Tales of the Intermezzo - Two Autobots Walk Into A Bar....
                       A Transformers Universe Story
                     copyright 2007 by Dave Van Domelen
                     based on properties owned by Hasbro
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     "intermezzo - n. A brief entertainment between two acts of a play."
          - American Heritage Dictionary

     "Hh.  Me Grimlock never like Pretender shell before.  Me like it less
now that it tiny," Grimlock groused.
     "Well, suck it up, dinobuddy," Jazz slapped him on the back.  "This op's
on the QT, and that means disguises.  At least these new shells can actually
shrink down to human size, even if they're not as strong as the old ones.
Too bad they can't restore our transformations, though," he added wistfully.
     "Bah.  Me not need transform, me not need disguise.  Me, Grimlock, just
need Decepticon skidplate to kick!"
     "I hear ya," Jazz grinned, a flash of ivory teeth set in an ebony face.
"Just try not to start any fights at this bar.  I just need backup in case
the Decepticreeps' flunkies try anything while I meet my contact."
     "Me like your old shell better," Grimlock grumbled.
     "What can I say?  This one just feels right.  And once you go black, you
don't go back, they say!" Jazz beamed, then flashed a very good fake ID to
the bouncer at the door.  Grimlock wondered who "they" were, and why he
should care what they said.
     The sign over the door said "Harry's" in flickering neon letters, and as
soon as Grimlock followed Jazz in, he recognized the place.
     Oh, he'd never been inside it before.  He'd never been inside any normal
sized human construct before, for that matter.  Unless you counted it as
being inside when you stomped through one and flattened all the walls.
     But whether the sign said "Harry's" or "Macadams" or something in an
indecipherable alien script, a dive was a dive.  Grimlock had spent enough
time in dives to figure he could handle this one, even if it was full of
wimpy little squishies.
     "Go ahead and get something to drink at the bar," Jazz advised him.
"These shells can consume organics, but won't get overenergized on them or
anything.  Just try to fit in.  You know, act human!" he said, then was off
into the smoke-filled depths of Harry's.
     "Me, Grimlock, not actor," he muttered, then took another look at his
own fake ID.  He was more about direct ops, but he'd organized enough covert
teams to know the importance of keeping one's cover straight.  Even if it was
a stupid cover. 
     "Simon Foreman" was his assumed name.  He thought it made him sound like
a wimp, but whatever.  As long as Jazz...or "Carl Cottman"...was finished
soon. 
     "What'll ya have, mister?" the barkeep asked as Grimlock plopped down
sullenly on one of the stools.
     "Strong drink, no talk," Grimlock replied.  He knew he sounded stupid to
most people, so he preferred not to engage in unnecessary conversation.  Slag
it, he didn't like unnecessary conversation anyway.  And maybe he could test
Jazz's claim that the shell wouldn't get overenergized.  It'd be good for a
laugh, anyway.  Especially once he could get out of it, and watch it stagger
around on its own for a while.
     "Sure thing," the barkeep nodded.  Smart squishy, knew when not to flap
his mouthparts at a customer.  A small glass of amber fluid appeared in front
of Grimlock, and he stared at it for a moment before picking it up and
raising it to his mouth.  Automatic routines in the shell completed the
action for him, so he didn't inadvertantly pour the drink down his neck or
anything, but it was an unsettling feeling, like being a puppet in your own
body.  
     Sensors lit up, warning of dangerous chemicals, and Grimlock almost
jumped up to attack the barkeep, but then he remembered and chuckled grimly.
Of course the chemicals were dangerous...you didn't consume safe things in
order to get "lit up" as he'd heard it called once.  Wheeljack was good with
tools, but he was a bit of a tool himself at times, and probably didn't even
think that a covert mission into a bar might involve, oh, consuming
intoxicants. 
     Pretending to savor the harsh liquor, Grimlock spent a few ticks
adjusting the diagnostics in his shell.  He identified the relevant organic
chemicals in the drink and labeled them as "the good stuff", taking them off
the danger list.  He didn't want to turn the warnings off entirely, of
course.  Someone might try to spike his drink and roll him.  It got done
often enough at the more disreputable oil bars in the bad parts of Cybertron,
after all.  And as dumb as he thought squishies were most of the time, he
figured they were at least smart enough to figure out how to poison each
other.
     Most species worked that one out before they invented the wheel.
