| abstract
| - Six Lasers - Bar Moon That's no moon. It's a Bar Moon. Roughly a quarter the size of Earth's moon, Bar Moon is one of three Nepsan Lunar Satellites. The Moon has no breathable atmosphere, but a massive indoor city covers the entire surface. The city is one bar after another, ranging from safe, nearly family oriented pub and grills to sports bars to raunchy strip bars. There isn't a liquor for any alien species that one can't find on this moon. The one combining factor is that every bar has televisions set up to watch the Olympic games. Advertisements and tourism info booths are set up for those seeking transport to other attractions. Bar Moon is a major transportation hub, second only to Grand Central Station, with shuttles and cruise liners often leaving for most of the attractions. Artificial gravity wells keep the gravity close to Earth's, though after chugging too many back you might not notice. In one of the bajillion bars on Bar Moon… Contents: Hardball Outbound Enter Hardball, walking along the streets of the Bar Moon, not entirely sure why he decided to be here, of all places, but deciding that a quiet nook in a dingy bar where he can get quietly drunk suits his mood just fine. Outbound has been here on the Bar Moon for quite some time. Finding a mercenary to partake in a bit of extra dirty work for his own private shemes is proving to be a bit more difficult than he'd thought. If only there were more brains among the standard 'muscle'. Oh well, such is life it seems... Keeping busy in spite of the rather sour luck the infantrymech has found himself a nice little roost at one of the many bars, this one specializing in Cybertronian beverages. The Decepticon takes a seat up front and within moments a datacomputer unfolds from a subspace portal within his left forearm and his right hand goes to work typing incredibly fast, as streams of data speed across the screen. "Decepticon Highgrade," he orders simply enough, having grown rather fond of the drink. Hardball steps into the first place he finds that serves Cybertronians, and comes up short just inside the entrance. "Great. This place serves riff-raff." He growls to himself, before walking up to the bar itself and ordering a drink. He doesn't actually say what kind, being one of those hardy souls that will drink whatever is put in front of him. If having an Autobot walk up and sit almost right beside him was something that Outbound found distasteful such was competely lost in his total lack of a reaction. In fact, Outbound doesn't even seem to notice that he is no loner alone at the bar... Indigo optics scan over line after line of information that pops up on his data-screen, and after a moment the Decepticon laughs to himself, a somewhat disconcerting sound to most. "Excellent... If I can take advantage of this opportunity effectively then precious little will stand in my way," he muses to himself, apparently equally unconcerned with being overheard. "Oh, I don't know." replies the white and purple 'bot standing very near the Decepticon. "Usually the presence of the Autobots are enough to throw a socket spanner in whatever schemes you cook up." He takes the drink placed in front of him and slams it back. "Always made me wonder why you tried at all." Hardball smirks. Outbound continues to type away upon his datacomputer, almost as if he had been blissfully unaware of who it was that Hardball had intended to be addressing. It is not until he finishes typin and there is a ringing chime from the computer followed by the activation of a blinking orange light on the side of the screen that he does remove his attention from the device long enouh to reply. "Not in my experience," he says, almost dully as a sharp-fingered hand reaches for the glass that had been sitting before him for some time. The shot is tossed back, and then the glass returned to the bar. "Another," he orders before he begins to type again. Hardball just chuckles softly. Well, you could call it a chuckle if you were feeling generous. It's more of a 'heh' noise. "Oh, and you have a lot of that, do you?" He says, pointing to the bar in front of him for another drink, of whatever it was he drank the first time. He sits down then, leaning heavily on one arm while he angles himself to face the Decepticon. Outbound shifts slightly, moving the forearm that houses his datacomputer out of the optic range of the Autobot who seems to want to communicate with the enemy on this neutral territory. "Sufficient experience," he replies, and then another beep emits from his computer followed by a flashing gree light which is immediately addressed. His optics flash briefly as he looks over whatever incoming message he had received. "Excellent... That saves me some trouble," he notes with a smirk before tapping the screen in order to save, close, and encrypt the message. "I have fought for the Empire from the early days. Sent a great many Autobots to the scrap-heap in the sky... It brings little joy, but it was for the best." Outbound decides to take his newly arrived drink in hand and have himself a nice little sip. "If you say so chum." Hardball replies, shrugging and turning away slightly, so he can take his time