Bring Jazz back here!" Ultra Magnus called after them both.

"I don't see what the problem is, he's just trying to spread the love," Optimus Prime said blandly.

Ultra Magnus sent the Autobot leader a glare, then looked at Prowl and Rodimus. "We need to have a meeting."

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 3:47 PM

Prowl grumbled to himself rather vocally as he stalked through the halls. It had been almost four hours since Jazz had assaulted Red Alert in the rec room—and yes, it was an assault in Prowl's optics—and the emergency meeting called by the remaining command element was still ongoing. The problem was that Sideswipe had yet to turn up with Jazz, and at some point in the last few hours Optimus Prime had slithered his way out of the meeting room and was on the lamb. Prowl and Rodimus had volunteered to track down their wayward superior as well as his compatriot, splitting up early on to cover more ground, but Prowl was beginning to wish he had kept his mouth shut and allowed Ironhide to go instead. Why did he always feel so compelled to take on responsibility anyway? Optimus Prime was starting to rub his martyr tendencies off on him.

A strange sound gave Prowl pause. It was a deep, rumbling voice repeating the same sound over and over. What was it? Wah? La? Rah? He was certain of the 'ah' noise, but he couldn't quite make out the beginning consonant. Regardless, the deep voice sounded much like a certain commander who was on the run. Prowl continued down the hallway at that realization, following the sound as it grew louder, until he arrived at the entrance to the security hub. It was there that he took a deep vent, braced himself, and opened the door.

The sight before him was a strange one indeed. Sideswipe was sitting on the floor beside Jazz, who was clutching the former's wrist and repeatedly opening and closing Sideswipe's digits. Optimus Prime was situated behind the two smaller mechs in the middle, holding a pitcher of oil and opening the spout to make it seem as though it were making the strange noises. Red Alert was standing slightly behind Sunstreaker in the corner with a disturbed look on his face, which was paired nicely with Sunstreaker's thinly veiled confusion. Sideswipe, for his part, was sporting the most distressed expression Prowl had ever seen on the front liner's face, and when he finally noticed Prowl standing in the doorway, he mouthed 'help me' and glanced at Optimus Prime's pitcher when the semi shoved it closer to his face.

Prowl cleared his vents—which caught Sunstreaker and Red Alert's attention—and stepped forward. "Jazz, Optimus, what are you doing?" He felt he deserved something for asking that question in his usual tone, but he wasn't sure what.

Optimus Prime didn't so much as pause. "La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la—"

Luckily, it seemed Jazz was feeling slightly more helpful. The saboteur looked up and flashed Prowl a bright grin, though he didn't stop doing whatever it was he was doing to Sideswipe's servo. "We're fixin' ol' Sideswipe's servo."

Prowl stayed silent for a few moments to absorb that information, noticing just then that there was a small cut on Sideswipe's aforementioned servo. ". . . You look like you are performing a strange cult ritual," he finally responded.

"Rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah, rah—" Optimus Prime continued.

"No, no, see, I'm keeping the positive energy flowing through his servo, and Optimus is providing us with the soothing sound of the universe," Jazz—ahem—'corrected.'

"—wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah—"

"They've been doing this for the last hour and a half," Red Alert supplied, looking over at Prowl.

Sunstreaker simply nodded his agreement.

Prowl sighed. "It seems to me like the only thing you have accomplished is scarring him for life."

"That cut should be healing up any moment now," Jazz plowed on, ignoring Prowl's statement.

"I would argue that Ratchet could fix that much quicker. Sideswipe himself could likely fix that in five minutes with the first-aid kit Ratchet supplied him with."

"Nonsense, this should work any second."

"You do realize that Ratchet considers Sideswipe's good health to be his own personal property, yes?"

"That's nice."

