We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
((OOC: Set directly after Last Friday Night, achingly close to the main atrium and escape for Roulette.))
Walking was hard. Walking horizontal? Fracking impossible. The walls of the DMZ were Roulette's new best friend as she crept forward inch by stubborn inch towards the main atrium. Whenever someone passed her by, she turned and lounged against the wall like this was her plan all along. Why no, the wall wasn't holding her up, she was holding the wall up, ya dig?
"Ah frag, I'm never drinkin again," she muttered to herself. The giddy euphoria that came with downing waaaay too many of Layby's potent brew was starting to turn into pathetic yearning. She dearly, dearly wanted her quarters. She dearly, desperately needed her bed. She direly wanted the slagging portal to be right the pit there. Where the frag was it, why couldn't it just be there already, fragging piece of-
The hallway tilted suddenly and she had to bend over and rest her hands on her knees. Ulp, that was unpleasant but at least the room stopped spinning on its axis. Maybe she could just stay like that a moment or ten. She didn't need to get back to the Nemesis in a hurry, did she? What could they possibly need her for that was slagging important?
She really shouldn't have declined Layby or Deuce's offer of help back. But pride was a surly jerk that made bad choices for her. Trying to avoid looking like a frail lightweight had led her to this stalemate with the hallway. And the moving floor was not helping.
The entire time he had been at the neutral base, ever since their first encounter at the groundbridge, Red Alert had been trying to ignore it - or rather, her. The Decepticon. The femme with the black and purple paint job who seemed predisposed towards assigning ill-fitting nicknames to strangers. (Nevermind she only did that once, as far as Red Alert knew.)
He had tried not to think about her, tried not to dwell on the fact that she was in his general vicinity and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it that wouldn’t go against the rules of the DMZ, beyond making it known that he did not trust her and did not wish to entertain the pretense that her presence put him on edge - which was something he had already done. Within the first few kliks of meeting her, in fact.
To say the thought didn’t plague him while attending to his business with the neutrals would be a lie. It was difficult, focusing on his tasks while knowing all the while that the Decepticon Femme was in the base somewhere, doing Primus only knew what. He felt the need to underline that part: the Decepticon. Decepticon. Root word, deceit. How the Neutrals could possibly feel safe with a mecha like that running around their home, he had no idea. After all, it wasn’t as if the Decepticons had a very positive track record when it came to leaving Neutrals be the second they ceased being useful to them.
Needless to say, Red wasn’t very happy about the fact that Roulette just so happened to be at the DMZ at the same time he was. He had managed to avoid her for the most part, having only been in the same room as her for those few brief moments when they first met, but even so, just knowing she was within the same structure as him had been unnerving. At the very least, his discomfort was nearly over. He had finished his (overly) thorough inspection, and was on his way to the ground-bridge when his luck (and mood) took a sudden downward turn.
There she was, walking down the hall leading into the main atrium.
Red Alert cursed her timing, and glanced over at the ground-bridge--- which was unfortunately all the way at the other end of the Atrium. Damn. He was only halfway into the room himself, close enough that the femme could probably catch up to him quickly if she only walked a bit swiftly---though somehow Red Alert doubted she was capable of that at the moment. Judging by the look (and smell) of her, she wasn’t exactly sober at the moment. Frowning slightly, both at her untimely arrival and the reek of high-grade that clung to her, Red Alert promptly turned his head, pretended he didn’t notice her, and continued walking briskly across the room towards the bridge.
He was NOT about to risk having to interact with someone intoxicated, let alone an intoxicated Decepticon.
Great, more company. Just what I needed! Roulette griped to herself as she straightened up, trying (and failing) to look respectable. Only, this mech looked familiar. But she couldn't place the designation at the moment. Something to do with a human dish...cherries jubilee?
Primus, that didn't sound right...
"H-hey, wait." She lunged after him, at a considerable cost. So really, he should be grateful she was nearly killing herself moving the scant space between them. Because she wanted to purge everything drop of that evil brew she'd ingested but, by Primus, she wasn't gonna. Iron will and all that.
"I need help." Boy howdy, did she ever. Not only was walking not an option at this point, she really couldn't boast for seeing all that well and guilt started circling her like a vulture. What was she doing?? Slagging wasted in a neutral zone. She'd very easily made herself a liability to her side. It wouldn't be that hard to be thrown over a shoulder and dragged away for an interrogation from an enemy. And Decepticon's never ran out of enemies. They were an equal opportunity hater.
