2015-05-16 Make Some Friends
From Transformers: Lost and Found
|Make Some Friends|
|Location||Lost Light: Recreation -- Practice Rooms|
|Participants||Arbiter, Blast Off|
|Summary||Arbiter meets Blast Off in the practice rooms, where he (of all people) tells him to be sociable.|
Blast Off only recently emerged from his quarters and the narrow spectrum of work space he had been sticking to ever since the Lost Light launched. The Combaticon is really not a people person and finding himself on a ship surrounded by Autobots, his former enemies, did not make him feel particularly social in the least. But recently he encountered an emergency that required him to finally step outside and (gasp) mingle. He ran out of enerwine, his favorite oh-so-sophisticated beverage of choice, and headed to Swerve's. There he met Whirl. After a bar brawl and jailtime he was pressed into service going to Delphi, where he met Fortess Maximus, who ALSO hates Decepticons. Yeah. At this point he just wishes he could go back to his quarters and stay there.
But no, he must mingle now if he is going to be able to do the things he enjoys (like drinking the aforementioned wine) and he's been pressed into further service on the ship. At least he wanted to be here, on the ship. Why? Space. Being a space shuttle he has a natural desire to be out here. AND SO. If he's going to have to mingle among these Autofools, ruffians and general heathens, he's going to spend a little time in one of his favorite places: the shooting range. He's a sniper and it never hurts to practice his craft. Right now he sits at a shooting bench and fires off at small targets across the way using his trusty ionic blaster.
Here approaches the rusty neighborhood Nail, announced by his clanking footsteps and scraping joints. Arbiter enters the shooting range, pausing to gaze at it's occupant. It's possible he begins quietly muttering to himself about how the practice rooms are never empty when he gets there, and why can't he have it to himself for a change, and a ship this big /has/ to have other things for all these bots to do.
"At least I don't have to teach you. Hello." Arbiter's voice is the same raspy, grinding cacophany it usually is, one that reminds many of clapping trash can lids.
The general loud and ringing sound of gunfire is interspersed every now and then with silence, and it is during one of those moments that Blast Off hears Arbiter approaching. He pauses to glance towards the door, expression (what can be seen of it under his faceplate) rather cool and aloof. He manages a small nod of polite greeting (he's sophisticated, after all, and there are certain manners to be attended to) but otherwise seems rather unimpressed. Though at least this new mech isn't wearing an Autobot badge.
The Combaticon leans his face forward again, one violet optic gazing down the sights of his weapon as his trigger finger slowly begins to squeeze once more. "Not likely. I am already one of the best sharpshooters on Cybertron, and I am simply making sure I stay that way." Apparently he's got a healthy ego, too.
A rusty grunt emits from Arbiter, probably meaning somewhere between an 'ok' and an 'if you say so', but he doesn't challenge him any further. The big Nail lumbers into the room, heading to a firing station of his own. "I haven't seen you 'round much. Though I coulda just not seen ya." He gives himself a small chuckle, as steps up to the line.
Blast Off doesn't bother looking at Arbiter now, focusing mostly on his shooting. A long black finger keeps squeezing that trigger until finally *boom* a shot rings out and hits almost center on the bullseye. He chambers in another round and settles in to fire off another shot. He's certainly not in any hurry to engage in conversation. Eventually, however, there's another pause between shots. The Combaticon finally comments, his bored-sounding voice carrying a cultured accent,"...I *haven't* been around much. I have simply been doing my job and then going back to my quarters. I don't see a lot of point in *mingling* with people... especially when most of them are Autobots."
"Gonna be an awfully boring trip with that attitude about." Arbiter shrugs, then begins the process of readying his own weapon, the enormous cannon sliding out over his shoulder with many clanking and whirring noises. After a few moments, the cannon is ready, and he sights in on one of the targets. "I'm just a mercenary Nail, but believe me when I say, the war /is/ actually over, here. A lot of bots still behave like it ain't, but these are cramped quarters. Might wanna make a few friends, even among the opposition."
That gets a slightly disdainful sounding *huff* from the Combaticon and for another long few moments all Blast Off does is keep shooting the targets. His aim is careful, precise and quite good, for each shot connects. Then, just as the silence (at least the voal one) stretches out almost painfully, he acquiesces to Arbiter's point. "...I suppose." The shuttloeformer gives a bored little shrug.
