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.
No point in denying the obvious. Moonshot shrugged, a human gesture shamelessly appropriated for his misuse. "Yeah, you're the first. Read about you, watched videos, browsed the web and all that, but..." A suddenimage of himself surrounded by gawking crowds of organic younglings flashed through his processor, accompanied by a jolt of panic so strong it made his tank clench. "...well. You've met Barricade. I'm not as mean as him but I'm about six times as flinchy, and I've got guns." As if that wasn't patently obvious from the small army's worth of heavy artillery scattered about his room...
Her next words gave him pause- or, more accurately, gave him terrible ideas. Congratulations, Cat. You just earned yourself a one-way trip to the land of over-the-top sports cars.
"I have an alt-form. Nothing fancy, just... the first thing I could find. But I'd be up for finding something new and different."
"No way, really?" Her voice flat with sarcasm, but eyes playful. Guns? He had them. And enough so that his collection might rival even her Uncle's. All the better-- he'd have something to talk about with Tony, if they happened to ever meet. …Something she'd do her best to avoid, but you never knew.
"Well you're bound to meet a lot more eventually, and car shopping's not a terrible way to do it." She stood then, shifting around as if to give him space, inviting him, to transform, bright grin full of ideas in place. "..Or a really terrible way, but that aside! What's your alt mode look like? What are you in to?"
Now THERE was an invitation so glaring obvious even Moonshot couldn't brush it aside. Frag the little femme for knowing just how to rouse his ego from its fitful slumber.
"Speed," Came his bland reply, accompanied by a cacophonous clatter of plates shifting and gears grating. Moonshot, it seemed, was not the world's most elegant transformer. The white mech seemed to simply... explode, bits and pieces of armor and mesh flying every which way like so many pissed-off bees before resolving into a recognizable vehicular form. Perhaps three seconds after the process began a stark-white sports car settled to the floor of Moonshot's room, engine rumbling in counterpoint to the techno gradually ramping up in the background.
"Dodge Charger, if the Internet is to be believed." The gunner's voice was strange to begin with, harsh, rasping and rough; rerouting vocalizations through a set of speakers certainly didn't smooth his words out. "The first fraggin' thing I could find in the right size class." And color.
"Not bad, 'Shot, not bad!" Her grin shifted into a lop-sided smirk, one brow rising over the deep purple frames of her glasses. She took her time to walk around the frame. It made sense though, she thought, that these guys would have good taste in the vehicles they transformed into. Like clothes. As she finished her round, stopping again at his 'nose', she shifted her weight to one hip and casually crossed her arms under her chest, nodding.
"Seems very fitting… could add a dash of color, though." Though as much as she would take spray cans and magic markers to anything in a heartbeat, she kept her tone light, playful, eluding to her joking nature. "But I'm guessing you like the stark, sharp white?"
"It's clunky and it's slow and it's in dire need of more firepower," He griped, the low rumble of his engine slowly rising in pitch and intensity, "But it'll do until I find something better. Something with explosives. Or guns. Something faster."
Confined space and watchful audience or no, there was no way this side of the smelters that Shot was going to stay in vehicular form when he didn't have to. The transformation from alt-mode to root-mode was just as untidy as its counterpart was, but in the end the white mech wound up tucked into a neat, sinuous crouch. That same movement unintentionally put him on the same level as Cat, prompting a startled whir of on-alert systems and refocusing optics.
...Primus on a piston, they're so fragging small.
"I've always been white and black," He muttered, narrow shoulders rising in a clumsy shrug. Why he didn't say; somehow launching into stories about every mech he'd ever admired being uniformly monochrome seemed like overkill. "Don't see any reason to change now. Besides, the 'bots and 'cons have already ruined two of the good colors, and there's no fragging way I'm turning green."
"Explosive and gun mounts usually aren't sold with open market vehicles, unless you're buying military. However, the speed issue might be a bit easier to tackle." A smile bunched under her glasses when he transformed, some of the current from the shifting plates tickling her face with a sensation that coaxed a bubbly giggle. And he was so close. It was like a wild deer carefully approaching from the wild, taking food from your hands-- that feeling of being so close to something, something within reach that was so uncommon it held an air of magic.
"And," she said with a firmness in her voice, accented by the mischievous grin, "there's no better place than Europe to find vehicles as fast as a jet with color that's inspired all the best artists." She resisted the urge to pat him on the cheek. All she had to do was reach out. "So. Put it in the date book-- we'll find you something that suits your taste."
There was that air of challenge again, the head-tilt and the infuriating 'I know more than you know' smirk and the faint, razor-sharp edge of snark that, frag her and frag him too, the little squishball had already learned got under his plates. It rankled, grated and gritted as badly as sand in rubbed-raw joints, and it was an insult so blatant he simply couldn't let pass. Talk of Europe was all well and good- if only because, yes, even extraterrestrials could be car junkies, and Moonshot was no more immune to the lure of high-powered sports cars than Cat was- but really, who the frag was a fleshling to talk about poor choice in colors?
"I," He sniffed, drawing himself upright with as much dignity as he could muster, "Do not go on *dates*. Least of all with something I could reduce to a wet red smear by stepping on. And stepped on is precisely what you'll BE if you keep trashing my paintjob. Savvy?"
She fought off the reflexive giggle by raising her hands in a defensive position, yielding, though she never quite shook her smile. 'Touchy.' "Okay, okay, 'Shot, white's cool, too." She reassured, glancing up with an easy smile and a slight shrug of her shoulders. She didn't bother to hide she wasn't exactly intimidated, but respectfully backed off of the apparently sensitive topic. The smile that remained was less mocking, more an attempt to show... to stay... on friendly ground. "No 'date', then. We'll just hang out." Smile turned to more of a smirk with that one.. playfully poking, but not outright smacking.
With that, though, she stood, dusting off her bottom, before shifting for the door. " 'Till, then, though.. don't be such a stranger. We should exchange music sometime." She paused at the door, turning to look over her shoulder. "I'll let you get back to your... guns. Nice to finally meet you." And tapped the door twice before disappearing into the corridor. "Ta!"