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| - The Protectobot base. There is still a line down the middle, but... all is pitch black. The windows have all been painted over, and all the lightbulbs have been removed. Someone has hung a wind chime on the ceiling that makes really creepy noises. What's up? Hot Spot activates his emergency shoulder lights and sighs, looking around. "This is rapidly going too far." An evil laugh comes from the corner of the room, and a figure emerges. The figure is also black, and highlighted by a scary light. Actually it is a torch he is holding in one hand, that he waves over himself. "WELCOME HOT SPOT!" booms the figure. "I AM GUILTOR!" If you had very bad eyesight, and it was very dark, perhaps the figure in front of you would look exactly like Guiltor. Or perhaps he would look like Slamdance wearing a black sheet over his head with holes cut out for the eyes, and bits of cardboard taped to it. "No, you're not," Hot Spot says, putting his hands on his robot hips. "Guiltor is much taller." "NO HE'S... NO I'M NOT" intones the figure in a spoooky voice. "YOUR FEAR HAS BLINDED YOU TO MY REAL HEIGHT. NOW BEHOLD, A WORLD IN WHICH YOU /NEVER EXISTED/..." The dark figure waves his arms dramatically, then gestures at a TV, which mysteriously turns on, almost as if by remote control! And displayed on the TV are.. hand puppets? Hot Spot watches, obviously very cross, too much so to go off on a lecture. The figure waves his hand at the screen. "STREETWISE!" he booms. "IN THIS WORLD, A PATHETIC DRUNK, CROOKED COP. BUT HAD YOU NEVER BEEN BORN..." He presses a button on the remote that is cleverly disguised as a wand, and the television bursts into life. Two little handpuppets are bobbing about. One looks like Streetwise, and one a pretty femme. "Hey Streetwise!" squeaks the femme, bobbing about. "You finally put Galvatron away!" "Yeah!" replies Streetwise. "I finally got him... for TAX EVASION! Thirty years in the nick will sort him out!" "That's ridiculous. Nightbeat is the drunken, crooked cop of the Autobots," Hot Spot says, folding his gigantic arms. "Anyone with half a brain knows that." The crudely constructed sock-puppet femme on screen plants a big kiss on the sock-puppet Streetwise. "My hero! And all because you didn't have some overbearing leader type holding you back from greatness!" "You know it baby." The shadowy figure who is UNDOUBTABLY Guiltor pauses the TV with a wave of his magic wand and turns back to Hot Spot. "FEELING GUILTY AND TERRIFIED YET?" he asks. "DON'T ANSWER YET, NOT UNTIL YOU'VE SEEN WHAT HAPPENS... TO GROOVE!" The scene on the television changes to what might be a sock-puppet Groove, bobbing up and down as the badly painted background jerkily scrolls along behind him. Also behind him are sock-puppets with wings and Decepticon logos. "Are those supposed to be jets? Are they... chasing him, or is he leading them? This isn't very clear," Hot Spot says, turning toward Guiltdance. "Are you saying if I had never been built, Groove would lead a group of Decepticons?" "Nonono!" the mech who claims to be Guiltor mutters, waving one hand. "Watch the GODDAMN video, I'm not going to spoil it for you... MORTAL!" On the screen, Groove meets a puppet Soundwave, who has a smiley face crudely drawn onto him. "Hi Groove!" 'Soundwave says, "With your peaceful ways we Decepticons have embraced peace. The only thing holding us back was our fear of baby blue fire engines, which throws us into murderous rages!" "SEE!" cries Guiltor, the finger of DOOM pointed at Hot Spot. "WITH MY FINGER POINTING AT YOU I CONDEMN YOU! NOW SEE WHAT HAPPENS...TO BLADES!" On the television, the picture changes to Blades, standing near some police officers Hot Spot continues to watch, readjusting his arms-folded stance. "If I hadn't been built, wouldn't Blades still be a Combaticon?" One of the sock-puppet policemen bumps against Blades until his cardboard and tape handcuffs stick to the other puppet. "Take him away boys" he announces. "He's been convicted of one hundred life sentences for being destructive and mean and smelling bad" Surprisingly, the puppet Blades doesn't look all that worried. "Thank Primus!" he answers. "All these years.. I've been waiting for someone to catch me and lock me up, I'm a danger to others! I dread to think what would have happened if I had some hero figure to enable my bad bad ways while at the same time supressing my worst tendancies until I erupted in a frenzy of violence and murdered all my friends WHICH IS EXACTLY WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED." There's a sudden jump cut and now Blades is alone in front of a prison background. "La la la" he sings to himself. Boy, prison is GREAT" Hot Spot's