The Steel Balloon

A grand establishment of questionable repute stands before you. It is a rectangularly shaped building rising a few transformer-sized stories into the heavens, with large metallic steps leading up to the door. Lights, music and shouting emit at all hours of the night from the place as people come here to enjoy themselves and their friends, or to forget their miserable lives for a brief period. Either way, there sure are a lot of people here, apparently.

Recoil was running a standard patrol of the most traffic-heavy routes on Cybertron when he stumbled upon this place, right in the middle of the barren desert. He'd heard of it before thanks to some of the lowly grunts of the empire fancying it but figured they liked it for a reason that would not agree with his personal tastes. Cybertron appearing to be relatively quiet at the moment, he bothered to stop and take a looksy for himself. As he stands at the foot of the giant steps leading to the entrance, he remains highly skeptical as proven by the smug grin firmly entrenched on his face.

Inside this 'grand establishment of questionable repute,' as it has been described, many voices fight to be heard over one another, the crowd of patrons producing an ungodly amount of chatter and clatter. One voice, however, fights harder than the others, a loud and searing rumble that makes itself known over the crowd noise by sheer force of will.

Motormaster, the Stunticon Commander and self-proclaimed King of the Road, sits at a table, surrounded by four femmes built scandalously curvy. "--and then I squeezed his head so hard his optics popped right out, so fast and so hard, they cracked his damn visor!" He guffaws loudly and obnoxiously, and surveys his company. Note that none of the other Stunticons are present -- if he caught them in a dive like this, having a good time when there's a -war- going on, he'd kill them. Naturally, though, as Commander, he gets special perks, which he rubs in their faces whenever he can. "I tell you, I ain't seen anything like that, before or since." He laughs again, and it's really a very unpleasant sound.

Fleet, true-built wallflower that he is, has found himself a seat on the edges. Normally he's not one to go to places like this, especially not alone, but what with his recent beating he is in desperate need some wind-down, and a place on his home planet, busy and bustling enough that no one is likely to pay attention to a pastel yellow Seeker, suits his current needs just fine.

Recoil starts to scale the steps as Motormaster's unmistakably grating laughter erupts from the doors, not unlike the most recent disreputable character who comes tumbling down thanks to the handywork of the bouncers. Recoil, disgusted to have to move out of the way of the intoxicated body, resumes his climb and flashes a cold stare at the aforementioned guards. Unimpressed with his bravado but unable to find a decent reason to block his entry, one of them reaches out a filthy, horrifyingly large hand. It's all Recoil can do to blink at him until the bouncer announces, "10 credit covercharge tonight." "WHAT?! You should pay ME for bothering to come here, if any currency is to be exchanged!" Suddenly, Recoil finds himself surrounded by three of the Large Hand's friends, clearly cramping him intentionally so that he'll either pay, or leave scared. Unlikely on both counts, boys.

From his table relatively close to the door, Motormaster cranes his neck as best he can inside his boxy outer helmet thing, watching the bouncers descend on a Seeker. Part of him is tempted to laugh some more and watch as the jet gets his own innards force-fed to him, but the craftier part of him hits on a better idea. Approaching the bouncers from behind, he holds up his hands. "Excuse me!" he bellows, "He --" and here he gestures with one hand at Recoil "-- is with -me-. I got him covered."

The femmes who were sitting around Motormaster watch from a pace or two behind him, greatly impressed with the generosity of this stranger and how he's willing to stick up for a 'friend' like that. "Oh, Motormaster," one of them chirps, "You're the best!"

He grunts. "Damn right I am."

Fleet looks up from the energon he's nursing. He had heard what was happening; how could he not have, the way Motormaster was shouting? He shakes his head and smiles to himself, amused by the femmes' gullibility.

