| abstract
| - A strange fog whirls around, and it's hard for the average mech to see even two feet in front of them. Then again, it doesn't seem there's much to be seen. Stay here long enough, however, and the scene will change drastically. At regular intervals, the fog disappears, revealing a thriving Terran "gold rush" mining town. Or perhaps you're in a Monacus casino. Another time, an entire house full of mirrors and trap doors. Anything can happen, and most likely will: this is the Twilight Zone. Once described as the Junk Capital of the Universe, Junkion is a rich and diverse interstellar body. Composed of bits of debris from across the galaxy, it has been organised, if one can call it that, into a variety of landscapes. This one, officially designated as the Twilight Zone, seems to have benefited from a team of special effects makers. A strange fog whirls around, obscuring the ground. There may even be something alive down there. But let's move on, shall we? A strange sound seems to be emanating, "It's time to play the music. It's time to light the lights." Further on up, the fog is brightly lit, as yellow lights shine through, giving colour to the otherwise grey fog. Some of the lights pierce the fog, reaching up into the sky. The song continues to play, "It's time to meet the Junkions on the Talent Show Tonight." Behind the lights, there is a white building, rectangular in shape, with impressive marble columns holding up the structure. "It's time to put on makeup." An ovular dome sits atop it, in red, and it is decorated with long tapestries in red, yellow, and orange. "It's time to dress up right." A crowd of Junkions wait patiently, separated by a red velvet rope. "It's time to raise the curtain on the Talent Show Tonight." And between the confines of that rope is a magnificent red carpet. "And now let's get things started. Why don't we get things started?" Six valet Junkions stand to the side, ready to part your shuttle as the celebrated contestants, judges, or prominent patrons make their arrival. "It's time to get things started, on the most sensational inspirational celebrational Junkionsational, this is what we call the Junkion Talent Show." Above the building, written into the sky in gold writing, we're not exactly sure how it was achived, but there is a very long message, reading, "To Whom It May Concern, Welcome to Junkion, Home of the Forty-Second Annual Montgomery Burns Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence. Whether you are a judge, contestant, invited guest, lady, gentleman, or transgendered species, we would like to wish that you live long and prosper." The sound of aircraft engines from multiple contacts echoes over the metallic ridges and peaks of junkscape. Fusillade, in her high-contrast orca paint pattern, supercruises over the oxidized heaps and I-beams, wings swept as she surveys the setting. "Hnn, seems legit so far. Although it is kind of quiet. No Autobots spotted yet. Wonder if it's a trap? Although... would it matter? Nahhhhhhhhhh!" She begins her descent. Wreck-Gar is standing near the entrance, personally welcoming guests, and trying not to let it show how much it hurts that none of the important Autobots have shown. “Welcome, bah-weep Graaaaagnah wheep mini bong, nuqneH, bonjour, guten tag, hola” he goes on, showing that Squawkbox isn’t the only linguist around, or at least he can say hello in a number of languages. Banshee nods to Wreck-Gar as she is welcomed, with a 'posse' of gumbies who've taken after her anachronistic altmode - she calls them the Propellercons. Banshee says, "Guten tag, Herr Wreck-Gar. Wie sind Sie heute Abend?"" Wreck-Gar shakes Banshee’s hand, and looks confused for a moment, so he checks the notepad in his hand, flipping through a few pages. He looks at the posse of gumbies, flips some more pages, only to proclaim, “Your droids, they’ll have to wait inside. We want them here.” Banshee scowls quietly "Zey are part of mein act. You vill haff zem here, or zey will-" She pauses, then scowls at Wreck-gar, realising what he said. "Arschloch!" Boomslang swoops down with Fusillade to land nearby. "I think if it's a trap it's gonna be the enemy who gets the surprise," he replies, eyeing the lone Junkion. Fusillade laughs nastily at Boomslang's quip. "No kidding. So, talent show. You gonna enter? I dunno if I want these people to realize I can do something other than blowing things up." Contrail is along for reasons that are unclear even to her. She has dragged three gumby Seekers: Ochre, Mauve, and Celadon with her, and the gumby comms op Discotheque, for reasons that are currently unclear. She reminds