2017-01-22 Punch It
From Transformers: Lost and Found
|Location||Lost Light - Recreation -- Observation Deck|
|Summary||Two old men bicker.|
A hexagonal room that mimics the shape of the bridge two decks above, the Observation Deck likewise has two rows of windows that look out into the vast dark of space. Seating arranged casually throughout the room can be retracted into the deck or rearranged into rows for solemn ceremonies. If there's a big event, it's going to be held here.
Last night is still a little fuzzy in Brigade's helm, but something tells him he should be glad that he remembers it through a haze. That doesn't make this morning any better, though. The tank grits his dentals against his pounding helmache. It's been a long time since he had such a nasty hangover. Not that he's going to let it ruin the rest of his day.
Brigade has dragged himself from the depths of his habsuite out to the observation deck. The tank has set out his checkers board, each side arranged as if expecting two players. However, on close inspection it shows that the tank is playing against... himself? Every time he makes a move, he leans over and moves the pieces on the side of his invisible adversary. His faceplates are twisted in concentration.
Madrigal doesn't have a roommate to escape from for a bit of post-recharge meditation, but a change of scenery can only do good. The observation deck has a magnificent view of the stars, and around this hour he's found people tend to keep quietly to themselves. The dancer tic-tic taps his way in, making a beeline for his favourite window. He's not trying for quiet until the other mech's presence registers, then the pede clicks quiet and he pauses to worry over his tail. Is it too loud? Should he leave and gather it to avoid too much noise?
For all Madrigal's attempts to be quiet, Brigade is doing the exact opposite. The tank finds it increasingly difficult to concentrate over the pounding in his helm, and it shows in his demeanor. It starts with a quiet mutter as he leans over the table, hand lingering over one of the checker pieces. His digits twitch indecisively. But he cannot see an opening for the move he's been building up to. With a snarl, the tank suddenly sweeps the board from the table.
The pieces ping to the ground, falling about Madrigal's pedes like rain. The tank begins to rise from his chair, only now glancing up the notice the newcomer. He grunts in surprise. "I didn't see you there," he mutters.
Despite best efforts, Madrigal squeaks and hops sideways away from the commotion, pulling his tail up with his startled hands toward his chest while his wings snap to his sides. He manages to avoid any of the pieces, but it's anyones guess to how long that will last. "I-it's alright! I was trying not to disturb you." He's trying to be quiet still- the deck was so peaceful and silent a few seconds ago.
<FS3> Brigade rolls Cane Tricks: Good Success. (1 6 5 7 4 7)
Brigade comes prepared for his own tantrums at least. The tank glances down at the pieces scattered all about and begins to haul himself to his pedes. Pressing a button on the handle of his cane, it reshapes itself into the likeness of a broom. With a sigh, the tank begins to sweep the pieces into a pile on the floor. Less stooping for him, and less likely that he'll get stuck on the floor.
"Don't worry. I'm not disturbed by you. I'm disturbed by my own idiocy. How did I miss that move?!" he mutters. He had it all planned out in his brain module! It should have been easy.
Madrigal takes another few steps away and hopefully out of the way, pulling his tail close as he does. Ease of cleaning and all that. "Oh. That's," His optics narrow slightly, "Good? Would you like some help?" While this is a mess entirely of the other mech's making, he's not just going to leave him to pick it up all on his own.
<FS3> Brigade rolls Body+body: Failure. (5 1)
Brigade keeps sweeping up the remaining pieces until they're in a neat little pile in the middle of the floor. He squints down at them, his helm still pounding. Does he really want to stoop and grab those? ... No, not right now. Maybe after he settles in for a bit. "No," he answers. If anything, he is stubborn and almost always refuses help. "I'll pick it up once I'm over the urge to knock it right back off the table."
He settles back into the chair with a sigh of relief, the glance he throws Madrigal daring him to challenge his reasoning for leaving the pieces on the floor in a pile.
The big mech might say that, but leaving a mess on the floor is just asking for someone to step in it. Leveling a look at Brigade, Madrigal stoops to gather up the pieces, trotting over to deposit them on the table. "I'm sure you can refrain for a short while." All four hands were in on the carrying action, and it's a bit of an odd twist-turn motion to get his wings situated against his back once more. Mind made up, he hops into the opposite seat, folding up neatly and offering a hand across the table. "I'm Madrigal."
Brigade gives Madrigal a warning look, but the mecha does not heed it. The moment that the mecha sets the pieces back on the table, the tank reaches out with his massive mitt and swats them right back off. The pieces going flying across the floor once more. "I told you," the drill sergeant responds.
Now he has to get back up, though! That's a pain, but worth it to make a point. With a sigh the tank gets back on his pedes and limps around, gathering the scattered pieces into another neat pile with his broom-cane. "Brigade."
Rude! Madrigal puffs up ever so slightly, almost glaring at Brigade. Fine then, make your life more difficult, see if he cares. "Charmed, I'm sure." He couldn't sound less charmed if he tried. Honestly, next he'll be meeting someone that flips tables when they're upset. After a few moments of watching the pieces swept into a pile, he slips out of the seat again to at least stack them near the chairs, out of the way. "Are you always this pleasant or is today just a bad one?"
<FS3> Brigade rolls Body+body: Failure. (1 2)
Brigade is in the process of sweeping the last of the pieces into a pile when Madrigal bends down to 'help' once more. The tank purses his lip components, shoving the broom between Madrigal and the pile of pieces. He makes sweeping motions at the other mecha in an attempt to herd him back. Really, this would all end quickly if he'd just stoop and pick up the pieces himself. He's still too sore, though. Maybe in another couple of minutes.
"I'm told I'm a holler," Brigade mutters back. "But mostly because I'm loud."
