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Octane's Celebration

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Octane's Celebration

Who: Blitzwing, Blot, Blueshift, Blurr, Counterpunch, Durango, Focus, Fusillade, Octane, Tempo, Whirligig
IC Year: 2028
Location: Rusty Angel, Cybertron
TP: Non-TP

None


Summary: (September 2028) Octane's night of celebration over recent raid successes turns into a full on party, if nothing else, because of the well-enforced neutrality in Crystal City.


Rusty Angel

The main room is very large indeed, looking like it could seat upwards of thirty to forty Cybertronians if necessary. A quarter of the room is taken up by a stage and music booth, while an area has been cleared as a dance floor. The main area is filled with large, round tables, made of indigo metal flecked with shining titanium, each surrounded by five chairs, while most of the walls are taken up by booths for more private conversations. The bar extends along most of the north wall, behind which is a holographic display of shifting colors, surrounded on either side by row upon row of containers. Slammer, the bartender, stands behind it, idly polishing an already spotless glass.


The bar, large as it is, is crowded with carousing Cybertronians who are generally enjoying themselves in one way or another. Octane is, indeed, one of these. He's seated at the bar, beaming broadly to himself, as he raises large glasses of glowing, steaming, and smoking drinks in the air to toast himself. Strangely enough, though, the crowd around him is equally congenial as Octane has bought several others around him several rounds. In short Octane is feeling flushed with sucess and on top of the world.


The recent successes of Octane during recent raids hasn't gone unnoticed. Eventually he might feel a gaze boring into his back. Situated at one of the high tables, nursing a drink. There's a faint chuckle that escapes from time to time at one of the more boisterous outbursts from the triple-changer. If the prickle on his sensors doesn't turn him around, the clarion alto voice might. "Bravo, smashing success for yourself. And keeping a cut, I see."


Octane has been drinking heavily, it's true, but he isn't out of it enough to not notice the feeling of eyes on his back. He turns around on his stool, causing one nearby patron to duck his protruding wing, as he fixes a broad and proud grin on Fusi. "Just spreading the wealth around..sometimes it pays to do that!" *he turns to acknowledge an affirmative nod to the bar patron who recently ducked him before turning to Fusi and raising his glass again. "Want one?"


Fusillade's fingertalons tap on the glittery table, and she considers a bit. "Usually I'm the one buying the potent potables for troops after a raid, but..." She cants her gilded head to the side, and slips off the seat, downing the rest of the drink, and sliding through the dance crowd, dallying with a few of the fast courier jet mechs before settling at Octane's table. "Mmm. I'll take you up on that. Now. Let me think up my poison, unless you're inclined to pick something out for me?" She flashes rows of fangs, before stretching out one hand to tease upward on the trailing edge of one of Octane's long, slender wings.


Octane smiles in what he hopes in a charming way to Fusi as she takes a seat at his table. As she teases the edge of one of his wings he chuckles and turns to look over at the catlike bartender before raising a finger at her before turning to look at Fusi. "Oh, I have something in mind for you...one you'd like especially." Soon one of the bots that act as servers in the place come over with two tall glasses. It places one in front of Fusi and the other in front of Octane before moving way to recieve another order at the bar. Octane sits back and waits, expectant, as he watches Fusi.


Fusillade settles on the chair, and rocks a bit. "Hmmm, well..." the serving is plunked down in front of her. "I just had this!" Well, good match, Octane. "Good optic", she remarks, before pausing as she hears Blueshift's grumbling to himself. "Oh, what was that?"


Blueshift slumps at a table, muttering to himself. Nothing else matters! Nnnnngh! Femmes taking over operations! Shockwave and Fusillade think they're so clever! Well I'm better then all o' them!"


Octane leans forward in a little bow, taking a pull at his own drink, as he looks momentarily pleased with himself before he glances over at Blueshift. The look is at first curious and then dismissive. "Someone who's had too much already."


Fusillade pulls another draught from the beverage, optics gleaming with a white flare of light as the next bit of energon seeps into her system. With a broad smile, she coos out to Octane, before knocking back another third of the liquid, clapping it down on the table. "Excuse me for a moment, Octane." She slips off the seat, and then sidles over to the glossy blue armor of the space-going Decepticon. "Hiiiiiiiiii, Blue." she coos out, venom laced in her words as she snaps out hands to dig claws into the mech's shoulders.

Blueshift evades your grasp attack.


Octane nods in an accomodating way to Fusi, his good mood increasing at the smiling and cooing Fusi is directing toward him, before he takes another pull at his drink as he turns to watch Fusi as she scratches at Blue and, sadly, misses.


Blueshift ZEEPS out of Fusillade's range. Yes fellows he ZEEPS. "Oh commander!" he gloriously wails. "You have a command?" Happy Blueshift, he is the integrity of the Decepticon command. IE little :(


Blinking a bit, Fusillade stares down at her empty, glossy black hands. "Huh." The boiling rage at missing is quickly calmed down when Blueshift rocks back and forth and bellows out her name. At this point, all optics in this section of the bar on them. She freezes for a moment, before she unholsters one wingblade, and taps the flats of the weapon against her chestplate as she contemplates. "A command, Blueshift?" she queries, before shooting a predatory, mischievous look in Octane's direction.


Octane puts his glass down, returning Fusi's mischevious look with an amused one of his own, before he stands to his feet and makes his way over to look Blueshift up and down. "You could command him to stand up, but in his state he's probably not in a position to carry it out."