Recoil's instinct is to decline the Stunticon's aid and deal with these four on his own accord. Fortune favors the bold, afterall. However, fortune does not favor stupidity. He could definitely handle one, maybe two. Not four, though. A tense silence permeates the entrance way as the guards look to the first for an indication on how to proceed. He eyes Motormaster for perhaps a moment longer than he should, then inclines his head ever so slightly. The three immediately back away, clearing a direct path to Motormaster for Recoil. Also, to Motormaster's wenches. The latter is what catches the Seeker's attention immediately as it becomes clear why Motormaster flexed himself like this. So what if it wasn't out of brotherhood or respect, though? As far as Recoil's concerned, he just got a free pass. It occurs to him as he starts towards Motormaster that perhaps he saved the 10 credits, but more than likely it will come back at him in some other form. "Thanks," he admits to the Stunticon. "What are you drinking? Next one's on me."

Motormaster stares blankly at Recoil for a long moment. "Wh-- What? Get the f--" He catches himself just in time, noticing the femmes giving him weird looks. "Oh. Uh. Right. The same, uh, the same thing that we always have. Uh. Ol' buddy." The King of the Road seems to have bit off more than he can chew. He only prays his enjoyment of his company isn't ruined by the presence of a Seeker.

Fleet just grins as he continues to observe the scene. He takes another sip of his drink again, this one much longer. He came here to relax, after all, and with his nervous nature that sometimes required a goodly amount of energon. He's still fairly tense at the moment, obvious both by how straight he sits in his chair and how high he holds his wings.

Recoil is not ignorant to the near-miss on Motormaster's part, but can't shake the fact that the guy did get him in. He can't just show him up now after that. However, it seems pretty clear that he needs to put some space between them. He gets the attention of a bartender, motions for "the usual" and flips the credits to him. As he's about to move away, an assault on his optics grabs him from wherever he thought he was headed. Fleet's yellow-on-white stands out, not so much in this place of various colors flashing at random intervals, but for a seeker-jet that he's sure he never met before. Intrigued, he starts to make his way through a moderate crowd.

<Public> Boxy Brown Motormaster is defeated. :(

<Public> Rodimus Prime blinks, "By Fleet and Recoil?!"

<Public> Yellow For A Reason Fleet struts around.

<Public> Boxy Brown Motormaster just cries.

<Public> Rodimus Prime twitches, "Must, app, stunticon! Will, kill, Recoil, and, Fleet!"

Motormaster smirks inwardly as Recoil starts to wander off, happy that he doesn't have to keep the wingman around. But wait--

"Hey, where's your friend going?" one of the femmes asks.

"Yeah! I thought you two were buddies!"

Motormaster freezes. "Uh. Well. You see. He's--"

A third femme folds her arms. "I think maybe he's trying to -trick- us!"

Motormaster holds up his palms. "No! -No!- Of course not!" He starts chasing after Recoil. "Hey, ah, where are you going, buddy? I want you to meet some people!" This is a low point, certainly. When he brags to his minions later, this will certainly be left out. In his haste to not let Recoil get lost in the crowd, Motormaster accidentally tips Fleet's table-for-one right over, seemingly not even noticing that he does so -- and certainly not really caring.

The pastel Seeker leaps almost straight up as his table topples. If he hadn't been holding his energon mug in hand at that moment, it, too, would surely have fallen. "Hey!" he exclaims, more reflex than challenge, surprise prompting a vocalization that thought would have otherwise overridden.

Recoil missed the echange between M^2 and his femmes, but not the invitation to meet them, and nor the table being overturned. The reasonably-colored seeker pivots in time to see Large Hand direct two of his goons over towards this area, presumably to break up a conflict they believe to be brewing. Ducking and glancing around, Recoil decides to divert them elsewhere. He removes a small blade from behind his back and in one quick, crude move, flicks it into the side of one of the other patrons a few feet away. Shrieks erupt all around and while it's closer than Recoil would like, clearly the goons have something else to work on than the Decepticons present. He quickly turns back to his factionmates. "Stay here for a few minutes while they try to sort this out. If we leave now, it will only draw suspicion." He reaches down to right the table and take a seat across from Fleet.