cheerily, "Never fight a Russian in winter, and never fight a Junkion on Planet Junk." Hardhead makes his way towards the entrance of the Talent show, he comes alone. He seems to ignore the Decepticons for the time being, content to watch the festivities put on by the Junkions. Wreck-Gar looks at them again, with a warm smile, “All right you princes of power, you Kaisers of Propellerhood, in you go. Welcome Fraulein Banshee, Mister Boomer-Lang, Miz Fusillade . . . ah, Contrail, how good is it to see you without your machine guns pointed at me. Mr. Hardhead, it’s good to meet you.” He’ll try and shake the hand off the Headmaster. Banshee smirks at Fusillade. "Go for it, vhy not? It'll be fun! Wreck-Gar looks at them again, with a warm smile, "All right you princes of power, you Kaisers of Propellerhood, in you go. Welcome Fraulein Banshee, Mister Boomer-Lang, Miz Fusillade . . . ah, Contrail, how good is it to see you without your machine guns pointed at me. Mr. Hardhead, it's good to meet you." He'll try and shake the hand off the Headmaster. Inside, the 42nd Annual Montgomery Burns Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence has been lavishly dressed for an event, with three levels of individual tables scattered across the floor, names in front of each seat. Guests have been arranged based on interests and experience, though a few spanners have been thrown into the works, like having an Autobot like Hardhead sit with some Decepticons. It's Junkion dcor, but high end Junkion dcor. In front, there is a large stage, with a black, brown, and grey curtain, seemingly stitched together halphazardly, but it's actually been intentionally arranged to compliment the other colours and fabrics. Near the front sits a podium with a microphone. To the left and right, there's a full orchestral-classic-metal-holographic band, ready to provide live music, holograms, or whatever may be required of the contestants. Junkion waiters and waitresses offer cobalt lithium cigars, cigarettes, energon, or otherworldly beverages, complimentary of course. Hardhead takes the Junkion's hand and gives it a firm shake. "Wreck-Gar, nice to meet you in person. You handled yourself well during the Olympics." He then makes his way to his seat, pausing seeing where the Junkions have placed him. "You have to be slagging kidding me..." He moves towards the usher and begins asking for another seat. The Usher begins speaking to the Headmaster in TV. Hardhead holds up his hands. "Fine..." He then trudges his way to his seat, deep in the den of the Lions. The speaker system says as a low drum beat begins to play, "And now, here's your host for the forty-second Annual Montgomery Burns Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence . . . Wreck-Gar!" The crowd applauds as the Junkion suddenly turns visible, having borrowed an invisibility power chip rectifier, or achieved it through some other means. Clasping his hands together, "Good evening, and welcome to 42nd Annual MBAOAFE, what a mouthful. I can see it; I really can see why we shortened that. Yes, this really is the biggest Junkion event of the year, and we're here, to witness all this year's incredible performances and the performers that will star in them. Now, we Junkions love to salute range, of course not the kind that creates collateral damage, no, the kind witnesses in the legendary Vanity Fair MBAOAFE Party. You Adrian, we're going to do it. As you know, this is my first year as a host, but that's not the only thing that's new this year. Everything is being downsized because of the recession. Next year I'll be leading a faction called the Jun. And due to cutbacks, I've been told that we can't afford an opening number. But I'm going to do one anyway!" Wreck-Gar lights up a cobalt energon cigar, and walks over to sit on a stool that has been placed there while he was speaking, "She packed my bags . . . last night, pre-flight . . . zero hour . . . nine a.m. . . . And I'm going to be high . . ." Fusillade's hematite lips pucker up into a moue even as she watches Hardhead grumble to himself as he settles down nearby. "Come to learn all our little secrets, eh?" she can't help but tease. She then turns toward Boomslang, "And what about you? Are you going to make your stealth system stutter and give us all astrolepsy? Maybe some knotting demos as a nod to your hyooman-built alt mode?" There has been a DJ booth in the corner that no one has noticed yet. Inside there, some vinyls are spinning without the needles set up. DJ Broadcast is watching everything that is going on. He opens up his chest cavity that has an iPod harnessed. Unlike most other