Blueshift stares at Fusillade. He puts down his drink, rests on the bar and looks hard at Fusillade. "Yes my master"? he utters, croaking on a load of energon that has probably gone off


Fusillade utters a rather charmed, "Awwwwww" and claps hands as she sashays back over to Blueshift. "That's so sweet, Blueshift. You do work very hard for the Empire, there's no doubt about that. As does Octane... you know, I think both of you could do with a nice oil rubdown...." And then that grin spreads a bit TOO wide, taking on the frightening leer of a barracuda. "From each other." Her face goes completely deadpan. Somehow, in defiance of Cybertronian weather patterns,thunder cracks outside to underscore the dead seriousness of her edict.


Blurr zips into the bar, stepping up to the counter and looking around nervously. Darn Wheelie! The wild child OWED him for this favor. This wasn't a place he frequented, and for good reason. Now Wheelie wanted him to relay a message to some denizen of this place. Of course, Wheelie was his FRIEND, and he'd do this for a friend.


Octane glances from Fusi to Blueshift and then back to Fusi with a look of confusion slides over her face like the non existant sun of Cybertron would've done before the thunder rolled. "That doesn't sound like a good use of oil to me. I mean...I'd have to charge him for it...and I probably wouldn't do it then."


"I know where you sleep, and I have the keys," Fusillade threatens.


Blueshift starts to stroke Octane. "Ooooh Octane, you know our masters, Galvatron's fist is MIGHTY" He emits"


Octane stumbles back from Blueshift as the Decepticon reaches out to him, the rapid backward movement causing him to bang his wings into several nearby patrons at Fusi, the Bomber of Doom, as his face becomes a mass of disgust. "His fist is, but yours is covered with...something! Don't touch me again; I'll need a polish now!"


Fusillade's face strains for a moment as she tries to suppress a guffaw. Her hand snaps up in the air. "HALT! I have decided that there is another task that you could perform, Blueshift. Perhaps you two will recall my mercy. We can save the oil for later. I always liked WD-40 better anyway." She mmms a bit, trying to think of some other awful way to abuse her power. She's never really done this before, and... it was kind of fun. And then a transport based mech sits on her. "REEEK! Mmmphle!" comes out from underneath his butt.


Blueshift looks about as if startled. "Aaaeeego!" He hops from his drink, looking warily. "What's going on!"


Octane turns around to gaze at the source of the curious noise before he turns to spy Fusi's feet sticking out from under the mech. He gazes, stunned, before he claps both hands over his mouth to prevent his amusement subroutine from engaging and resulting in a very nasty end for him.


Blurr eeps to himself as he spots Fusillade being sat upon. This wasn't going to end well, he wagered. All the more reason to find this guy Wheelie wanted him to find, and get out of here! Truly, it was a hive of scum and villany. And apparently, mechs who didn't look before they sat down.


The force of Octane's wings striking the transport was a bit much, it seems. The sanitation technician glances about in some confusion, although he kind of glares at Octane's snorts and giggles. He cracks his knuckles, and gets ready to get up, before his optic ridges jut up to the ceiling. With a bawl, he leaps up, pawing at his skiplate. There, with a vicious snarl on her features, Fusillade has attached herself by fangs and fingers on his seam. "I SAID, GET OFF!" before she kips up, twisting around to bend over and pick up her wingblades. At this point, she turns back to Octane and Blueshift.


Octane is suddenly struck with an expression that has shifted from amusement to the total innocence of one who has shocked and appalled at the behavior of the transport mech. He turns to look at the technician, shaking a reproving finger at the other, before he begins to chatise the bot. "Really now, such clumsiness! You should be more careful in such a crowded space."


Durango follows the blind one and the hot one into the Rusty Angel, which is /not/ the Steel Balloon. Durango's never been here before, but figured he'd try something new, eh?


It's not the Wild Surge, but it's a bar and maybe they have something good to drink. Walking in behind Durango with arms behind him, Focus enters, a calm, almost pleasant look on his face.


Whirligig blinks and looks around, scooting back a little to stay closer to Durango. She's social, of course... or as social as she can be. She tends to be pretty socially inept most of the time. And this isn't the sort of place she usually likes to socialize anyway, but hey... she likes to try.


The scene is a bit more upscale than the Steel Balloon, but when you have ne'erdowells in the establishment, any place can be fun to visit. Fusillade has just managed to claw her way out from under the bum of an overly large sanitation engineer. "I'm still recovering from battle!" she barks out, before mm-hmming to Octane. "You're one to talk, I saw your starboard wingflaps nail him in the back of the helm." She wobbles a bit, before firmly planting her weight on an elbow on a table top. "So, you got out of having to oil Blueshift," she gestures toward the passed out space specialist, "Celebrate like you MEAN it, for smeltin's sake, Octane." She smirks broadly.


Blurr is up at the bar, looking for someone Wheelie asked him to find. At the moment, he isn't having much luck. "Hi, haveyouguysseensomeonekindabigandgreenandkindablue? Transformsintoaloadingplatform? Ithinkhisnameis 'Lugnuts'?" He gets a lot of annoyed grunts in response. "Hm, thisisn'tworkingverywell," he muses.


Octane crosses his arms as his act as the great moralizer falls flat as Fusi states that she saw him knock the specalist into her. He glances this way and that before he walks over to his table, picking up his drink, before putting the glass to his lips and draining the whole thing in one go while gesturing at Blueshift before lowering the glass. "And I've been doing that since before you all came in!"


