2017-01-03 Conjunction Junction Whats Your Function
From Transformers: Lost and Found
|Conjunction Junction Whats Your Function|
|Participants||Tailgate, Perceptor, Whetstone, Blast Off|
|Summary||Functionists are not fans of choice.|
Even with the successes, the captors are not taking chances. Extra anesthesia for the remaining patients, all of which are restrained now. Two upon a table and the other two in chairs- Percy and Blast Off in the former and Whetstone and Tailgate in the latter. Now no more disasters.
Their extra anesthesia should be wearing off in time to see their captors. Lifeline checking Blast Off's read outs while Clockwise speaks to someone on screen. A stern mech with most of his face covered and one glowering yellow optic. "-as you can see, we have the rest under control! We've already started on those two and the others are well underway. Even with the... Mishap, heh..." She craddles a tentacle in her arms, sounding nervous.
Whetstone can only remember enjoying a mecha-orange julius as he rouses from his awkward perch in a chair. Slits of cyan slowly widen to spy Clockwise first, then Tailgate nearby. His first instinct is to reach for his blades, but they're absent of course, and his hands are bound. Too drowsy to shout, he can only growl lowly and twist his wrists, claws spreading. << "Whetstone to Communications," >> he attempts to ping.
Blast Off feels like slag. That's the first thing he knows when he begins to wake up from... wait, what's he waking up from? Last thing he remembers he was on a space station with Whirl and some others. Things got a little weird. Whirl had said to stay close, but he'd gone back to the food court for one last little glass of wine really fast and... What? What happened then? The shuttleformer blinks his optics, dim and almost gray with static. There's someone nearby, looming over him. His vision still a little blurry, he sees a single optic above him. Trying to move his hand to rub at his face, he encounters strange resistance, though he can see a claw twitching in the edge of his vision. "...Whirl?"
It's not often that Tailgate blacks out without having more than one drink first. Wakefulness is a sudden puzzle, and an unwelcome one. Surely he's imagining things. Surely he's just waking up having fallen off of his berth?
Tailgate's displeasure first makes itself known with a fussy sound, as he tests the bindings keeping him seated in the chair. The minibot wiggles a little, and then it turns into a hearty squirm as his optics online at a more rapid rate and the fog in his head seems to lift just enough to let him start peeking through it and over his surroundings. This is definitely not anywhere he knows-- nor somewhere he wants to stay, if the bots around him are indication enough. He recognizes Clockwise across from him first, though it is only a few moments before he sees Whetstone. Rather than engage the knight, Tailgate turns his attention towards other stirrings.
"...Hey!" Tailgate sounds as drowsy as he feels, but he manages to squirm out a whack of his heel to the floor when he speaks up to anyone that will hear him.
Perceptor returns to conciousness to a startling number of error warnings. Weird, given he'd only been exploring the station - quite some time ago, if his blessedly intact chronometer is anything to go by. He's relatively quiet and still, working through the message reports. It doesn't feel like he'll be able to move much from the little squirm he tries- too pinned down. His optics- correction, optic- onlines to the room with a groan.
"But as you've seen, we're still on schedule for the most part. To compensate, we've spead their operations and-" Clockwise pauses to look over her shoulder at the noises of the waking prisoners but returning to her video chat. "My apologies, Proletariat! They've awoken, I should get back to work immidia-" She falls silent as the stern mech motions for it.
"I am wanting to watch while you work, Clockwise. It seems supervision is now necessary. Now get. To work," Proletariat intones. His voice is smooth, honey with poisonous intentions. He leans back in his seat, long fingers steepling.
"Of course. Thank you, Proletariat, sir! We're honored by your presence," Clockwise responds, bowing her helm. In the light, the glyphs on her helm praising Epistemus can be seen... Then she turns too lookat everyone. "How is everyone? Hungry? A bit ill? We have some energon- anesthesia can take a number on some bots!"
Whetstone's comm gets garbled static as the signal struggles to get through. But maybe it can still get through with enough persistence? Blast Off, meanwhile, gets a claw-pat on his shoulder from Lifeline. "You'll be back to him soon," he tells the shuttle quietly.