Junkions, Broadcast was built like Frankenstein. He connects the bluetooth toggle to the iPod and smirks as he checks the DJ systems to make sure his microphone set up is engaged for later. Hardhead optics look over towards Fusillade, his optic bar flickers. "Secrets?" He studies her for a long moment, before looking at Boomslang. "I have noted that both of you faired surprisingly well in the Olympics." He nods in acknowledgment of their prowess. Looking past them, he notices Banshee. "Banshee, I look forward to seeing your artistic talents." He offers plainly. Banshee smiles to Boomslang and nods to him. "Danke shon, Herr Hardhead. It was entertaining. I... vill be doink somesink a little different this time, I hope you vill enjoy." Fusillade ohs quietly at mention of Olympics. There may have been forfeiture of a medal due to shenanigans on Saturn during her scheduled finalist match times. "I, uh." Boomslang looks around. He was just planning on escorting Fusillade to whatever crazy thing she was going to this time. Now he's roped into it. Roped, ha ha. "I guess I'll... hang on." He disappears with a high-pitched buzz. The speaker system for the place is engaged as Broadcast gets the permission from the grandmaster of ceremonies; aka Wreck-Gar. "You are listening to KNUJ with the Rock 'n' Roll Express! We seem to have just seen a vanishing Boomslang. And with that, I give you..." Music is now playing! When Wreck-Gar finishes his spoken word version of Elton John’s 1972 classic Rocket Man (I Think It's Going to Be a Long, Long Time), he puts out the cobalt lithium cigar that he had been smoking, and walks forward. A Junkion removes the ashtray and stool in the background, “That was not the performance you were looking for, so let’s move along, shall we. And now, here’s something that I think you’ll really like . . . Das Bomber, Fraulein Banshee, will take us all for a ride.” Hardhead tips his head to Banshee. "I am sure, I will be entertained. As the Earthers say, Break a leg." He offers as Banshee is called up to the stage. When Banshee's turn arrives, she steps up onto the stage. She's brought with her a full posse of 'Propellorcon' Gumbies - that is, Decepticon troopers who're taking after her anachronistic altmodes, and they appear to have formed something of a metal band. Her guitarist is based on a Ju-52, her basist is a Bf-109, her drummer is a De Haviland Mosquito she has an Fw-190 as a backing singer. Banshee herself has a huge metal-guitar with an angular design that, tru to her altmode, hints at both the Swastika and Decepticon insignia, without being either of them. She looks at them with a bit of a smirk, turning her attention to the crowd. "Meine Junkion Freunde, fellow Decepticons, Autobot vatchers. You haff all seen my talents at varfare, unt no doubt laughed at mein accent. But now I vill show you anothr talent of mein; I can sing. I vill be doink a rather different take on vun of mein favourite operas. Ein! Swei! Drei!" The band immediately begin to play some fairly hard power/operatic metal, Banshee taking the lead guitar role. She headbangs a little as she rocks, her voice still sounding like it would belong in fine opera as it rings out over the crowd. "Oh Varfather on high," she sings, unable to shake that German accent it seems. "I am calling you from the battlefield, and as I take my last breath - I call for the mightiest of miracles!" She struts down the stage headbanging along with a section of the crowd as the music continues. "For none but the brave, be he king or a slave, with a pounding heart in his chest, Will be worthy to rise and with the Valkyries fly - And ride to the halls of Valhalla!" She nods approvingly to the Ju-52 as he steps forward to just rock out with the lead riff, while she sings the backing vocals, stepping forward to continue singing. "Oh Varfather on high, listen to my prayer! I lived my life by your rules; Oh let death cover me now!" She grins as the rest of the band join in, her Mosuito drummer looking a bit like Animal from the muppets as he rocks out, in his own little world of drums. "For none but the brave, be he king or a slave - with a pounding heart in his chest, will be worthy to rise and with the Valkyries fly, and ride to Valhalla of old! "With the Valkyries, ride over the battlefield, Ride your horses and come to me! I'm waiting for you to take my soul, high in the sky, to Valhalla of old! Valkyries, ride over the battlefield, I'm dying and glad to bleed - Because I know today I will take my place with the heroes, in Valhalla of old! And now we reach the part Banshee has clearly been looking forward to; she takes