only reaction is a dumbfounded "What." Guiltor just STARES at Hot Spot. "Look, I AM GUILTOR. Guiltor has TWO HANDS, and LOOK!" He waves his hands. "WOO! Guiltor has a HEAD, and LOOK!" He points at his head. "Are you CRYING YET HOT SPOT? CRYING?" He presses the control again, and then when nothing happens, smacks the top of the television. The picture changes to that of First Aid, standing on a podium and recieving an award. But for what? "SEE HOT SPOT? SEE HOW SOCIALLY COMPETANT FIRST AID IS WITHOUT YOU TO FOREVER MOTHER HIM?" "When has First Aid ever been socially incompetent?" Hot Spot asks. "He's a bit more uptight than the average Autobot, sure, but he's never been short of friends. And why would he receive an award for social competency?" "I'd like to thank both the Nobel and Film Academies for presenting me with the award for "Best Cure For Every Disease Ever Discovered While Being Best Actor In A Motion Picture"", says the fake First Aid on the television. "Not having a team to hide behind has made me really come out of my shell, and with Soundwave, who is good now thanks to Groove, helping me, and Blades not bombing my lab, and Streetwise ticketing all the people that stole my parking space, I can now say with great pride.. PARTY AT MY PLACE, WOOOOOOOO!!!" "I have to admit," Hot Spot states, returning his hands to his hips, "there are a lot of logical inconsistencies at play here." "AND WHAT OF DEFENSOR?" the guy who would like you to believe that he is Guiltor almost yells, waving his arms about as if he didn't really understand the concept of arms. "WHAT ABOUT HIM?" He gestures to the screen. A little puppet Defensor, the same size as the other puppets is standing with a graduation cap on his head, next to Soundwave. "Thanks Professor!" he says. "Without a blue firetruck telling me that learning is for Hitlers, I finally got my dream and went to Space College!" Guiltor stares at Hot Spot accusingly. "WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THAT? IT IS OKAY TO CRY, HERE!" He hands Hot Spot a box of tissues Hot Spot graciously accepts the box of tissues with a quiet 'thank you' because he is polite. He stares at the image of Defensor for a moment longer. "So... who comprises Defensor's torso, then? Because your puppet makes it look like I'm still the trunk, there." "TRACKS" booms the person that is totally Guiltor. "AND HE IS REALLY REALLY GOOD AT IT TOO." "Okay," Hot Spot says. "I was thinking of giving control of the Protectobots to Grand Slam and Raindance to show them no hard feelings, but I think I'll give it to Tracks instead now. You've persuaded me." The REAL Guiltor stands there, swaying for a bit. "UUUUH" he emits. "NO WAIT LOOK AT THIS." He takes out a little Tracks hand puppet and waves it at Hot Spot. "OooOOOO I AM TRACKS I AM TOTALLY ROBOGAY OH NO!" The other hand pops up with a Slamdance puppet. "DO NOT FEAR I HAVE THE CURE FOR ROBOGAYNESS HERE!" He starts to make the puppets fight, making 'pew pew pew' noises, and getting a bit too involved in it "So you're saying that if I give Slamdance control of the Protectobots, he'll use it to pursue a personal agenda of intolerance and homophobia?" Hot Spot says, sounding... baffled. "No no no! See.. I MEAN, SEE.. UH.. "HA HA, WHAT A JOKER YOU ARE SLAMDANCE" "YES I AM TRACKS, WE ALL LOVE YOU EVEN IF YOU ARE DIFFERENT THAT IS THE LESSON WE LEARNED THANKS TO NOT HAVING ANY STRANGELY COLORED FIRE TRUCKS AROUND. OH AND LOOK, OPTIMUS PRIME HAS COME BACK FROM THE DEAD AGAIN" The sheet-covered figure looks around hurridly "..SOMEWHERE. HE IS HERE SOMEWHERE." Hot Spot shines his emergency lights around until he spots the Optimus puppet left on a counter next to the digital cheese, which has been left out without a care for cyber-refrigeration. "Over there." "Ah, great, thanks!" Slam-GUILTOR emits, walking over to the puppet and picking it up. Perhaps by the torchlight, Hot Spot might be able to make out that the puppet is constructed out of Hot Spot's collection of kitten charity calendars. "OOOOH I AM OPTIMUS PRIME THANK YOU SLAMDANCE FOR BEING THE BEST HERE IS THE MATRIX!" He makes the Slamdance puppet and the Optimus Prime puppet kiss. "AND I AM TOTALLY FREE WITH MYSELF. AND OH LOOK IRONHIDE IS BACK ALIVE TOO!" A third puppet bobs up in the middle of the other two. Do not look to see what is holding it up. "HOWDY FELLAS!" The Ironhide puppet says. "I'm not sure what point you're trying to make now," Hot spot says, scratching the side of his helmet. Guiltor is a bit lost too, but rallies nicely. "YES, WE ARE ALL HAPPY NOW AND IT IS ALL BECAUSE HOT SPOT NEVER WAS BUILT" He pauses dramatically. "HA HA HA. SEE? YOU SHOULD BE GUILTY NOW." He waits a little longer, obviously expecting Hot Spot to