Whetstone tries to listen to the details of the exchange, with a subtle incline of his head. He slumps somewhat when the radio crackles. Where's a Comm officer when you need one. "Is this your idea of hospitality?" he finally speaks up, voice scratchy. "You realize there's a gigantic cruiser outside your station, mostly filled with war veterans, yes? How do you think you're going to get away with... whatever it is you're up to?" He tries to look over the mechs on the tables.
Blast Off looks up, vision clearing, as he realizes it's NOT Whirl looming over him. "What the-" The Combaticon (ex-Combaticon now?) jerks back, trying to get up, but restraints keep him contained- and frag, but they add a weird pressure to his arms. The shuttle blinks as he realizes this, vents sucking in air sharply. "What is going on here?!" He tugs at the restraints with a loud HUFFF.
Hearing a familiar and disliked voice, he glances over to see CLOCKWISE. Now he's grimacing under his facepl- wait a minute, THAT's gone too!! Blast Off's exposed, dark face frames that grimace as he takes in the scene around him. Tailgate, Perceptor, and ...that huge weird dragon-mech. None look particularly pleased to be here, and my but if that conversation with the mech in the video chat doesn't sound just really OMINOUS. His face snaps back to Lifeline as he tries not to panic. Combaticons and restraints don't go well together. Been there, done that, don't want a repeat. "Let me GO AT ONCE! Where is he? Where am *I*??"
His fists clench- and that is when he notices them. Violet-gray optics widen and pale, staring. They're... not fists. The claw he saw earlier wasn't Whirl's... it was HIS.
Tailgate is by far the noisiest one so far, and even then it is mainly fidgeting against the chair until he comes around to the fact he can't budge it this way. He watches with bleary curiosity, despite himself, as Clockwise speaks to the mech on the screen and he gives her the go ahead on-- what, now? Work? The exchange is confusing, and the mech on the screen is making Tailgate's tanks roll around. There's something far too unsettling about that one.
When Clockwise turns to question them, Tailgate tries to stare her down with those baby blues behind his visor. Whetstone's voice, though rough, is a welcome sound for him before Blast Off shouts enough to draw attention-- and of course Tailgate can follow the shuttle's look when his optics bulge. The minibot lets out a tiny gasp when he realizes what's wrong. It's not followed by silence, but a shout. "What are you doing?! Let him go!" If the chair's not bolted down, he's liable to tip it over in short order. "You're not going to get away with this!"
With the yelling, Perceptor's attention turns outward to the room at large. Tailgate, Blast Off (he thinks) and... Whoever the green one is. A few more checks of his body's condition gets a quiet sigh of relief. It's just the modifications that aren't responding, nothing integral to his core functionality. "Proletariat? How ominous." Being strapped down and half-blind is new, but it doesn't appear to be a death or torture chamber, which is a definite bonus. The unconsensual modification though, he could do without. Perceptor continues to sit silently, though. All the pertinent questions have been asked.
"Of course we know. But it will not be able to penetrate our shields and soon you're going to want to stay! Just like the rest of them will too. Plus, I believe Primus will always protect through carrying out the sanctity of his will." A servo ghosts over the glyphs over her spark before resting on her tentacle. Its clearly been damaged and undergone some repairs. "You have nothing to worry about, we're simply here to help you."
The smile Clockwise beams at them drops a little as the small one and shuttle make quite a racket. Thankfully for Tailgate, the chair is bolted to the floor. She vents. "You will all be free to go once you're better- once you embrace your function for the betterment of yourself and our people. You can be happy, whole, and closer to Primus than ever before! I just don't understand why you all always insist on not wanting to do exactly that." Another sigh as she makes her way closer to Tailgate, a tentacle already there to tighten his restraints to try and kill the squirming.
Lifeline, meanwhile, pulls out a datapad, voice dropping even lower as he answers Blast Off, "Whirl is fine, you don't need to worry..." Then he speaks louder, single optic peering at Blast Off's new... 'hands'. "Are you feeling any pain around your wrists or throughout the appendages?"