"Mm-hmm," Fusillade remarks, sitting back down. "Having to run all over the planet for raids really is aggravating the slop out of me, though," she admits, scooping up the coasters on the table and beginning to stack them up in a card house. "Glad you didn't spill any of the beans. The multi-pronged attacks have gone quite well." She appears ready to continue, before the Autobot contigent trundles in. "Oh hey, you have an audience now to make an aft of yourself. How many of those smoking ones have you had so far?"


Durango does what any self-respecting mech does when he first arrives at a bar...he walks up to the bar to get a drink. "Beah!" He doesn't express a preference. Turning to Whirli, he asks; "Want somethin?"


Focus steps past the door taking in all the sounds as he does. He swivels his head around and moves over towards the bar and Blurr. With a double click on his hip, a compartment opens up. He pulls out an extendable staff which he uses as a walking cane and closes the hatch. Tapping along, he lightly knocks into the back of Blurr's feet before approaching the bar. "Here we go..." he says with a smile, "Hello Blurr...excuse me." as he steps forward.


"Um." Blinking, Whirligig returns her attention to Durango, tail boom swinging when she turns. "Uh... well, whatever you suggest, I guess?" She flashes him a smile, still sticking close. Not so much shyness, but unease. "I mean, you know best, right?"


Octane slams the glass down, not actually breaking it, but causing the table to rattle from the impact as he turns to look at Fusi. At her questions she looks thoughtful for a moment before raising a hand. "I'm at...75 Energon capacity which corresponds to about 17 drinks. I'm not even close to being topped up!"


Blurr turns toward Focus, and he grins in delight to see a familiar and friendly face. "Oh, hi!" he greets in surprise, moving to let Focus up toward the bar. "Didn'tthinkthiswasyourkindofplace," he admits.


Durango smiles, and turns back to the bartender. "An' a Long Nebula Ice Tea." He takes a step back while they wait for drinks, preferring not to leave Whirli standing alone for too long. She looks nervous enough. And Octane looks drunk.


Focus hurms thoughtfully and says in a mellow voice, "No, this usually isn't. But I have been known to visit these bars from time to time. Primus says to help those who need help the most." He glances back at the decepticons and then back at Blurr, "I think he was meaning those over there." nodding back behind him. He rubs his hands together and smiles, "Besides, maybe they have some good tea here, hum?" He looks over at the bar tender and says, "Ah, bartender, a warm enertea if you have it. If not, just some warm liquid energon in a glass." He's sure he has some of that additive someplace on his person that spices it up nicely. Turning back to Blurr he says, "So you were saying you're meeting someone here?"


The warrens are a wonderful place. But still, every so often, the scum that lives there has to surface in order to find food that isn't of the turbo-rat persuasion. And surface some scum has. Some rather disgusting, smelly, oozing scum at that. With the odor of 'Skunk in a blender, mixed with yak urine' wafting through the doors a good minute before they open the form of Blot comes lumbering in.

Pausing to look about, as if thinking 'Why, this looks like a fine establishment to serve a fine gentleman such as myself' Blot grins and starts to make his way over to the bar.


It would turn out that Octane wasn't the one that Durango would have to worry about. As the tentative, meek words escape Whirligig, Fusillade frowns. And not just any frown, no. Those hematite lips draw down in a moue of epic proportions, of royalty affronted by sewage. Maybe it's just because Blot walked in. The words, however, are most certainly directed to Whirligig. "Wait..." The harlequin-patterned bomber twists around to peer at the heli-evac. "You can't be serious. Are you KIDDING me? 'You know best'? What. in. the. smelt. You're in a neutral city, in a bar guarded by the biggest bouncer this side of Eridani 7, and you're going to play the weak, helpless, UNSURE card?!" She chuffs softly to herself. "I feel sorry for you." Rapping her knuckles on the table, she challenges Octane. "That's all well and good, but let's see, how about something tart, colorful, and STRONG this time? I could go for some radium, myself."


"Well, IwaslookingforsomeoneWheeliewantedmetofind," Blurr tells Focus. He spots Durango and that new femme, the one he didn't know what her name was, and his expression drops slightly. What a great first impression he made, saying 'hi' and running away! Feeling a bit self-conscious, he has a seat beside Focus.


Octane nods briskly to Fusi before he turns around and strides over to the bar before leaning over to consult with the being the bar in a conversational tone that might be picked up by anyone standing near enough. The end result of this consultation is, however, that Octane comes back with two mugs in his hands before sitting down at the table opposite Fusi and pushing it across to her. "There you go. Let's drink...me from my mug and you from yours."

Ten Car Pileup...... A powerful mix of booster fuel, high grade energon, and pure alcohol, spiced with energy crystals from Gailerth. VERY STRONG!


Whirligig stands straight, her propellers spinning rather sharply on her wings. But she doesn't bite. Oh no. The entirety of her actions are influenced by the fact that... well, she's unaccustomed to places like this. Her wings twitch for a moment. Timid? No. Meek? No. "Hey, I'm not exactly used to places like this," she states, tone somewhat sharp. But it lacks that edge. She's just not a bitter sort of mech, and she's never been like that at all. "So... so... yeah." Great comeback. But confrontational she is not.


