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Selling books. Seriously?
“I’ll find you a job. Gambling isn’t a job. And maybe when it’ll be your credits on the line, you’ll be more careful about throwing it away “
Smokescreen had not been thrilled, he knew he was so much better at gambling than Prowl thought, and one day that card would arrive. It always did, eventually. But his brother was irremovable, and Smokescreen knew better than push him too far. Barricade could testify that was something really stupid to do.
He had at least hoped it’d be something thrilling and fun, like helping him out as a private investigator.
But no, he stood in front of that small building with a “Bookshop” insignia that made him realize just how cruel that revenge disguised as help would be.
“Seriously?” He asked already thinking about bolting, only to go still as Prowl grabbed his wing. The mech always read his mind, it was terrifying.
“Let’s go inside. And you’re not getting out of this even if you act out, don’t worry. I found your match.”
As they entered the small, old, dusty place that looked absolutely awful and Smokescreen already knew would grow to hate even further, they found a mech waiting to greet them that seemed the perfect match to that hopeless land of boredom.
“Is he even alive?” Smokescreen asked as he stared as the mech who seemed to have come out straight out of a hystorical drama, the old face surrounded by a ridiculous helm with appendages longer than their chevrons and looking like a very old fashioned helm. Also, was the red armor dusty too, or was it just about to crumble apart?
“Smokescreen.”
“Oh don’t you worry, Prowl, I’ve been told worse.” The apparently living fossil answered, still smiling the same exact way like he didn’t even hear the comment. So apparently he was also spineless. This could be fun.
“By the twins I sent you last time?”
“No, by at least three costumers every day. Your baby brother needs to get better at that if he wants to have any chance.” Was the cheerful response of the mech, who really seemed not to take Smokescreen seriously at all.
Prowl sighed and turned to leave.
“Don’t tempt him. Please, Smokescreen, behave for Alpha Trion. “ He replied “When my shift is over I’m passing by to see how it went.”
Smokescreen didn’t deign that with an actual answer, just avoiding to scoff because unlike this zombie of a mech, Prowl had his limits, especially without energizers in his fuel. When they were left alone, though, Smokescreen Smirked in challenge at the old amass of rusted metal. He was getting out of this job, and with a fun challenge too!
—
Smokescreen grinned, as he watched Alpha Trion going to grab a datafile the nerdy looking orange mech with impressively big eyebrows that gave the young praxian ideas about a new prank. He had not expected that guy to try and buy the awful rom-com about Primus and a minibot, but he had been right about that being the most likely story to be chosen.
Only nerds and romantics even went to buy from bookshops at this point, so that was the best choice. He thoroughly enjoyed the first, useless pull as the mech tried to extract the datafile from its copies. It didn’t budge.
A second pull, same results.
Smokescreen was already smirking, laughter threatening to emerge at any given moment. Now he got both mechs good. And not even a full day in!
“Ah, one of the mechs who came in earlier must have glued them together.” Alpha Trion said, suddenly taking out a spray of some sort from… was that a lateral storage pocket? He had seen it only on those boring history files of when guns couldn’t be attached directly to one’s arm! “Give me a moment, Rang.”
“I’m not in any hurry, don’t worry.” The ridiculous orange mech answered placidly, though he gave Smokescreen a look that wasn’t even upset, just amused.
Smokescreen was already getting offended, that the walking obituary didn’t recognize his handywork, but that rapidly switched to shock as the mech simply sprayed whatever was in the bottle on the datafiles and took off the copy like it was nothing.
“Here you go, Ring. Ten shanix, two less for the wait and the spray.”
Smokescreen just stared as the eulogy waiting to happen continued on his day like nothing happened, even whistling a tune that was probably Primus’ comm ringtone while creating the Primes.
That fragger.
—
“So, how is it going with work?” His brother in law questioned Smokescreen, and was undeterred even after the absolutely scalding glare the younger mech gave him. Just giving him a lopsided grin as he looked at the praxian while already occupying 80% of the couch as they watched a movie together, “My Prowler found you a good place, no?”
If Smokescreen thought he could manage, or even just get away with it, he’d strangle Jazz right there in that moment.
“Shut up Jazz.”
But as his will to murder was rapidly ended by the knowledge Prowl would then end him, a way more devious idea came to his mind.
“hey Jazz, could you help me with something?” He asked, preparing to pull one of his best puppy optics he borrowed straight from Bluestreak’s book. The little manipulator.
“Something that will get me in trouble with Prowl?” Jazz snorted, and Smokescreen couldn’t help but pout. Why did the mech even know him so well?
“Well, maybe, but it’ll be worth it!” Smokescreen defended himself and his budding plan “You’ll have fun!”
Jazz tilted his helm in that catlike way that made Prowl giggle (not that he’d ever admit it).
“Alright, what do you want to do?”
“Prank Alpha T- Why are you laughing?”
But Jazz couldn’t answer, as he was too busy giggling holding his sides and even falling on the ground, just like he heard the best joke of the century. And when Prowl arrived several minutes later, he was still laughing until he was kissed into silence.
—
Several vorns earlier
A small Polyhexian grinned as he watched the tallest bookshelves collapse altogether in a heap, with a devastating crash that made every window of the small shop tremble and creak. He then turned to that walking dead boss of his, smirking in victory.
But the mech just shrugged his shoulders.
“Third time this week.” He chuckled, "Those younglings really like climbing.”
He then took out a remote, and pressed one single button. The telltale pull of a powerful magnet was the only warning before the fallen bookcases were pulled up, and somehow also the intact datapads.
In five minutes, all of Jazz’s hard work was wiped out of existence.
“Let’s continue organizing the files. I really want to show you a few things.”
And the old turbofox went on with his day.