| abstract
| - A new intergalactic bar and grill is opening on Earth. The first of the franchise for the Milky Way. There is a sign that says that this new place, Uncle Ed's Intergalactic House of Booze is having a live jazz band. Thrust happens to have his invite in his hands and he grins as he nears the place, "Oh splendid! A place for me to show off my jazz hands!" Whether blowing off steam from Boomslang's latest African scheme, or taking inspiration for Scrapper's sake for the future layout of Tetrahex, Fusillade is cruising over the heart of Spain, possibly with an aerial escort, possibly not. The bomber coasts through the air, nose canards flicking slightly as she maneuvers over the suburbs. The bright decorations and spotlights surrounding the grand opening of an intergalactic chain restaurant do a great job of catching her attention. She descends, and transforms, plunking down in the middle of a parking lot. "Well HELLOOOOOOOOOOO there!" she crows out to the doormen and valets. "Jazz? WHERE!?" Americon shouts as he leaps in front of the bar, lasers at the ready. However, he spots a sign stating, "NO LASERS" and, hanging his head and sighing sadly, put his weapons back onto his back. "Drat." When the Constructicons hear about a new mechanical life form drinking establishment (or "robar") at least one of them is dispatched to go survey it by the others. Bonecrusher drew the long straw this time, and he's glad of it. "Awright! Innergalactic bar an' grill an it's right here in this solar system! Who's a lucky Constructicon?!" Fusillade bursts through the doors proper without really paying attention to what the waitstaff have to say, with a bubbly "EYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" She clatters in to tousle her palm over Bonecrusher's helmet -- he is much shorter than she is, after all -- and flounces into a barstool by Americon. It is VERY likely that she might have already been drinking earlier in the cycle. Boomslang and Vendetta might actually be able to confirm this. "Aww, don't worry little buddy, don't be sad! You can still have grenades, I don't see a sign against THOSE..." Scratching his cone, Thrust says, "Jazz. Booze. Grill." He looks in his wallet which is filled with Bazooka Joe comic strips and considers, "Well, they sent me a VIP card. So I must be a Very Important Prick to be invited. And I get some free stuff. I think I'll have the grilled 'Cub." Thrust fingers through the menu. "Turbofox salad? Oh, that's not healthy." He looks over himself and looks a bit sad. "I have to mind my figure. I've been reading that eating unhealthy can cause me to get flabby." The hostess casually looks at Thrust and asks, "Oh, were you talking to me?" Robotic Bald Eagle gets a kids' seat for himself, and pouts as he gets his head tousled. "I like lasers, though! And grenades are not part of my standard armament... in America!" He looks about the bar, brow furrowed. "Wait a minute, where the hell are we again?" Scavenger has arrived. Spotting Americon, Thrust hovers. "Hey! We need to play poker some more." He grins and looks over at Americon, trying to see what Americon remembers from years ago. "I think with our talents, we can easily make a casino." He heads over to where the action may be taking place. Comcast strolls into the bar and grill, curious to sample the product. Eyeing Fusillade's antics, he wrongly assumes she's been sampling the bar's wares for some time. "I take it you approve of this place?" he says, offering a nod to the Constructicon if he deems to return the gaze. As per usual, Scrapper drew the short straw. He was happy for once, thinking that this meant he would be able to stay home. But when the other Constructicons realized that he'd gotten what he wanted all along, they decided that whoever drew the short straw had to go, too, and to pay for all of Bonecrusher's drinks. Who's a lucky Constructicon? "Not me," mopes Scavenger. "Spain," says Bonecrusher, wobbling a little under the touseling as he comes in, and swatting aimlessly at Fusillade's hand. Constructicons always know about such things as geography, even the thick ones like Bonecrusher. "Haw haw," laughs Bonecrusher, pointing at Scavenger for the bartender's benefit. "Barman! This guy's buyin'! Gimme yer top shelf, an' leave the bottle!" Robotic Bald Eagle yells, waving his wings at a bartender, "HEY! Waitress creature! Deliver to me a Milwaukee Light Beer, because it is made in America! American beer is the best, and I will kill anyone who says otherwise!" Then he blinks at Thrust. "Poker? I am not sure what you mean!" "Mmmph, not YET Comcast," Fusillade