Ep .5 - Cleaver's Shuttle - 'Not So Easy' - Open

[Deleted]

((Chronologically this takes place before 'Pop Cans' but after 'Ow, My Ego'.))

"-nononoNOSLAGGI-"

Clang.

"...ow!"

Moonshot was, for good or for ill, the sort of mech who learned things by doing them. (Over and over and over and ov- you get the point.) It'd taken him no less than three vorns to properly master the fine art of sniping the life out of things, nearly twice that to become even passable with a blade, and he still hadn't gotten the hang of lobbing grenades without blowing himself to pieces. Perhaps it wasn't terribly surprising, then, that the white mech still hadn't adjusted to Earth's gravitational pull- or to the fact that he simply wasn't, to borrow the human colloquialism, firing on all cylinders. Cleaver had done a bang-up job of piecing him back together, something he was eternally (and quite vocally) grateful for, but there were some things even a medic's tender mercies couldn't set to rights. Mangled-up, tangled-up stabilization subroutines were one of them. Balance was another.

Ego, unfortunately, was a third, which left Moonshot to peel himself off the floor for the third time in as many hours and pray the shuttle's mysterious other occupants hadn't been around to see the latest match of Mech Vs Floor.

[Deleted]

“Look out for that gravitational pull."

In direct opposition to Moonshot's hopes, a low, drawling voice said this from the sniper’s semi-immediate left. Standing in the doorway, a black and grey plated mechanism with pale blue optics stood, one shoulder braced against the bulkheads, arms folded across his chest plates. At first glanced it would have appeared that the dark roadster was just leaning against the wall because that section of wall afforded him the best slice of shadow in the room, but a closer look revealed a network of weld-scarring across his chest and collar plating. The dark hid it better. The sleek black of his armor was otherwise clean, dark color-nanites fired up across his frame, smooth and clean save for the obvious fact that someone had split him open up the middle.

Barricade's left brow plate quirked slightly up. “It’s a real doozy that stuff.” His tone suggested the otherwise. He pushed off the wall, standing straight, looking down at the pale-plated mech. “You’re Moonshot, I suppose?”

[Deleted]

Of fragging course there was another mech around to see him faceplant. This right here, ladies and gentlemechs, was why Moonshot placed absolutely no faith in his luck. Better yet, said witness to his ignominious downfall was the sort of mech who all but radiated 'I could frag you up in a nanoklik flat if I was so inclined'. Couldn't it have been Cleaver to find him stretched full-length on the floor, or that organic he'd heard rumors of, or the mini-glitch running around, or... pretty much anyone else?

"Get slagged," The white mech growled, adroitly avoiding the latter question. Even to his own audios the insult sounded halfhearted. C'mon, he could do better... "Or, better yet, *you* go slam face-first into a glorified mudball at high velocity. If you can walk any more steadily than I can, I would be more than happy to take back every word I've said and dance a jig just for good measure."

Apparently oblivious to how Bad Of An Idea he'd just had, Moonshot finally completed the laborious process of hauling himself to his pedes. Good news: The world wasn't spinning anymore. Bad news: He was made suddenly and painfully aware of the fact that, A, Mr. Mockery across the room there was bigger than he was, and B, the various subspace pockets scattered about his person were entirely empty. Right. Cleaver still had his guns. All of them. Which left him, to borrow the humans' phrase, shit out of luck.

When in doubt, bungle things more.

"As for me? I'm Primus on a fragging piston. You are... who, exactly??"

[Deleted]

“Barricade,” said the infiltrator with exactly as much disdain as one could manage saying their own designation without doing themselves damage. He shifted his weight on his pedes, moving toward the pretty white bright-plate, pale optics cold and flat as his EMF of his battle-rent plates. “And I’m a trained pilot so I don’t crash slag into slag, mech.”