     "Hey, big guy, you lookin' fer a good time?" a high-pitched voice asked
from Grimlock's left.  Glancing at his reflection in the warped mirror behind
the bar, he saw what appeared to be a female human standing very close to
him, almost but not quite touching.  She wore less than most human females he
knew did, and her face was covered in more colors.
     "Yes, but no think I find one here," he grumbled.
     "Oh, an out-of-towner, yeah?" she replied, now leaning on his shoulder.
He remembered to move slightly as if her weight were actually capable of
shifting his mass.
     "You could say," he nodded gruffly.  Apparently, she'd mistaken his
speech impediment for a foreign accent.  He filed that information away for
future use, it might be useful if he had to do a covert op on this planet
that required more than being backup.  "Very out of town."
     "Well, I don't know what you do for fun back home, but I bet I could
manage it if you show me how..." she whispered in his ear.
     Grimlock's mood brightened.  True, she was just a squishy, and he'd
heard that females of this species weren't as formidable in a fight as the
males, but she could be some sort of prodigy.  Jazz had said not to start a
fight, but if the female wanted to start one...well, he was just being
friendly, yes?
     "Hurm," he turned to face her.  "You know Rigellian body lock?" he
asked, naming a fairly basic and well-known interstellar martial arts
maneuver.  
     "Oooh, sounds fun.  Never heard of it, but I'd love to learn."
     "Stand up, me show you," he started to get up from his stool.
     "Whoa, big guy...in public?  I'm not quite that kinky," she said.
Grimlock accessed his language database, and could see that she was indeed
not curled tightly, but failed to see what that had to do with the Rigellian
body lock.  It worked fine on non-coiled lifeforms.  "How about we head back
to my place?" she added.
     Grimlock sat back down, disappointed.  "Me here with friend.  Have to
wait until he finish business."
     Comprehension dawned in her eyes.  "Oh, I get it.  You're on the clock,
muscle for one a' them," she jerked her head towards the back of the bar.
"Yeah, I can see how goin' for a quick roll might getcha fired.  Here's my
number," she pressed a slip of paper into Grimlock's hand.  "Call me when
yer off the clock.  Heck, I might even be off the clock too," she gave him
an appraising look that didn't seem to be assessing his fighting prowess, but
Grimlock found much about humans to be hard to gauge.
     With that, she sauntered off, a peculiar sway to her hips as she walked.
Within moments, she was leaning up against another of the bar's patrons and
chatting him up.
     Grimlock looked at the paper, it contained a string of digits that
matched the standard pattern for human communications devices, and a name.
"Tyffani" was all it said.  He thought humans usually had names with more
than one part, but maybe it wasn't a hard rule.
     Shortly after, Jazz came up to the bar.  "Okay, big guy, let's get
gone.  I got what I need.  And I noticed you made a new friend?" he grinned,
looking like there was a joke he was trying not to make.  It was a look
Grimlock was used to seeing from people, who assumed he was as stupid as he
sounded.  Jazz knew better, so Grimlock was immediately suspicious.
     "Hh.  Human female.  Wanted learn some wrestling, but wanted go private
place."
     Jazz nearly burst out laughing.  "Oh, really?  Wrestling?"
     Grimlock shrugged.  "Me think it hard to avoid breaking human.  But be
interesting challenge in control.  Might call her."
     Now Jazz did laugh.  "Grimlock, that kinda lady is no lady, if you catch
my meaning.  And since I don't think you do, let's just say that she's really
good at a particular style of wrestling, but I don't think our shells are
equipped for it."
     "Maybe me talk Wheeljack about it.  He make modifications."
     "Oh, I can't wait for *that* conversation...."

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Author's Notes:

     Set in my "Actionmaster War" sub-continuity, also used in "Face",
"Perchance", "Virus Warning", and to a lesser extent "Alert".  The
Actionmaster War is a sort of secret conflict in the late 1990s and early
2000s that happened largely behind the scenes, and few humans even knew
Transformers were still battling at the time, although the war would burst
into the open again soon enough with the assault on Autobot City and the
death of Optimus Prime.
     The inspiration for this story, in case you're not reading it from the
AllSpark's fiction forum, was an AllSpark Fic Challenge to write a canonical
TF trying to behave in a human fashion, preferably one who isn't that good at
it.  While it's not canonical for Actionmaster Grimlock to have ever had a
Pretender shell as well, I figure it's close enough fror jazz.  And Jazz is
okay with it too.  :)