TFA Tracks Meets

Summary: A rip in time has dropped our favourite, organic-fearing, dirt-hating corvette right into... wait, what? The original G1 universe? Oh well... this is gonna over fabulously... Crack!Fic, mentions of Mech/Mech slash, mild language
Rating: T

Chapter 3



"Let me get this straight, you want me to- I SAID DON'T TOUCH THAT!" Ratchet whirled away from Jazz, smacking at the servos getting to close to his terminal. Again. Yipping slightly, Tracks retracted his servos, rubbing them gently to get rid of the sting inflicted upon them by the medic.

"Geez... This Ratchet is even more of a grump than the one back home," the corvette pouted.

"So, wait, ya gotta Ratchet there too?," Jazz asked, intrigued. He shook his helm, trying to remain focused. "Umm, I mean, yea, ya gotta fix him Ratchet. Prime's ord'rs, ya see."

"I still don't see how they," the CMO jabbed a thumb in Tracks' and Soundwave's direction, "Even managed to get here in the first place! Are you sure that Wheeljack just didn't mess up some sort of experiment of his, giving these two new forms and... personalities."

"Absolutely not, my mech," Jazz replied, shaking his helm. "We both 'ave seen the real Soundwave and Tracks now. Ain't nothing diff'rent wit' 'em."

Grumbling, Ratchet glanced at the two other mechs. "...I don't like it. Not one bit."

"And I don't particularly like you either," Tracks quipped, catching the medic's words. "But you know, I think I may be a bit more forgiving to this version of you." The corvette winked, plastering on a sultry smile. "You're all sorts of lovely angles and white hips, even despite your squareness. And your bedside manner is a lot more charming with you being younger."

Ratchet cringed, both from the subtle flirtation and the glare he was suddenly getting from the Decepticon. "Mute it, before I disable your vocalizer!," he threatened, circuits crackling uneasily.

"Ooh... even his threats are the same!"

"Really?," Jazz piped. "'Ey, could ya tell meh more. I admit I'm a lil' int'rest'd 'bout the diff'rences in yer world."

"Well, I'll tell you," Tracks grinned, eager to gossip.

"Hey, what have I said about gossip in my medbay!"

"Just pretend that you don't hear us," the corvette replied, waving a servo carelessly. "Anyways, I suppose in a sense things are the same here as back home for us. A small group of Decepticons and Autobots stranded on Earth, duking it out, blahhdy blahhdy blah blah... We've got an Optimus too, bit of a weak thing. I'd have to say almost a downer. He kinda doubts himself a lot. Gets pathetic after a while."

"Really?," Jazz gasped, leaning in closer. "I couldn't imagine Prime bein' that way!"

"I know right? Most of the mechs with Prime status are head-strong, if not confident. But, that's aside from the point. Ratchet -the one we've got back home," Tracks continued, "Is the oldest mech on the team. He's been about since the beginning of the Great Wars apparently. Broke a leak or something during then and retired. Don't entirely know the back story on that either... the Elite Guard has that info totally locked behind massive firewalls. Anyways, he's a mean ol' grouch with a penchant for grumbling, and surprisingly, a nasty back-hand as well."

"Excuse me?!"

"Oh, and did I forget to mention, he's kinda let himself go. I mean," the winged mech held his servos up innocently. "I don't want to judge, but he's gotten a little lax in the chassis you know. He slouches a fair amount too, and doesn't even bother to wax himself! Yet, despite all that he's busy 'facing two younglings into the next century!"

"E-EXCUSE ME?!"

"Woah...," Jazz whistled. "Names?"

"Jetfire and Jetstorm. Twins," Tracks supplied.

"Huh... Well, we've got a Skyfire. But in terms of twins... well, yev already met 'em," the saboteur informed, looking off to the side.

"Really?," the corvette frowned. "Who?"

"Sunstreaker and Sideswipe."

"Those mechs are TWINS?! But, t-they're not even alike or have the same paintjob! Well... Jetfire and Jetstorm don't either, but..."

"Well, they aren't that bad," Jazz tried defending the warriors. "I mean, a lil' cranked up, but nothin' too 'ot o' the ordinary. Yer's lamborghinis too?"

"Oh, Primus no! I wish... No, they are in fact, jets. The only ones of their kind. Autobots just don't do aerial modes. That's a Decepticon trade-mark."

"Seriously?," the Special Ops officer asked. "'Cause, we've got a whole squad o' aerial 'bots on 'or side."

"Oh, you poor, poor mech...," Tracks cooed, patting Jazz's shoulder pityingly. "I feel for you, I truly do."