Motormaster hears Fleet's warning as he's about to turn around to throw a punch at whoever just shouted at him. But, upon actually thinking about it, yeah, that wouldn't be too smart. He scowls as he sees the femmes getting lost in the commotion, and reluctantly sits down as well to wait the excitement out. Well, this night certainly blew up in his face. "Hnnh."

Fleet sinks down slowly, the sort that winds down with considerable more difficulty than he winds up. He nods in response to Recoil's... suggestion. It certainly sounds like good sense to him! Still, he allows himself a slight, wry smile. "Erm..." he begins hesitantly, a hint of amusement hidden in his tone, "welcome to my table."

Recoil glances between Motormaster and Fleet, perturbed that he's found himself among this lot and the night is yet young. As the bouncers try to sort out the unsortable within 10 feet of their table, Recoil surveys the rest of the floor and crowd gathered around the fallen body of his victim. He knows he should be trying to act normal by talking, but he's a little too jumpy right now for that. He only nods in acknolwedgement to Fleet's greeting while plotting their escape route. He does manage to Motormaster, however, "I'm not getting my hopes up about meeting your 'friends' tonight."

Galvatron has arrived.

The King of the Road seems at first to not be processing what Recoil says to him -- this is because he's too busy sulking. Well, sulking, and thinking about how he's going to take this out on Breakdown when he gets back to base. "Yeah. Well. Whatever," Motormaster grumbles. "They weren't anything special anyway." He tries to sound non-chalant about it, as opposed to 'really pissed.'

Recoil says, "Indeed."

Fleet nods, studying his drink and trying to decide if he really wants to consume more, and thus perhaps dull his thinking, considering what was going on around him. "Er... my name, by the way, is Fleet." Not that he expects anyone really cares, but it seemed the thing to say.

Cyclonus has arrived.

Recoil's optics flicker over to Fleet's, a bit surprised at the introduction. "Yeah, I've heard about you, now that you mention it. Don't think I've seen you before, though. I'm Recoil. But here's the inside scoop there, pumpkin. If you want to get out of here without being prosecuted, keep your voice down and do exactly as I tell you."

There's a considerable crowd gathered around the scene of the crime, and Motormaster looks from Recoil to Fleet, scowling with utter contempt -- not for them in particular, but more for just about any and every living thing out there at the moment. He grunts again, and gets up, pretending to be interested in the turn of events, and losing himself in the crowd.

Motormaster has left.

Recoil's optics turn to fire as Motormaster gets up. The Stunticon's imposing form will surely draw someone's attention over this way. As any good soldier would do, Recoil adapts to the situation. "Get up, right now, and walk towards the door. Make a show of looking at the crowd. Act like you're wondering what happened but aren't interested enough to stop and see. Slow, deliberate steps. I'll follow you out a minute later. I'll keep an optic on you if you run into trouble. Move!"

Galvatron soars down from above, viewing the scene at hand. He shakes his head solemnly. "What the hell is going on here? What in the blue hell? Tell me you all aren't acting like idiots again. Please. Especially after I singlehandedly ended the odio virus.”

Cyclonus is somewhere above Galvatron in the planet's upper atmosphere, descending a bit more slowly so as to watch his leader deal with whatever may be going on here. For the moment, he's quite content in his silence, but that will change quickly if Galvatron requires more of his brother than a simple escort.

Fleet nods in response to Recoil's order, putting his cube down and standing up straight. He's about to move when Galvatron arrives, effectively nullifying his next action. Instead he simply opens his optics very wide, looking rather like he wishes he were still sitting... or better yet, were simply part of the chair instead.

