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“So uh… what’s going on?” Asked Bluestreak, the young Praxian having just entered the rec room just in time to witness the hilarity.
Jazz grinned and threw an arm around Blue’s shoulders, his other servo resting on his jauntily cocked hip. “Well ya see, these three were having a meetin’ with Wheeljack about ‘appropriate use of resources and his time,’ and ‘safety regulations and why he should be following them…’ when his latest experiment abruptly went from solid to gaseous. This is the result.”
And by the result, Jazz meant Optimus, Prowl, Ironhide and Wheeljack himself all clustered at a rec room table acting, at the very least, oddly.
Optimus was leaned back in his seat, his pedes sprawled out straight so that he was practically lying down while still technically seated. He would have looked totally relaxed except for the fact he was wobbily trying to balance the hard chair on its back legs, only to be thwarted by Sideswipe firmly pushing his chair down when it looked like he was about to tip over. His expression was sort of blank, only the barest frown as he tried again and again to perform the trick.
Ironhide, the stubborn General who often pretended to be relaxed but in reality never really let his guard down, forever ready for an attack, was dead asleep sitting up with his arms crossed in front of him. While sleeping while looking physically alert was a skill he had previously been envied and lauded for by comrades, he was now slowly tilting over to one side. His aft never left his chair however, his torso instead bending almost impossibly far for such a sturdily built mech, before grunting awake, straightening up lightning fast to start peering around blearily as if he had a helm ache, then falling back into recharge. Rinse and repeat.
Wheeljack was slumped over the table, dead to the world. He was snoring very loudly, and the lights on his helm were slowly transitioning through every color in the rainbow. Someone had draped a blanket over him.
The absolute strangest of the four was Prowl. He was slumped in his chair and had slid down so that his neck was supported by the back of the seat. The Praxian's wings were sticking out haphazardly where they were squashed behind him at what must surely be an uncomfortable position. Prowl didn’t care, however, and was staring up at the ceiling with his optics wide open and fully brightened, looking at something no one else could see. Occasionally he lifted a servo, reaching up as if to touch or grasp something hanging in the air. He would try a couple of times before letting it drift back down to rest on his abdomen. He didn’t blink.
“Are they going to be okay?” Blue asked Jazz worriedly, but Jazz only laughed.
“Ratchet already looked at ‘em. Said they were the equivalent of a human being high an’ it should wear off in a couple a' joors. They’re fine.”
“Then, how come they’re in here and not the medbay?”
“Cuz Prowl wouldn’t stop trying to grab anything he saw that was shiny, an’ Ratchet declared they just needed supervision an’ not medical care when he tried to pick up a scalpel blade-side first. Sides’ got assigned babysittin’ duties since he was standin’ too close and not doing anything that looked important. Pretty funny if you ask me.”
Bluestreak seemed to contemplate this, observing the mecha's behavior. “I guess so, if it’s really just temporary.”
At that moment, Prowl caught a glimpse of the overhead lights glinting off of Jazz’s visor.
End.