says, planting one hand on hip. "So what brought you out here, huh? Controversy over the bar?!" She breaks into bubbly, raucous laughter. "Just kiddin' ya, yer awright kid." She then immediately begins scrolling through the menu, a little unsure about the solid meals offered. "Okay okay I will take a fizzly something. Just make sure it's green!" she barks out. She glances over at Scavenger. "Hey, how's that adorable bucket butt of yours, eh? Eh? You really should come down to Mexico City and Tetrahex, Bonecrusher and I are having a SMELT of a time blasting the place to kingdom come! Nice thing about ground and dirt is that there's always more of it, hawhaw." As Bonecrusher places his order, her saffron optics go wide, and she shimmies up next to the Construction with a quiet, hopeful, 'nyooooooouuuuoooh...'. "An' one for the lady!" shouts Bonecrusher, since he's not paying. Dirge descends from the skies above. Dirge has arrived. The blue Experimental F-15 warps, bends, and reconfigures itself into the form of Dirge, Decepticon warrior! Getting Americon a nice giant Corona, the waitress quickly leaves, having a smile as she fills Bonecrusher's orders. Thrust, on the other hand, is looking at Americon. "Didn't we used to player Poker once in a lifetime in the Steel balloon? I thought I lost some money to you. That it was to Puerto-Ricon. Hard to tell, you all look alike." The seeker rubs the top of his cone, "Anyway, I have some winnings that I have kept in a bank. I want to open up a casino. I figured I can hire out Devestator to build one for me. We can capture Autobots and gamble away their lives." Thrust looks around, "I'd call the game, 'Squeal or No Deal.' You see, if you put the gun to the Autobot and say they won't squeal when you fire at them but they do squeal, you don't get the prize." Comcast offers a look of confusion at Fusillade's joke, then shrugs it off. He orders something high-grade as soon as the barkeep gives Bonecrusher his order. "So... let me get this straight, you're inviting me to join you in shooting... the ground?" As the waitress drops off Bonecrusher's and Fusillade's order, the bomber perks up. She snaps out a taloned hand, and immediately cozies up to the beverage. She fixes Comcast with a petulant moue. Blowing things up on the ground was her whole raison d'etre, why she is in Military Operations instead of Aerospace. and Fusillade struggles for a few, long, uncomfortable moments before she blurts out defensively, "Well... YEAH? S'not like it's gonna dodge! 'Sides Fusillade says, "SIDES," Fusillade repeats herself after quaffing half the drink, "Galvatron told us to!"" Dirge pushes through the door (or at least makes it go fwwssssh-fwwssssh). The blue and brown parts of his armor look a little scorched, probably from a recent de-orbit. He makes it a few steps into the hive of scum and villainy before he speaks, voice low and gravelly. "I am looking for Thrust." Hinder has arrived. Robotic Bald Eagle taps his beak with a feather as he tries to recall what Thrust is talking about. "Hmm... hm... hm... no, I don't recall! I do not remember what I did with my money, either! I think I invested it in General Motors!" He frowns. "...that was very dumb! However, your game of 'Squeel or No Deal' sounds like an amusing way to pass the time!" His Corona delivered, Americon claps his wings, hops up onto the bar, and tilts his head back and forth into the drink, like one of those drinking bird toys. Comcast's optic ridge raises as he regards this new information. "Good point." He picks up his drink and knocks it back, deciding he's clearly got a bit to catch up on if he's going to be interacting with Fusillade and Bonecrusher. As he orders his next drink, cannot help but suppress a shudder, wondering what caused that. He turns to face the new arrival. Ah, that explains it. "Hello, Dirge." he intones, raising his glass before pointing in the direction of the other conehead. Scavenger is happy when a femme actually talks to him, but he doesn't have a chance to respond to Fusillade as she quickly turns toward Bonecrusher. He's not surprised. 