And the moment the words left his glossa, the Saleen hesitated slightly, optics flickering as if with surprise. No… yes. He was a trained pilot - the mass memory was there: eons of cruiser, battle skim, and warship flight algorithms there and swirling in his head, a wealth of military-grade training sitting in the backlog of his memory core where he hadn’t thought to look. Funny. A back door into select sections of his technical memory still appeared to be intact but massive sections of his conscious and personal memory – it was code-ice in his brain. A wall of numbers and nothing and the flash of pride he felt registering that he was a Tier One pilot was tamped instantly by the frustration that he was so fragging delighted about something that should have been his to know freely.

By the time he’d finished getting pissed off about that, he was in Moonshot’s face. “And like you, I’m just and innocent casualty of war,” he drawled, idly clicking the serrated edges of his claws together, the hiss of metal dragging loud and clear. “So I guess that makes us temporary ship mates. Living under one roof, all harmonious and the like.” He smiled. “Doesn’t it, ‘Shot?”

[Deleted]

"Not all of us had the luxury of Primus-knows-how-long to spend training-

Oh Primus he was getting closer.

"-like some other mechs I could name!"

TOO CLOSE. TOO FRAGGING CLOSE.

"Guess that accounts for all the fragged-up armor, eh? Too old to heal up quickly, too young to go diving in a smelter-"

...and then Barricade smiled, the sort of smile that left its intended recipient with the distinct feeling that a bucket of ice had just cascaded into his tanks, and Moonshot's diatribe died aborning. Moonshot had seen that expression precisely once before, but once had been enough and more than enough. When a mech cracked a smile that twisted and sick, you ran, no if, ands or buts.

Cleaver's shuttle, however, was most decidedly not made for running. Yes, that was a wall behind him, and yes, that was one Pit of a scary mech pressed close enough to make his innards freeze up. He might've taken any number of more sensible routes, most of which looked quite effective, but the neutralist known as Moonshot was not known for being sensible when push came to shove and he wound up (in this case quite literally) backed into a corner. Had he been armed he might've sprouted guns and shot the world to pieces; denied that recourse, he did the next best thing and kissed the everloving slag out of his captor.

Oh, if his creators could see him now...

[Deleted]

Well.

If Barricade was going to give anything to the little glitch-wit, it was simply that the infiltrator had not seen that coming. Cade actually froze in shock; not at the being thoroughly and inappropriately kissed though. He was more frozen by the sheer stultifying slag-stupid idiocy of it. It was impressive. He was impressed. The roadster couldn’t remember the last time a mech threw him so hard that he actually lost his train of thought in favor of contemplating how very stupid that was.

Naturally, once the police cruiser finished contemplating, he seized Moonshot by the upper arms and slammed him into the wall he’d backed him to. Cade slammed him there several times for emphasis, snarling at the stupid little bright-plate for his fragging, Prime-slotting bearings. Moonshot was head shorter than him and a Pit of a lot less dense in mass so it wasn’t hard lifting and smashing him back into the bulkheads.

“Not what I meant when I said 'harmoniously'. You try that again and I’ll rip your throat out and shove the tubing down your intake,” he hissed, optics flashing over-drive white with something like glee for an excuse to do something vicious. He was pent up. Thank Primus for stupid slaggers asking for it. Cade banged Moonie against the wall again, hard and leaned in to snarl in his audio, “Got it, fancyspark?”

[Deleted]

In the split-second between contact and retaliation something dangerously close to triumph flashed through Moonshot's field, a bright, utterly-impish flare of emotion that roughly translated to 'gotcha, fragger!'

...right on schedule everything went straight to the Pit and that neat little bubble of smugness got rather brutally deflated. Only the fortuitous presence of comparatively-thick armor kept something vital from popping under Barricade's first strangling snatch. Consecutive grabs weren't quite so lucky. Moonshot felt- and, joy of joys- heard more than one something bend to match the curvature and approximate texture of aforementioned bulkhead. He had just enough time to wonder just how dead he was- and who would be the one to kill him, Barricade or Cleaver- before the assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He was still hanging a foot or so off the floor, of course, pinned by an unpleasant combination of weight and bad attitude, but at least he was alive.