But this mech, definitely cherry something, was a perfect safe harbor at the moment. As seared as her circuits were, Roulette could reason just fine. (Except when it came to taking shots. Apparently her reasoning failed her miserably there.) This mech had been the first she'd talked to and with a witness no less. So sane logic dictated that if something happened to her, he'd be the first to be questioned. That made any action he could take against her moot. Or something like that. Shockwave could probably explain it better but he didn't ingest enough rotgut to tranquilize an alloygater.
Please, stop. Or I'mma have to tackle you. And you don't want me to do that. I don't want me to do that....
Oh, Primus damn it. She spotted him. She was talking to him. She apparently needed his help. The three things he most assuredly did NOT want to have happen, and had in fact been hoping to avoid, naturally needed to occur all within three seconds of each other. Because of course they did. He couldn’t just walk out of the neutrals’ base without incident, no, he needed to have more forced interactions with Decepticons (Read: The people who wanted him and his DEAD.)
If he had been able to simply walk through the ground-bridge and return to base without having to have an awkward interaction with the enemy, then how else would the universe get its jollies for the day? Probably by having him return to base only to find it on fire because someone let the Human children near something flammable, knowing his luck.
Sighing audibly, Red Alert pressed his lips together in an effort to keep himself from frowning in annoyance at his inability to get away unnoticed, before reluctantly pausing and turning to look over his shoulder at Roulette. He might have been able to keep on walking, if she hadn’t said she needed help, and hadn’t looked so genuinely in need of it. His damn conscience always got the better of him at times like this; Decepticon or no, they were on neutral ground, and his bleeding-spark argued that he needn’t treat Roulette poorly in a place the war was not supposed to touch.
Looking her up and down, Red Alert attempted to decipher what, aside from the obvious intoxication, could possibly be ailing her. She didn’t look injured, just drunk as a skunk and vaguely nauseated. Possibly suffering vertigo, if the way she stumbled as she (tried) to make her way towards him was any indication.
“---With what?” He asked cautiously, after a moment. He made no move to close the distance between them, not until he knew what exactly Roulette needed help with, but at least he had paused and was no longer walking away from her.
Last Edit: Jul 28, 2014 23:10:32 GMT -5 by redalert
Standing. But she wasn't going to tell him that. Not when she was having a pit of a time just staying in one spot and not say, careening into the floor or wall. Perhaps both. Never drinking again. Never.
"Look, I trust you. Just need you to keep me company and safe until someone picks me up." She managed to hold herself up straight for all of two seconds and looked him in the optics. "I fuu-messed up. Over did it, I think? And now, well, this happened. And I realize I'm sort of in a pre...per...scary situ-ation with no help. Ya dig?"
Wording was hard. Standing was hard. She wanted little to do with both but didn't exactly have that luxury. The urge to fling herself into his arms and screech 'hold me up' was mighty powerful but she wasn't going to. Mostly because the effort to fling anything, must less herself, was nigh impossible.
Somehow, some way, Red Alert managed not to scoff at Roulette’s claim that she trusted him. Him. A member of the opposite faction. Her enemy. He had mecha on his own damn team he didn’t trust, and yet Roulette somehow felt confident enough that he, a stranger from the opposite faction, was worthy of her trust. The statement was just so ridiculous to him he couldn’t help but find it amusing, in a novel, incredulous sort of way.
Of course, whatever brief, faint amusement he may have felt dissolved immediately and had its remains stomped upon the moment she said the ‘S’ word. Safe. Primus, she wanted him to keep her safe, like he was born to do, like he was coded to do. Talk about punching a mech right where he lives.
Red Alert honestly couldn’t help but cringe, his optic twitching slightly in unease as he looked Roulette up and down and tried (so very hard) to think of away to let her down and convince both her and himself that he really needed to be going now, and that helping her simply wasn’t something he had the time or the inclination to do at the moment.