'Crusher's his superior in every way. He claps down some credits to pay for his comrade's drinkas and then props himself in the corner. Hinder has hitched a ride here with Dirge...though she didn't realize that this was the destination. She just noticed the Seeker on his way somewhere and decided to tag along. So there's a tiny off-white rectangle adhered to the back of one of his legs. Bonecrusher points at the big maroon guy with someone else's hands. "He's over there makin' a fool of himself," he tells Dirge helpfully. "It's prep'ratory demolitions!" Bonecrusher shouts at Comcast, almost in his ear (or equivalent). "You gotta break up the hardpack else you can't scoop an' ship it!" Dirge's entrance causes Fusillade to fall silent for a moment. This doesn't last for very long, and she pipes up, "Thrust is thatta way," pointing VERY clearly in Thrust's direction. "Although you need to be around more Dirge, I mean COME ON Dreadwind is head of Aerospace and there is a creepier conehead now, all like slittin' Aerialbots' throats and slag..." She beams at Scavenger, "Awww, THANK YOU!!!" before finishing the second half of the drink. It's off to the races with her. "I mean, seriously you should come down to Tetrahex, I am SO happy and fulfilled since I started doing this bunker buster business helping this mook," she girlie-cuffs Bonecrusher in the shoulder, "Started getting me into ground-moving, haha!" "OW OW OW ARGH" Yells Comcast as his delicately-tuned audials are assaulted by a point-blank liqoured-up Bonecrusher. "Hmm," comments Thrust as he watches Americon, "You are quite the odd bird." He doesn't here the commotion with Dirge. "So you invested in -- General Motors? When did Motormaster become a general?" This makes the seeker check his data pad. "Hm, I didn't get the memo. Are we still winning the war? Are we still fighting? Is ---" There is a pause from Thrust, "Man, I feel left out of the loop. I want to be a General too!" "Careful what you wish for," says Scavenger, "you just might get it. You take the rank of general, you screw up, you get cannoned. I say just sit back in the shadows like you always do and let Galvatron disintegrate somebody else when things go wrong." "I gotta way wit splosives," grins Bonecrusher indistinctly into his expensive bottle. "OH!" he bellows again, not so much to Comcast as beside him. "That's right, Dirge! Scuttlebutt 'round the precinct is yer slippin'! That borged-up half-freak duo-biner took yer spot!" Bonecrusher slips down from his stool and goes over to Dirge to yell at him conspiratorially, "Well, not like it was EXACTLY yer spot, but with Ramjet outta the way, and Thrust brutally retarded, we all thought it was gonna be you. Mixmaster thought it WAS you, we hadda sort'im out with pictures." Dirge makes a noncommittal "Hrrnh.." sound in response to all of the helpful Decepticons who point him toward Thrust. The dark Seeker stalks slowly but purposefully toward the moron Seeker. Maroon. "UGH, talk about a lesson," Fusillade angsts. Robotic Bald Eagle , in turn, misunderstands Thrust. "Motormaster owns General Motors?! Man, next time I see him, I am going to let him know what a terrible job he has done! The only thing going for his company is that the cars are American, and that's only 60 percent true, considering how much the stuff is made overseas! As for winning the war, yeah, I think we'll win in Afghanistan, we just need to give it thirty more years!" He goes back to drinking his drink. Drink. Drink. Drink. "...what was I talking about?" Fusillade says, "I coulda had a command position EASY with Aerospace, I am TOTALLY kicking myself about not entering NOW. It's like Galvatron KNEW what was gonna happen and is PUNISHING us for being deadbeats," she laments regarding Dreadwind's ascension. "He is TOTALLY not going to do anything with his rank." She clonks her head on the table in a melodramatic display of regret. Comcast takes another knock back from his drink before trying to cheer up the bomber. "It's not as if there isn't a fair amount of turnaround on those ranks. Just plan and wait for him to slip up, before you strike. You'll get your chance." He takes another sip. "Until someone else comes along and does it to you, of course." Dirge reaches out to swipe at any drink Thrust may or may not be carrying, to take it from him. Barring that, he may just swipe at the side of Thrust's head. "You.." he hisses sharply. Not noticing Dirge just yet, Thrust looks at Bonecrusher. "Brutally retarded? My, is that coming from someone who can not fly in his other mode? I bested Scourge and took on the possession of the Sweep Commander for quite the time. And you know what? Those fools behaved under my command. I relinquished them back to Scourge's conscripts because I have no use for things that claw each other!" The seeker stands up, "If it is a challenge you want, Seventeen Percent of something worth keeping around, I suggest you bite your tongue." Thrust nods as he sees Scavenger. "No offense to you. You're worth keeping around individually. But someone calling me brutally retarded doesn't know a blasted thing about me