her guitar in both hands and adopts a 'guitar hero' pose, ripping out a good, hard metal version of the 'ride of the Valkyries' riff itself. As the classic part finishes, she steps back to let the other guitarist sing a verse. "For none but the brave, be he king or a slave, with a pounding heart in his chest, will be worthy to rise and with the Valkyries fly - And ride to Valhalla of old!" Banshee steps forward now and sings two verses in German, somehow matching the gutteral language to the music! "Mit den Walkuren reiten uber das Schlachtfeld, Fahren Sie Ihre Pferde und zu mir kommen1 Ich warte darauf, Ihnen meine Seele, hoch in den Himmel zu ergreifen, um, Valhalla alter! Walkuren, uber das Schlachtfeld zu reiten! Ich sterbe und froh zu bluten, Weil ich heute weiss, ich werde meinen Platz mit dem Helden zu nehmen - in Valhalla alter!" For the last verse, with a much softer accompanimnt she takes a secondary role, singing backing for the Ju-52. What she sings is in brackets. "In The Halls of Valhalla I finally take my place (take my place) With my sword and my shield I enter Odin's realm! (Odin's Realm) I'm an immortal spirit now with a heart made of steel, (made of steel) With the gods on high forever I will live (I will live) and laugh at the fears of man!" With a faint, fading violin, the song ends and the stage fades to black. Fusillade scowls at the spot where Boomslang once was. "Bah!" She turns toward's the emcee, and oohs as Banshee comes up on stage. Perceptor is not one to attend events for the sheer purpose of entertainment, but when he'd heard a few Decepticons had decided to participate, it had piqued his interest. So, despite the -extensive- damage he had taken the previous solar cycle and the one prior to that, he has come to record this event for research purposes. It puzzles him a bit as to why the Decepticons would even care to put aside differences for something like this. Wreck-gar was an enemy, after all... The scientist sits down near the back, wondering how this will all play out. Banshee returns to her seat once she's finishd, looking slightly self-conscious Following the end of Banshee's performance, Hardhead stands and gives Banshee a loud round of applause which continues again until Banshee takes her seat. Looking around, the green Mech sits back down, relaxing more into his chair. Fusillade rub rub rubs one audial with a flicker of her optic closest to Banshee. "Beltin' it out, I see. Definitely benefits from more of an audience than painting." Banshee nods to Fusillade "Danke" The crowd erupts in applause after Banshee has finished, they are a complete mixture. Some are clapping politely, others are hooting, one shouts something along the lines of, “Take it off,” though it’s not immediately clear what he wants her to take off. Some hold up lighters, indicating that they want an encore. After a moment, Wreck-Gar returns on stage, “Wonderful, thrilling, there you have it, the first opera performed on Junkion by a Decepticon that I have ever heard of. And remember folks, this promises to be a night of firsts. The Chinese have a curse, may you live in interesting times, and we certainly do as next, Executrix Fusillade will dazzle us with her display of wingterpretive dance.” Banshee applauds for Fusillade! Fusillade fidgets in the backstage area as she waits her turn, alternating between her double-thrustered heels and toes to the beat of some unheard tune. As she does so, she actually begins unloading her munitions. Via some unspeakable contortion of scale, she hauls out three full-sized rotary launchers, each equipped with a variety of explosive flavors. "Whuff," she grunts to herself in relief, her steps lighter. She flashes a grin, and stalks toward the stage. The music begins with brisk, officious percussion embellished with sounds similar to hand cymbals, allowing Fusillade to mince into the limelight. Her wingblades are closed at first, but snapped open and flourished with slow, easy strokes on either side of her chassis, the metal edges cutting through the air with a lazy 'whoomp whoomp' as the light rhythm unfolds into martial pageantry. She crosses her right arm and weapon in front of her, with her left behind, pivoting on one ankle as she does so. Her pace picks up with the music's tempo, as she begins to incorporate ducks, jabs, and leans into her forms. A double-uppercut blurs into a dizzying qick figure-eight motif. The blur of lights thown over the whirling slabs of metal suddenly halt as a sharp beat cuts off into silence. Fusillade has paused in a crouching position, neck rolled foward to touch her gilded helm to the engine intakes