Focus lets Blurr go for the moment. He speaks to one of the bartenders and finally gets his warm energon in a cup. Moving back to the table where Durango and Co are sitting at, he bows to them slightly. "If I may request a seat here? Sitting by ones self in this place can lead to confrontation if one isn't careful." Of course he probably can and he takes a seat with his warm cup of liquid energon. Removing a small case from his hip compartment, he opens it, sprinkles some black powder a few pinches at a time into the cup and returns the case to his hip compartment.


Durango bristles at Fusillade's words, but he says nothing, lest he play into her hand. Besides, Whirli seems to be handling it well enough herself. No need to inter...oh, well...she started off well. The finish was kind of rough. Ah well, it's one of the things he likes about her. Although he can't help but wonder what devices are being created in Whirligig's mind right now. Devices of doom. Speaking of! The beernergon is here! Durango takes both and quickly offers one to Whirli, in hopes of distraction. "'eah yeh go!"


Shuffling up next to Counterpunch, Blot looks at the bartender and grins at him, clearly showing that he is here only for a good time and not for trouble (which may be a pity as some of the patrons might like nothing more than for Blot to be thrown out). He bellows, Blot's creator having only given him the voice levels of 'Loud' and 'Extra Loud', "Yah, I'd like a Crushed Minibot thanks. Heavy on the electrons!" After a pause he fishes around an internal compartment that seems to be threatened to disappear amongst the oozing slime and oil that covers Blot's form. The hand then comes back up to the bar and lays a handful of slimy credits on the bar with a *splat*.

Looking disgusted, the bartender goes to make Blot the cocktail he ordered.

Wait.. cocktail?!

A minute later when the cocktail entitled 'Crushed Minibot' is delivered in front of Blot, the Terrorcon looks at it disappointedly and comments to Counterpunch, "This was not what I was expectin'!" But since he paid for it he might as well drink it.


Blurr takes a moment to peek and see if any bit of the Crushed Minibot is orange and/or familiar looking. When he decides that Wheelie isn't part of Blot's order, he zips across the bar and scoots into a seat at the table with Durango, Whirligig and Focus.


There's a distant, almost sad look in Fusillade's citrine optics as she rests her chin her palm, staring at Whirligig. She just quietly shakes her head, and then returns her attention to Octane. "That sounds like a bit of a challenge. But, you're an idiot," she flat out abuses as she extends hands, to take BOTH of the roiling, glittering steins in hand, already getting to quaffing one of the strong beverages. She pulls away briefly, and leans forward, laughing low to herself. "OH, this is wonderful. Almost reminds me of a Midnight Borealis..." There's a few moments pause, before she leans back heavily in the seat, savoring hte warm ambient buzz that the room has taken. Blot's exudate wafts visibly in the air, causing her to peer suspiciously at the odious Terrorcon. "Suppose I should eventually get around to giving them orders."


Octane watches Fusi drain both mugs with an even expression, arms folded, as he shrugs very lazily. "That's not bad." He sounds like he's trying not to hurt feelings which, if you know Octane, means something has to be up.


Fusillade busies herself with licking the rims of the glasses. "Mmm? Didja say something, tanker?"


Whirligig gives her wings a very slight twitch, then looks back at Durango with a grin. "Hm? Oh." Hurray for distractions! The engineer is completely brought about by Durango, and she accepts the drink happily. "Oh, thank you, Durango." She grins, then takes a drink, her propellers giving a startled spin. "Oh, that's pretty good!"


Octane spreads his arms out to either side as he shrugs again. "I take fuel, I turn it into Energon, and the stuff doesn't work on me either way. I could be here for...oh, wait do the humans call it...weeks?"


Durango puts his bottle down on the end of the table that they're standing next to, which is now inhabited by Focus and Blurr as well. And there's even entertainment! This was shaping up to be a fine night all around. "Nectah of teh gods, Ai say!" He looks over to Blurr. "Not drinken?"


Focus isn't either, unless you call regular energon drinking. He takes a sip of his beverage and sits back in the chair swirling the cup around in his hand. He glances over at Durango and says, "Not everyone drinks to get inhabited Durango. Some are here for the social aspect this gives."


"Hm? Oh, nonono," Blurr insists to Durango nervously. "WheelieandIwentdrinkingonetime. Didn'tgotoowell." He leaves it at that.


Fusillade glances sidelong at the stage and crowded dancefloor from time to time, expression devious.


Taking the cocktail in hand, Blot leans over a little to study his drink. Maybe it really is minibot? It doesn't look like any minibot he's ever seen.. but maybe he can pretend. Bet Bumblebee would give a pretty good Buzz.

A few drops of slimy residue from out of his nasal sensors drip down into his drink with few small splashes, as he leans over studying the glass. Pausing to look left and right, ensuring no one saw, the Terrorcon holds his glass up to the bartender in a 'toasting' action and bellows, "Ere's to bein' at tha top of tha food chain. And here's to lunch, whoever it turns out to be."


Octane flicks his eyes from Fusi to the dance area and then back to Fusi. He doesn't see anything particularly interesting over there and he couldn't have missed something. What was that about?


Whirligig smiles, then settles to drinking as she looks at at her companions. She doesn't have much to say, but she's enjoying the company as much as she is anything else. Any previous irritation is gone, and her propellers are spinning just slightly on her wings, making lazy circles as she settles into a pretty comfortable position.


Durango sits across from Whirli, next to Blurr. "Ah well, teh each theah own, Ai guess. Ai find it 'elps afteh a long cycle oah two of bein' on duty." He glances over towards the other table. Nothing is going on there, which usually isn't good. At least Blot seems pacified..and Counterpunch looks to have joined Blueshift in the land of the lost. And not even a drink in!