"Umm..."

"For the love of all that is- Would you please shut up!," Ratchet roared, slamming his tools down onto a tray. "Primus! And I thought Tracks was bad before!"

The corvette perked at the words. "Oh, you've got a Tracks here too? Well, makes sense. Hey, how many 'bots has he slept with?"

"How many- Now why would we know something like that?!," the CMO spluttered, cheekplates darkening with his blush. "What are you some sort of over-charged pleasure model!?"

"I beg your pardon!," Tracks gasped, askance. "I am most certainly not!"

"Inquiry: why would you need to know then?," Soundwave asked. The Decepticon looked at the Autobot enviously. "Change of Query: how many 'bots have you slept with?"

"Oh, well," Tracks mumbled, fidgeting nervously. "Not that many. And certainly none since I've been with you, love. I, uh, just wanted to compare histories is all."

"More like keep score," Jazz snickered lightly in the background.

"B-besides!," the corvette protested, purposefully turning away from Soundwave's piercing gaze. "It's not like I've done anything out of the norm. This medic here is the one that's been using his so called 'skills' in a most unorthodox fashion! I heard he even used the endoscope on the two jets!"

Jazz laughed outright at the exclamation. "W-wow, Ratchet," the saboteur choked through his mirth. "D-didn't know ya were so kinky. W-wait 'ti-til I tell Wheeljack."

Ratchet gaped idly before screaming in frustration and stomping towards his office. "O-oh, Ratchet. Aww, c'mon!," Jazz called, trying to wipe the coolant out from underneath his visor. "We were only teasin'! Ratchet... ya still gotta fix Soundwave up!"

"Tell the 'con to go fix his own fragging dents!," the medic screamed through the locked door. "I've got better things to do!"

"Like what?," Tracks asked snidely.

There came an answering crash from the other side of the door, followed by a series of lesser, quieter bangs. "Ummm...," Jazz said, laughter starting to die down fully. "I, uh, guess that means he's busy. I'll get, um, First Aid 't come fix ya up."

"Hmmmm... yes, that'll be fine," the corvette responded. "But, in the meantime, would you be so kind as to direct us to the washracks please, Jazz? I must get the sand and whatnot out from my seams."

"Oh, yea, umm, sure," the saboteur mumbled. "This way." He got up to leave the medbay, glancing warily at the office where sounds of chaos could still be heard from within. Tracks made to follow him, Soundwave close on his heels.

"Inquiry: how many?," the Decepticon repeated his earlier question.

Tracks sighed. "Honestly, darling, not that many."

xxXxXxx

"Wait... so Ratchet is currently locked in his office at the moment?" Wheeljack shuttered his optics at the saboteur, glancing from the mech, to the doorway, and back. "Shouldn't I go and do something then?"

"Truthfully Wheeljack," Jazz grinned wryly. "I think if ya even tried 't step into medbay right now, ol' Hatchet would send ya back 't yer creator in a box. Tracks kinda made the mech go 'zoinkers', as the humans say."

"Right... and this is the other Tracks we're talking about, right? Not the one that we know?"

"If it weren't for the build mech, ya would hardly notice the diff'rence."

"Scary," Wheeljack said, shaking his helm. "Say, where are our two 'guests'?"

"Hmm? Oh, right, well I was gonna comm First Aid 't come an' pound 'ot the dents on Soundwave that Sunstreak'r made, but Tracks was adamant that he git himself clean'd up. Guess the sea wat'r bother'd him a lot more than he let on. So, hospitable mech that I am show'd the two of 'em where 't go."

The engineer laughed. "Yeah, you're real hospitable Jazz. What would Prowl think if he found out that you'd ditched those two to come here?"

"Well, I don't see 'ow it'd be a problem," Jazz pouted. "'Sides, tour's not ov'r yet, Chuckles. I was thinkin' 'bout bringin' those two 't come see the lab."

Wheeljack's laughter died down immediately. "Please tell me your joking," the engineer begged. "I mean, not to say that I don't mind our Tracks but if this one is good at pushing Ratchet into a screaming fit- which, mind you, after all these years dealing with the Twins he's built up an amazing tolerance- I really don't want to have to deal with whatever mayhem might follow him into my labs. Especially when... well," Wheeljack mumbled in embarrassment. "You know, my reputation and all."

The engineer made a queer gesture with his servos, one that Jazz realized after a klik was him trying to demonstrate his penchant for having things blow up. "Ah, c'mon, Wheeljack!," Jazz cackled. "I'm sure nothin's gonna 'xplode! 'Specially not wit' Percept'r 'round."

