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.
In retrospect, Bulkhead probably should have expected it. In his defense, there had been a LOT of high grade. A lot. It took a klik or two for his processor to catch up to what he was seeing - his thought threads had taken a side detour, hilariously amused at the entire situation (they were, after all, Wreckers. It was right there in their name! And now there would be collateral damage, wreckage, and it was the funniest thing Bulkhead had thought of all rotation) - and by the time he caught back up several someones had already decided their entire table was apparently fair game.
And dragged Breakdown into it.
And dropped perfectly good high grade that they had paid for onto the floor. That... that was just unnecessary. That was just RUDE.
Bulkhead used the edge of the table to drag himself up as the first guard laid a hand on him, coming up with the blunt sphere of his wrecking ball swinging. Frames went flying, the impact so dulled by high grade that he could barely tell he'd made contact. Catching Breakdown's eye, he grinned, transforming his second ball to clash the two together in a shower of sparks. "Wreckers," he laughed, sharing the joke. "So, we wreckin' this place, or what?"
Knock Out was only vaguely aware of his teammates. His tactical scanners had come on automatically, and the Wreckers were tagged in his sensors as friendlies, but he was busy with not one, not two, but three militiamechs who had decided that he was the instigator here and were looking to make him pay for it.
That wasn't working so well for them, really. Even into double-digit-cube territory, Knock Out's processor could ID their frametype and recall their weaknesses in an astroklik. Clawslash to thin plating there, a hard strike to a brittle connection THERE, a roundhouse kick to an inherently glitchy gyroscopic sensor THERE. He was still faster than all of them, and it wasn't hard to get the right strikes in. Honestly, it was easy to see why these scraps hadn't made it past local militia.
Knock Out growled as someone not-Wrecker got behind him, large hands grabbing him around the arms and immobilizing them against his sides. Then LIFTING him, slaggitall. Knock Out kicked out, trying to connect, but the only thing he could reach was the arm holding him, and he didn't have the leverage to do that much damage. Idly, his processor recognized the plating configuration of a Breaker class heavy shuttle frame, and he sighed internally. Popping out his saw would leave him cutting his own thigh, and there was fragall else he could do against a heavy-duty frame like that without his prod.
The mech holding him roared in surprise at something that was not Knock Out, the hands holding Knock Out aloft spasming enough to let the medic slide out of them. He whirled, unspacing his prod and slamming it into the shuttle's vulnerable ankle joint. Energon charge made the shuttle jerk and shudder, crying out in pain before keeling over, taking a few tables with him as he fell over backwards.
Knock Out blinked up at the Wrecker dancing out of the way of the shuttle's fall. Wheeljack grinned, hands dented and scored. "You owe me one, Towerling. Don' worry. I'll put it on your tab."
Knock Out took too long coming up with a rejoinder, and before he could snark back properly, there were two more angry mechs after them. Knock Out just laughed, his prod spitting weak sparks as he and Jack spun in opposite directions back into the fight.
Breakdown came back to back with Bulkhead in time to catch his joke. "Good one!" he laughed.
Knock Out and Wheeljack were keeping a few of them busy, but that left plenty of them with nothing to do but circle around Breakdown and Bulkhead. A LOT of them, all wearing the same insignia. Three, four against one? How big was this unit?
"They let every idiot in where you come from?" he taunted one of them, who took off running at him and left himself wide open doing it. He made a whiny noise when Breakdown's punch to the face took him to the floor. Slowed up by high grade or not, he still didn't need his hammer for this scrap. "Who's next?"
Breakdown wasn't exactly sure when he went from gloating over his win to flat on his back on some bystander's table, toppling energon and then the table and one of the guys sitting at it as he went down from an admittedly well-placed tackle to his side.
His optics narrowed but the grin stayed on his face when he climbed back up. Now he transformed his hammer, forgot about wrecking the place and started to think about wrecking some of them.
It was glorious. It was awesome. It was better than the battlefield because there was four walls to bounce opponents off of, and furniture to dodge, and highgrade pretty much... well, everywhere, including in Bulkhead and now on Bulkhead, and really, he hadn't had this much outright fun in age. It was GREAT.
Until they threw them out. 'They' being the establishment and 'them' being the combatants including the Wreckers, which Bulkhead was still objecting strenuously to when he was pushed out the door on account of it NOT BEING THEIR FAULT but no one was listening. Which was sad, really, because he felt it was one of his better arguments and he'd been pointing out the main tenants of it with a lot of enthusiasm when he'd landed on his aft in the street.
Breakdown had given him a hand up, clapping a friendly hand to his shoulder. "Don't look so down," the other mech had told him.