Prowl blinked a slow blink before contacting the aforementioned medic. ::Ratchet, I have a code 666 in progress,:: he stated in an emotionless voice. When a situation occurred with enough frequency, it was assigned its own code number. Code 666 in particular stood for 'Sideswipe in distress,' and was only used by Ratchet, Red Alert, and Prowl himself. It didn't matter what the cause of Sideswipe's distress was, whether it was his own doing or someone else's, it only mattered that there was a situation and Sideswipe was in the middle of it. The number itself was suggested by Red Alert, who informed them that in certain human cultures the number 666 was considered the root of all evil, much like Sideswipe himself. Prowl and Ratchet saw no reason to argue with Red Alert, so the number stuck. ::We are at the security hub. Also, I have located both Optimus Prime, and Jazz.::

::Code 666, huh? I'll be right there, and I'll bring Ultra Magnus and Ironhide to detain Optimus and Jazz,:: Ratchet responded, likely somewhat relieved to have an excuse for leaving the on-hold meeting.

Sideswipe continued to give the oil pitcher a disturbed stare, while Optimus Prime inched it closer and closer to his face. In other circumstances, Prowl would have found Sideswipe's predicament somewhat amusing. However, these were not other circumstances. As it was, Prowl was bearing witness to his best friend and his commander harassing the bane of his existence, and he couldn't take pleasure in it because he was responsible for keeping the peace. Peace which said best friend and commander had utterly destroyed within the last ten hours. ". . . What, pray tell, does the pitcher supposedly do?"

"—vah, vah, vah, vah, vah, vah, vah—"

"It provides a calming presence, and is essential to the success of the procedure," Jazz answered as Optimus Prime continued to provide the 'soothing sound of the universe.'

Prowl eyed Sideswipe for a few seconds before replying. "It does not appear to be as calming as you claim. In fact, I believe it is adding to his distress."

Sideswipe nodded while Jazz tossed his head. "What do you know about psychology, Prowler? Trust me, this is the best method."

Sideswipe sent Jazz a sideways glare at that. It astounded Prowl, quite frankly, that the lamborghini was being so silent, though perhaps it was due to his horror at Optimus Prime's obvious insanity.

The door opened with a soft beep, signaling the input of an override code, likely Ratchet's. "What in the name of Primus are you two doing!?" Yes, definitely Ratchet.

"They claim to be healing his servo," Sunstreaker muttered, glancing over at the medic.

"He cut it while turning a corner," Red Alert added, standing a bit more beside Sunstreaker than he had been earlier.

Ratchet stared at his two superiors for a few moments more before shaking his head. "I don't believe this. There's nothing medically wrong with Optimus, and yet he's shoving a pitcher of oil into Sideswipe's face in order to heal him while making that strange sound."

"Yes, Jazz described it as the 'soothing sound of the universe,'" Prowl stated, a bit distracted still with the sight before him. He arched an optic ridge when Jazz slowly started to pull Sideswipe's servo towards him, opening his mouth as if to bite it.

Sideswipe seemed to notice soon after, if his startled squeak and sudden flailing were any indication. In one swift motion, he yanked his servo up and out of Jazz's grip and scuttled away from the pair with an indignant—but still disturbed—expression. "What the spaghetti, Jazz!?" he squawked, cradling his (mildly) injured servo in his other one.

"Aw, man! You interrupted the ritual!" Jazz replied, ignoring the real issue. "Now we'll have to start all over."

"What!? No way! No more! No! Nien!" Sideswipe retorted, scooting further away.

"I concur. The odds of this ridiculous little farce healing Sideswipe are equal to those of Megatron surrendering tomorrow afternoon whilst wearing a tutu and a princess wig," Ratchet huffed, walking the short distance to Sideswipe's side. "Give it here," he demanded, holding out his servo and gesturing for Sideswipe to hand his over. "Honestly, the way you seem to break yourself at least once a week leads me to believe that you're trying to kill yourself in the most creative way possible."

Sideswipe obeyed with little fanfare. "I'm fine, Ratchet, really. I can fix it myself. If I need anything right now it's someone to help me through trauma."

"So, you could have freed yourself from their clutches from the beginning?" Prowl asked blandly, crossing his arms.

"He was too distraught to think of it," Red Alert drawled, watching with amusement as Ratchet smacked his brother upside the head saying: 'I'll be the judge of that!' to which Sideswipe responded with an undignified yelp.

Ultra Magnus and Ironhide—who had been lurking in the doorway—decided that it was a good time for them to nonchalantly wander over to the pouting Jazz and Optimus Prime. ". . . So . . . Optimus . . ." Ultra Magnus started awkwardly, as if he had no idea how to speak to his own sibling.