with this drink, taking a swallow of it. "Though I've sent more than my fair share of Decepticons to the scrap heap." He pauses, and shrugs. "Some to the dustbin. Oh, and if I really wanted to know what you were trying to do on your datacomp there, I'd rip your arm off and let Perceptor figure it out. Since I am not doing that, I don't really care." "Good, that will save you the unfortunate hit to your ego when your attack plan fails to survive contact with the enemy..." Outbound replies nonchalantly, his optics flashing with each uttered syllable before he takes another sip of Highgrade. "You do not look familiar," he notes after a beat, idly wondering if the other mech had also spent several centuries at a time in stasis. Hardball has spent centuries out there doing things. There is a rumor he's nearly as old as Kup. "I didn't think you knew who I was. Hardball." As if that's supposed to mean something, as out of the loop as the close-combat fighter as been for so long. "Also - no plans ever survive contact with the enemy. Not even yours." He takes another sip of his own drink. "Touche`," Outbound replies. "One of the only hyooman sayings that I have found makes it into my own repertoire fairly often," the Decepticon notes, not seeming to mind the return volley. "However the success rate of my own plans proves one thing... Of all of the weapons of the warrior it is the processor that elevates mere fihting to glorious victory." "It also proves how young you really are." Hardball says with a smirk. "Old age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill." He downs the rest of his drink and orders another. "Something the humans say that /I'm/ rather fond of." He turns his head to consider Outbound more fully for a moment. "And surprisingly true, all things considered." "That being said I can only surmise that I am in an even better position than I had originally thought," Outbound says, his optics flashing after he turns his head to face Hardball. "Your drink is on me. Your conversation skills far surpass the majority of Decepticons with whom I typically associate. We are still enemies however," explains the Con as if he even needed to make sure that was still clear. "Oh, we are? Could you put that in a memo and title it 'Stuff I already know?'" Hardball would roll his optics if such a thing were possbile. "You're not a bad conversationalist for a Decepticon. I wasn't aware any of you knew words of more than two syllables. I'm not even sure any of them can actually string a complete sentence together. Still...thanks for the drink." Outbound scoffs as he lifts his drink, but says nothing of Hardball's sarcasm as he instead decides to forget it by shiftin his attention to the flavor of Highgrade. Mmm-mm, good. "You would be surprised. There are many Decepticons capable of intellectual conversation, excellent strategy, wisdom... The truth is simply that they are not the majority. Within the ranks of the Empire there are those who lead, or act independently for the most, and there are those that are led who you will typically see on the front lines of combat doing most of the dirty work. It is a heirarchy... The heirarchy that ensures the survival of the fittest over the long term." Hardball shrugs. "And doesn't make much room for letting others live and let live, even if they don't share your philosophy. Your leaders are tyrants and your foot soldiers are brutish thugs who would be in prison for a variety of crimes against others if they weren't serving in the twisted form of an 'army' that you claim allegiance." He takes a swallow and frowns slightly. "Which, unless my memory circuits have started to fray with old age, is what started this whole mess in the first place." "And so you have tyrants who crave power getting exactly what it is that they crave. You have brutish thugs who instead of wasting away in prison cells are given a purpose, so that their natures, lesser as they may be, are not wasted," Outbound offers coolly. "In the end the long-term is what always tells which side was meant to survive, and which was meant to perish. It does not matter who was 'right' in the old-fashioned terms, but rather who had the foresight to act on what would ultimately prove the most advantageous, or at least the most enduring philosophy." The Decepticon's datacomputer chimes, and Outbound's indigo optics return to the screen which he hurriedly begins typing upon once more. "You know that's a fool's argument, right?" Hardball asks, taking another swallow. "They use that power to brutalize and terrorize those weaker than themselves. They order their 'thugs' to commit atrocity after atrocity, all in the name of more power, more influence. Never stopping, never realizing that if they are ultimately successful, that if they do bring all that is known, the entire galaxy under their sway, they risk dooming the very philophy they fight for, because once it is stretched to its maximum, it will turn upon itself and bring ruin to all under its sway." He glances down at his glass, a somewhat suspicious look on his face. Outbound tap-tappity-taps upon the touch-screen of his computer for a few moments after Hardball has finished speaking in