"Mhmmm... yeah... we'll see about that...," the other mech muttered under his intakes.

Before the saboteur could comment on that, the communal frequency crackled to life. "Umm... Jazz, sir?," came First Aid's soft voice. "You said you had a minor repair job for me?"

Jazz lifted a servo to his commlink. "Sure thang, my mech," the Special Ops officer grinned. "Soundwave an' Tracks should still be in the washracks, there. Pop on by an' give them a servo."

"But, umm...," the little medic's voice replied. "Sir, I'm at the washracks and I don't see anyone..."

"WHAT?!." The frequency crackled loudly as Red Alert jumped on it, the hysteric lamborghini's intakes working double-time. "Jazz, how could you be so careless! You can not let these trespassers run around freely! Why are you not with them?! What if they're in the control room, or down by the labs, or worse on their way to the security hub, planning to dismantle me and hack into my systems, to which they'll later-"

"Woah, Red!," Jazz cried. "I'm tellin' ya both. Tracks an' Soundwave aren't gonna harm anybot. An' I doubt that they've left the washracks yet. First Aid why don't ya take another peek? Maybe they're near the back, usin' the good hose."

"Well... okay, sir," First Aid answered. There was the furious tapping of fingers against keys, and it was no guess to what Red Alert was currently doing on his end of the conversation. "Oh!," the medic gasped. "I think I do see them there, Jazz. But well... o-oh... oh my..."

"First Aid..."

"Th-they're, umm... I-i-i-i d-don't want to disturb them from..."

"THAT'S NOT WHAT THOSE WASHRACKS ARE FOR!," Red Alert screeched indignantly. "INFERNO! INFERNO, GET THEM OUT OF THERE NOW! STOP FORNICATING IN PUBLIC AREAS! STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT!"

Jazz couldn't help the chuckles that arose. Just about everybody across the Ark heard that.

"Oh, Primus...," Wheeljack groaned, smacking his helm onto the table. "And they have to come to my lab next?"

xxXxXxx

"Yes, and so the washracks are not supposed to be used for those... umm... purposes," Optimus finished lamely.

Tracks, busy checking his fingers, looked up as the Autobot leader finished speaking. "Oh, did you say something?," he asked innocently. Optimus lifted a finger, but sighing, decided it wasn't worth the effort. Guessing that he was dismissed from the unnecessary lecture, the corvette turned to Soundwave, who was currently being fixed up by First Aid.

The medic blushed and fumbled his tools when he noticed the other Autobot's attention on them, apologizing profusely to the Decepticon for his clumsiness. "Awww... how adorable," Tracks cooed, sashaying to the pair. "You never change, First Aid."

Soundwave turned his helm. "Inquiry: you know this mech?"

"Well, I know the other one," Tracks shrugged.

"Just 'ow many of us are there?," Jazz asked, seeming to pop out of nowhere. Tracks flinched at the unexpected appearance.

"...you're weird," he said, staring at the saboteur anxiously. Jazz's visor flickered as he blinked owlishly behind it.

"Tell me?" He poked the corvette. "Please?"

Poke.

Poke. Poke, poke.

"Alright!," Tracks snapped, waving at the digits. "Stop poking me already!"

"Status: That's what I'm here for."

Jazz smirked. "Oh, I bet that's what yer here fo'."

"S-sir!"

"Sorry, First Aid."

"Well, out of all the mechs I know, there is a Rodimus Prime, Brawn, Hot Shot, Red Alert-"

"So, you do 'ave a Red Alert too!," Jazz exclaimed excitedly.

"Urghh...kinda," Tracks answered, shaking his servo slightly. "Ours is, well, a medic and a femme. ...And not crazy."

"I heard that!" The commlink squeaked. All cameras in the room turned, their lenses zooming in and focusing on the corvette. "Don't think that I'm not watching you," Red Alert added creepily.

"Yes...," Tracks hummed. "Utter nut job. Let's see... there's also a Beachcomber, Warpath, Sea Spray, Rattletrap, Botanica, Wheelie, Powerglide, Mirage, Cosmos, Cliffjumper, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Prowl-"

"Wait!" Jazz cut off the winged Autobot a second time.

"What?," Tracks huffed.

"...Are meh an' Prowl a couple?"

The corvette pondered on it for a second. "Yes, memory says that you are."

The saboteur shouted to the heavens jubilantly. "Ya," he chirped, slinging an arm about Tracks' shoulders, "Are meh new fav'rite mech here!"

Tracks smirked, wings fluttering at the flattery. "Happy to oblige, love."

Soundwave, unnoticed, fumed from behind the two Autobots.