Fusillade follows Octane's gaze, back to him, and then smirks wide. She finishes off the second of the glittering, scintillating drink, part of the room falling away from her -- and that felt good. She glances back over to the stage... It's the stage on the left that is going to wind up being the site of Fusillade's daring performance. There's a slight pause she flicks through a few music selections and bullies a few dancers into submission. The lights go down briefly, only to blaze back to life and sound with a driving heavy bassline. The Operations XO lunges onto stage, a supple flex of spine lending quicksilver grace to her thruster-assisted skim across the blackened surface of the flooring.


Focus just looks blankly up at the stage. He gives a small shrug and sips at his drink. He'll hold his opinion until 'after' the performance. Though he does lean a little closer to Blurr and says, "Can anyone go up and perform here?"


Blurr peers toward the stage blankly. "...." He stares toward the new main performance for a long moment. Then, he turns back toward Focus. "Ithinkso," he ventures. This place is very confusing to him, in too many ways to count!


Whirligig tips her head forward, listening to what's going on around her, looking a bit distant and distracted. ...then again, distant and distracted are pretty much Whirligig's callsigns. Attention span of a rusty lugnut, this one has. She's focused /mostly/ on her drink, humming a bit to herself. Performance? She totally isn't even looking.


Let's see. Fusillade is a Superior Officer. Blot's intelligence is 23. A smart person would refrain from making any comments regarding a higher ranking Decepticon and show complete respect. Alas, Blot isn't a smart person by any stretch. As Fusillade moves up to the stage, he bellows (sadly still only having two audio levels), "Yeah! Now things are startin' to get goin'. No one can best the Empire. Murder on the dance floor!" He bangs on the bar, sending slime puddles flicking over some patrons, as he turns to watch Fusillade prepare to entertain the masses.


A black femme walks in casually her black armor being lit by the lights while her chrome seems to reflect some of lights around her. She moved with grace and she moved with ease, each step in a beat. The chrome cable like hair which was pulled back in a pony-tail bobed along behind her. The only place that said her faction was on a peice of metal that mimiced a belt, with square in the center of it where a buckle would be and there imprinted a red Autobot symbol for all to see.

She walked over to the bar and pointed over to the bar tender with a snap of her index finger to him, speaking smoothly, "Th' normal, sugar."


The gaze of many (but not all!) began to settle upon her, and truth be told, Fusillade preferred it that way. Thinking ahead to the moves, she mmms a bit. Most dancers that came this way were doing it for a living, so depended more on being inviting. The Lancer, however, is unencumbered by such considerations, and her tastes veered more into that of dangerous marine predators. It's with the air intakes wide open that she spirals down to the ground, pointing one toe skyward. Flashing silvery fangs and snrrrling softly, she pivots. With a smooth flex of hydraulics, she rises again, before stroking hands upwards over one hip, to the small of her back, and unholstering one wingblade. A few of the bouncers stand at firmer attention as those spans slither over each other with a metallic whisk.


Durango is, sadly, already finished with his beernergon, and stands to get another. "Readeh fer anotheh, Whihli?" He is frozen, however, when he sees what's going on on stage. He stands there, staring, while waiting for Whihli's answer.


Counterpunch turns around and takes a look at his fellow XO climbing up on the stage. The DCI operative raises en eyebrow and smirks behind his faceplate. Oh this should be good. While playing with his glass he reaches for his waist and sets a small rectangular silvery box on the bar. The newest arrival does pique his interest.


Blurr looks quickly from Fusillade, to Tempo, back to Fusillade, back over to Durango, then to Blot, back to the unconcerned Whirligig, then finally to Focus. "Something'sgottogive," he says simply.


Whirligig blinks, lifting her head up to look at Durango. "Uh... I'm only halfway through this one, but thanks." She's smiling a little. "Thanks, though. Enjoy your second, Durango." And yet she's still not paying attention. Her mind's probably on something else.


As the bar tender slides her over the drink, the black's femme emerald optics are focused on Fusillade's performace. Not saying much, as she takes the drink in hand, and takes a sip. The bar tender walks over to her and smiles, "Will that be all for you Tempo?"

Tempo nods her head gently, "Thanks, sugar, tha' will be all." Then takes another sip, keeping her optics on the decepticon femme dancing.


Focus seems at least neutral at all of this. He sips his energon tea from his simple cup every once in a while and just watches the show. He looks down at the drink and stands up. Focus reaches down, sweeps his hand around for the cup and grabs it. He turns exactly towards the bar and grabs his walking stick from the side of the table where it came to rest. He taps his way to the bar and comes up next to Tempo. He says softly, "Greetings." while looking at no one in particular, just straight ahead. He sets the drink down on the bar and taps next it signaling to the bartender to refill the cup with warm energon again.


Blitzwing shoves a minibot out of the way as he enters, rowdy as Triplechangers almost always seem to be. In fact if there had not been a minibot to shove he would probably have brought his own.


Durango makes his way up to the bar, standing next to Focus. He waves the bottle in the bartender's general direction, and sets it down. He is distracted by the entrance of Blitzwing, as a minibot slams into him with a great deal more force than if they were simply over-energized and falling over. Durango, for his part, doesn't engage..it's a bar, things happen. He glances back at the table..Whirli seemed pensive, and Blurr outright worried.


