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TAKE MY HAND.

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OOC:

I do want to apologize for my sporadic and somewhat flagging activity. I'm trying to do a little every day. Just some pain days are worse than others. Apologies

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He's staring into the distance, plating flared a little in a not-quite threat as he looks over the visage of someone he hasn't seen in a very long time.

One hand reaches down to a hip, flipping off the magnetic holster to a gun.

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"Didn't say I wouldn't sign it. Just... didn't know it existed." Frag him, and his somewhat withered sense of duty. He sighs, reaching into subspace and pulling out a plasma pen. "Where... do ya want i' on this thing?"

...This is supremely uncomfortable. The idea that someone is making bank off his, and other higher ranking Decepticons' faces and figures is both sobering and infuriating. It makes his plating tamp down, a faint snarl tighten the line sat the corners of his mouth. "Look, mech. I dunno who is still selling those, but that's not necessarily the best thing to flash around. It's basically someone takin' photos of you when you don't know it, then sellin' your likeness for shanix." He sighs, reaching up to rub his faceplates tiredly- then stares at that lid with something approaching incredulity. "Oh what the frag."

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He actually does enjoy spice. You can't be an ex-Dead End mech without using some thermite to cover the taste of rotting energon. He's developed more of an affinity for cesium, honestly. It's a bit more explosive, and tends to make the vents smoke for a moment once it hits the tanks. "Ah, not happening- Needles," he absently takes another sip. "And if you leave, I'll find you where-ever you go. However, I'm not about t'give you up to anyone. So, why don't you tell me what happened, an' how you survived. An' we'll go from there."

Sorry, mech- you aren't dictating the terms of this meeting.

And yes, Trepan- the wrap IS for you.

"Allure. Heh." He absently flags down a server, ordering something for himself- and another one of Trepan's wraps to go. He reaches for the introductory drink as it's put in front of him. Sharp claws tink on the crystal, a small chime as he brings it to his own intake. "Keep tellin' yaself that, Needles." He pins him with that orange-sunset gaze again. "And I doubt it. Tarn's something of an obsessive compulsive twat, to borrow an organic turn of phrase. So either you had something he wanted, or something he wanted from you."

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@seacrestseacon mentions pensions.

Deadlock:

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...This is supremely uncomfortable. The idea that someone is making bank off his, and other higher ranking Decepticons' faces and figures is both sobering and infuriating. It makes his plating tamp down, a faint snarl tighten the line sat the corners of his mouth. "Look, mech. I dunno who is still selling those, but that's not necessarily the best thing to flash around. It's basically someone takin' photos of you when you don't know it, then sellin' your likeness for shanix." He sighs, reaching up to rub his faceplates tiredly- then stares at that lid with something approaching incredulity. "Oh what the frag."

"...The frag are... battle cards." He rears his helm back at that, the look of abject confusion on his faceplates evident to see. This time, he pauses to turn fully to peer at him with a bit more intensity. "Wasn't aware anyone got pensions, nice to hear- at least." He shrugs at that, though- admittedly, he's racked up a nice intergalactic fund account for himself. It helped being on somewhat good terms with Swindle, of all mechs. "So, the frag are those things."

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Deadlock tilts his helm at that. "Wasn't aware there was any sort of festival going on."

He's a relative newcomer to the area, as well as had been attempting to NOT get Prowl's notice. The Ex-con regards the other thoughtfully, with no small amount of wariness.

"So, uh... what are you doing here, then?"

welcome @vindictiae

"Hi if you came for the rain festival you're a little late, or really early, I guess depending on if your a glass half full kind of mech," says Prowl. He loads the folding table onto the trailer, helping the midway entertainers clean up their booths to help them get ready for their next location.

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"Allure. Heh." He absently flags down a server, ordering something for himself- and another one of Trepan's wraps to go. He reaches for the introductory drink as it's put in front of him. Sharp claws tink on the crystal, a small chime as he brings it to his own intake. "Keep tellin' yaself that, Needles." He pins him with that orange-sunset gaze again. "And I doubt it. Tarn's something of an obsessive compulsive twat, to borrow an organic turn of phrase. So either you had something he wanted, or something he wanted from you."

The ex-Con chuckles, lips twitching slightly as he pushes off from the wall with a velvety strut. One chair is deftly gathered, then flicked around on two legs so that he can straddle it while facing the other. He's not entirely too concerned about what the other's alt-mode is, and more concerned about how he's still alive. Patience, Deadlock, patience- remember what you were taught.

"And I turn into a vehicle, so now we have that out of the way. Suppose I'm more curious about how you managed to escape Tarn's death squad."

He rests his chin on a palm ringed by clawed fingers. "Humor me, will ya?"

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"...The frag are... battle cards." He rears his helm back at that, the look of abject confusion on his faceplates evident to see. This time, he pauses to turn fully to peer at him with a bit more intensity. "Wasn't aware anyone got pensions, nice to hear- at least." He shrugs at that, though- admittedly, he's racked up a nice intergalactic fund account for himself. It helped being on somewhat good terms with Swindle, of all mechs. "So, the frag are those things."