Whetstone rather belatedly catches onto what exactly is happening here. They're Functionists? "Heretics! Clockwise, was it? You disgrace the symbols you wear! You think this is the will of Adaptus? Epistemus? Are you mad?" He glowers openly when his own dogma is used against him. His metal scales rattle angrily, and the flames in his throat bubble up only to fizzle out into a puff of smoke. They must've disabled his combustion as well. He dissolves into a ridiculous coughing fit for a moment, as Clockwise nears Tailgate.
"What bloody function is yours then? His?" Whetstone wheezes, jerking his head at Lifeline. "Keep your wits about you," he says to Tailgate, voice low, though it hardly matters. "They've forgotten the terrors of the Institute!"
Blast Off 's optics widen even more. "Our FUNCTION?? What, pray tell, is THAT supposed to be?!" His gaze reverts immediately back to his... his /claws/, staring. There's a jerky snap as he flexes and they respond, which only somehow adds to the horror. He recoils, looking back at Clockwise, his fellow captives, then Lifeline. "My function is a *shuttle*, not.. not... THIS."
Lifeline tries to comfort Blast Off, but that doesn't placate him, that just makes it worse. Oh frag, what DID they do to Whirl? "DON'T WORRY? DON'T *//WORRY//*??!!" He looks at the mech like he's gone mad. "Where is he? What did you do to Whirl?!!?" He ignores Lifeline's question. "What did you do to ME?"
"You're nuts." Tailgate's retort in the face of Clockwise and her attempts at reassurance isn't very welcoming. No thank you, he'll just go back to before, thanks. Tailgate and his wriggling doesn't abate when she gets closer, and despite his size he is very intent on making things very difficult. "I'm fine where I was! My function right now is to kick your aft!" Whetstone's coughing and sputtering earns the dragon a brief glance.
Perceptor feels like an idiot- fanatical Functionists! Of course that would explain the abnormally high concentration of empurata victims. "Cybertronians are built to adapt." He raises his voice, pulling against the restraints. "Given the state of your facilities you clearly haven't kept with the times, but Functionism has largely been abandoned as utter hogwash." The end turns into a growl, followed by a hard yank to his restraints.
The cord snakes from Tailgate to Whetstone, the claws holding his chin to turn his face directly at Clockwise. "Primus gave us all life. Did Adaptus and Epistemus not serve him to further our lives? Should we not honor them but fulfilling our function? And was our function not selected by Primus himself? Is Primus not perfect? If you believe otherwise, then you have been blinded, Whetstone. I'm here to bring you to the light so you may see once more." She sounded terribly honored by the duty no less.
Her cord releases Whetstone. "Of course you're a shuttle- one who chose to side with terrorists. And as much as you deserve to be in our haven, there needs to be some form of punishment. This practice is suitable and ordained. As for Lifeline, he is a surgeon. And I am a healer." Clockwise flexes one servo, needles sliding out as she walks around Tailgate to get at his nape better. "Now, I just need to evaluate both of your functions- actual functions- before you can join us. Oh, hold still..." The tentacle that held Whetstone goes to hold Tailgate's head still.
Lifeline glances at Clockwise, shuffling on his feet. "Whirl is fine, we haven't done anything. He's probably still in the shops..." Looking for Blast Off no doubt. "And its just procedure. You seem to be, um, adapting well to the changes so far..." He glances to Perceptor. "I'm afraid I've never heard of a hogwash..." he mutmurs.
Whetstone is encouraged by Perceptor's blunt insult, and straightens his spine and puffs out his chest, but Clockwise's tentacle captures his chin just the same. He glares vividly as the femme goes on about fulfillment and honor. Every Lost Lighter in the room is no doubt pissed, but Whetstone's rage seems to manifest in the emanating heat of his armor. He's surely melted something interally, as wisps of smoke continue to seep from his lips and body vents. When released, he looks away, if only to calm himself.