"But... the bar..." It was worth a little bit of mourning, surely. The establishment had good high grade and they'd been told NOT to come back under pain of immediate expulsion and calling the Enforcers, which was really above and beyond necessary in Bulkhead's opinion.
Wheeljack clapped him on the other shoulder, rocking him unsteadily on his pedes. "Don't worry about it," the other Wrecker exclaimed. "Happens all the time."
"So, uh, what now?" Bulkhead asked. Wheeljack just grinned.
"NOW, we go hit up some of the places Knock Out doesn't like."
"Oh, frag you ALL sideways," Knock Out grumbled, picking himself up off the ground while seething at the new scrapes in his finish. Grit and paint and that one went all the way down to protometal, fraggit.... "Especially you, Wheeljack. If you hadn't been all over me like a--"
"Like this?" Wheeljack asked, having glided over with the grace of the truly plastered to drape himself over Knock Out's shoulder plates.
"Get off me, you reject." It only took one hard push, and Wheeljack was back to sprawling in the street.
"Thass not what you said last night," Wheeljack observed, optics audibly recalibrating as he struggled to focus on...anything, it looked like.
Knock Out sighed deeply. "I am not drunk enough for this." He looked down at Wheeljack, remembering a few assists in there that had been...passable. "Do you have a preference, slag-for-brains?"
"Yeah," Wheeljack said, grinning. "Yeah, I got a preference."
"For the next BAR, you slagging glitch. I am DEFINITELY not drunk enough for that."
"Well, then!" Wheeljack did a perfect kippup to his feet. Impressive, carrying the amount of high grade he'd consumed, even Knock Out had to admit. Wheeljack grinned as he sauntered past. "Let's go find you some more high grade, then."
<<Feel free to fast forward through the next set of bars and to shove KO and Wheeljack into an alley, as we discussed. >>
It took a while, two more bars, and a lot of mouthing off, but Knock Out got drunk enough for it. And Breakdown and Bulkhead had to watch WAY too much of it. Blame it on the high grade, or that he got thrown out of his fight without getting to take it out on anyone, but it was pissing him off.
When they got back outside, and lost Knock Out and Wheeljack to who knows where, that was fine by Breakdown.
He came up beside Bulkhead and slung an arm around him, not minding the help keeping himself upright. Breakdown's mission had been accomplished. He was in danger of going face-first into the ground at any moment. Right where he wanted to be.
"How 'bout you? You bailing on me, too?" Breakdown ribbed him.
He wasn't, but they were walking in the direction of the barracks. Good. Breakdown was done... but frag him if he was going to admit that to the new guy.
Walking... walking required pedes and Bulkhead had misplaced his somewhere around the tail end of the second bar, but wasn't about to admit it and gamely plowed through the third bar besides. Watching two Knock Outs and three Wheeljacks make out had possibly been more than he'd really wanted to know about his new teammates (and a little disturbing besides) but now they were outside and walking and he wasn't sure how because really, honest to Primus, he had misplaced his pedes.
Fortunately, Breakdown was large and solid and heavy, which more or less anchored Bulkhead to gravity (he hadn't been too sure it was working) and was, presumably, steering them towards the barracks.
Hopefully. Maybe. Primus knew Bulkhead had NO idea where they were or how to get back to where they came from. At the moment, that idea was hysterically funny.
"Hey, no, I ain't bailin'," he reassured the other mech, because really, this was BREAKDOWN, and Breakdown was, like, an amazing mech, and a Wrecker, and just all around awesome. "Thiz... this's been great. You guys'r great." He went to thump Breakdown on the shoulder, discovered that he'd also misplaced his hand, or possibly misplaced Breakdown's shoulder, and maybe he should apologize for that but Breakdown - all three of him - didn't seem to mind. "We goin' back? That it for th' night, poof, done?"
The barracks had moved since they left... however long ago they left them. They must have moved or else they'd be there by now. That or... they were doing way too much walking and not enough actual moving. There was a thought. Thinking wasn't the easiest thing to do right now. Walking wasn't the easiest thing to do right now. But they were doing it. Slowly.
Bulkhead was a good support. And he wasn't going anywhere. And he had good ideas. Well. Bad ideas, but what was the difference? "'s that a challenge? Aw, what, don't want it to be over?"
Bulkhead made a dismissive sound, lurched one step out of synch which turned into several, and by the time they regained any sort of steady rhythm to their stumbling the whole thing had him laughing almost too hard to stand. "N-no," he managed, half clinging half pushing at Breakdown. "No, see, we go back-" and Springer, some half charged portion of his processor noted, was going to KILL them "-an' I'm gonna have'ta find out what I feel like tomorrow."