Try as he might, however, he was not successful. They were on neutral ground, the war (technically) was not allowed to carry over here. Outside, in any other circumstance, Roulette would be his enemy. Here...well, she was still his enemy, he did not entertain the thought that she wasn’t for even a moment, but she was, at the very least, not an immediate threat. At least, not as far as he could tell. She was inebriated to the point where she had to resort to asking a member of a rival faction for aid; he doubted even if she did decide to turn on him, she could do very much harm. Just walking around seemed to be too much of a challenge for her, let alone knifing a mech in the back.
He frowned, feeling preemptive regret was over him as he sighed and mentally swore at himself for making what he considered to be a very poor decision, before looking back to Roulette with a very put upon expression.
“I’ll walk you to the bridge, but that’s it. There’s nothing you need to be kept safe from here: you’ll be fine on your own so long as you haven’t poisoned yourself.”
He didn’t mean for that to sound as judgmental as it did. It just sort of...happened. Whoops. Guess his distaste for high-grade and people who drink too much of it just shines through particularly strongly when he’s already agitated.
Last Edit: Aug 2, 2014 22:00:23 GMT -5 by redalert
There were twenty different reasons, all good, as to why she shouldn't put herself at his mercy. She didn't know him from any mech. She didn't know if he was an honest creature or if he was a devil to his own kind. But what she did know, with one hundred percent surety was...that she was too damned drunk to care. Huge revelation over with, she extended her hand to him, palm up and wobbly from the effort and smiled.
"Nah, don't think I've poisoned myself." She gave a little chuckle at the thought. She didn't feel that sick but maybe she was so toasted she couldn't feel anything. Hard to tell when up felt like down right about now.
"Though, I do think that Lay gent is tryin to kill me." No matter that it was her choice to drink. Perhaps trying to keep up with a jet had been a terrible idea. "Not touchin this stuff again. This is mis. er. ry."
Red Alert couldn’t help but stare down at the hand extended to him like it were an unfamiliar dog. He didn’t know whether or not it was friendly, so he was reluctant to extend a hand towards it, lest it bite him. Shaking his head minutely, he bypassed Roulette’s hand entirely, instead taking hold of her wrist. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering briefly over hers before he gripped her wrist firmly, both to ensure his grip was secure enough to keep her steady should she start swaying, and to pass along the silent warning that he was NOT letting his guard drop around her just because he was helping her out.
“Good.” He replied flatly, as he tugged gently on her wrist to prompt her to walk a few steps toward him, so he could see how much assistance she would need to make it to the ground-bridge.
“Maybe next time it will serve as a reminder not to let yourself get so blootered you can't even walk on your own.”
...He probably should have tried to sound a little less chastising. He was her enemy not her commanding officer, he was in no position to reprimand her. And yet he found himself doing so anyway, simply because it he was in the habit of it. Calling mecha out on their poor and dangerous decisions was part of his job, and even though keeping Roulette safe from her own decisions was not his responsibility, he still felt the need to point out her mistakes. It was just...instinctive, by that point.
Last Edit: Aug 4, 2014 19:43:09 GMT -5 by redalert
"Got a feelin I'm gonna have a sterrrrnnn reminder when I get back to the ship." She focused on him a moment, gaze managing to stop futzing about the hallway. "Dude, you probably get this is a lot, but you are really red." And suddenly the nickname clicked. "Cherry!"
Ohprimusno, shuddup mouth! You're going to scare him off and then you're going to have to crawl to the stupid portal thingy. Crawling is for chumps.
The silence didn't last that long at all. But at least she didn't have any more nicknames..yet. As for his discomfort, Bulkhead could have been doing the tango with Wheeljack in front of her and she likely wouldn't have noticed. Red Alert's reluctance had no chance of clue-by-fouring her over the head. She didn't even mind that he grabbed her by the wrist. Only felt immense relief at not having to pretend she could stand upright on her own. Because that was so not happening anymore. She took one step and slumped against his side with a grateful smile and a field that practically broadcasted gushy thanks.
She focused on shuffling forward one horrible step at a time with the intent only a veteran drunk could wield. Barely audible she muttered the lyrics to an annoying human song (managing to sound halfway decent even if she forgot most of the lyrics and couldn't hold a rhythm for nothing) and barely wiggling to the tune in her head.
"I'm all about that bass, bout that bass. No treble."
...Oh. Oh Primus, what had he gotten himself into?