Galvatron shakes his head as he looks at the scene. "What in the blue unicronian hell?!" he snarls, "Cyclonus. Get down here!" Recoil must be shivering in his boots. He thinks that Galvatron is mad at him, surely. He even sneers in his direction "How dare you..." it's at that moment, he turns to the bar staff, "Think my troops are causing trouble? You buffoons! I demand an apology and free drinks for my ilk now. Or I will kill you all. IN THE FACE!"

Recoil glances up as Galvatron comes soaring down into the fray. Fan-effing-tastic. The idiots-comment goes unresponded to for the moment as Recoil nixes his own plan and grabs Fleet by the arm from behind. "Galvatron! So wonderful to see you again, how long has it been?!" he shouts almost above the ambient noise in the relatively quiet establishment. "My friend and I were just wondering when it would be that we'd have the honor of laying optics on your impressive physique again. In fact," he steps aside, putting on an entirely fake jovial facade of a mood. "Galvatron, this is Caro... Fleet. Fleet, Galvatron!"

<Decepticon> Galvatron says, "Say it, Recoil."

<Decepticon> Galvatron says, "This is Caroline."

Cyclonus descends toward the planet's surface, and in so-doing, moves toward this most notorious establishment. You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and..... wait. Wrong series. At any rate, Galvatron's more sensible brother lands gracefully in the center of the bar. He listens, nods, and strides slowly over toward the bartender, drawing his broadsword and tapping the sharpened blade beneath the barkeep's jaw. "You have ten seconds to comply." He speaks neutrally, not really caring whether the bartender says he's sorry. Hell he may kill him anyway just for being an annoyance.

Recoil has left.

One would have thought that Fleet's eyes could not have gotten any wider before, but when Flee is grabbed and pulled in front of Galvatron, one would have been proven wrong. The jet really is longing to be somewhere else at the moment... or drunk enough that he wouldn't care *where* he was. He takes a moment to recover, and a moment more before he actually says anything, so as not to stutter. "Hello, sir," is all he gets out, but wonder of wonders, it is toned above a whisper!

Galvatron growls, "Hello sir? That's it? Slap this farking bufoon. He dared to question your Decepticon superiority." he eyes the bartender, "That's right, Sissy. Go ahead. Question my authority, I dare you." the bartender just looks like a pussy, "That's what I thought. You wench. You're not even a femme, and you're my wench. Don't screw with my empire, sissy. I'll kill you right in that face with..." he looks to Cyc, "What is it those idiots call my power? Oh right..." he looks back to the tender, "My orange popsicle." he stares at Fleet, "Never be sorry for loving conflict. You are a Decepticon. If anyone gives you crap for it? You call me. I'll take care of them. Understand?"

Cyclonus adds quietly. "Unless your Emperor is recharging. In which case, you may report to myself or to Scourge." Nobody interrupts nappy time and lives to tell about it, unless the city is burning or Trypticon decided to go for a walk or something of that nature, and even then only his brothers can get away with disturbing his sleep. In any case, Cyclonus taps the bartender's chin with the blade one final time before replacing it in the hidden sheath he keeps between one of his wings and his back.

Galvatron whispers, "Yes, we unicronians all fark people up that piss us off."

With the immediate danger (to himself) apparently over, or at least forestalled, Fleet forces himself to calm down. He nods. "Understood. I will... be sure to keep *all* of that in mind."

Galvatron looks to Cyc, "My brother. Please "educate" this bartender and patrons. It seems that even with the fear we just imposed? Before we arrived... they were abusing the ruling class of Cybertron. The Decepticons. This is unforgivable. Show them the way with your blades." he crosses his arms, speaking to Fleet, "Observe, my fair seeker warrior...to what happens to those who dare oppose your brothers."