Tempo's optics focuses on Focus, however as Blitzwing enters the room, and shoves some minibot out of the way, she mutters gently to really no one, expect maybe to her cup. "Big bad boys, always lookin' to away to make themselves look bigger, shove'in the weaker, must be away to show who is tougher, only lack of th' brain size."


Focus glances at Blitzwing as well. Seeing Durango handled like that, well, it deserves a paddlin, but this is also a neutral place and to fight here, well, it's not kosher. Focus nods at Blitzwing and says in a monotone voice, "In a rush?"


The first thing to remember about Blot is, he's disgusting. Physically disgusting, intellectually disgusting, and disgusting in every mannerism. His very existence is disgusting to many. Maybe if he had enough intelligence to take a good look at himself he'd be able to try and improve himself. But this entity that lives in his own walled off world of ignorance will no doubt never realise what a blight he is on all that is good and holy.

And so, being disgusting. Being the type of person who doesn't realise what etiquette is and what one should never, ever do. He decides to show his appreciation to Fusillade's dancing by throwing credits on to the floor of the stage. Hey, he's seen people do it on Monucas. It must be how you show your appreciation to dancers. Mustn't it?


Blurr is always kind of high-strung, it's in his nature. But the current situation has him tensed like a runner before a race. He's ready to spring into ACTION! All it's going to take is something to set him off.


Blitzwing spies Fusillade first off, as she is about the highest point in the room, so to speak, and lets out a whistle. "Oh, now that's not something you see very often! How come you never treat us to a show back on Earth, huh? Organic slime got you down?" Speaking of organic slime, he steps carefully over Blot's trail on his way to booze it up.


Fusillade bares teeth in a fierce, prideful sneer, causing some of the more timid organic patrons closes to stage to back away. The expression turns into a more lurid, sensual as she alights on the edge of the stage, leaning forward to kneel, chest to her knees. At that point, with a fair bit of control of arm and shoulder servos, she unholsters the second wingblade, and then slowly vanes both forward, until they're pointed fully in front of her. The motions are more decorative then offensive, the combat subroutines off for now. She finally makes out those credits from Blot, and gives them a quizzical look, as if asking them how in the smelt they got there. She looks slightly cross-opticked as she does this. She kicks backwards, hard, in an stunning rise and twist, all of the cooling lines and manifolds of her quartet of engines bared. The air quavers from the strain of the music and her unleashed afterburners as she holds herself aloft. She spares Blitzwing the thinnest of smiles to acknowledge him.

And it's with that flush of engines and antigravs that Fusillade pointedly ignores those around her, instead focusing inward. Rolling forward into a mid-air tumble, those black hand gauntlets frame and cup various lengths and curves of her cockpit, her gilded flanks, and the pearlescent sheen of her thighs, before she rears back, and gripping each elbow with the opposite hand, peels back the forearm stabilizers from her frame. Grazing lips over each of the razored edges, she bids the weapons farewell even as the music takes on a hazier, more ambient tone. And then, as the tempo rises in beat, she snaps out her hands, sending the smaller weapons boomeranging through the air with a wicked slice to embed in the floor below -- perhaps too conveniently close to Blurr.


Focus gets his cup refilled and kneels down next to Durango to help the mini-bot up. "Are you ok?" he asks as he offers his hand.


Blitzwing fills his cup with glowing pink and half-turns back to Focus, eyes on Fusillade. "If time is money then I'm a rich man, but the little ones should learn early to keep a wide berth if they want to grow up to be big strong Primes."


  • WHUMP* -- down come Fusillade's weapons, right beside Blurr. And off goes the fastest Autobot -- so wound up by this point, he's probably halfway back to Iacon before anyone even realizes he's no longer in his seat. ~~ZOOM!~~


Tempo takes a sip from her cup, though looking over the mech who go shoved with some concern over her face, her emerald eyes seem to peirce at Blitzwing for a moment, but she says nothing more. After all, what is the point to start a fight here. Pointless. She returned to also assist Durango, but as Blurr passes, she blinks, and her cable-like hair seems to follow the air-movement, as she raises a brow, "Talk about one revvin' mech, ya think a Shark'icon was on his tail."


Blot gets a little distracted from Fusillade's dancing as he hears Blitzwing and Focus saying stuff. He turns and his eye's lock on the minibot. "Yum. Yum." Yes, Blot actually says that. Yay for internal monolog said out loud. Now, if only he could get close enough to the minibot to snack down on him when no one is looking. Ever so carefully he begins to slowly edge along the bar.. thinking himself being very discrete. Though a pause is given as Fusillade starts throwing weapons about.


"Yeah!" Shouts Blot, stomping his feet appreciatively, "That's why Decepti Femmes are tha best! Able to stab a mech at 50 paces."


Counterpunch watches as Blurr blazes out of the bar leaving a vaccum of air in his trail. .oO(What a coward. Still...always impressive to see move.)Oo. The Decepticon orders another light drink as he continues to enjoy the show.


"Too much woman for HIM to handle," sneers Blitzwing with a low chuckle.


Whirligig lifts her head slightly, tipping her head to one side. She makes a face, then goes back to her drink. Maybe she's purposefully paying no attention. Hard to say. Her propellers twitch a little. She is not graceful or anything... she's big and bulky and... bleh. No use getting frustrated. She's an engineer, not a warrior. So, she smiles and settles back to her drink, taking out a strange little device, which she starts fidgeting with straightaway.