"Magnus! Hello!" Optimus Prime quickly stood and leaned uncomfortably close to Ultra Magnus's face, his optics and voice hinting that he likely had a large grin on his face.

". . . Hello to you too," Ultra Magnus replied with the smallest of grimaces.

"Jazz, Prime, we should head back over to the meeting now," Prowl chimed in, trying to lend the second-in-command a servo.

Optimus Prime's expression soured as he crossed his arms and turned his back on his officers, forming a very stubborn, childlike one instead. "No. I don't wanna."

"Prime, don't be difficult," Ironhide grumbled, stepping over to Ultra Magnus's side.

"It's boring."

Prowl sighed again. He'd been doing that a lot lately. "Optimus. Sir. It is for your own good."

"I don't care."

"Jazz and yourself have clearly come down with something."

"Not my problem."

"If you are affected by it—like you are—then it is your problem."

"You're not going to convince me."

"Prime."

"No."

"Prime."

"No."

"You are being—"

"EN GUARD!"

Prowl barely had time to blink before—*PLOP!*—an oversized, suction cup nerf dart stuck itself on his forehead. He blinked again, a bit slower this time, then slowly moved his gaze up to look at the offending dart and calmly removed it with a blank expression.

Ironhide looked over at Optimus Prime, who was frozen in his firing position with a dramatic expression and a Cybertronian-sized nerf gun clutched in his servo. ". . . Where did you get that!?" he demanded.

"I raided Hot Mod's room," Optimus Prime replied simply, blowing at the barrel of the toy as if it were a real gun.

Prowl rolled his optics, examining the dart with mild aggravation. "His name is—"

"—Not Column, Rudy McRudepants, but Hot Nod," his leader interrupted, pointing an accusatory digit at the tactician.

"HA! Rudy McRudepants, HAHAHAHAHA!" Jazz laughed obnoxiously, wrapping his digits around his torso as he fell back on the floor.

Prowl narrowed his optics, but decided that arguing with his nutty commander would get him nowhere. ". . . Red Alert, are there any nearby empty rooms we can use?"

"Yes, why?" Red Alert answered, tilting his head.

"I agree with the screaming gopher, why?" Jazz butted in with an unrepentant grin.

"Why you little—"

"Speaking of whom, I still have some hugging and cuddling to do."

Red Alert squeaked and darted back behind Sunstreaker. "NO! Stay away!"

"Jazz, stop harassing Red Alert," Prowl grumbled, flicking the nerf dart in Sideswipe's direction. The frontliner let out a surprised 'hey!' which was soon followed by some quiet snickers from Ratchet. "The answer to your question, is because I have an idea." They clearly needed a new approach to this problem if Optimus Prime was willing to assault him with toy darts, and he believed he had the perfect plan. If only he could discern what had caused the problem in the first place.

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 4:02 PM

When Prowl discovered what had caused Optimus Prime's insanity he was going to put it through the shredder and throw the pieces into a smelter. Jazz's insanity, however, had been inevitable. Still, as he walked (stomped) through the halls of the base, nobody was able to give him a possible explanation. His first instinct was to assume that this was some elaborate Decepticon scheme, but with them still dealing with their porcupine problem—as confirmed by Mirage—it seemed unlikely.

Luckily, Red Alert had (from the safety of his quadruple locked security room) assured him that the troublemaking pair was still in the room they'd locked them in. Prowl honestly wasn't terribly surprised when he heard an obnoxious song playing inside once he arrived at the door, inputting the code for himself and Ratchet, who'd met him at the entrance. Once inside, it was quite obvious that Optimus and Jazz did not care one bit for volume control. He would not be surprised if the humans living near the mountains could hear it. Jazz was doing a strange dance consisting of breakdancing, ballet, and poorly executed tap; but he didn't see Optimus.

"Ugh, it sounds like a daycare in here," Ratchet grumbled.

Prowl was about to voice his agreement when the barrel of a familiar toy gun was shoved in his face. Gritting his denta, he slowly lifted his optics until he met Optimus's gaze past the nerf gun.