Clockwise's answer is chilling. Blast Off stares at her a moment before sputtering back, struggling at his restraints, "So this is because I'm a Decepticon??! Now, why isn't that a surprise." An old, possibly prejudiced anger flashes back to the surface and he spits out, "How very *Autobot* of you!" Because the Autobots defended the Functionists for far too long... it was Autobots involved in empurata and shadowplay and all those horrible things!!! "I'm a space shuttle, if you're some sort of fragging /Functionist/ you should at least *respect* that!" He stops and stares. "Is that what you are? Functionists?!" The statue in the food court pops back into his mind. The one he suddenly realizes had a very vaguely *Functionist* vibe to it....
Primus, he wishes he knew where Whirl was. Functionists ruined Whirl's life and now he's swimming in a sea of them. Somewhere. Does he even know yet??? Is Lifeline telling the truth, is Whirl safe? The shuttleformer struggles again, claws snapping. "He'd better be safe, if you've done anything further to him I'll..." His voice, growling, suddenly comes to a halt as something registers. "...So far? What do you mean, so far?"
Tailgate feels his little bursts of might leaving him the more that Clockwise simply dances around idle threats, and he glances back to Blast Off and Perceptor at the tables, audials tuned to the more philosophical bent between Whetstone and their captor. As she releases the dragon and moves around to him, the needles earn a sidelong, widened look. "If we were supposed to be witless followers we wouldn't have been given sparks... or desire."
Tailgate's optics follow her until she grabs onto his helm to hold it in place. She is bigger and he is restrained, so it does not prove difficult. His little motormouth, however... the longer he keeps talking the more he can divide her attention from her task. "You wanna know my function? I'm supposed to take out the trash! And I can start with you, if you like."
Perceptor snaps something under his breath, head clunking back onto the slab so he can squint up at the ceiling. His fingers flex, but he otherwise lies still. Neither of their captors seem to be paying particularly close attention to him- the best position in this particular situation. He huffs irritably and returns to silence.
Clockwise tuts softly. "Of course we recognize your capability as a shuttle. You will live in our best suites when you join us and have access to nearly everywhere! But, again, we cannot ignore what you've done, Blast Off."
Tailgate will feel the brush of needles against his neck, the tips pricking... But never sinking in. "Waste disposal- Proletariat does so love a clean ship." She turns to smile at the mech still silently watching them on the screen. He does not react, single optic just glaring down upon the occupents. "Ahem, right! Your evaluation is complete, you sweet thing." She pats the side of his faceplate before walking towards Whetstone. "Pity they've managed to taint you still... Now, Whetstone, will you be as helpful as your friend here or will I have to take a look myself?"
Lifeline shifts once more. "We haven't done anything, I promise you." He sounds sincere enough. He hesitates however, reaching up to touch his not-face with a claw. "... Yes, so far..." He glances over his shoulder at Proletariat and clears his vocalizer. "If there's nothing else bothering you then I have to, um... Check the next patient." Here's looking at you Percy.
Whetstone simmers enough to spare a glance at Tailgate. Waste disposal, eh? He then side-eyes Clockwise as she moves towards him, his tail thrashing against the chair. "Keep your appendages off me!" he barks, struggling to spread his bound wings. There's a sick grinding of his T-cog as he tries and fails to transform. "Helpful? Why don't you take a guess," he spits some molten metal at her feet. "Misguided fool! You think the Allspark awaits you? I see Hell in your spark! These ideas brought the ruin of our home! Don't you remember?"
Blast Off glares at Clockwise, fuel tank flipping. He's a prisoner again. No, no, no... he did his time. Claws clack as he snarls, "I've already done my time!!!" On second thought, he's not sure he wanted to bring that up with everyone here, but then again he'd really rather not be here, chained to a table with his face exposed to everyone either. He feels stripped bare as it is. Fidgeting some more, testing every restraint, he growls, "You've made a *big* mistake. I have *friends*. I have a team who will come for me. Combaticons always have each other's bac-" And then the words die strangled in his throat. Wait. It all hits him again... the memories he was pushing to the side, trying to forget. What he couldn't even tell Whirl, much less admit to himself when they first came here. Onslaught called him a traitor, kicked him out of the Combaticons.