to call me that." The seekers stares at Bonecrusher, "I'm psychotically retarded. And I am challenging you to an air race. You and me. In our other modes. In the sky. I do not wish to engage you in combat for if I destroy you, we will lose the amazing Devestator. And if that happens, they'll make me combine to form the aft-plate instead of you." He winks at Bonecrusher before he notices Dirge; which then makes him salute! Hinder detaches from the back of Dirge's leg as he's taking a swipe at Thrust, the tiny off-white rectangle clattering faintly to the floor before exploding out into a ferrety shape that immediately skitters off to hide. Thrust is without a drink. Robotic Bald Eagle waves a wing, brow raised. "Hey, hold on! I thought Bonecrusher formed the knee!" Bonecrusher swaggers over to Thrust and clinks the mouth of his mostly-empty bottle pointedly against Thrust's literal glass chest. "Unlike some'a you, Constructicons do real work around this grubby li'l planet! You come see me after Tetrahex is done an' I'll race you, loser take all!" "I form the FIST!" shouts Bonecrusher to everyone in general. Half-raising her drink in a salute to Comcast, Fusillade agrees, slurring her speech slightly, "S'true, but Pit I was SO pissed off with that ig-yak-crap that Avalanche pulled on me I jus' didn' want to do the whole combat thing. Although I felt bad when Glavatron frowned at me," she confides to no one and everyone in particular. "YEAH GREEN IRON FIST" she blurts out at Bonecrusher, demolishing the last of her white high grade energon. "But seriously that stuff is Mexico? That's some rich slag right there I am having the time of my life. COMCAST. Comcast comcast comcast you gotta SEEeeee this stuff I am pullin' bombs that the likes of only B-52s and C-130s have seen before!!! It is amazing here let me show you." Thrust asks, "WHICH ONE?" He then looks at Americon and then at the bottle that is pressed against him. "I do a lot of work. I harass people." He beams at that thought for a second, "And, Bonecrusher, I would like to inform you that I outrank you. So ket us not waste your precious processor power and see that you still function to do your tasks. In the mean time, I'll carry out my plans and work to carry out a mission that I intend on be victorious on." Rasping, Thrust now says, "Dirge, I know you better than to come out and look for me for only a social call. How can I help you? Did we lose Ramjet to space jail again?" "Actually, it's purple." Comcast corrects as he drinks some more again. And an alloy that wouldn't corrode like iron does, either, but..." He sighs quietly as Fusillade starts getting excitable. "Okay okay okay. What do you want to show me now?" Dirge just swipes at the side of Thrust's head, then. Half-heartedly, it would seem, as he's not using his gun. To shoot Thrust. In the face. "Do not hide yourself behind decorum, Thrust. Do not use your vast wealth of ignorance as a shield. You know why I have come for you." "We're both arms," Scavenger speaks up, "and I'm the RIGHT one, for what that's worth." He orders a drink himself. How to drink it with no mouth? It's a very well-kept secret. Robotic Bald Eagle frowns. "The fist? Well, then, who's the elbow? I mean, there's like, twenty of you guys, right?" But he has little time to ponder the issue, and his optics go wide at Fusillade as she grows increasingly unstable! Realizing that he must do something before she goes crazy and kills everyone, he transforms into robot mode, quietly walks across the top of the bar to Fusillade's cube, then slips in some sedatives when she's not looking. There, that should take care of it. And nothing bad will happen at all. Americon undergoes a patriotic transformation into his All-American robot mode! Thrust frowns and looks at Dirge. He then whispers, "I told you and Ramjet to stay away from the blue femme. Excise said her space aids is contagious. Oh, Dirge. Oh, poor, poor Dirge. It's going to take a lot of sanding to get rid of that rust." "Why'd you come for him?!" Bonecrusher shouts at Dirge curiously. Fusillade practically keels over in delight as Comcast asks the magic question. "Oh HONEY you have no idea. Here let me show you!" She squeals as she slots open her rack(s), and begins plunking down some disturbingly large warheads onto the counter. "So anyway, to do this stuff in Mexico? To get the Shark to Tetrahex? Yeah, the WHOLE CITY? I'm using some thermobaric and earthquake bombs and even some bunker busters. Talk. About. Amazing. These here are called Deep Throats," she displays several 5000 pound bunker busters, laying them out on the