"Hand over your lunch money, and no one gets hurt," the semi stated in a gruff tone, but of far more interest to Prowl than his words or tone, was the large, Cybertronian-sized toy sitting on Optimus's head.

". . . Optimus, is that Bluestreak's plush octopus?" he asked, squinting at the stuffed aquatic creature.

"Optimus, who is this 'Optimus?'" the Prime retorted with a toss of his head, the toy's tentacles flopping about.

"You're Optimus," Ratchet shot back, making his way over to the computer console in the corner.

Their once-reasonable leader gasped. "BLASPHEMY! I am none other than Octopus Crime! The greatest thief in Rhode Island!" he exclaimed, twirling the nerf gun around his index digit.

Prowl rolled his optics and followed the medic to the computer, paying Jazz little attention when the saboteur waved at him. "We are in Colorado, sir."

"Then why do I see the Eiffel Tower!?" Optimus argued, pointing triumphantly at the computer screen.

"That is a background," Prowl stated, watching as Ratchet opened the minimized tabs in an effort to find the one playing the music. "Regardless, the Eiffel Tower may not be in Colorado, but neither is it in Rhode Island."

"Yeah! It's in Vegas!" Jazz shouted at Optimus in a 'duh' fashion.

Prowl merely sighed and directed his attention to the screen. It seemed like Jazz had started up a YouTube playlist and had already listened to several songs, such as 'Butterfly Smile DK,' 'Caramelldansen,' and 'The Cupid Shuffle,' with the current song being titled . . . 'Pants.' "Jazz, dare I ask what this is supposed to be?" he drawled once Ratchet muted the speakers.

"It's Veggietales, Prowler-Wowler!" Jazz responded cheerily, skipping over to the tactician. "The source of many a musical masterpiece!"

Prowl raised an optic ridge. Veggietales? Hadn't he seen Bluestreak watching some of those movies before? He glanced at the screen and made a face. He certainly recognized the dancing . . . cucumber in the video. ". . . Masterpiece, you say?" he said, narrowing his optics at the animated characters. Singing consumables. How illogical.

"Yeah! You ought to hear 'The Biscuit of Zazamarandibo!' it's amazing!" Jazz chirped, pointedly unmuting the song.

"'Masterpiece' my pede," Ratchet growled, slapping Jazz's servo away from the buttons.

Prowl stared at the video, listening to the few lyrics that he could before the CMO could mute it again. It appeared to be a musical infomercial for pants. ". . . This makes no sense. They are vegetables, they cannot wear pants."

"Don't crush their hopes and dreams, Rudy McRudepants! That's evil!" the other black and white mech shouted dramatically, attracting Optimus's attention.

"If their dream is to wear pants, then I am afraid I must say that is sad," Prowl retorted half-heartedly.

"Ridiculous! That's oppression!" Jazz continued, pointing an accusatory digit at the other TIC. "Villain!"

"It's not oppression, Jazz, he's not forbidding them to dream," Ratchet replied with a roll of his optics. "This is a moot point anyway, since they're cartoon characters and therefore aren't even alive."

Jazz (unsurprisingly) didn't seem to be listening, and swiftly whirled around to face Optimus. "Octopus Crime! Steal me some markers, glitter, and cardstock! I'm making a sign for the cafeteria!"

Optimus saluted with vigor and charged at the door, only to slam into it and fall back onto the floor, the plush on his head bouncing a couple feet away from him.

Acting as though the semi had successfully left the room, Jazz spun back around to give Prowl a smug grin. "I'll plaster them all over the walls! That'll teach you to tell veggies what to do!"

Prowl groaned and slapped a servo to his face, thanking the matrix that the door was locked. The last thing he needed right now was a hundred signs posted in the rec room—he supposed that was what Jazz meant by 'cafeteria'—saying 'let vegetables wear pants.' "Jazz, honestly—"

"I ain't hearing it! LA LA LA LA LA LA!" Jazz interrupted, covering his audios. Less that five seconds later, he was pulling a data pad out of subspace and plugging the audio cable into the jack connected to his audio receptors. "WOOT!" he hollered excitedly, tapping something on the screen and continuing to dance. From the looks of it, he hadn't noticed that Optimus was still lying on the floor.