of her knees. Her wingblades are draped on the ground in front of her, leading edges touching each other and forming a spade shape. A loud beat, followed by a quarter tone, simulating a reverberating echo, rings out, repeated slowly as Fusillade points a toe and slowly stretches it out, simultaneously as she raises the tips of her blades. That same toe is then swept wide as she spreads and rotates out the blades, still near ground level... and then she lunges into a ramrod straight upright position, her wingblades raised high. There is a rasping rhythm that buzzes, providing counterpoint to the strong four-four beat, evoking imagery of insects droning during the dead heat of summer on the savanna. Fusillade swishes her wingblades in front of her like a hunter clearing the tall grass before her. The beats begin to crescendo again in both speed and volume. Fusillade incorporates sweeps of the wingblades turned fans under her legs, first individually and then together! She whips the weapons around her head like a dervish, bending back in a limbo-worthy lean as the scissor over her belly and chest! With a supple flex of her torso, she somersaults in place, first backward, then to each side, and finally, forward. The air sings around her the entire time, cleaved by her weapons turned decoration. The frenzied nine-eight beat claps to a halt, just as Fusillade's heels do, and with a short, confident nod to the crowd, she strides off back to her seat. "Chyeah," she aspirates happily to herself. Contrail also claps for Fusillade. Hardhead stands and applauds Fusillade's performance, showing his gravitate. Wreck-Gar watches and when Fusillade is finished, he’ll applaud, as the crowd does, similar to the way they greeted Banshee. It’s not clear which they preferred as the applause seems more or less the same. “Wasn’t that something folks? Wasn’t she great? Well, we’ve had two representatives from the Decepticon Clan. How about an Autobot next?” He searches through the crowd, trying to pick out one, “Um, er . . . they’re usually all red or white or blue all over.” He’s having some difficulty spotting one. An overhead light shines, a spot light really, until finally it zeroes in on, “Ah, yes Hardhead, from planet Cybertron, or is it planet Master, I can never remember. Let’s get a big round of applause for Hardhead, come on up and show us what you’ve got?” Under his breath, he says, “This better be good or else the prize is going to Polyhex.” Perceptor hms, finding this quite interesting. Now this was a side of the Decepticons he hadn't seen. He takes note of a few things on a a datapad he's brought. When does he ever -not- bring a datapad, anyway? Standing and slowly making his way to the stage, Hardhead pulls out a folded piece of Earth Paper, his optics zooming in on the text, he clears his vocal circuits, before he reads, "Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! "Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death. Rode the six hundred." "Forward, the Light Brigade!", Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew, Someone had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while, All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian, Reel'd from the sabre stroke, Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them,Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well, Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made,Honor the Light Brigade,"Noble six hundred." With each passing word, Hardhead's voice becomes filled with sorrow, until the last words escape his vocalizer as nothing more than a whisper. He nods to Wreck Gar, "Let Polyhex have it. For today, we remember all the artists who have forfeited their life for this war. Bravely going like the 600 before them." At some stage of the evening, Perceptor may note that there is a datapad shaped like a silver plate sitting in front of him. On it is a placement card that reads Perceptor. In that sense, its no different than any other placement cards. But his contains a message beneath it, written in old Cybertronian. It reads, ‘Perceptor, just in case you forgot one, here is a datapad.” At the bottom, it’s stamped with the seal of the Junkions, a strange triange pattern with an outline of Junk in the middle, and is signed by Wreck-Gar. Fusillade tilts and listens, as she idly flexes one set of ankle servos. "Huh," she remarks to herself, but manages to just politely clap instead of cat-calling. Decepticons have difficulty recriprocating. Banshee nods as she listens. "Not a bad reading, actually." Wreck-Gar feels a shiver go up his frame. “That poem always gets to me,” he says