silence before another soft chime sounds, and he lowers his hand to the bar where the remainder of his drink resides. "No more a fool's argument than that which is propogated by those with whom you ally yourself. The universe craves balance, always... If one side, one philosophy grows entirely dominant then it will endure for a time until something happens to bring the universe back into balance again by again giving power to the once defeated ideal. It is a cycle, and all of history of nearly all surviving races within the universe support this fact in one way or another." A pause and Outbound gulps down a bit more of the contents of his glass. "So even as I speak in support of my alleigance I digress, for in the end the only truth is that neither side will ever truly win. I choose to fight for the side that I most sense will emerge victorious in this particular phase of the cycle. No more. No less." "You use that word 'balance.'" Hardball says, frowning slightly. "I do not think you truly understand what that means - nor what the Autobots are truly fighting for. Not peace. Peace would be too easy...and too nebulous in a galaxy that contains humans, quintessons, and whatever else out there. Freedom. The freedom from fear. From tyranny. From the worry that I might die tomorrow, just because some fool with a big gun decides to shoot it through my house. From the fear that I might be enslaved, just because someone needs to build a tower to his own mis-placed sense of importance. The Autobots will win in the end...because we know, more than the Decepticons, just what stakes we're fighting for." "I do not live in a state of fear. I do not live in a state of worry. Freedom is of the processor... You think free, you are free. External circumstance, whoever believes they control you, none of this is truly relevant. If one still thinks of freedom in such mundane terms as those of the chassis then they will never be truly free. A law is imposed, registration is demanded, vid-recorders are on every street corner... That may shackle the chassis, but the processor? No. True adaptability to every circumstance that comes one's way is the truest freedom one can ever achieve. Not a particular ideal for as long as said ideal survives before the inevitible change," Outbound says as he continues after setting his glass down to resume whatever he is working on via datacomp. Hardball stares at Outbound for a long moment. "You sure you're a Decepticon?" He asks, before turning back to his drink. "I've been around a long time, Outbound. I've seen Decepticons get slagged just because they were ordered to fight. I've seen their 'superiors' turn-tail and run, abandoning the field, leaving those same warriors to die, just to get away. I've seen Autobots fight to the death against impossible odds, having /volunteered/ to give up their own sparks so that their comrades might live. To buy their friends the time needed to escape. You speak of freedom of the spark? Can you look me in the optics and tell me that you truly have that in the Decepticons? That the average 'Con has a choice in their lives?" Outbound lowers his forearm slightly, leaving a line of text unfinished at the question posed by Hardball. The pause is longer than any other that had transpired without being for the specific purpose of performing some other manual task. In the end he lifts his arm and begins typing again as he speaks, "No. But not everyone deserves freedom initially. Contrary to the belief of some," he muses. "Freedom is for those who seek it. I find freedom fighting for the Decepticon cause because I seek it. Seek balance within my current situation, on the side that I fight for. Seek, and I find. Others who do not seek it never find it, and so their fate is not their own, and by virtue of the state of their own processors, their own outlook, their inability to adapt they meet with an end on the terms of another rather than their own. That is the 'average' Con." Outbound smirks then, his optics flashing as a moment. "Funny that you should mention that... I would as easily be an Autobot if I thought that they would emerge victorious." "The Autobots are going to win." The way Hardball states this, it is as though he's not giving an option, but a fact. "Not right away, and not before many more sparks are extinguished on both sides...but we will win. We have something that the Decepticon cause, however based on strength and power, will never ever have." He grins slightly. "Not superior firepower, or tactics, or numbers. But dedication to a cause that is greater than we are individually." Outbound smirks, and a light shrug is given. "Perhaps... A true power, occult as it may be," he agrees indifferently. "Either way, I know that win or lose I will continue on. In that there is all of the peace of processor in the universe." Rising from his seat, Outbound pays his tab while the forearm mounted datacomputer collapses in on itself and slides into its subspace hold. Without further adieu, the Con takes his leave. "Heh." Hardball says again, as he finishes his own drink, though clearly with no desire to get up. "See you 'round, 'Con."
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