Ratchet sighed. "Well, at least we don't have to listen to the music now."

"That is true," Prowl agreed, frowning at the pair of idiots before him. "Have you thought of any ideas as to what we are going to do with them?"

"Not really, but I have called Wheeljack over. He said he was in the middle of something, but I told him to bring it with him," Ratchet answered.

Prowl gave the red and white mech a concerned look. "You told Wheeljack to bring his work here? You realize that Jazz and Optimus currently possess the mentality of sparklings, yes?" he inquired. What was he thinking?

Ratchet stared back, looking a little confused until something clicked. "Oh, no. I made sure it wasn't a project of his. He's doing research, going over some of the media footage of a few of our altercations with the Decepticons. We'll be fine."

The praxian released a vent he hadn't been aware he was holding. "Ah. I see. Good." His optics drifted over to the octopus beside the fallen Optimus's head and slowly moved towards it. "When will he arrive?" he asked, snatching up the toy and tossing it into his subspace before Optimus could notice.

"He said he was on his way, so I would assume he'll be here soon."

"Is he aware of the situation?"

"Yes, I told him, but I don't know if he understands I wasn't exaggerating."

"Ah."

"Why'd you grab the plush?" Ratchet asked, turning back to the computer.

Prowl's doorwings flicked. ". . . It is Bluestreak's," he replied simply, taking a few steps in Ratchet's direction before being forced to frantically avoid Jazz's leg when the other mech began to breakdance. Again. ". . . He is going to kill someone," he observed, glaring at the saboteur.

Ratchet sighed, but the door was hissing open before he could answer. "Hey guys!" Wheeljack said cheerfully, stepping into the room. "What's with the lock down on this place? My code didn't work, and Red Alert refused to let me in until I told him why I needed to enter."

Prowl turned to better face him. "That is because—"

"A-HA!" Optimus yelled, leaping to his pedes. "I knew that if I played dead long enough you'd open the door! Octopus Crime will now aquire markers and cardstock! AND GLITTER!"

Wheeljack's optics resembled saucers when Optimus began barreling towards him. "WAH!"

"SHUT THE FRAGGING DOOR!" Ratchet shouted.

Wheeljack jumped out of the way and slapped his servo to the control panel. Optimus collided with the closed door a second later. "Yeesh, that's gonna leave a mark," he muttered, looking at both the downed Optimus Prime, and the sizeable dent in the door.

". . . That is the reason for the security," Prowl stated, relaxing a bit. He hadn't really realized that he'd tensed up, but he really didn't want those signs to come into existence. More importantly, he didn't want to have to catch Optimus again.

"Jeez, Ratch, you weren't kidding when you said he'd lost it."

"No, and neither was I kidding about Jazz," Ratchet replied. "Watch out for him, by the way. He'll shatter your optic with his dancing."

Wheeljack glanced over at the other TIC, who was now doing some sort of ballet maneuver. "Err, right."

Prowl walked over to the other mech, eyeing Optimus when he sat up and rubbed his head. "What is it that you were working on? Ratchet said you were looking at media footage?"

"Ah! Yes! I've been doing some research on our past battles in order to give myself a better idea of what new gadgets could help us in future skirmishes," the white and grey mech said excitedly, pulling his data pad out of subspace. "See, I was looking at this bit here . . ."

Prowl grimaced when Wheeljack stepped closer to show him what was on the screen. He was starting to wish he hadn't asked, when he became aware of a large presence behind him. It seemed as though Optimus had moved behind them.

"OOOO! A BUTTERFLY!" Optimus bellowed, causing Prowl to wince.

He examined the video footage Wheeljack was showing him and frowned. There was no butterfly. Was this another absurd nickname like 'the screaming gopher?'

Wheeljack gave Optimus a sideways look. ". . . Butterfly? What butterfly?"

Prowl glared at him. Why did he ask? Didn't he realize that he and Ratchet had had about all they could take of this insanity?

"That butterfly!" Optimus stressed, pointing at the screen. "It's so pretty!"