break down and curl into a fetal position. The white and red doctor of the Protectobots comes walking out of there living quarters to come across the odd sight to behold. He stands there for a moment, stares, his visor flickers as he cants his head to the side in confusion. There is a moment of silence before he actually speaks, "...do I even want to ask?" Why does it seem this year has brought upon such interesting shows and insanity to their base here in New York? Then again-- it could be said, well-- you are in New York! This particular room has had all its light sources removed, and the windows painted over. It's lit only by the emergency lighting affixed to Hot Spot's shoulders. "I don't even know what's going on, myself, First Aid," the Protectobot leader says, turning to face his comrade -- and turning his back on Slamdance, who is disguised as Guiltor. "Apparently Guiltor is visiting today, so please show him all due hospitality." First Aid glances over to 'Guiltor' and does a quick scan over him, his visor flickering as he does so. Pulling off energon readings, match-ups, and whatever other medical information. Slamdance may fool others, but he can't fool the doctor. "I see.. perhaps we should give.. Guiltor some cookies." First Aid nearly says dead pan. "..or perhaps pie." "YES!" cries 'Guiltor', throwing back his arm to point at the Protectobot coffee machine, a little bit of cardboard flapping off, that he hurredly tapes down. "MAKE ME A COFFEE RATCHET. DECAFF!" He looks back and forth between the two. "NOW HOT SPOT. NOW HAVE YOU LEARNT TO FEAR?" Hot Spot turns back to look over his shoulder at Guiltor. "Er, yes, I have. It was very thoughtful of you to go to all this trouble. Would you mind cleaning the windows, now that I know primal terror?" "GUILTOR WASHES WINDOWS FOR NO MECH" intones 'Guiltor'. "BUT YOU COULD FILL OUT THIS FEEDBACK FORM" He rummages around in his cloak and pulls out a few sheets of paper, which he offers to Hot Spot. "IT'S A QUESTIONAIRE. YOU KNOW, 'RATE HOW GUILTY YOU FELT ON A SCALE OF ONE TO FIVE, THAT SORT OF THING." First Aid crosses his arms over his chest and ponders if he should activate the secruity system in the base. "I'm affraid Ratchet isn't here, or did you wake up in the wrong time frame?" "Sure, I'll fill it out," Hot Spot says, accepting the papers, which are gigantic and on super-thick stock. "Do you have a pen?" "NO I AM EVIL!" Guiltor says. "HERE IS A WOODEN PEN MADE FROM A TREE HA HA!" He hands Hot Spot a pencil. "AND NOW I MUST DEPART! FEAAAAAR!" He throws down a capsule that explodes with smoke. As the smoke clears, 'Guiltor' is still standing there. "CAN YOU TURN AROUND PLEASE AND GIVE ME A BIT LONGER?" he asks politely First Aid shakes his head and walks over to one of the hidden storage walls, sliding a pannel over, he presses a few buttons, keeping his back to the wanna-be Guiltor. Luckily he had a stash of cleaning supplies hidden away. Why would they keep cleaning supplies? Simple really, who wants a dirty base when you have a doctor around who is strict about how things are done. Hot Spot nods. "Of course, Sl... Guiltor." He obliges the scary robot and turns around, starting to tick off rating numbers. "Don't forget your puppets." Guiltor looks around, grabs the puppets that are in reach, then shoots the ones that aren't with magic guilt rays that look a lot like low powered lasers, leaving them sad little flaming piles. Hoisting up his sheet/cloak, he runs out of the room... only to run back in seconds later, eject the tape from the televison, grab it, then run back out again. First Aid pulls out the cleaning supplies and sighs, "Thank you Guiltor, I hope you have a wonderful-- urm.. bad experience?" First Aid shrugs and mutters something about Slamdance, before he starts to clean up the base. Does anyone even realize the hours he placed into actually getting this place up and online again? Hot Spot does. He walks over to the little flaming piles, squirting them with flame-retardant foam. "Well, maybe now they'll go harass Tracks for a while," he sighs. First Aid starts to clean the windows, "Well, it could have been worse, he could have blown up the whole complex." He pauses for a moment, "..Then I would have had to stun his systems into near shut-down." Another beat pause, "After all, such destruction could harm life around here, since Central Park is visited often by others." "I'd have handled him if he'd gotten out of hand, First Aid," Hot Spot says, a bit wearily. "I can take a prank, and that's all this was. I'm going to go get the room's lighting grid back online." Turning to exit, Hot Spot dreams of a world in which Slamdance had never been built.
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