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It started, as most things did on the Decepticon's ship, with an argument.
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m telling you, I was considered a master chef back on Cybertron,” Skywarp said. He nudged the airframe sitting next to him with his elbow. “Tell 'em, TC.”
“No, you weren’t,” said Thundercracker, barely even looking up from his data pad.
“I was, too!” Skywarp flared his wings indignantly. “You just don’t appreciate a master’s work.”
Thundercracker finally looked up at his trinemate. “You tried making cobalt squares for us last month. The gel didn’t set right, and they tasted like boron.” He shuddered at the memory of the texture and taste, both of which had been very wrong.
At the other end of the mess hall table, Scrapper slapped the table to get Skywarp’s attention again. “Look, I don’t care if you think you’re good... Mixmaster’s name literally means he’s a master mixologist.” He gestured at Mixmaster, who sat smiling quietly under his gestalt leader's compliments. “If it can be mixed, infused, stirred, blended, poached, emulsified, roasted, gelled or ignited, Mixmaster can cook circles around you.”
“It takes more than just being able to mix things together to make good fuel,” said Blitzwing. Thundercracker looked over in surprise; he hadn’t even realized that the triple-changer had been listening to the conversation. “You have to know what tastes good.”
“And what would you know about good taste?” said Skywarp, his face twisting into a sneer. “I mean, look at your paint job.”
“What’s wrong with my paint job?” Blitzwing snarled back.
“Blitzwing is right,” said Mixmaster, speaking up finally. “You can’t just mix things willy-nilly. It’s both a science and an art. But you airheads,” he added, gesturing at Skywarp and Blitzwing, “have no idea what any of that means.”
The mess hall devolved into chaos as Blitzwing, Skywarp and the Constructicons all started shouting at each other. Thundercracker was just about to turn off his audials when a commanding voice overrode everyone else talking.
“Soundwave: superior chef. All others: inferior.”
The stunned silence in the rec room lasted until Skywarp said, “That’s a load of slag. What does an overgrown speaker know about cooking?”
And the hall descended into shouting once more.
***
For several minutes, the command team stared at the images that Mirage had brought back from the Victory in confused silence.
Finally, Prowl said, “I do not understand what we are looking at.”
“Well,” Jazz said, flipping through the images to find the one he was looking for. He gestured up at the screen. “That banner there just about says it all.”
The image showed the Decepticon mess hall, with several mechs standing behind a table that was laden with energon treats.
“The Great Decepticon Cook Off.” Optimus Prime read the banner out loud, then shrugged. “So this was a contest of some sort?”
Jazz nodded and leaned back in his chair. He flipped through the images again. “Yup. Sounds like a bunch of 'Cons got their thrusters in a knot about who could whip up the best treat, so ol’ Megs finally made them settle their differences with a contest.” He tipped his helm towards Prowl and said, “You might want to have a word with Sideswipe, Prowler... It sounds like he got commissioned by Swindle to make his crater crunch things for him.”
Prowl heaved a tired-sounding sigh and nodded, making a note on his data pad.
“Is that Shockwave with a plate of treats?” Ironhide asked.
"It sure is. He made something he called 'lithium surprise.'"
Ironhide shuddered. “Ugh. There aren’t enough credits in the galaxy for me to try anything he made.”
“You’re not the only one,” Jazz said. He advanced the images again. “Not a single ‘Con tried his stuff. Not even Wildrider.” He frowned. “I wish at least one of them had tried them... I’m kinda curious now to see what might've happened.”
Wheeljack was still peering up at the screen. “Do we know who won?”
“Well, obviously it would have been Mixmaster,” Ratchet said.
“Wrong!” Jazz twirled around in his chair. “Try again.”
“Please don’t tell me Sideswipe’s treats won,” Prowl said, rubbing the side of his helm.
Jazz patted Prowl’s arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “No need to extend his brig time for that.”
Ironhide huffed. “Just tell us who won, Jazz,” he said, crossing his arms.
Jazz advanced the images one more time to show a mech holding a trophy and standing next to a nearly empty plate of treats. At the exclamations from the other Autobots, Jazz whirled back around and grinned at the room. “Apparently Soundwave mixes up treats all the time for his cassettes, and he’s a slaggin’ genius when it comes to additives.”
Prowl leaned forward slightly, his optics fixed on the screen. He dropped his voice so that only Jazz could hear him over the conversation that rose in the meeting room. “Are those... rust sticks?”
Nodding, Jazz leaned close to Prowl’s audial. “Better... they’re copper-filled rust sticks.” He smiled at the way Prowl’s optics brightened, and added, “And best of all, ‘Raj brought me back a sample. I’ll see you in your office later, Prowler, and present the evidence.”
“Yes. Please.” Prowl’s optics practically shone as he stared at the image of the Decepticon’s communications officer and the delectable treats he’d created. “I am already looking forward to it.”