The tactician stared. He was also certain that he could hear Wheeljack's head breaking. This was . . . He didn't know why he was surprised anymore. He was done. This had to stop. Primus, what would it take for you to forgive him for existing? ". . . Optimus . . . Sir, that . . . That is Megatron . . ." he stated, burying his face in his servos.

"Excuse you, the name is 'Octopus Crime.'"

"What did he just call Megatron!?" Ratchet exclaimed from the corner.

Wheeljack looked torn between laughing, and crashing. "I . . . he . . . I've heard everything now," he said, sounding amused.

"Wheeljack, don't encourage him!"

"Heeheeheeee . . . He must be magic. Hiding his wings like that," Optimus continued, walking away like a clunky, oversized ballerina. "Maaaagical fairy dust!"

Prowl rolled his optics and glanced sideways at Wheeljack. "Perhaps you can provide an explanation of your research later," he suggested.

"Err . . . yeah, that would probably be for the best," Wheeljack agreed. "Soooo, I'm guessing you called me here to weigh in on what happened to Prime and Jazz?" he asked, looking over at Ratchet.

"Yes. We're also accepting ideas for how to fix them," Ratchet replied.

"Gotcha. Well, aside from head trauma, I haven't the slightest idea," Wheeljack stated, waving a servo. "As for a fix I can take a look at them and see if I can whip something up, but I can't promise anything—"

"FREEDOM!"

The deafening shout made the three mechs freeze. ". . . Freedom?" Prowl stated, horror setting in.

As one, all three bots turned to face the door. There was a distinct lack of lunatics, and the door was wide open. ". . . Jazz hacked the door, didn't he?" Ratchet said flatly, his optics narrowing into slits.

"I had hoped his insanity would have kept him from thinking of doing so," Prowl grumbled before activating his comm. ::Red Alert, Optimus and Jazz are on the loose.::

::I know, I see them,:: Red Alert replied. ::They're in hall 36-B, but they're moving fast and I'm not sure where they're trying to go.::

::Understood.:: Prowl cut the line after giving his acknowledgement and relayed the information to his companions, leading the way into the halls to begin the chase he had really wished to avoid.

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 10:56 PM

Optimus Prime and Jazz were slippery. Like dead fish. Catching them when they didn't want to be caught was proving to be one of the most difficult undertakings the Autobot army had taken on, second only to catching Sideswipe's would-be murderer a month ago, and the war itself.

There were currently forty-two Autobots tasked with hunting down the duo, with the rest on guard in case the Decepticons suddenly found a solution to their porcupine infestation, but for whatever reason, forty-two wasn't anywhere near enough.

::Any sign of them yet?:: Ironhide asked in frustration.

::The answer, like the last seven times you have asked, is no, I am afraid,:: Prowl replied, narrowing his optics at a crude drawing of a dolphin on one of the walls. It looked as though it had been drawn in crayon. Optimus and Jazz had obviously been there, but they were long gone.

::Uh, guys? There's a really weird poster in my room,:: Smokescreen chimed in.

::Weird how?:: Blades prompted.

::Well, it says to let vegetables dream their dreams? It also says to stop oppressing the magic cantaloupe king . . . whatever that is.::

Prowl sighed. So, they had gotten their greasy, childish servos on the cardstock and markers. He supposed he should count his blessings though. At least it didn't specifically reference the pants issue. ::Ignore it, Smokescreen. It is nonsense spawned from their insane CPUs.::

::There's a sign on my door saying 'free monkey, inquire within,' so count yourselves lucky,:: Jetfire groused. ::Speaking of which, if anyone takes it seriously, expect to get punched.::

::Has anyone else noticed that they keep drawing dolphins and giving them gigantic googly eyes? It's creepy!:: Bluestreak exclaimed. ::I've seen about sixteen of them so far and they all seem to be watching me somehow and they all have 'Acornimus Maximus is watching you' written underneath like what does that even mean!?::

::Acornimus Maximus? Sounds like a pompous name for a squirrel,:: Brawn muttered, sounding about done with questioning their actions. ::The 'is watching you' part sounds more like something they'd write about the Screaming Gopher though.::

::Kindly never mention that again,:: Red Alert hissed.

