Smoking the Instructor III

The supplies in the bag gathered by the Autobot for ‘their’ mechanic’s use during the training had been a joke, worth every effort for the look on their face when they opened the bag.  But Sunstreaker knew there was going to be a problem when the replacement mechanic tending him actually brought them to the tool box, prepping them for use, along with the perfect lighting (which the yellow mech actually approved of, since the procedure was being taped and it would show him off to his best advantage) and their own military photographer.

“Ratchet, this ISN’T my mechanic!”

“Wasn’t part of the plan, I admit,” the medic’s response was resigned huff, “But I couldn’t find a pink slip on ‘your’ mechanic, so the Orderly Room scrounged up this one.”

“…Oh Sunny, I promise—I’ll be the BEST you ever had,” the Sergeant said eagerly, just taking a tool out of the box.  Sunstreaker stared in horror—aside the horrible cliché—the human wasn’t even going to wipe the tools off!

“There ARE clean rags there, you know.”

“Oh, don’t worry; I won’t spill a DROP of your hydraulic fluid!” The mechanic held up a box full of bottles. This human—was going to collect his bodily fluids—for their collection?  They moved a finger down a chest seam, looking as if they were trying to stave off overload Sunny supposed, and it made him frown. A camera flashed, and the Autobot considered the scenario ridiculous—they got his worse side!

A familiar voice, their face obscured by the bright light, spoke up out of the background. “I recommend you use an Inhibitor.  The internal wiring is sensitive, and if you hit any of it with a tool, or have any static built up, you’ll cause him pain.”

“Oh, hey Junior,” the mechanic turned, screwdriver poised over the Autobot’s chest. “Thought this stuff made you squeamish.”

“Hearing anything screaming in pain is far more repulsive to me,” the little sergeant frowned when they looked into the tool box.  “Did YOU put the tazer in here?”

“It was in the bag Sunstreaker gave you so—I just want to accommodate him.”

The yellow mech’s ears flared blue in distress. “It was a JOKE!” He caught Sideswipe at his peripherals then, and he could FEEL his twin’s amusement.

“Did you clean the tools?”

The older sergeant’s expression was cause for further squirming. “They look fine to me.”

“YOU AREN’T MY MECHANIC!” Sunstreaker bellowed in one last, desperate attempt at circumventing this travesty. “And STOP using that sort of flash!  It washes out my paint job on the print!”

“…Just ONE paint chip,” he caught the other pleading with his usual mechanic.  “I want it for my scrap book—I’ll get it from his foot—but I saw some wear on his aft end,” a human hand slipped down and there was a metallic squeal as Sunny ground his dental plates, “And it would be even better—“

“DON’T fondle my AFT and—“the mech was indignant. “There is NOT wear on my paint job!  I just touched it!”

“ME TOO! ME TOO!” the mechanic squealed.

“O-kay,” the younger mechanic gingerly took the screw driver from their awe struck friend and guiding them to a chair by the tool box. “You think about that and I’ll see to your video with Sunstreaker in it, okay…?”

…With the exception of Ratchet describing what the sergeant was doing with Sunstreaker after the inhibitor was activated, there was no discussion.  It was work, focused, professional, careful and smoothly executed.  The yellow mech had to admit to that his mechanic had done a good job.

And then, the videos shut down, the lights went off, the lift was deactivated, Prowl and Ratchet walked off, the medic telling the sergeant they did a good job, they were left alone and the human began tending to their tools in silence.  Sunstreaker wasn’t completely oblivious, realizing it was an uncomfortable silence.

“It was just a joke you know,” said finally, walking around them so he was facing them. “All the other grease monkeys don’t seem to care.”

“I do. I don’t like being made a joke—you deserved your ‘fan’ mechanic.”

“Why’d you do it then? If I deserved it—why did you still do the training?”

“Because YOU didn’t like being the joke, either,” the sergeant answered, without a trace of superiority…

…Sometimes, the other Autobots wondered why they had  to defer to humans as if their experiences and knowledge was commensurate with that of a people with an average life span of millions of years. As the Autobot commander backed out of the shadowed entrance of the hanger where the training session had been held, Optimus Prime understood that sometimes, it didn’t take millions of years for many humans to understand wisdom and honor, and that even an Autobot could stand taking lessons on knowing the right thing to do—it was just a question of the right instructor…