quietly, and with a hand over the microphone. Emerging from the opposite side of the stage, he claps his hands, “Nicely done, Hardhead. That’s right folks, Hardhead gave that speech.” He’s a bit surprised by the performance, but clapping all the same. Being a crowd of Junkions, none of the performances have really hit home yet, no television or movie references, so the reaction has been somewhat muted, but since Hardhead is an Autobot, his cheers might be a little louder. Dem’s the breaks with a partisan crowd. “So, what’s next?” Wreck-Gar turns and looks at the teleprompter, “Really, but we alrea . . . okay, folks, it looks like our aerial ballet is not over just yet. Contrail’s got her own take. As always, Junkion, you be the judge.” He quietly steps off stage to concede it to Contrail, not that she’ll use much of the ‘stage’. Contrail apparently knows Survivalist Aerial Dance. It's a pretty weird thing for a Triple-Changer to know. The even stranger thing is that she has managed to dragoon three gumby Seekers into coming along with her to Planet Junk for a completely pointless Junkion-run talent show. One is Ochre, one is Mauve, and one is Celadon. All of them look nervous, but it isn't so much 'pre-show' jitters as it is 'I am definitely going to get shot at least once today' jitters. That is the thing with Aerial Dance. It starts with four and ends with three. Now, these days, the fourth usually survives. Usually. In the olden days, the crowd would /insist/ on a death, though. There is music, Decepticon music, harsh and discordant. The lights go up - a bunch of pink spotlights set up by a spotlight-loving gumby called Discotheque. It looks like he probably turns into a disco ball. The four of them take to the air, first in robot mode, and then, as the tempo of the music changes, in jet mode. They come at each other in pairs, each one' s wing a Coke-bottle's span away from the wing of the other, and as they pass, they look like stacked cards. Contrail is the first to fail, and thusly, Ochre, Mauve, and Celadon are obliged to shoot her. Despite three new holes in her fuselage, Contrail is expected to complete the next move, or else, there'll be another three holes in her fuselage! The next maneuver is a loop where they transform to robot mode at the top and form a pyramid - and make it, Contrail does. Ochre, though, is just a bit slow in grabbing Mauve's ankle, and the guns come out again. They split apart and free-fall, drifting like leaves on the wind. Just above the junky surface of the Twilight Zone, they transform back to jet mode and zoom up like Roman candles, with full military thrust, firecrackers in flight. Mauve, though, wobbles. He's having trouble keeping his ascent straight. It's an understandable stability issue. But the other dancers are pitiless, and the shots come for him, too. Celadon has been doing so very well so far. It is said that pride comes before a fall, but envy does as well. Ochre, Mauve, and Contrail all watch Celadon, hungry like Scraplets who smell energon in the air. At the zenith of their ascension into the air, they transform again, linking hands to form a chain - and Celadon just barely brushes Mauve's fingertips and then nets nothing but air. Before Celadon can react, they all turn on him, and their shots knock him out of the air and into a pile of discarded rust-red baby-carriages. Of course, the remaining three have to stick their landing, so to speak. Discotheque, meanwhile, has set up three arrestor wires between the spotlights. With a >thing< and a >twing< and a >tang<, Ochre and Mauve and Contrail snag the arrestor wires, transform, and end up hanging upside down from their respective wires, one knee looped over the wire. Celadon is a gently smoking wreck in the junk heap but alive. Ochre and mauve will pull him out later. The pink spotlights and the music fade. Hardhead nods to Banshee. "Thank you." He gives Wreck Gar a polite bow as he makes his way back to his seat. He stands watching Contrail and Crew's performance. He claps loudly for her, before returning to his seat. Banshee applauds Contrail loudly. Apparently there has been a strange datapad sitting near Perceptor's seat the entire time, but the scientist has only just taken notice of it. He picks it up uncertainly, staring at it for a moment, unsure of what it is for. Then he reads the note. "Er..." He isn't quite himself tonight thanks to getting beaten up by Galvatron and Shockwave, and is feeling a bit hazy. Well, he supposes that's considerate of Wreck-gar. Immediately, emergency Junkions respond. Two of them pick up the fallen seeker Celedon, with an ingenuous instant