Now Blast Off lies there, stunned. What they've done to him here can hardly compare to THAT. That reality which means... what? Would Onslaught not come, now? Is he really all alone? The shuttle's struggles cease and he lies there, dazed and defeated, turning his head to look forlornly up at Lifeline. His mouth remains open, still frozen in that final horror, this final ultimate Hell he finds himself trapped in. Hell made worse because he gets the sinking feeling as he watches that claw tap on Lifeline's not-face that they're not quite done yet. Words leave him, and he can only stare up at the medic.
Seems that telling her what she wants to hear keeps the needles away from prying their way into Tailgate's head. He's sure there are things best kept to himself-- as with any of them-- but there is very little relief when Clockwise's presence inches away from his nape. The ghosting feeling of those needles felt like as many little snakes. Tailgate answers her croon and pat to his cheek with a pained scoff of his vents and a look to the scuffed marks on his arm where words are now faded, but present.
"Whetstone..." The other minibot's gargle of molten metal at their captor gets a worried response. The same look moves to Blast Off as his drive seems to fade, and that gives Tailgate a wee burst to try and bring him out of it. "Blast Off, don't let them get to you! Whirl's waiting! We'll get outta here!"
<FS3> Tailgate rolls Inspire: Great Success. (1 7 5 8 4 7 6 6 8 5 2 4 6 4)
Clockwise steps back, looking down in surprise at the molten metal. She looks back to Whetstone, not angry or furious... But absolutely melancholy, saddened beyond belief. "I'm so sorry you think that, Whetstone... The Functionists- Functionism- is the way of Primus. It was abused on Cybertron, I know, but it could have been corrected. It could have been perfect, just like here! Everyone is happy, they don't have to struggle or strive. Come now, is this not what Primus wants? Is it so wrong to help all of you be happy and thriving within the light of Primus?" Her cord then grabs Whetstone's head to hold it still. "I know the tone of a worshipper. If you comply and tell me your function, I won't have to do this." There's a brush of her needles to his neck.
Lifeline waits for Blast Off to respond and, when he doesn't, he movest around the shuttle to the microscopt. He snaps his claws before Percy's face. "Excuse me, Perceptor sir. If you could follow me, um, claws with your optics, I'd appreciate it." Her waves his claws slowly back at forth.
Whetstone flinches slightly when Tailgate's tone of concern reaches him. He runs his gunmetal tongue over his shrouded lips, cooled strings of metal falling to the floor. It does seem rather hopeless, even with Tailgate's insistence. Are they truly going to witness the empurata procedure on their friends? Clockwise's sullen declarations do little to change Whetstone's mind, but the way she invokes Primus does seem to shed some grim, scrutinizing light on his own habits. Did he... did he really sound like this?
When the needles touch Whetstone's armor, he stiffens. "W-wait-" He pauses to think. Function? The beasts didn't have much function beyond manual labor, if they were lucky. "I... I didn't have a function," he murmurs. "I fought in gladiator pits. F-for shanix."
They ARE Functionists. Blast Off hears it but it can't even make anything worse, because this is already as bad as it gets. He slowly finds his way to looking at tailgate, who makes a great point. Which probably should have fired him up... but. But. But Onslaught's abandoned him. Whirl isn't here. He's a prisoner again, treated like a peice of scrap metal, and being mutilated much like Whirl was. ...Some detached part of his brain is almost amused by the irony of that before it's lost again to staring... staring at Tailgate, then Lifeline and Perceptor, at Whetstone and Clockwise. He's in a room full of people- and still all alone.
Tailgate's spark sinks when he sees that dead-eyed stare from Blast Off, who seems lost to everything already. "...I'm still here-- remember Luna, okay? We got free once before, okay?" The minibot's voice is small, though still determined to be heard by the shuttle, who appears to be the worst off from his limited vantage. He turns his visor up towards the screen where Clockwise's superior was, steeling his short frame in the restraints.
Perceptor turns his now scathing, if blurry, glare toward Lifeline, focusing first on the mech's optic, then the claws. It's... a bit difficult to follow, every time he tries to determine depth or focus more clearly, his hud brightly reminds that his aiming subroutines have nothing to use. There's a light whirr from his scope as it adjusts, following the claws along with his left optic. "You're very polite for kidnapping fanatics."