Red Alert had to pause a moment just to stare at Roulette in complete and utter bemusement, wondering if she had drunken away her ability to filter her words, or if she just naturally spouted off non sequiturs at complete strangers. It didn’t really matter one way or the other, but still, he couldn’t help but wonder if the femme was just acting oddly due the the large quantities of high-grade she consumed, or if she were merely naturally...ah. Eccentric was a kind word for it.
“...Right.” He replied slowly, just to show acknowledgement that he had heard what the femme had spoken. “How about you not call me that?” He asked lightly, his tone less stern and rebuking than it was dry and mildly...well, embarrassed.
"Cherry" Sounded far too much like a pet-name for his liking.
Without waiting for Roulette to reply, he turned and began walking them both over towards the ground-bridge, taking deliberately slow steps, so she wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up, or run a higher risk of tripping. Primus knew she was already struggling to stay upright as it was, the last thing he needed was for her to have her already shaky balance offset even more.
Hey, he didn't shove you into the floor. Because you have that coming by this point.
She snorted at her inner thoughts and tried not to lean too much on the Autobot. Oh, who the hell was she kidding, she was putting a great deal of her weight on his side and not by choice. Every time she took a step, she wanted to sit down. Her body was displaying every sort of error it could when she chose to acknowledge them. Flooding her body with too-rich fuel had led to an mass of confusion as every component in her body accelerated and wanted to everything at once. Hence the vertigo, the stumbling, and the general clumsiness. Luckily her tanks didn't decide to purge the annoying fuel or she'd really be embarrassed.
“How about you not call me that?”
The urge to giggle was extremely hard to ignore but she managed to keep her behavior to a smile. Was this mech always this stuffy or did she just get this privilege? Now that she thought about it, he had been really reserved the last time she'd met him. Of course, she was the enemy and they could be shooting at each other the next cycle. That would make a mech moody.
Roulette never let the picky details of being on opposite factions bother her. Sure, it made having friends on the other side decidedly impossible. What with the whole treason thing looming over the both sides. But the femme couldn't bring herself to mindlessly hate every Autobot she met. They seemed alright when they weren't shooting at her.
"I'm open for sug- sudg....What do I call you then?"
This was decidedly not how Red Alert imagined his trip to the DMZ ending. Escorting (read: half carrying) an intoxicated Decepticon femme across the room because she was too inebriated to do so herself was pretty low on his list of expected outcomes, all things considered, and he had considered a lot of things. That was just what he did; considering all the options, expecting the unexpected, being prepared for even the most ludicrously unlikely events.
Evidently, he fell a bit short of that this time around.
Doing the best to ignore the fact that the femme was smiling, (...why was she doing that? Did she find this amusing? Was inconveniencing a stranger funny to her?) he continued to guide them both across the atrium one slow step at a time.
When she asked him for his name, Red Alert was given pause, unsure how to respond. He didn’t like the idea of giving out his name to strangers. He especially didn’t like the thought of giving his name out to Decepticon strangers - particularly because he had a reputation that preceded him, and nothing good would come of the Decepticons knowing Optimus had the bane of spec-opsers everywhere under his command.
Thankfully, not many mecha could connect a face to the name he had made for himself. Reclusive even amongst his comrades, he wasn’t exactly a frequently seen figure, especially not outside of the bases he was stationed in, so the chances of his appearance giving away his identity was slim.
It was with this thought in mind that Red Alert carefully danced around Roulette’s question, in order to avoid giving her a direct response.
Luckily for Mister Cherry, Roulette couldn't press him for an answer. Or notice that he'd just dodged the answer. She wouldn't notice a dead body if she tripped over it right now. Really, this was a new record for her, in regards to being shit-faced. If her superiors didn't shake her into small pieces after this, she fervently vowed never to get this plastered again.
"Alright, alriiiight. I won't name you after a pie. Or food." Which meant that she'd have to think of a new name for him. And that was impossible at the moment. Not when her cpu was latched very solidly on the moniker of "cherrycherrycherrycherry" like a damned virus was eating through her head.
She squinted at the bridge and tried to remember something veeeeeery important. But for the life of her, she couldn't remember what it was... Oh! Right. If she didn't call for a pickup, she wasn't going to get a pickup. Whoopsy daisy! Sighing to herself, she tried to think of who to call and realized there was only one mech up there who would probably not backhand her through a wall and had the clout to do what he wanted.