stretcher. They place two pipes roughly equal distant apart, forming four points to a square. A third Junkion presses a button and instantly, metal extends connecting the poles and forming a stretcher underneath Celadon. They carry him off stage. Meanwhile, Wreck-Gar makes an appearance, “Most of our audience may be too young to remember, but we’ve just born witness to classic Cybertronian Survivalist Aerial Dance.” “Now, ordinarily there would be only three survivors, but this is Junkion, and a Junkion never leaves a man behind.” It’s at that point that Celedon seems to be up and running again, the majority of his injuries repaired, and what hasn’t, his systems will see to on their own. “Next, we go Decepticon again, as this is quickly turning into a Purple Night. But that’s all right folks, that’s all right, we can adapt, we’ll adjust. Now, whether or not they’ll adjust to us is the start of the next great story. Anyway, here’s Boomslang to show us . . .” he peers at the monitor, “Engraving? I’m sure there’s more to it, so let’s find out, shall we?” Boomslang rematerializes suddenly with the same buzzing noise as before, but now he's spattered with blood and holding some kind of large animal tusk. "All right, since you asked," he says with perhaps a certain lack of flair, carrying the tusk up onto the stage. He ejects his combat knife from its socket in his wrist, snatches it out of the air and deftly begins carving a sort of subtractive sculpture. Thanks to his more-than-human speed, the process of roughly etching the ivory is over in mere minutes instead of hours, and one can already see details emerging after a few minutes more. Mindful of the time limit, Boomslang takes a small can of oil from one of his storage compartments and rubs it into the etchings to stain them an amber color before holding up the tusk. "Voila," he announces. The scene he's scrimshawed is one of the Olympic races, with Motormaster and Astrotrain smashing through the Autobot competitors. Sideswipe in particular is depicted tumbling through the air. Hardhead stand and claps for Boomslang. He looks around the room, hoping for another Autobot. Finally, he spies Perceptor. "Perceptor, have you gone yet? Surely you have a chemistry project or something to wow us? Make a potato into a battery?" His voice changes to a tone full of mirth, enjoying the chance to rib the Scientist. He then returns to his seat. Wreck-Gar returns to the stage for what may be the last time of the evening. Clapping as he steps over some of the blood that Boomslang had dripped as he went on stage, and mixed with a bit of the oil used as stain, the Junkion makes eye contact with a stage hand at the side, softly announcing, “Cleanup on aisle four,” before he reaches the microphone, “But that’s not all folks, I give you, Perceptor, and his . . . science!” The way he says science is ominous and probably modulated by Broadcast for extra effect as it echoes throughout the room. One Junkion in the crowd remarks sarcastically, “We’re all gonna die.” As Preceptor takes his time to get himself on stage, Broadcast starts to play something that might be familiar; but he knows everyone will be wanting to hear something about how she blinded me with science. He looks around as he waits for his next cue. He still is baffled about what just happened with Boomslang. Fusillade stares pointedly at Boomslang's return. "What?" Boomslang asks, looking up from his walrus tusk at Fusillade's stare. "Uhm, welcome back?" Fusillade then quickly glances back toward Perceptor's well-choreographed welcome. "Noooooo, not slanted in anyway at ALLLLLLL," she remarks about the Junkion favor shown to the Autobot. Perceptors attention snaps back to reality when Hardhead and then Wreck-Gar says his name. ...wait, he was supposed to -do- something for this? Primus... "Er..." He gets up and awkwardly makes his way toward the stage, then stands there equally awkwardly for a full few seconds. He looks terrible. His armor is still scratched and charred-looking. "Well, let us see what I have..." He mutters, searching through his subspace pocket. Finally, he draws out a spherically-shaped object about the size of his head that hovers out of his hand and into the air. It hums and panels begin to shift and slide, pulling away from each other to reveal a radiant ball of pale blue-colored energy within. Yes, it is very pretty, as the energy arcs to and fro between the floating panels. Perceptor enters a few commands into the datapad he's brought and a bright beam shoots out of the top and, once it has reached a specific height above the audience, it explodes into a large holographic