Again, the needles prick but do not go in once more upon Whetstone's confession. That fire and brimestone sure did sizzle. The needles slide into her fingers before she walks around to smile at Whetstone, pity and hope in her expression. "We have factories, you will be comfortable there. Strong and that fire- you'll do great. Better than gladiator fights- I'll arrange to have your scales polished and cleaned every week as a bonus. You're going to love it here, I promise." Then she releases the knight, looking to Lifeline. "And how are the other two?"
Lifeline watches Perceptor's optics closely with his own before taking his claws away. "She doesn't see it that way. I don't have much say," he says quietly back before practically jumping as he is spoken to. "Perceptor and Blast Off are stable and the work holding, we can continue as soon as you'd like..." He fidgets a little. "And what would you like me to put down for the two of them?" he nods to the two in their chairs.
"The usual compliancy. But let's get some energon in them before that. Don't want them getting light headed before surgery," Clockwise says with a handwave, inspecting the damage to the tentacle that hovers close to her person. Heathen, biting it... Meanwhile, Proletariat continues to just stare. For a moment, the flicker of his intense gaze falls upon Tailgate with its full weight... And then back to everyone, remaining silent.
Whetstone is back to glowering, suddenly ashamed for his form. Menial labor. Assumed to /enjoy/ such grooming. His leering eventually fades to a vague look of defeat, optics swimming worriedly back to Tailgate, then Perceptor. Highest ranked here, right? They'll figure out a way to escape, surely...
Blast Off 's dead stare returns to Tailgate, optics now gray and dim as they fix on the minibot. Who keeps trying... and this time the memory stirs some meaning. On Luna he was lying there, also kidanapped and restrained on a table, having his very spark cut out... when Whirl and Tailgate burst in and saved him. They shared a connection in that moment, brought on by the device connecting with the three. He remembers what it felt like to *feel* Tailgate's presence, as well as Whirl's. He remembers Tailgate's determination. And Whirl. Whirl came in the nick of time before, he could do it again, right? Is he preparing a rescue evn now? Blast Off glances to the door as if half-expecting to see Whirl do just that. No one's there, but at least a small light's returned to his optics.
The discussion between Clockwise and Lifeline draws his attention again, and Blast Off turns to stare at them. Before... surgery? That sends an icy chill through his circuits that has nothing to do with temperature. There's a click as he attempts to activate his leg cannons but unfortunately, they've been disabled. His leg jerks once, then stills. "Don't..." His exposed face betrays every emotion as a dazed horror, then attempt at set-jawed dignity occurs. Claws slowly flex, and he glances towards them, optic ridges furrowing, before he fixes Clickwise in his gaze again. "Don't do this." Ok Whirl, if you're doing a last-minute rescue, this would be the time, pal.
When you've got a mech like Cyclonus in your life, staring down the barrel of a hot, steady glare isn't quite as intimidating as many seem to take it. Then the mech on the screen allows his cyclopian gaze to drift, Tailgate's is there to meet it. The moment lasts long enough with its full weight that the minibot, despite his predicament, glowers back like the fiercest creature alive. For a moment, maybe he is. Once they have the chance, that guy is toast.
"She's mental." Perceptor translates, scowling back at the mech that's almost certainly a medic. "And you've no spine." It's as much contempt as he can force into a high caste accent. "Compliance- Shadowplay." Which, Perceptor is far too familiar with. Hell, he's participated in the procedure before, but this isn't millions of years into a neverending war, it's... it's different.
Clockwise looks at Blast Off with a smile. "Isn't this all worth it in the end? To be happy and within Primus's embrace? It certainly is if you ask me. You won't feel anything, I promise you," she says, walking over to give his foot a pat. "Lifeline, go- Lifeline! Pay attention!" The medic looks up from staring at Perceptor, optics flickering. That was super effective, Percy. "Fetch the necessary-"
"Clockwise." Proletariat speaks for the first time since deciding to watch, having not moved from his position as he speaks. "You believe this is... Suitable. They not only talk back to you, they threaten. They spit at you. They throw blasphemies at you and you..." His helm tilts slightly to the side, optic narrowing. "Believe these changes suffice, that they do not deserve to suffer?"