::Shoooooooockwaaaaaaaaaaave, I need you to send someone to pick me up before I elope with an Autobot.::
Not that he would ever admit to it, but there was a vast gulf of difference between creating a blueprint and watching it emerge from beneath your guiding hand. The latter could prove... invigorating, though Shockwave would admit this to no one but himself, and that only sometimes.
Twin streams of sparks were flying away, missing him by a carefully calculated margin. His hand moved the plasma cutter back and forth with tremendous finesse for a process being done by hand; it would have taken less than an astrosecond's distraction to ruin an entire day's worth of work.
::Shoooooooockwaaaaaaaaaaave, I need you to send someone to pick me up before I elope with an Autobot.::
Neither his hand nor his attention faltered. Whenever Roulette communicated with him, Shockwave fully expected he'd be unable to predict the level of outlandish content to the conversation. At least with her current request came attached a very obvious reason: she was highly intoxicated, likely a result of her visit to the Neutral Zone.
:: You are overcharged. Further explain your threat expression of "elope".:: He was looking up what 'elope' meant, and could not come up with a single literal or metaphorical meaning of the word that would be applicable to an Autobot and his proxy...
She didn't sound like the situation was one of danger, at least... but that still didn't help him. His access to personnel within the 'Nemesis' had been very clearly specified, and Shockwave was (sometimes unfortunately) keeping to the precise word and spirit of his orders. He could not send a Vehicon. He could not send science personnel, as all he had were medics. He could not send a proxy, as his one trustworthy proxy was the one in need of pickup.
The cutter reached the end of the ingot. With an infinitesimal pang of reluctane Shockwave turned off the cutter; one sharp rap from his cannon separated the chaff from a precisely cut half-spiral, still glowing dully red along its edges. He did not double-check his work; it would be moot until he'd finished cutting and cooling.
Long, measured strides took him from his lab towards the warship's main control area, but he was speaking over his comm as he went. ::Contact the Neutral Zone, and request their permission for my arrival, as required by their current intoxicated visitor. I will not be staying long. ::
He did not anticipate trouble; he had ensured to abide by all the rules of the DMZ on his sole visit, and Roulette was not one to unnecessarily create trouble. His weapons were already locked when he stepped onto the bridge of the 'Nemesis'; he didn't even have to break stride when the vortex of light opened for him.
::Roulette. Be ready for your pickup.::
Last Edit: Aug 17, 2014 2:34:58 GMT -5 by shockwave
Oh, thank Primus, they were nearly to the bridge. Red Alert just wanted this little escorting-job he got roped into to be done and over with as quickly as possible before the crushing awkwardness of the situation ground him into a fine powder. He had no idea how Roulette didn’t seem bothered by things in the slightest; aside from the nausea and vertigo, she appeared to be in good enough spirits, despite being lead across a room by one of her enemies while she was intoxicated to the point where she could scarcely walk, let alone defend herself.
He supposed she must have felt her safety was secured by the laws of the DMZ, but he hardly considered that a viable excuse to put oneself in such a precarious position. Granted, he usually didn’t think there were ANY excuses which could justify reckless behavior, but still, he knew a bad decision when he saw one, and getting drunk on neutral ground and requesting aid from one’s enemy was one of them.
Nevermind that he, the enemy in question, had absolutely no intention of doing harm to her--it was just the principle of the thing.
He paused a few paces away from the bridge, releasing his hold on Roulette’s wrist to move his hand to her shoulder instead, to keep her steady.
“...When did you say your pickup would be--?” He cut himself off mid word as, right on cue, the groudbridge in front of them began to power up.
Green light flooded the room, wisps of energy radiating from the bridge as it roared to life. Red Alert set his jaw, squaring his shoulders and prepping himself for whoever was about to walk through the gateway.
However, all the preparation in the world could not have prepared him for the sight that greeted him once the figure crossing through the bridge stepped beyond the wisps of light obscuring them from view.
Instinctively he took a step back, optics brightening first in disbelief, then alarm. His first thought upon realizing who it was he was looking at, upon connecting the face (...or lack thereof) to a name, was “No”, followed by a high-pitch screeching sound, followed by “Kill it with fire.”
Good God, of all the mecha Roulette could have called to pick her up, why did it have to be that sociopath?