map of the galaxy that spans the entire area. Planets float throughout the audience. And they are quite detailed, indeed. For example, if one looked closely enough at Earth, one might even be able to see the Great Wall of China in the eastern hemisphere. Fusillade leans in, propping chin up on hands as she begins mentally comparing the layout to her onboard navigation systems. Wreck-Gar sent Broadcast a text message with a request. So of course, the icon of rock and roll has to listen. "Ok, let's see what this is," mutter the DJ. He doesn't like to have his playlist altered. But then again, Broadcast is always an angry DJ. Hardhead looks as Nebulos passes near him. His optic bar flickers as he reaches out. "Home..." His hands pass through the hologram, before he shakes his head. "No...not now." Well, that hadn't been so bad...right? Perceptor ignores Contrail's comment. Or perhaps he hadn't heard her. "I designed this myself when I was at the Academy...before the war." He explains. Back when there was actually -time- for building things just for the sake of leisure. "I hope you all have found it quite enjoyable." Not that he cared whether the Decepticons like it or not. But anyway, he shrugs and keys the shutdown command. But it doesn't turn off. "Hmm, well that's odd..." In fact, the glowing sphere is getting brighter, and brighter. There is a blinding flash of light, flying debris, and suddenly everything is on fire. Perceptor is flat on his face on stage. Hardhead stands to his feet, and leaps the chairs in front of him. "PERCEPTOR!" The explosion shocks Hardhead and Duros out of their internal conversation, as the Autobot Headmaster charges towards Perceptor, his hands moving towards the Scientists. "You ok?" He asks as he tries to roll the mech over. Contrail pulls out a radio detonator and attempt to look fake-innocent. Perceptor nods weakly, though he is far from okay. He wasn't even okay in the first place. If the medics knew he was here, they'd throw a fit. But, he's had worse. He gets up slowly, wincing. "I am...all right, Hardhead." Wreck-Gar gets on the stage and shakes Perceptor's hand as the hologram concludes its program, "Well done, sorry about the curve ball." Now, about to move on, he suddenly ducks when he hears a loud bang, and sees a fireball overhead. Junkions are quick to respond with fire extinguishers, though one of them seems to pop out some kind of mechanical snake. Wait, the snake is actually inhaling the fire. These Junkions may actually know what they're doing. Once the fire is contained, and Perceptor is put out, Wreck-Gar will head heads towards the centre of the stage, "Well, how about that big finish? Pretty great stuff, ain't it folks?." And now," his voice echoes through some dramatic acoustical efforts on Broadcast's part, "the nominees are . . ." a spot light shines on each of them as they appear on screens around the event, "Banshee and her Ritt der Walkuren, Fusillade and her Wingterpretive Dance, Harhead and his Charge of the Light Brigade, Contrail and her Survivalist Aerial Dance, Boomslang and his Olympic Scrimshaw, and Perceptor and his Map of the Galaxy." A drum roll begins to play, "And the winner of the 2nd Annual Montgomery Burns Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence is . . ." Suddenly the displays only focus on "Banshee and her Ritt der Walkuren." The spotlights on the other finalists dim, and the crowd looks to Banshee, clapping their hands together. Wreck-Gar waits by the podium for her to come up on stage and collect the award. Hardhead steps back and nods to Perceptor. "Good. Good." He then turns and claps for Banshee. "Well done Banshee." Banshee blinks as the spotlights focus on her and her little band. She stands and makes her way to the stage, giving a bow to everyone. "Danke shon!" she declares as she takes the award. "I vould like to thank mein band, ze Propellercons, herr Wagner for writing ze opera, unt Domine for puttink it to rock music." She says. For a quic 'encore', she sings one of the Arias from th original opera, then resumes her seat Wreck-Gar presents Banshee with the award, and quietly steps off the stage, leaving it for her to make a speech. Fortunately, it’s brief. Once she finishes and leaves the stage, Wreck-Gar returns to the podium. “I hope you all had a good time. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Th-Th-Th-Th-Th- . . . That's all, folks!” Hardhead nudges Perceptor. "Come on Doc, I have seen Decepticons celebrate...trust me..things will get out of hand." He slowly makes his way towards the door. Logs, 2033
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