"Don't usually make a habit of it. Why?" He wings one orbital ridge upwards, the psuedo-chevron moving with it. His helm turns slightly, finials catching stray transmissions to let him know where trouble may be at any given moment. Those sunset-red optics turn back to the smaller aquatic-themed mech, tilting his helm slightly.

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About | Rules | Dossier Indie / Divergent / Headcanon-Heavy / Decepticon ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ĐɆ₳ĐⱠØ₵₭ Ø₣ ĐɆ₳Đ Ɇ₦Đ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “All warfare is based on deception. and I do not fight to lose."

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"Deadlock- a moment?"

The other's shoulderstruts stiffen at the familiar voice. He doesn't turn back to him, doesn't look over his his shoulder- but he does give the other the value of his silence.

Letting him know he's been heard, and acknowledged- while waiting to see what the other mech wants.

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"Don't usually make a habit of it. Why?" He wings one orbital ridge upwards, the psuedo-chevron moving with it. His helm turns slightly, finials catching stray transmissions to let him know where trouble may be at any given moment. Those sunset-red optics turn back to the smaller aquatic-themed mech, tilting his helm slightly.

||SeacrestSeacon|| 👀 Oh, my, Primus. It’s Deadlock.

Come on Seacrest! This should be so easy! You’re both cons! Just march up there, have your Battle Card out for an autograph, and just say

“-sharp”

No, don’t look at his swords. Look at him! Look up!

He blinks slowly as he turns just a jot to catch the smaller mech nearby. His optics narrow a little at the corners, trying to parse if he's ever seen this one before.

His mental roster is coming up blank, so either not a high-ranking or especially noteworthy raider, or someone who is only play-acting at being a Decepticon. Judging from the actual wear and tear on the other's armor? He's willing to bet the former. "Yeah, they are... be careful."

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The ex-Con chuckles, lips twitching slightly as he pushes off from the wall with a velvety strut. One chair is deftly gathered, then flicked around on two legs so that he can straddle it while facing the other. He's not entirely too concerned about what the other's alt-mode is, and more concerned about how he's still alive. Patience, Deadlock, patience- remember what you were taught.

"And I turn into a vehicle, so now we have that out of the way. Suppose I'm more curious about how you managed to escape Tarn's death squad."

He rests his chin on a palm ringed by clawed fingers. "Humor me, will ya?"

The speedster watches the svelte civilian-frame in front of him. He's not leaning against it as much as he's lounging with decided leonine grace. He opts to not reveal how he knows the other's designation, and other pertinent information. He might not agree with certain tenets anymore- but there are some secrets he'll still guard til deactivation. "Harmless, sure-" there's an amused, gentle mocking tone to the ex-Con's rasping voice. Like Megatron- there's a certain amount of elocution he still retains from a previous life. "We'll go with that. And I've already eaten, tanks break down the additives easier if I'm standing." A lie, silver and silken, slipping easily from the fanged mouth.

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||SeacrestSeacon|| 👀 Oh, my, Primus. It’s Deadlock.

Come on Seacrest! This should be so easy! You’re both cons! Just march up there, have your Battle Card out for an autograph, and just say

“-sharp”

No, don’t look at his swords. Look at him! Look up!

He blinks slowly as he turns just a jot to catch the smaller mech nearby. His optics narrow a little at the corners, trying to parse if he's ever seen this one before.

His mental roster is coming up blank, so either not a high-ranking or especially noteworthy raider, or someone who is only play-acting at being a Decepticon. Judging from the actual wear and tear on the other's armor? He's willing to bet the former. "Yeah, they are... be careful."

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He doesn't often use the words he'd been given a lifetime ago. They'd been a joke, originally, given to him by Megatron in another time and place. A pair of nandantium from the old Gladiator pits, reforged into blades. Even if he doesn't care for the baggage still attached to the weapons, he does care enough to take care of them. The lithe form sweeps from one stance to another- remembering what he'd been taught in that time-before. It's a form of meditation, something more suited to his taciturn nature.

And on his claws, he can still feel the rough palms of the first mech to give a damn since Gasket.

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The speedster watches the svelte civilian-frame in front of him. He's not leaning against it as much as he's lounging with decided leonine grace. He opts to not reveal how he knows the other's designation, and other pertinent information. He might not agree with certain tenets anymore- but there are some secrets he'll still guard til deactivation. "Harmless, sure-" there's an amused, gentle mocking tone to the ex-Con's rasping voice. Like Megatron- there's a certain amount of elocution he still retains from a previous life. "We'll go with that. And I've already eaten, tanks break down the additives easier if I'm standing." A lie, silver and silken, slipping easily from the fanged mouth.

Hey. Weren't you on the List?

The List.

Now those are some words he’s unused to hearing outside large purple company.

“Probably. Always assumed I’d been crossed off when Megatron came to do the job himself and, classic tyrant, missed” Oh, he’d shot Trepan alright. But you need to hit people in the spark to kill them dead, not just aim at them and assume job done.