2015-10-25 Law Vs. Chaos

From Transformers: Lost and Found

Law Vs. Chaos
Date 2015/10/25
Location Luna-1
Participants Blast Off
NPCs Tyrest
Plot Remain in Light
Scene GM Tez
Summary Blast Off, prisoner of Tyrest, keeps having a Very Bad Day (tm).

On a medtable next to a spacebridge in a place Blast Off doesn't want to be.

The intermittent boredom of Blast Off's captivity breaks into sudden activity: a squad of legislators arrive to grab hold of him. His medic and buddy are nowhere to be seen. There's no one who can give him any better conversation that the murmured repetition of mysterious numbers. It's just golden legislators, implacable and unresponsive, here to drag him through the halls. It's hard to even say where he's going.

This has been a horrible day. No, week. No... wait, how long has he been here anyway? Blast Off has to check his internal chronometer again... it's a good thing he has something like that because the breems would just stretch on forever otherwise. The final consensus? He's been here TOO FREAKIN' LONG. That's how long. The Combaticon rubs the back of his helmet and suppresses a shiver as he thinks once more of Foursight's invasion of his very mind. Having already experienced prison and the forcible removal of mind from body long ago, he takes a very personal exception to such violation of privacy.

His musings- bitter, bitter musings- are interrupted at the sound of heavy footfalls and chanted numbers. Blast Off tenses as the Legislators appear, his memory banks trying to place the strange things... and then they open the cell he's in. The Combaticon backs away a step, hesitating, not wanting physical contact...wishing once again for a good gun in his hands and some space to fly. Then as they enter, something snaps... something that says *I am a Combaticon and I will not go without a fight!*.... and so he rushes at them, launching with a kick to the jaw of the closest legislator. Maybe it even does something- or maybe not, Blast Off's strength is *not* strength, or hand to hand combat. He is quickly overwhelmed and dragged off.... but at least he fought like a proper Combaticon. Now he tries to regain his feet so that he can at least regain a tiny shred of dignity... for dignity is important to a sophisticated individual such as himself! Not that it is easy to find in prison. No, it can be rather elusive, in fact.

At least Blast Off can take comfort in the fact that the jaw of one of the Legislators hangs a little crooked thanks perhaps more to the strength of his desperation than the strength of his frame.

The hallway opens into a large room containing a truly massive portal -- a spacebridge, in fact, that Blast Off might recognize from ancient past. This one looks somewhat cobbled together, but still effective. Crowned and caped, Tyrest stands facing away from Blast Off, recognizably by garb and size.

Blast Off gets dragged in, spending most of his time trying to keep a shred of dignity... until he reaches his final destination. Hopefully not /final/ final. The spacebridge definitely catches his optic, and piques his interest immediately. The shuttleformer recognizes it, being a fairly learned individual. Plus- anything space, or that helps travel IN space, is always of interest. But his gaze soon turns to the imposing figure standing in the room with him. The Combaticon pauses, staring at Tyrest with only a twitch of an optic ridge to betray his consternation. A Decepticon, a mercenary, an often erstwhile jailbird.... Blast Off is all these things, and he doubts that makes him very popular with someone like Tyrest. This is the guy Ultra Magnus answers to, isn't he? Not feeling particularly talkative (does he ever?) Blast Off simply stares, saying nothing for now.

From behind Blast Off comes the crisp click of a booted stride the carries Ignition toward and then past Blast Off with a low, disgusted noise as she places him. "Really," she says. "Secure him!" She gestures with one hand toward a narrow medical table with two arms folded off of it at shoulder height. In her other hand she carries the safely bundled Thingy, now alive with a dark light.

Approaching Tyrest, she kneels. "I have it," she reports, looking up at him with radiant triumph.

The Legislators bothandle Blast Off over to the medical table and begin to tie him down on his back.

The sound of footfalls behind him carries even more bad news- Ignition and ...whatever that thing- Thingy- it is she carries. It doesn't look like the kind of thing(y) he'd want to see in enemy hands, though. Blast Off tenses as once again he gets to hear Ignition say "prepare him"...or "secure him"... or whatever. Every time just two words, every time they seem to lead into a REALLY BAD DAY. His gaze turns sharply to the table they start shoving him towards, and... oh /smelt/ no. The Combaticon tries to resist. Nope, nope definitely #NOPE, don't want whatever they're selling here. Or even giving away for free.

It's to no avail, however, and Blast Off finds himself tied to a medtable, his fuel tank doing a flip on him as yet another surge of ice runs through his circuitry. "What. Do. You. WANT?" He struggles futilely against his bonds. "I warn you, if you do something to me, my team will FIND me... they'll find *YOU*..." Of course his team is ...well he doesn't even know how far away they are, but... but he has to believe that they will find him. It's better than admitting that he's here all alone, because... I mean, who else would come help him now? The Lost Light? A bunch of Autobots? He's not holding his figurative breath on *that*.