table. "BUT the best kind are the MOPs. Massive Ordnance Penetrators," she practically squeals in delight. "Up to 20,000 pounds, I can't carry that many of THOSE at once..." Hinder settles down on the floor under Thrust and Dirge's table to listen in on their conversation. She /thinks/ she's being all sneaky and stuff. Not that she KNOWS how to be sneaky. "He's not the fist," Scavenger explains. "He's the arm, like me. Both parts of it." Why is he arguing with Americon? He knows no one's going to listen anyway, and if they do they'll just tell him to shut up. He should shut up now and save some time, but he's a bit sauced. He had a fews sips from his flask on the way over. "And there's only six of us," he slurs. "There's six, right? I can never remember if the steamroller's one of us 'r not." Comcast stares at the contents of Fusi's rack. "Those are some impressive bombs you're carrying," He admits. Fusillade is so delighted at the conversation that she does not notice Americon slipping her some roofies. :(Dirge glares coldly at the other Seeker, then frowns just barely. "I have no desire to muddle through your babble, Thrust." His optics shift to Bonecrusher. "Or yours, Constructicon." Slowly he draws his attention back to the maroon Seeker. "Energon, Thrust, without delay. This is no time for idle talk." Americon hrums at Scavenger. "Oh? There's only six of you? And he's an arm? And you're an arm? Ohhh. Okay. I think I understand now! Thank you Scavenger, I really appreciated that!" And just to show Scavenger that the world hasn't gone completely mad, he then hops onto Scavenger's chest, pressing his face against Scavenger's. "But if you tell anyone I did anything to anyone's drink, I will KILL YOU!" He hops off and back to his seat, all smiles. "Fist's the important part of the arm," Bonecrusher points out to Scavenger. "The steamroller an' the extra digger an' Ramjet's little round-headed guys an' all those are extras." "Right. You need Energon!" says Thrust as he orders some. He then reaches into his subspace compartment and pulls out some credits to pay for the tab. "Dirge, you haven't been around as much as you used to. Things have changed. Ramjet is in space jail again it seems. It's you and me. And you have my support." The moron seeker looks at Dirge, "If you're in trouble, I got your back." He looks at the Constructicons around him, "And don't worry about the green team. They mean well. Just think that Bonecrusher's a little /hyper/." The pot called the kettle black. "Catechism and Boomslang are coneheads too," Fusillade remarks casually, before taking another draught of her drink while practically glowing over the earth-moving warheads. "You can touch 'em if you want," she prompts Comcast and anyone else nearby in regard to the bombs sitting on the counter. Comcast is positively taken aback at the offer. He places his drink down on the counter before carefully moving his hand over as if it is some kind joke offer. He runs his hand down the side of the bomb before building up enough courage to reach around and pick up one of the bombs in his hand, regarding its weight. "Very nice!" He says. Dirge uses his undue influence over Thrust's wallet to get his free drink. But instead of paying Thrust any sort of appreciative sentiment, he only seems to regard his comrade with muted ire. "Dreadwind, Thrust," he rasps harshly. "Dreadwind. Better that Blueshift command, and merely drive us to failure. Dreadwind will subvert the success of the Empire, and we shall see the multitude of Seekers cheerfully incinerate themselves to escape his vapid drivel." Bonecrusher can't resist bombs! He trundles back over to the bar and gives one of the bombs an appreciative squeeze. "Yeah, that's a real nice rack," he remarks, appraising the rack of ordnance. "I like these big ones 'specially! Whoo!" He whistles, proud of his ability to whistle properly (thanks to having a mouth, unlike most Constructicons). Ah yes, the round-headed guys. Scav would spit if he had the ability. Puttup! "Are they still around...Ramjet's little 'consorts'? Cause if they are, I say we go find them and smash 'em." Bonecrusher sets the fat juicy bomb back down. "The mini-Constructicons? I ain't seen 'em in a long minute. Probably are wherever Ramjet is. Space jail, I guess." Shifting weight in her seat, Fusillade crosses legs and mm-hmms from afar as Comcast and Bonecrusher are simultaneously aweed and appredicative of the spectacle. She hoists her drink in her hand and takes another long draught, heedless of Americon's meddling. "Mmm-yep. Shame about the hyoomans there though, can't use all the