Clockwise shutters optics, mouth agape before closing. She holds her posture well, while Lifeline shrinks back, but her tentacles give away some sort of internal turmoil as they roil in the air. "Primus's way is not suffering, Proletariat! As you've taught, his way is perfect- a world with no strife or-"
"As I said, but now I tell you that blasphemers won't learn without suffering." The mech leans forward, optic narrowing. "Do you wish to disappoint me?" The mnemosurgeon pauses and then shakes her head ferverently. "Of course not, Proletariat, sir." The mech grunts, satisfied with the answer and turns off the feed, screen going black. There's a moment of still, an uneasy vent escaping Clockwise... And then she turns to leave. "No energon, Lifeline. And no anesthesia. I'll... I'll be back, prep what you can." And she leaves the empurata medic behind, looking shaken.
Whetstone remains motionless, save for the spade of his tail jerking absently against the ground. His frown deepens as Proletariat speaks, then departs along with Clockwise. "You!" he snaps at Lifeline. "What crumbling, sad path led to you this pathetic life of servitude? What of your Oath to medicine?"
Blast Off freezes as Perceptor mentions the word *shadowplay*. despite his efforts to look as dignified as possible, there's not much dignity in the look of sheer terror starting to etch across his face. He twitches as Clockwise pets his rocket foot, thruster trying to fire to life but unable to do so. He tries to keep hold of his dignity. He clutches it with the last bit of strength he has. They've taken so much from him before- they took his body, his original forged body, back during the dark days of the Whiteout Cell- THE BOX. But they never took his mind. They didn't take his dignity. It's the one thing they never could have. Why he holds it in such high esteem. Now that dignity trembles as he listens in horror to Proletariat as the world seems to shrink and shatter around him.
The Combaticon- no, ex-Combaticon, even.... he's not even that now, is he?- the shuttleformer jerks and struggles in his bonds again, fear darkening an already ashen face. "Primus? PRIMUS? This is supposed to be Primus???? Are you SERIOUS???" He huffs loudly, vents heaving. "To answer your question NO. NO it is NOT WORTH IT in the end. Don't you DARE touch me. You've already destroyed my body, you can't have my mind too!!!" Blast Off fights the restraints with everything he's got. "You can't TAKE MY MIND. You can't have ME. WHO I AM. My very SPARK. Stay out of my head! STAY OUT OF MY HEAD!!!!" He grimaces, furious, vents still heaving as Clockwise leaves.
His gaze snaps to Lifeline. "This... this CAN'T be what any REAL medic wants to DO, IS IT?? Destroy perfectly healthy bodies and minds?? Or are you /shadow-played/ too??!" Primus only knows.
Perceptor bares his denta, nose scrunching up with the motion. "Of course, Blast Off. There's a seventy-six-point-eight-four-six probability that he is." He resumes regular glaring, but at the ceiling instead of the medic. "And were he not, he's quite far from a respectable medic."
Lifeline runs his claws over his helm once, twice, thrice before looking down at his feet. Something like this has never been done before. He looks over as he's addressed. "I'm... I'm Lifeline. My name is Lifeline," he says shakily to them. His shoulders curl and hehunches over more before shuffling towards some cabinets. "Twenty-three-point-one-five-four... So, no... No, I'm not... She wasn't very good at... At that when they brought me in on... this." He hangs his head, steps pausing.
Then resuming until he reaches the cabinets, rifling through. "This was nice. The war was- it was terrible. This was being built. It felt like home used to. Hazard and I could be safe and happy here. Too much to hope for," he says softly, definite shame in his voice. He starts pulling tools out of the cabinet and into a tray.
Whetstone ends up watching Blast Off with wide optics as he shouts with passion. At least no one believes Primus is at fault here! Thank goodness. As Blast Off and Perceptor pile onto the medic with the strange cadence, Whetstone summons some more biting will. All the while, his tail spade sharpens steadily against his shin. Perhaps he can slice the bonds...