He squinted up at Breakdown, leaning on the other mech's shoulder. "I don't think I'm drunk 'nuf t' think about how this's gonna feel later."
Tomorrow. What was he doing thinking about tomorrow? Tomorrow was going to be as much of a waste as tonight. "Not drunk 'nuff if you're thinkin' about tomorrow," Breakdown agreed. Most of his thoughts were on faceplanting into his own berth, frag waking up tomorrow, but if the kid wanted more, what choice did he have? Couldn't get shown up.
He unhooked his arm from Bulkhead's shoulders, and that made the ground fall out from underneath him for a few desperate steps. He got his footing back, slowly, and then he shoved Bulkhead out in front, and used the leftover leverage to stumble off to the side. "'lright then. Lead the way."
"Me?!" The shove was nearly too much - Bulkhead stumbled, flailing, arms windmilling, only to fetch up against the side of something large and solid and... oh, a wall. Well, that was okay, then. He gave the wall beneath his face a little pat of thanks for the timely catch and then used it to leverage himself back into a mostly upright position again. Mostly. More or less. "But I don't know where I'm goin'!"
Breakdown was smirking at him, the smug look plastered all over that red face, all five of them, slaggit. "Fine," Bulkhead declared. "I'LL find us a bar." The wall obligingly stayed put while he shoved himself away from it, one step, another, another, and this wasn't so hard, he had this walking thing down...
Until the world cut out from under his pedes and gravity delivered an uppercut into his fuel pump and next thing Bulkhead knew he was becoming much closer acquainted with the ground. Which was not as nice as the wall, and a stray neuron in his processor noted that this comparison, and the jumble of his own limbs, was the funnies thing he had ever seen. EVER.
Sniggering, Bulkhead let himself fall back, light and dark shapes blurring equally overhead. "I can't feel my pedes," he admitted, laughing. "Can't feel a slaggin' thing."
"Come on, get up," Breakdown said. When Bulkhead didn't budge -- okay, he'd need some help getting off the ground after this much high grade too -- he held out his hand.
Bulkhead grabbed it, and with Breakdown's admittedly weak help levered himself halfway up before managing what only two mechs with too much mass and WAY too much high grade between them could do -- he got himself back on the ground and took Breakdown with him, throwing out his arms but falling on his face anyway.
And he just joined in laughing with Bulkhead again because this was the funniest thing that had ever happened. The ground was spinning beneath him, when he lifted his head the sky was spinning the other way. He put it back down. His hand on Bulkhead's shoulder felt solid.
"Not getting up," he said when he could manage, "unless you drag me, and I bet you're not doin' that. But pretty slaggin' good for your first night. I like you, you know?" He lifted his arm with some effort and patted Bulkhead's shoulder. "Ain't nobody I'd rather get wrecked with. Heh."
He used whatever was left of his processing power to comm Knock Out their coordinates. No response. Didn't want one. They'd deal with him when they came to. Which was not anytime soon. Breakdown wasn't long for the world, and Bulkhead... was really quiet.
"Bulkhead? You there, buddy?" he tried, rapping his knuckles against Bulkhead's helm. Nothing. Probably had the right idea. Breakdown dropped his hand, and cut his own power.
Life went on around the two unconscious Wreckers. The road they'd managed to pass out on was not the most heavily-traveled one, especially at that time of the cycle. At one point a mecha almost as overcharged as they tripped over them with a truly impressive crash. The femme cursed at them in a few dead languages, squinted at them to make sure that they weren't anyone she should care about (ie, not from HER unit), then stepped on them a few times as she got her feet under her and stumbled back to her feet.
Half a breem passed.
Then, footsteps echoed down the deserted street, slightly uneven but slow and deliberate. They, and the mech they were attached to, came to a stop just before the tip of black pedes would have intercepted Breakdown's face.
"Well, well, look who can't hold their high grade."
Knock Out tapped Breakdown's helm fondly with one toe, wobbling a bit on one foot and nearly stepping on Bulkhead's face in the process of getting his balance back.
The medic sighed. "I suppose that it's my night to be the only one to make it back to the ship. Honestly, mechs, pacing. PACING. Doctor's orders."
Knock Out laughed, passing along Bulkhead and Breakdown's coordinates (as well as those of the alley he'd left Wheeljack slumped blissfully in), calling for three pickups. Halftrack growled, and Knock Out shrugged. As if HE was going to be able to drag any of them back? Well, Wheeljack, perhaps, but ugh. Entirely too much trouble, and it hadn't been THAT good a time.
Humming in slightly off-tune triumph, Knock Out used Bulkhead's chest as a step on his way over the Wreckerpile and continued on his way.
Last mech standing. And he was even reasonably sure which way to go to get back to the ship.