Durango leaps over the minibot on the floor as he sees the weapons go flying, and makes a beeline for the table, only to nearly be knocked over by the retreating Blurr coming the other direction. He pulls up quickly after realizing that there's been no 'actual' attack, and grudgingly returns to the bar to grab his beverage. He returns to the table, stepping gingerly around the new additions to the decor on the floor, and sits. "Whatcha got theah?"


Fusillade by this point had begun to instead move, to perform, for herself. With a whipcrack gyration of hips, she skids back down to her intakes, whirling each of the razored edged weapons scant centimeters over her visage. She almost balks as Blot's aroma wafts her way as he passes by, which brings her gaze back to those watching. Counterpunch was in here? The wingblades are snatched up into her palms, and she gives a tremulous, suddenly shy quiver of her shoulders as she risks a glance over one shoulder toward the DCI operative, orange-yellow optics ablaze with coy vulnerability -- or was that just part of the act? As she flicks the fully spread spans in front of her in a figure eight pattern, the music takes on a martial, stately, yet primal beat to it.


Blitzwing leans against the bar, thrusting his empty glass towards Slammer expectantly while watching Fusillade with one hand on his hip, just over his rifle. In case there should be trouble when Blot tries to eat the minibot.


Tempo shakes her head and takes another drink from her drink. Though only smirking at the Decepticon's proformance. Remember of her days far back. Ah well, even if she was to get up there, no doubt she be rusty. She hadn't seen a dance floor in vrons. Those the thought resulting in another sip. Spinning her back to the bar, leg crossing over the other and lazily now watching. Was she impressed, slightly, envious, no-- wishing she could be up there, most likely.


Whirligig blinks, lifting her head to glance at Durango with a smile. "Oh, this? It's not much. Um." She pauses. "To be honest? I don't know what it is. I just... started working on it. I think it's a sort of... modification of a device I was working on once before. PK and Raptor would probably have my props if they knew I was working on it again."


"Raptor? That F-22 Bot?" asks Blitzwing, not taking his eyes off of Fusillade's graceful gyrations. "I don't think you need to worry about him. Kid's got no sauce."


You know, Blot's actually enjoying himself. It isn't often that he gets to be in any public place for an extended period of time. Usually either all the people there quickly disperse, or they assign him a mission that sends him far, far away. But here he's got as many drinks as credits will buy him, people to talk to, entertainment, and there's even lunch walking around. Life is good.

Getting caught up in the moment, Blot throws a few more credits Fusillade's way (seriously just copying what he's seen on Monacus.) and shouts, "Show us your bombs!"


Why on Cybertron would he shout that? Probably cause he has an Int of 23 and thinks that juggling bombs would be a good dance move. Fusillade is a bomber, she must have bombs! And juggling them would be awesome.


Counterpunch looks into Fusillade's optics then looks away to re-scan the bar. Noticing Blitzwing's recent arrival and the Autobot Tempo with whom he is still unfamilliar. The DCI XO spins around towards Blot... .oO(Why oh why?...)Oo.


Durango tilts his head at the object. "Ai'm guessin' it's somethin' 'at could maike quite a'xplosion, eh?" He grins, while watching everything go down. His grin disappears as he glances up towards Blitzwing. "'ey now..'e's got 'is faih share'a spunk. Ai've seen 'im go up against some'a yeh finest with moah soot'n 'alf'a yeh 'ave."


Tempo now was ignoreing most of the conversation's around and just finishing her drink. Tossing a two credits into cup, giving it a tap on the bar, then slidding it down to the bar keeper, who took the glass as it came. Apparently she was a regular here, or perhaps /was/ is the key word. She slid her leg down from her other, and stood up, sliding her hands through her cable hair, moving it back into proper posistion before she turned around and waved her hand with a slight nudge to the side, the other hand on her hip. "See ya sugers later.." Is all she said as she placed her hand on the door to head out. There was a training area near here, wasn't there? Perhaps she go there and take a few practice rounds before she left back to Earth.


"Brave, maybe," allows Blitzwing, thrusting his pugnacious jaw out thoughtfully. "But dangerous? Hardly." He gives Whirligig another look-over, since she was the one talking about him 'having her props.' "Well, maybe to an Osprey."


Whirligig scowls just a bit. Or as much as she can scowl, anyway. Her propellers give one sharp whirlabout, but that's about it, and she doesn't give him the benefit of any sort of irritated retort beyond that. True enough, she was not built for speed, agility, grace, or even strength... but she had a lot of respect for her friends that were, and Raptor was one of them! "He's a good mech," she states pointedly.


Some snatches of conversation float toward Fusillade through the chest-rattling nightclub styled breakbeats. But Blot's bellow, despite the blast of horrific halitosis, carries with it a gem of an idea, as far as Fusillade was concerned. It was hard to tell if that sudden jerk to a halt was due to her nearly passing out, or if she was paying attention... and then, with a wicked smile, she tosses head back, and laughs sveltely, snapping both wingblades shut and magnetically locking them back to her holsters. "Well, well well!" At that point, she shakes each upper shoulder pauldron, causing the dispensors in her toros to disgorge out a set of 500 pound Mk 82s. With their tails clutched between each of her fingers, Fusillade mmm-hmms, and sizes up the bombs like someone surveying their poker hand. "Royal flush beats a pair, no matter how big they are." She's poised to pitch one set when there's a trampling stomp of a trio of bouncers that dogpile her. "OW!!!! Get offa me! I have to have room to STOW THEM AGAIN! I wasn't gonna throw them, honest!"