"It isn't easy. I tried to go to Swerve's and get a drink. I met the Autobot Whirl there and I did NOT pick a fight with him, though he was being rather insufferable. And yet he continued trying to pick a fight with *me* and we BOTH were punished for it. Then I got conscripted into helping Rodimus and a crew go down to Delphi, where we encountered Fortress Maximus, yet *another* Autobot with a chip on his shoulder who attacked me on sight. And this is the sort of greeting I keep encountering. With individuals like /that/ running around this ship, I think I'd rather just stay by myself as much as possible."
Arbiter turns his gaze from the target to Blast Off. "Let's imagine for a minute that Whirl /isn't/ the best example for a 'nice guy' autobot." He sighs, a small wheezing noise, before turning his attention back to the target. A few moments later, his cannon barks in a thundering 'whoomp' and a shell slams into the target downrange, center mass. His free hand waves away the smoke, and he adds, "I dunno if you know, but Decepticons don't tend to be the least stand-offish bots around, either."
Despite his general aloof demeanor, Blast Off does take a moment to glance over towards Arbiter's target just as he fires off his cannon and appreciate the resulting aftermath. "...Not bad." He returns to face his own target as he replies, "Well, can you blame us? Surrounded by Autobots who up until recently were still our enemies. It is only natural that we would remain cautious. I know *I* did not survive millions of years by being naive. Trust is something that comes slowly... if you are smart, at least."
"Well, big slow bot like me, I gotta make 'em pay me somehow. I can't punch things, and I ain't quick." Arbiter shrugs, and slaps the side of his cannon to begin it's reloading cycle. "You may be right, but I think more bots on this ship are comin' around to the war being over than you realize. Just be patient." He takes aim, then gives Blast Off another sidelong glance. "After millions of years...you can do that, can'tcha?"
Those annoying Autofools? Showing enough sense to *come around*? Perish the thought! And yet... he *was* allowed to come on this ship and *was* allowed to get that blasted chip taken out of his head. He's free... more or less. That does mean something, especially to someone who's spent a lot of time in a jail cell.
"... I suppose I can. I'm a sniper, I *have* to be patient." He pauses to fire off another round before continuing. "I just think patience is a lost cause with most people these days. They act like things will never change, nor do they seem interested in giving it that time." Of course, he might be biased given his recent experiences. MAYBE. "I also find so far that most of the people on board this ship, including its Captain, seem to assume /I/ am the one at fault in any given situation- simply because I am a Decepticon. It is... not encouraging."
"Ahhh, give ol' Rodimus a shot. You'll like him." Arbiter pauses at that. "Actually, /do/ you even like anyone? You don't give off the 'social flower' impression. Anyway, I've before had a CO that I would wanna have a shot of fuel with, but Rodimus is that bot." He chuckles, then releases another thundering whump from his cannon, a second shell smashing into a second target, also center mass.
Blast Off deigns to look up now, watching the cannon display and realizing it does remind him of someone. "... Please, I am NO social flower. People are generally rather annoying and obnoxious." (Maybe this is why he doesn't make friends easily.) "...that said, yes, I have ...well, I guess you could call them friends. Certainly my teammates and I worked well together. I think you might have actually found something in common with Brawl, in fact- he'd certainly appreciate your cannon there. He liked loud things that "go boom"." The shuttleformer gives a small huff that's sort of a cross between annoyed and amused. Then he considers something Arbiter said and asks, "...So you know Rodimus?" He glances over to the other mech, lifting an optic ridge. "He did NOT seem very... what's the word... Observant? Careful? Interested in *listening*? Well, other than he seemed more interested in showing off than in any kind of consideration of the facts."
Arbiter's gun recedes onto his back, again with many sliding and clanking noises. "It comes with being specialized artillery." He turns and begins lumbering toward the door, as Blast Off speaks. When he reaches the frame, he leans against it, looking back and replying, "I've worked with Rodimus before. He's not the most...well, cautious commander I've worked under, but he's not as stupid as he seems, and he's got balls. That's enough for me. I'll see you around, Blast Off. Work on the friends thing, huh?"
Blast Off watches him go. "...I shall try. And I shall hope that you are correct regarding Rodimus." He doesn't *sound* particularly hopeful, but.... The Combaticon goes back to his target practice. Friends? Why would he need those? And yet, a small voice somewhere hints to him that Arbiter might be correct. he doesn;t have his team here- so perhaps a few friends *would* be wise. Something to consider, at least.
Arbiter nods, then lumbers out of the practice rooms, clanking following him.