"Your colony fell to the same corruption the Senate did! It may have been safe before - but look around you!" He glances briefly at quiet little Tailgate, biting his lip.
Blast Off watches Lifeline start placing tools on a tray and suppresses the shudder. He works to keep himself calm. Which is hard, feeling as alone, as abandoned as he is. He shoves thoughts of Onslaught aside, hopes Whirl is coming, and focuses on the one mech who might still be convinced not to do this. "Well... /Lifeline/..." He tries to think what he should say. "Well, this place is nothing compared to what's out there! If you'd just get out and explore more..." he starts off, annoyed, and then a memory stirs. Vortex telling him how to socialize successfully. It involved... empathy. Oh. Was that empathy? ...Maybe not.
Frag, what DOES he say that might actually get through to the medic and not just turn him completely off??? How do people do this socializing thing? Oh right... Vortex mentioned thinking how HE would feel in the situation. Oh. Frantically, his mind races through that scenario. "I mean... it... yes, the war was... difficult for many, and many left looking for something better. But you... you have to *make* it better. If you just bring the war *with* you then it..." He looks around at the Autobots nearby, "It never ends."
"You're pathetic." Perceptor sneers, lapsing into silence. He doesn't have anything more to say to Lifeline, and it's- he doesn't want to try empathizing with the mech. Back to glaring at the ceiling.
Lifeline vents. All things he's heard before. "I know I am," he murmurs, setting the last tool down before carefully taking the tray in his claws. He walks over to Tailgate, the little mech having stayed quiet, and sets the tray down. There's only four objects on it, all shots. He takes one and injects lil' Teegs.
"I didn't want to do this. I didn't have a choice, I don't even now... They didn't like my first refusal." He sets the needle down before taking the tray to Whetstone. "But I'm sure none of you want to hear my excuses... I'm sorry I can't stop this, I always am- but I can't... I won't let any of you suffer more." Lifeline sticks the second needle in Whetstone, injecting its contents.
Whetstone is not quite in the right head space to talk anyone down from anything, or do much in the way of proper convincing. He just wants to hurt. But he doesn't get a chance to hinder Blast Off's beginnings of an attempt, as Lifeline shoots up him with that anesthetic. Well, the doc was going against Clockwise's wishes at least.
Whetstone is back to slumping as his vision blurs, sharpened tail dropping to the floor with a dull 'clunk'.
Blast Off 's gaze focuses now on that tray of shots, watching as Lifeline starts injecting the others. His own ventilation cycles pump up rapidly as he again struggles for calm. His new claws flex and click softly together. "Everyone has a choice. Choice is what makes us who we are!" Choice has always been important to the shuttleformer- and it's lack of choice- like right now- that terrifies him, especially when it involves losing the essence of what makes him *him*. The possibility of finally losing the one thing he never had taken from him- his mind, his dignity. As Whetstone slumps, Blast Off sucks in another vent of air. "Radio the Lost Light... radio Whirl, he must be here somewhere if what you said is true....." His vents grow more laboured as he watches the medic continue to do his work, mind racing... while he still has one, at least. "Don't take away who we are... It's all some of us *have*..."
Lifeline proceeds to Perceptor to administer the anesthesia to him as well. He does it as quickly as he can with his servos shaking. Then its onto Blast Off. He stares at the shuttle with the singular, unblinking optic. Then he sticks the Decepticon just like the others.
Blast Off stares back, hoping upon hope to appeal to that singular optic- which reminds him of Whirl. "Don't take who I am..." He pleads, adding almost imperceptibly, mouthing the word, ".../please/." Then the cyclops raises his needle.
Primus be damned, and Onslaught... Onslaught is in error. Blast Off is a Combaticon, whatever Onslaught says, and he'll go down like one. He starts fighting the bonds, leg cannons clicking, thrashing his helmet, dentae gritted. He won't go down without a fight. Not much of a fight, since he can hardly move, but he does what he can until the shot sends him fading into an uncertain slumber.