Cyclonus nods silently in reply to Galvatron's words, idly backhanding some hapless onlooker who gets just a little too close to Cyclonus. "Impudent welp." He mutters toward the patron, looking none-too-pleased with having to actually strike someone to get his point across. It's almost beneath him, yes, He's Cyclonus. He should only need stare at someone for a little too long to illicit true fear in them. Still, a command is a command, and he does so enjoy 'educating' imbeciles. Two of the largest bar patrons approach Cyclonus after he strikes the smallest member of their group. The Decepticon second shakes his head slowly. "Your lack of respect is disturbing to say the least....." without another word, and with hardly a second passing, Cyclonus draws his pistol and with a ruthless precision he blasts the knee joints of each of the two larger patrons. "You will /kneel/ before the Emperor of Cybertron." His words have a harsh edge, which betrays his irritation. Slowly, he stalks around behind the two. "Do you have any words you would like to speak to Galvatron? A word of advice, begging for mercy is highly encouraged at this juncture."

Fleet observes, as ordered, very carefully, and even allows himself a slight smile. While Fleet certainly has a... more than appropriate level concern for his own safety, well being, and comfort, he had no real problem with watching others unnecessarily abused for something they didn't really do. To paraphrase, it's funny because it's happening to someone else.

Galvatron smirks at the patrons, "You would do well to listen. You now kneel. But do you mean it? DO YOU?!!!!" he snarls, "Say it. Say who is your master. If you answer correctly, you will live. If you answer incorrectly? Cyclonus and I will hold you while our underofficer seeker beats your ass. Answer you currs!"

Cyclonus listens to the first of the patrons blubber something of an apology, and he can do nothing but scowl, albeit a very faint one. He taps his oxidating laser against the back of the drunk mechanoid's head and just shakes his head. He fires a single shot, at maximum intensity, into the back of the mech's head. You are the weakest link, goodbye. Now he turns his weapon on the other. "I trust you will be more successful, or your death will be far more.... excruciating."

Fleet gives Galvatron a very startled stare as he threatens to... have the seeker beat the patrons, though his expression this time is certainly more shock than fear. When it clears, his smile returns, a bit stronger this time, and he allows himself a quiet, perhaps slightly cruel, chuckle. Still, he has an air of someone who's not quite believing the situation he's in, but he's certainly getting better.

Galvatron nods his head at the death. The next one actually gives proper homage. Kissing Galvatron's feet is a plus. "Ahh. It seems we won't have to have Fleet kill people, Cyclonus. How unfortunate. It would be fun that way. But alas, they realized the truth. If it bores you to kill them as much as it bores me? Let us go. Our work here is done."

Cyclonus holsters his oxidating laser and takes flight without further delay. Yes, killing the weak is somewhat of a bore, but then again he could level the entire bar if he chose, and Galvatron could do so with even less effort. How the denizens of Cybertron will survive Decepticon rule is beyond him, of course, he doesn't really care if they survive anyway.

Cyclonus, like his master, the poser GALVATRON realizes...it doesn't matter if they survive it. It matters if they ACCEPT it. And this just goes farther towards this. Rodimus owns Earth. Galvatron will never admit it. But it's true. He will only admit it to Cyc or Scourge. He has a hold on earth...but Rodimus has more of one. However, the home planet? Cybertron? That's Decepticon country. The Autobots have one small base. The Decepticons control the majority. And that makes him happy. "Yes. Let us go. Consider yourselves lucky I didn't unleash Fleet's might on you." he takes off into the air himself.

Fleet watches as the two leave, but in their wake, he stands a bit taller, a bit more certain of himself, of where he stands. He smiles coldly and walks over to the bar, stepping over the empty shell of the dead mechanoid. His voice is still soft, like it always is, but instead of the usual uncertainty there is cruelty. "Now... they did say *demand* that you bring me a drink, didn't they?" he asks the bartender.

Cyclonus has disconnected.

-----

The following has nothing to do with the RP above, but is a board 23 post made during it that just cracked me up.

=========================== Quotes Out Of Context ============================

Message: 23/5 Posted Author

omg mixed priorities Tue Nov 30 Victory Leo

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<Public> Hello Victory Leo says, "Porn bloopers are the BEST"

<Public> Private Eye Streetwise likes the AC Gumby better

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