Well, looks like show's over. Shame.


Blitzwing is distracted by Fusillade's revealing her ordnance. He applauds raucously. "Good show! Yeah! Great bombs!"


Tempo hears the steps and quickly spins out of the way with a quick side-step, spin. She stands to the side and lets the big boys take out the decepticon femme and shrugs gently. What else was this black femme gonna do.


Blot can't help but overhear Blitzwing and Whirligig's convo. He says, sure they are interested, "Raptor? Meh brother and I, we made stew from his arm! He tasted like crap. Though maybe it was his bad arm. I'm more of a wing mech.. gotta try that next time."

He looks back over to the dancing Fusillade and watches as she produces her explosives. He cheers, oblivious to all the bouncers running and jumping on her. What an ending. Got to love the Empire. Get to blow things up, eat strange aliens, and then kick back at the end of a hard day and watch some bouncer frowned upon dancing.


Durango makes a start like he's going to stand up and do something about Blot; he gets as far as standing up before there's a ruckus at the stage, and he sees Fusillade being escorted off by a few bouncers. He softens a moment, and can't help but chuckle. Then, he does something he's probably never done for a Decepticon before. He starts clapping.


Whirligig tilts her head slightly, glancing towards the stage curiously. Of course, there is that little tiny part of her somewhere in the back of her mind that is, naturally, just~ a little bit jealous... okay, so a lot jealous, but what can she say? With her monster wings and a tail boom that gets in her way no matter which way she moves... she could /never/ move like that. Nonetheless, the Decepti-femme is very talented and she's all the same impressed. And she does smile a little, and feels /just/ a bit bad for her when her performance gets cut short.


"Oohn, hey there," Fusillade says to one of the armored carriers, reaching out to squeeze his skidplate. Embarrassing to be cut short, but at least the mechs sitting on her this time weren't garbage trucks. She gets hauled off, arms in the hands of two of the handlers, pigeontoed. They unceremoniously dump her in a seat, but at least it wasn't an outright kicking out of the door. Yet. "Whaddya mean you're confiscating them? Oh hey, thanks, can you get me a Hematite Sunrise while you're at it?" she asks their broad backs. She then boggles a bit at some of the clapping.... and immediately grows suspcious.


Tempo shakes her head with a smile and heads out, no point in staying when there was no show, or a show to be given. At least she could spare a bit more time on Cybertron before she left for Earth once more.


You receive a radio message from Tempo: Nice dance, sugar. Ya got good balance to bad those big boys didn't like ya last bit.

You send a radio message to Tempo: I suppose they need to make sure they have somewhere to work. Not like they were armed. But I don't think they were hired for brains.

You receive a radio message from Tempo: Haha, Sugar, I think tha' is why we were made. Mechs ain't suppose to have brains, and if they do have 'im, they they be short a few screws. Ya did a nice job, sugar, tha' is all I really wanted to say.

You send a radio message to Tempo: Mm. Thank you, then. I tend to do everything with ah... zest.


With things having begun to quiet down, and with almost all his credits having been tosses up on stage, Blot turns his attention back to the bar and says to the barkeep as he lays down what money he has left, "Give me whatever this will buy. Put it and whatever left over drinks ya got in a big bucket! And put it in front of me.." Looks like Blot's decided to end his session here in a spectacular gulp.


Durango watches as Fusi is deposited in a chair, and turns back to the table. Whether it's her attention-span defecit, or that Whirligig really doesn't enjoy being here, is hard to tell. One way or another, he gets the feeling that it's time to head out..Blurr's run off, Focus has disappeared into the crowd, it's just them, and she's been a trooper to even have stayed this long. It'd be bad form to make her have to ask to leave. "Say, Whihli.. Ai'm done with's'n..if yeh wanted teh leave, Ai'll..uh..Ai'll walk yeh back teh base? I mean, if yeh want, 'n' all..not sayin' yeh can't get to base yehself..."


Fusillade doesn't sulk for too long, and slips off of her assigned seating. She leans over to pull up the blades she had thrown from her elbows, and snaps them back into her tailfins. She watches, in wonder, Blot's ordering protocol, but keeps her distance. She holds up the edge of one wingblade to her olfactory sensors to shield them from the stench.


Whirligig smiles a bit. "I'd like heading back with you." Finishing off her own drink, she stands up and dusts herself off, very careful not to let her tail boom or wings whack anybody who's gotten too close, again thinking of how she needs to get that /fixed/ eventually! "Shall we?"


Blitzwing sidles away from Blot as well, not knowing what it might do to him; and by extension, to everyone else in the room.


Durango makes a motion for the door. "'ell, c'mon'en, befoah Blot gets blotted." He didn't want to know what that would look like..let alone smell like. As he walks towards the door, he makes a slight nod towards Fusillade. Bot or Con, it took cajones to get up and put one's self out there like that. He chuckles slightly at Blueshift's passed-out form as he reaches the door.


Whirligig flicks back her tail, then trots quickly after Durango, propellers giving a few lazy rotations as they go.


And as the bucket of swill is presented before Blot, he transforms into creature mode and waddles off with it, pausing to dip his muzzle down into the bucket of alcohol and drink from it.


Later in the night reports might come in of a Terrorcon breathing fire and setting itself alight. And perhaps falling down Magnaron Crater. But no one really cared, thinking good riddance.

--End--

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