Tyrest takes the Thingy from Ignition with a satisfied smile. "Good. Then we can begin."

Ignition steps back and to the side. She stands watch as Tyrest approaches Blast Off.

"Although I require you, I don't require that you be able to speak," Tyrest threatens as he adjusts the controls. The table turns, bringing Blast Off's head up. From behind him, a machine swings down. Needles stab from the table's head to pierce his helm and control his functions. His chest is forcibly transformed back, baring his spark chamber.

Tyrest watches this all with a curl of scorn on his lips. "All I require is your living, beating, /battered/ spark."

Blast Off holds his dignity above almost all other things. He guards it, putting on airs and always attempting to appear as sophisticated and self-possessed as possible. And when you're in jail, destitute, held captive to other people's whims, when you no longer possess choice or control of your life, sometimes dignity is all you have left. All you can hold onto. But this lot seem determined to strip even that away. Violet optics flash a little deeper purple with the burn of silent anger at Tyrest's threat. But when the machine stabs into his head again the Combaticon can't quite help but yelp in pain- not just from the physical injury but mental one as well. Now his head thrashes as best it is able, but there's still nothing that can shield him against this violation of his very /self/. The yelp turns into a breathy hiss, then muffles into nothingness as his fists clench and unclench.

He gasps in pain once again as he fights the command to open his chest- and again it is futile as his spark is laid bare. He is being intruded upon in nearly every way possible, and lies there, beaten, exposed, and vulnerable... and he /hates/ it. He hates /them/. Blast Off is ordinarily a distant, aloof, pretty live and let live individual (provided you're not his next assigned target)... but right now he hates them all with the fire of a thousand suns. Trembling from exertion, anger and fear, he fights his bonds as he spits out, "Why?!? What do you.../want/?!? Get...OUT. GET... OUT!!!"

"You are broken. Flawed. Your cracked sparks letting out everything good and turning to evil." Tyrest palms Blast Off's spark casing. It's a horribly intimate caress. He finds the flaw where the Decepticon emblem that Blast Off wears was torn from his casing and follows with the trace of his thumb.

"Primus awaits me, once I complete my final task, and remove this stain from our race. You should be glad." Tyrest looks up at Blast Off. He's one to talk about cracked sparks letting things in or out: the holes that riddle his body have done who knows what to his systems, but his spark -- glimpsed in passing through the holes in his chest -- is at least untouched. Virtuously pure. "I could have asked one of my Enforcers to sacrifice themselves for this, but you get the honor of acting as the conduit for this--" He holds up the Thingy, which suddenly seems much more threatening for all the friendliness o fits name. "--to seek out all broken sparks. And erase them."

For all the times Blast Off has hated- feared- being alone, the many ages spent wishing for company or some assurance someone out there actually cares... right now, perhaps more than any time in recent memory, Blast Off fervently, feverishly, truly with all his spark wishes he *were* alone. Especially as even his very spark itself is violated right now, and no amount of cringing, shaking, protesting or fighting can stop it. His body convulses in staggered spasms as the violet of his optics flickers- not just from emotion and shock but from the fact that his spark itself teeters on the brink. A rather undignified cry escapes from his lips.

When those optics can focus again, they gaze up at the nightmare that stands before him... the leering figure riddled with holes not only in his body but his narrative as well. And Blast Off encounters another first. For the first time, he wishes he *didn't* have a faceplate on, for right now- if only he could- he'd spit on his tormentor. /Couth/ be damned. With his aim, it'd probably be a bullseye, too.

And yet... in spite of this all, or because of it... facing his final moments also brings a strange sort of calm mixed in there with the shattering fear, thirst for vengeance, and complete and utter revulsion. Blast Off stops twitching and fighting and stares at Tyrest, optics blazing bright, and he launches into what may be his last hurrah. Shame he can't ask for at least a good glass of wine to chase it down with.

"The only honor I can imagine would be if this... this *thing* erases /you/ and your /work/ somehow and I am, in at least some small way... able to make it happen. Because... because the likes of *you*... the //Law//... always try to stamp down on us, keep us boxed in, under control, but...*zkt*...." His optics flicker with pain but he controls himself, managing to finish, "...but you want to know a secret I've observed in all the millennia I've traveled the far reaches of the galaxy? It's *chaos* out there, it's NOT neat and orderly, and the Universe is ever *expanding*. You will NEVER, NEVER be able to keep it- or us- *boxed in*. It's /bigger than you are/, and it /always will be/."

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