Ep .5 - Texan Wastes - 'Pop Cans' - Closed

Somewhere along the line the word 'unacceptable' had worked its way into Moonshot's working vocabulary. Offhand he couldn't remember just where, nor was he sure it really mattered in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was the fact that he couldn't escape that word when things inevitably began sliding Pitward. It danced before his optics like some ghost of times long-passed, an inescapable reminder of just how much he'd had to grow simply to survive, and of how far he still had to go. The white mech was, if only for the moment, Unacceptable. Unacceptable walked hand in hand with vulnerable. And vulnerable was a close cousin to dead.

A warning click from his weapon dragged Moonshot kicking and screaming out of his steadily-darkening thoughts. What looked like half his impromptu target range had simply vanished since he'd mentally checked out, reduced to its component subatomic particles and left to scatter on the faint breeze. It was, he thought with admirable detachment, not a half-bad spread, all things considered. Sure, his aim was... well, his aim would've made ole Flashpoint bust something vital, but missing by single-digit degrees was something he could tolerate. More importantly, it was something he could fix.

He'd just raised his weapon and begun trying to work out the kinks in his coding when an entirely-unexpected ping sent him scrambling for nonexistent cover. Questions, evasive subroutines and more panic than he'd ever own up to vied for dominance in his processor, a harsh, discordant clamor loud enough to make his head ache. End result? Moonshot stood there looking baffled, blaster's barrel hovering uncertainly in mid-air, and stared until he was *absolutely certain* he hadn't finally succumbed to madness. Nope. That really was a tiny little jet swirling about overhead, and yes, she really *had* just willingly initiated contact.

He'd be an idiot to miss an opportunity as unique as this.

It took him longer than he cared to admit to get a lock on the circling plane's frequency, even longer to ping back a hesitant greeting as clouded with glyphs for 'wary/threatened/cautious' as hers had been layered with soothing ones. Beneath all the neutralist paranoia, though, Moonshot couldn't hide rampant curiosity.

Of course he was the only mech on this planet or any other. Get with the times, silly femme!

In all seriousness, though, Airazor was essentially correct in thinking him alone in his own little world. For all intents and purposes he had been, at least until she'd so helpfully reminded him that there were in fact other Cybertronians still in existence. Hot on the heels of that realization came the harsh reminder that said other Cybertronians probably wanted him dead, and that he'd managed a kiss from Lady Luck. If this femme had been a Decepticon- or even a more martially-inclined Autobot- he would've been dead in an instant and no one the wiser. Unspoken appreciation underscored his words, softening the edges of a voice made harsh by disuse.

"Yes, and thank you, but you're entirely incorrect," The gunner grumped, casting a baleful optic towards the scorched brush about him. Others might see destruction; he saw only the places he hadn't managed to blow sky-high. "There's still vast room for improvement. Then again, that's why I'm out here." His gaze flicked back towards Airazor then, settling briefly on the insignia worked into her chestplates. He'd seen that particular face before, but never at these close quarters. (Or, he realized with a gulp, on someone *alive*.) Hopefully she'd forgive his ogling. "What brings an Autobot this far from the front line?" Unspoken but obvious: And peacefully, at that?

"And I suppose that means you're contractually required to recruit me to your cause?" The words were out before he could think to bite them back, a low, hissing rasp of sound made harsh by equal parts frustration and bitter disappointment. On some level he'd known he was damning himself by coming here, courting disaster by staying put, spitting in the face of every tiny scrap of wisdom he'd managed to accumulate over the vorns and he fragging well DESERVED to have his happy little dreamworld torn down around his audios for being so utterly glitched in the head- but none of that made finally hearing it any easier.

Nor did it make snapping at the first friendly allied face he'd seen in vorns any more excusable. Stubbornly ignoring the little voice in the back of his processor- why, oh why did his newly-discovered conscience/sense of self-preservation have to sound like that slag-sucking 'con back at the shuttle?- the white mech ex-vented and tried again.

"...That was uncalled for." A moment's pause, just barely long enough to feel awkward, then- "-Look. I'm sorry. It's been a very, very bad orn. Can we try that again, with less snarling on my part?"

An uninterrupted round of target-shooting, a chance meeting that hadn't gone to the Pit in 2.5 nanokliks flat, and now an opportunity to make up for his admittedly-terrible first impression? If this streak of good fortune kept up Moonshot might just have to start believing in luck again. For now, though, a brief expression of wonder and a rusty attempt at a smile would have to do.

"Airazor. Right. I'm Moonshot and, as you can probably guess, I'm slag out of luck. Seems to be my default state of existence."

The femme's question set his proverbial hackles on-end. His first inclination was to make like a clam and shut up, ignoring the query and everything that motivated it, but that 'play nice' directive was still in full force. Fine, fine.

"I haven't been," He muttered at last, reluctantly subspacing his weapon. "I managed to crash-land in a neutralist's front yard. Poor femme's been stuck with me for a fair few cycles now. Too many, I'm sure."

Airazor was right, whether she realized it or not: He was young, and in true reckless youngling fashion he thought himself invincible. Why else would he be out here blowing the desert to pieces, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn't be found? What the white mech really required a good aft-kicking and some perspective on this whole 'war' situation, but Moonshot himself remained happily oblivious to that fact. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him, right? ...right?

"I'm doing alright." A brief image of Cleaver at her most disapproving flashed through his processor, making him hastily amend his words: "*We're* doing alright. Better than most neutralists, anyway. I... don't know of any shortages, but that isn't to say there aren't any." There was that 'young and purposefully ignorant' bit again, come back to bite him in the aft for, oh, the third or fourth time that day. "I'll... I'll ask, though."

An unwanted and entirely unexpected thought chose that moment to rear its ugly head, sending a wave of mingled worry and frustration through his field.

"...I suppose information is out of the question, isn't it? Nothing tactical, honest, just... Need a designation or two."

He really, really didn't want to open this particular barrel of petro-rabbits. Not here, not now, not with an allied mech, no matter how friendly she was, not at all-

"Yeah." Primus, the word sounded strained and stretched almost beyond comprehension even to his own audios. He should've practiced this before coming out here... Or, better yet, never mentioned it at all. But that would've been the intelligent thing to do, now wouldn't it? "Friend. Guess you could call it that."

Yeah. Friend. She's just the femme who sprung me from the lab, after all, nothing big, nothing important... It doesn't matter one slagging bit if I find her or not, dontcha know, I can go to the scrap-heap happy as a fraggin' Seeker in the sky without ever saying thank you..

"I knew her as Radia. Close-range fighter. Scrappy little thing, right about my size, red and black paintjob. I..." His voice fritzed, just to add insult to injury. A coughed curse and a quick vocalizer reboot later he tried again: "I thought I picked up a signal from her. Could've been a glitch." Could've been, but Primus he hoped it wasn't. If his arrival here, his (relative) tolerance for Barricade, his patience had all been for naught... well, he really didn't know what he'd do, nor did he care to find out.