Madrigal huffs, pushing the broom away and making to hold it at bay with a wing while he continues to help with picking up the pieces. Still, though, that's a joke, and jokes mean rising spirits. "An off day, then." he giggles, secondary optics slipping into happy crescents.
Brigade is just getting frustrated now. Whether he is any shape to do so or not, the tank decides it it time to make his point crystal clear. Leaning his cane against the edge of the table, Brigade drops to the ground with a loud thunk! His huge hands reach out to snag as many pieces from Madrigal as he can manage. He's tall enough that even sitting it's no trouble to shove them back on top of the table.
The real issue will be getting up. But at least his cane is in reach and he's not on his back strut. He'll manage. Later. "That obvious? I have a hangover."
Madrigal just laughs harder at the frustrated cleaning. He picked up after himself, mission accomplished! "You haven't spoken above a mumble since I walked in, my dear. It's not hard to connect the dots." Arranging himself to sit on the floor, the bird cocks his head to the side. "Swerve's hosted an event last night if I'm not mistaken?"
Brigade twists around in his seat to face Madrigal, shaking his head vigorously. "My designation is Brigade, not whatever you just said," he corrects. He is just going to pretend he did not hear that for both their sakes! He's anything but a 'dear.'
When he hears what else Madrigal had to say, the tank suddenly pauses. "... You heard about that?" he asks. "Damn, what did I do to get people talking if even a stranger has heard about it?" Maybe his fuzzy memory is more trouble than he thought it was...
"Oh- Sorry." Old primadonna habits die hard, he has to balance out the gruff warmech grumbling with something. There's a little self-concious ruffle-flick of his wings before Madrigal perks up, optics going wide and antenna canting forward. He knows he's a bit of a busybody at the best of times but- this just sounds too interesting to not hear about. "Not past 'many mecha gathered', but I'm more than willing to hear more."
Brigade rubs at his jaw and leans back against the table. He'll just stay here on the floor for the moment, thank you very much! "If you're looking for a story, don't ask me," the tank answers. He shrugs his shoulder armor. "All I know is I wasn't drunk enough to forget what I want to, but I wasn't sober enough to remember most of it."
He gives a small snort of amusement. "All I can tell you for certain is I got whacked and Vortex is an aft. Neither of those are surprising."
Again, Madrigal titters, pulling his knees to his chest and settling next to Brigade. "Drat, and here I'd hoped to hear tales of your adventures." It's just dry enough to be an obvious joke. It helps that he's having a hard time keeping it level with the laughter still clinging to his words. "You're right, I'm not surprised about either of those." He hums, pausing a moment. "I haven't seen you before, what do you do?"
"See what I mea- Wait a second," Brigade trails off, glancing sidelong at Madrigal. "I hardly know you. What's that supposed to mean?" It was one thing for him to say he is punchable. It is quite another for Madrigal to so quickly agree with him. If Brigade is joking is not as clear as it is with Madrigal. He may be, but that's up to interpretation.
"I plan and run training sessions in the practice rooms, and a little recordkeeping on the side. Damn good at it, too."
Madrigal stares up at Brigade for a moment. "Vortex is a bit of a prick," He tics off on a finger, "And you're clearly very hungover," another finger, he's only got one left to count on now. "I know I'm pretty but I'm not an idiot." For all that he sounds offended, it's quite overdramatic and done in good humor. "Oh! I'm more surprised I haven't met you before! I spend... an inordinate amount of time down there."
"You've met me," Brigade says, frame puffing up with pride. "If you've ever gotten your aft handed to you by the battle simuatlions..."
The tank trails off, raising his hand like he's asking to be called on in class. "That's me. All me. I'm pretty good at that, too. You just didn't know it was me handing your aft to you. Or, well, programming to slag that hands your aft to you."
"Oh I-" Madrigal taps his fingertips together a few times, using a wing to gesticulate instead. "I don't use the simulations." He spars and practices, but he's never thought to use the simulations. It's such a switch from sparring against a living, functioning mech that it doesn't feel much like a real battle, anyway. "I'm sure the ones you've programmed are fantastic, though!"
<FS3> Brigade rolls Body+body: Failure. (3 1) Brigade spends 1 luck points on Just overriding a failed body roll.. <FS3> Brigade rolls Body+body: Success. (4 7)
Brigade quirks an optic ridge and then shrugs. "Your loss," the tank answers. Reaching out, he grabs his cane and braces himself against the edge of the table. His ascent is slow and painful, frame shaking with effort, but he finally manages to right himself. "Guess you must have a punchable face, too. That's a common trait on this ship. Don't take it too hard."
"... Still kind of wish you'd let me punch it, though."
That gets an angry scrape-snarl of Madrigal's blade arsenal against the floor, before he can remember that the movement will damage both himself and the poor ground. Lifting up to his feet, the bird flicks a wing testily and pivots away. He doesn't even have a visible face! All these mechs and punching! "With that attitude, I'm sure you're quite punchable as well."
Is it something Brigade said? The tank looks briefly baffled, but then just shrugs his shoulder armor. He's not going to spend a whole lot of time worrying about it. "Yeah, getting punched is kind my job. Literally. I would hope I was punchable," he answers. Being punchable isn't a bad thing! It means you can take getting a beating and get back up. Dancing away from a fight is much more concerning and baffling.
"Get in line if you want to take a swing. The last guy who did, I rained confetti in his face. It's an entertaining experience." He can tell he's ruffled a few feathers, though, so the tank begins to shuffle away.
Giving a last, frustrated huff, Madrigal stalks off. He doesn't need to hear any more of this, and clearly the mech is off his rocker if he thinks 'punchable' is a compliment! No words, just angry ruffled feathers.