::I know what you mean about the dolphins, Bluestreak,:: Hot Shot stated. ::I've come across five or so, myself.::

::They're so creepy! It's like it's looking at me! Right now!::

::Calm down, Bluestreak, just refrain from looking at it,:: Prowl advised, giving the dolphin before him a closer look. Googly eyes; cryptic, semi-disturbing message; watching you . . . it seemed to fit the criteria. ::I have also found one of these dolphin pictures.::

::Then you see it too, right Prowl? The creepiness?::

Prowl glared at the graffiti's goofy, yet piercing eyes. ::. . . Honestly, I find it rather demonic, myself.::

::Dolphins aren't demonic!:: Hound said, jumping into the conversation.

::Real ones aren't. They're cute. We're talking about the brainchild of two insane mechs who wrote 'stop oppressing the magic cantaloupe king' on Smokescreen's wall,:: Hot Shot retorted.

::Exactly!:: Bluestreak agreed.

Prowl tore his gaze away from the drawing in question and sighed. ::Just try another hall, Bluestreak.::

::I've tried that!:: the other praxian shot back. ::No matter what hallway I walk into there's always one of those horrifying things drawn on the wall sitting there silently judging me and maybe plotting to eat me! They're in every hallway! Nowhere's safe!::

Prowl froze. ::. . . Every hallway, you say?:: he asked, turning around to go back to the room from which Prime and Jazz had escaped.

::Yeah! Everywhere!::

::. . . I see.::

::Prowl? Are you onto something?:: Red Alert asked.

::. . . If there is one of these . . . I hesitate to call them drawings but that is what they are . . . If there is one in every hallway then logically we should be able to follow them to Optimus and Jazz's location,:: Prowl explained.

::Oooo! Good idea, Prowl! I'll just . . . wait here until you get to this one . . . Heheh . . .:: Bluestreak said.

Prowl shook his head. ::Alright then, Bluestreak. I should be there shortly. Stop staring at the dolphin.::

::Eep! How did you know!?::

Autobot Headquarters: January 24th, 11:20 PM

It had taken another several minutes, but eventually Prowl, Bluestreak, Ironhide, Hot Shot, Hound, Jetfire, Brawn, Blades, and Smokescreen arrived at a small closet on the western edge of the base. On the door was a super-sized version of the dolphin graffiti, with a new message saying 'all hail Albert McSnillip the Great.' Clearly the work of Optimus and Jazz.

Prowl nodded at Ironhide, who proceeded to walk up and slam a fist against the door. "Prime! Jazz! We know you're in there! Open up!" he demanded. Prowl couldn't help but notice that Ironhide's fist had flattened one of the dolphin's googly eyes. He doubted it was accidental.

"What's the password?" Optimus shot back from within.

"Uh . . ."

"Ironhide, try that," Smokescreen suggested, gesturing at the message below the dolphin.

Ironhide nodded. "Right. Uh . . . 'All hail Albert McSnillip the Great?'"

Jazz made an obnoxious buzzing noise. "Wrong! Try again!"

"Oh! 'Acornimus Maximus is watching you!'" Bluestreak tried, raising a servo.

Jazz merely replied with another buzz.

"Aw . . ." the silver praxian whined, servo falling back to his side.

"Err, how about 'stop oppressing the magic cantaloupe king?'" Hot Shot tried.

"Nope!" Optimus shouted.

Hound scratched his head. ". . . 'Let vegetables dream their dreams?'"

"Nice slogan, but no."

"You made that slogan!" Blades exclaimed, throwing up his servos.

Brawn glanced at him. "We're calling it a slogan now?"

Prowl inwardly cursed Jazz's name before saying, "'Let vegetables wear pants?'"

Jetfire swung him a bewildered look. "What!?"

"Do not ask," the praxian ground out, staring at the door.

"Too little too late, Prowler-I-stomp-on-veggie-dreams-Wowler! They're just hollow shells of themselves!" Jazz wailed dramatically. Prowl could hear him sliding to the floor through the wall.

"What he means is you need to try again," Optimus said simply.

"Alright, that's it! I tried to play fair but now I think I'll just be using my fist as the password!" Ironhide growled.

"Or maybe we could just keep watch here to make sure they don't leave?" Hound jumped in. "It's not like we have any idea how to fix them yet anyway, so what harm is there in letting them stay there a while?"