How much longer he'd retain that status was anyone's guess, especially when he insisted on running his mouth.

"You should've seen your FACE!" The gunner howled, all but choking on half-hysterical laughter. "Sweet Primus, you couldn't've looked much more stunned if I'd stabbed you!"

[Deleted]

Barricade contemplated ripping the little moron’s optics out just for his lack of survival instincts. Surely Cleaver could not blame him for mutilating some sense into her latest stray. Or she could throw me through a window, Cade countered. The medic had told Cade that someone had dug his own optics out of his skull in addition to ripping his chassis open and gutting him, so he was in the mood to pay someone back in kind for that, who not being a necessary specific for a mech with no memory. While he thought about it, the enforcer seized Moonshot by the throat and choked his voice box into static, his claws sinking into the softer cabling there and gripping, puncturing as he leaned in very close again, pressing the fore of his helm against Moonshot’s and smiling.

“That’s cute,” he said softly, “that you think that was shocking.” A flicker of mad brutality swarmed into the infiltrator’s EMF and his other hand came up against the mech’s chest, single claw tapping obscenely against the bright-plates center-seam. His own spark seared in his chest but he ignored it, gripping Moonshot’s jaw now, claws digging in. “How about you say sorry and I won't make Cleaver weld your face back on?"

[Deleted]

Moonshot might've had absolutely no regard for his own well-being, but even his willful idiocy had some predefined limits. Barricade had just merrily torn said limits limb from limb. And then stomped on them for good measure. The white mech himself couldn't say whether it was complete shock or (terribly, terribly) delayed self-preservation instincts that made his steady stream of taunts evaporate, but whatever it was, it worked. He went from talking himself into an early grave to limp, still and- most importantly- silent in a space of time so small no race in existence had a unit to measure it in.

...and if there were little spikes of confusion and, yes, fear flickering through his field, that was no one's business but his own.

Barricade was demanding the impossible. And, to Moonshot's eternal mortification, he got it, however choked and rasping his apology may have been. Just don't rip out my vocalizer, I *need* that-

"I was stupid, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again."

-Now let me go before I die of sheer humiliation!

[Deleted]

Barricade’s claws on Shot’s throat opened immediately, dropping the smaller mech to his pedes and shoving him up against the wall. His grip held like a vise on Moonshot’s shoulder. His EMF was a black holocaust of murderous frequencies; jagged harmonics that grated against plating and pulse and sank into protoform as Cade pressed the gunner into the bulkheads and brought his free hand to the Bot’s face and reached for one bright yellow optic… but he just patted the panicked looking bright-plate on the cheek and smiled.

“Good mech.”

He released Moonshot and stepped back his harmonics perfectly casual again, the idling hum of his engines bored as a mech done discussing the weather. He looked around lazily, hoping Cleaver hadn’t heard any of that. He was supposed to be on berth-rest, not beating up back-burnt glitch-wits… but the latter was so much better for his mental health. The Saleen smiled pleasantly at Moonshot.

“And if you mention this to Cleaver, I will feed you your own glossa. Saavy?”

[Deleted]

Sheer stubborn force of will was all that kept Moonshot from going down in a heap of too-long limbs then and there. Well, bullheaded stubbornness and an overwhelming desire to not slam face-first into Barricade all over again. Then balance was taken entirely out of the equation because he was pinned again, and there was a hand hovering an inch from his optic, and Primus slaggit all this wasn't fair, he DONE what was demanded of him and now he was going to DIE for it?!-

One last touch, a threat implicit enough to sear its way right into his memory banks and down he went. Face, meet floor. The two of you are going to be the best of friends.

"I won't say a word," Moonshot muttered, his words fuzzed and distorted by static. Judging by the painfully-obvious grip-marks in his plates he wouldn't need to, either. Now, how to explain this away without digging the hole any deeper...