really good stuff around them, they'll drop dead otherwise." She slowly stretches a hand out, hooks the bombs by their tailfins, and drags them back to their place among her unmentionables. "Yep, space jail," she echoes aimlessly. "So, Dirge is asking for Thrust to help take him down? I can assist. We could do a mission with our commander and accidently engage into a round of friendly fire. Perhaps if we take down his combiner piece first, we limit the chances of him coming around to fight back? Hm?" Thrust then asks Dirge, "Have you enlisted the help of Blueshift AND Redshift? Or should we have a challenge of Blueshift against Dreadwind to take the rank?" Americon shuffles over to one of the 5000 pound-bombs, gaping nervously at it. "Gosh, I've never... seen such big bombs before," he says, though he actually has. He gives one of the 5000 pounders an experimental poke, causing it to rock back a bit, then forward, where it falls onto him, pinning him under its weight. "Durgh!" Fusillade leaves the one that topples over onto Americon. Fusillade slurs out, "Ohhhhhhh, Americon, you look right at home straddlin' that thang." Comcast scoffs at Americon. "Pfft. Amateur. You need to show a modicum of care when handling such precious cargo!" Fusillade immediately faceplants into the counter. Success for the tape! Scavenger laughs. "Well, good for them. And goot for Ramjet, too. I mean...GOOD." He takes another swig of his drink and then pours some enerhol from his flask into the glass. Fusillade doesn't even get the chance to squirm under Dirge's disapproval over the results of the Aerospace Command free-for-all. Bonecrusher points and laughs uproariously at Fusillade, then pushes her onto the floor under the bar and takes her seat and her unfinished drink. "Broads can't handle their drink, I always say!" he scoffs, chugging the glass's contents. "Haw!" he adds, then also passes out, slumping over onto Scavenger with a weighty CLANG. Americon sees that his plan has worked, but he's trapped under the bomb! "Hurrghh! Sorry, uh... seeker guy!" He doesn't recall who Comcast is, or if he's even heard his name before. "I... uh... hurrghhh..." He tries to push the bomb off, but it's no good. "Little help?" Dirge's optics flicker. He no longer frowns, instead keeping his expression neutral, blank. With a soft, low rasp, he answers, "All in time, Thrust. Soon we will draw our plans against them." Hinder is still eavesdropping. Honest. Nodding Thrust orders more Energon for Dirge. "I will see to it that we get you or Blueshift in as the leader. Return all to how it should be. Conehead-1 is still hours, right?" "Comcast." He says to Americon. "Allow me, err, tape-bot." With care, he frees Americon by removing the thing that was pinning him. He now has one of Fusillade's bombs in each hand. He smiles for a moment before returning them back to the Executrix. Fusillade isn't even awake to appreciate Comcast shoving two cylinders in her. Fusillade has left. Dirge inclines his head. "CONE-1, Thrust. This will be our first priority. Recover the ship. Kill any crew who dissent, and replace them with those who still retain any shred of loyalty to Aerospace and the Seekers." "Americon!" Americon says. "That is my name... in America! I am a CULTURAL ANALYST!" He smiles until he realizes that he can't get up. "...I think that bomb broke something!" Scavenger is just starting to enjoy this little gathering when 'crusher decides to bolt. Of course. He has to go wherever the others go. He trudges out with nary a wave to his comrades. Handing over some credits, Thrust nods to Dirge, "As YOU command." He grins, "I will get right on that." And with that, he attempts to leave. Comcast is left with no bombs and all the people he was talking to wander off/pass out! Hnn. He offers a hand to Americon to help him up. "Possibly your volume control." He dryly adds. Americon takes the hand, hopping back to his feet. "You may be right!" Americon says. "I will have Soundwave look at my volume control... IN AMERICA!" Then he passes out onto the bar. Dirge, left alone, goes to mull darkly over his drink and contemplate evil. "Hmm, apparently he can give you something to take care of this robo-tourettes case you apparently ha--" Comcast says to the Tape-bot, but cuts out as he passes unconcious. He finishes his vessel, and notes that Fusillade left a lot of her cube left before she passed out. "Better not let it go to waste," he says to noone in particular. He takes a few healthy swigs before the tainted cube takes hold of him too and he also passes out.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)