Prowl sighed and gave the door a long-suffering look. "It seems to me that we have no choice." He was done with the world, at this point. All he wanted to do that day was his job, but then Primus just had to step in and give Optimus and Jazz some sort of insanity virus in order to punish him for existing. Again. Did Soundwave have to deal with this? No. Starscream did. He was second in command. Soundwave just helped, because he was third in command. Prowl was third in command, why did everyone and their mother expect him to do everything? Why did no one go to Rodimus or Ultra Magnus when things turned crazy? Had he unintentionally volunteered himself as the local wacky mystery detective? He wanted to resign.

He sighed again and crossed his arms. Perhaps they would be able to find out what was going on in the morning, but until then, it seemed they were stuck at square one.

Autobot Headquarters: January 25th, 4:04 AM

Prowl was on his way to the closet Optimus and Jazz had holed themselves up in the night before when he heard laughter. Loud, obnoxious laughter. He recognized Sideswipe's laugh in there, as well as Jazz and Optimus. Had they come out? What were they doing?

He picked up his pace and rounded the corner, squinting disapprovingly at the sight before him. Optimus, Jazz, Sideswipe, Bluestreak, Jetfire, and Smokescreen looked to be laughing themselves sick. What exactly they were laughing about, however, was anyone's guess. He stalked closer until he was certain he would be heard and asked, "What is going on here?"

Bluestreak and Sideswipe looked over at him, but since Bluestreak seemed to amused to speak, Sideswipe ended up answering. "Oh . . . Prowl . . . They got us good!" he wheezed before being overcome with laughter once again.

Prowl narrowed his optics further. "What?"

"We were messing with you guys, Prowl," Jazz supplied, regaining some semblance of composure. "Our insanity wasn't real, we were playing ya!"

". . . Playing?" Prowl repeated.

"Yup!" Jazz replied, sounding entirely too chipper. "Those dolphins, Prime . . . Nice touch! Even if they sorta looked like the spawn of Unicron."

Optimus shrugged. "What can I say? I never was that good at art."

"Oh, man, Ratchet's gonna kill the both of you!" Jetfire snickered.

Ratchet was going to kill them all right, and Prowl was very much thinking about joining him. Perhaps he was wrong about the source of his torture. Perhaps it wasn't Primus, but rather Unicron. Trying to turn him homicidal. Yes, that made sense. He certainly felt homicidal. ". . . I have no words," he grumbled, glaring at the amused bots before him.

Jazz worked his way over and placed a servo on Prowl's shoulder. "I'm sorry, buddy, but we just couldn't help ourselves! We would've cut the act if there was an emergency, honest!" Prowl simply flicked his wing to slap Jazz on the back of the head. "Ow!"

"That is not the issue," Prowl huffed.

"Then what is?" Jazz asked, rubbing his head.

Prowl huffed again and turned away. ". . . I was worried."

"Aww, so ya do care about me!"

"Come on, Prowl, they didn't mean any harm, and no one got hurt!" Bluestreak said, walking over. "Well, except for Sides, but that would have happened one way or another."

"Ow, Blue."

"You know it's true, Sides, don't even argue."

Prowl stared at Jazz before donning a smirk. ". . . You have ten seconds."

Jazz looked confused. "Huh?"

"A ten second head start before I contact Ratchet and Red Alert," Prowl elaborated, crossing his arms smugly. "Ratchet, as previously noted, will be very interested in beating the both of you, and I am certain that after the 'Screaming Gopher' incident Red Alert will only be too glad to assist him in tracking you." He took delight in the way the pair's humor faded.

". . . Oh slag," Optimus stated.

"Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . ." Prowl drawled, making a show of counting down on his servos.

"ACK!" Jazz squeaked, taking off down the hallway with Optimus on his heels.

Bluestreak inched a little closer, looking a bit worried. ". . . You're not too angry, right? You'll forgive them?"

Prowl slid his gaze over to him. ". . . Eventually," he conceded. "For now, however, I believe I shall tell Red Alert I will be joining him in the security hub. It must be difficult watching all of those monitors by oneself, after all."

-The End-