[Deleted]

The fierce seethe of satisfaction came and went faster than Barricade would have liked. Moonshot cowering on the floor put him in a better mood for precisely half a kilk before a tank-heave swell of nausea throttled his fuel systems and he physically had to lock back the need to stagger off and purge so hard his head hurt. So that left him with the processor ache and a pulsing throb of panicky revulsion crawling through his core like a fractal shift across the sphere of his spark. There was an echo of sensation in the struts and structure of his protoform, neural lines humming hot suddenly, a sear of muted pain-data coding down up his back strut into his neural net.

Dammit. Shouldn’t have threatened to spark-shuck another mech while the weld-scars are still sealing on your own chest, smart one.

Cade suppressed the choke of erroneous engine noise, ex-venting hard and scowling down at the pile of panicked EM and plating that was Moonshot, a murderous curl in his EMF. Primus. Just what he needed right now. A swamp of error code was burning up the back of his head and his own equilibrium spinning. Irritated, the infiltrator took a seat on a storage crate across from the fallen gunner, dropping his chin in his palm and eyeing the mech.

“What’s your story then?” he demanded.

[Deleted]

Something strange was going on here. Perhaps five kliks earlier Moonshot would've plowed right back into the jaws of death/Decepticon, entirely oblivious to the danger his snark posed- yet now he simply picked himself up off the floor- why hello there, spins, so good of you to return- and sat his happy aft on the nearest object that seemed unlikely to move. No snark, no sniping, no entirely-unnecessary physical contact, just... silence.

And, if you really tilted your head and squinted, the faintest glimmer of respect.

Speech wasn't comfortable for him, nor was it terribly pleasant to listen to, but minor discomfort was something he could live with for the time being. By this point in time he'd paint himself pink and dance for Megatron if it meant avoiding a second round of Squeeze the Gunner, but that was entirely beside the point.

"I'm a neutralist," He snorted, lifting one shoulder in the barest semblance of a shrug. "What do you think my story is? I've spent my life running from everything that wanted to kill me. I just happened to pick the worst possible time to run here."

[Deleted]

“Fascinating,” said Barricade the way one said ‘slag me with a blunted spanner’ and leveled a cold look at the mech. Cleaver clearly hadn’t anticipated Barricade being up and running enough to interfere with her fellow shipmate so this might be the one and only time he had to get an unfiltered glut of information from someone before she (far too late) warned Moonshot to keep a wide berth from the law bot. Pale optics flickered up and down the seated mech, an admitted and now proven coward in the two kliks he’d known the mech.

“If you are a neutralist,” Cade drawled, sitting back against the bulkheads, stretching abdominal plates flat as he laid back on the crate, “that only means that you have contempt for both sides. I have no opinion myself at the moment so why don’t you give me yours?” He turned his head to look at the bright-plate, grinning in a perfectly lethal manner. “What do you hate about both sides, Moonshot?”

Cleaver hadn’t been forthcoming on details yet. Best to get a second opinion… and nothing got bots talking like a chance and permission to whine.

[Deleted]

"I suppose 'everything' isn't the answer you're after."

...nope, not even a direct threat to his physical and mental well-being could keep Moonshot down for long. It'd been a solid minute or two since he'd last courted disaster. That, it seemed, was just long enough for him to bounce back from the raggedy edge of processor-melting terror and land square in Snark City, USA.

"The Autobots are too... good. They're almost as interested in the safety of organics and neutralists as they are in their own. It's laudable, it's honorable and I sure as Pit appreciate it, but-" Here he paused, slashing a hand through the air. "-this is *war*. I'm no expert on the subject, but isn't war all about winning no matter who you have to stab in the back along the way?"

A conflicting muddle of simmering resentment and grudging respect flickered at the very edges of the white mech's field as he pondered his next words. "...And then there's the Decepticons. Torturers par excellence, and Pit if they don't enjoy showing it off at every fragging opportunity they get. If the 'bots are 'too good', the 'cons are 'too bad' in every sense of the words.

"In the end they're all wrong anyway," He grumbled, dismissing the entire notion of alliances with an irritated flick of one hand. "Anyone who keeps a war going *this long* is fragged in the head."