2017-10-11 It's the Fuzz! Scramble!
From Transformers: Lost and Found
|It's the Fuzz! Scramble!|
|Participants||Brigade, Cavalier, Windblade|
|NPCs||Undercut, Spunky Chef, Sassy Lizard|
|Plot||Artifacts of the Knights of Cybertron|
|Summary||No murdering death machines were harmed in the capture of this artifact.|
The team going through the spacebridge finds themselves, unusually, subject to inclement weather upon arrival. A few pellets of ice intermix with the sheeting rain, pouring down the sides of the buildings nearest. The atmosphere is thick and dark. It's a chilly night, although not cold enough for the rain to freeze on the black asphalt. There's a tarry smell in the air, along with some distinctly city scents -- refuse, spilled gas, the burnt scent of overspent energy -- that go with the buzz of city noise and traffic that they can hear beyond this particular alley. It's night, but it's not precisely dark. Glitz and glitter spark and fizzle, and even around the dumpster that has been their offloading location, cheap holograms shift and move, advertising this, that, or the other thing. Rowdy bar sounds and vicious kitchen noise seem to be the things that exude from the nearest back door. The sensor scan shows a direction, but it's hard to say what the /best/ pathway is ever going to be in the close crowded streets of a galactic city somewhere in the universe.
Cavalier's yet to be out on a proper mission since he's arrived on the Lost Light. His first experience with it is so far less than impressive as the Space Bridge dumps its ensemble of mecha into a heap of trash in some back alley. Cavalier's not having an excellent day. He scrambles out of the garbage, already feeling some of the gunk and grime and filth seep into the seams of his feet and represses a shudder. "Everyone make it through alright?" He asks as soon as his feet find solid, blissfully not-squishy with refuse ground. "Or, well, you know..."
What is /with/ the bridge lately? Last time Windblade did this she ended up in sand, which promptly tried to swallow her heels and pitch her backwards. Now... garbage?! Garbage underfoot, hard walls all around, and Primus it got crowded. The winged Camien reels and emits something like, "Woop!" while grabbing outward. Give her some time, she'll eventually notice the sparklies-- and the city which claims them-- but for the moment, she tries to secure some stable footing. While also trying to ignore thinking about what they might be standing in "For various definitions of the word 'alright'," she mumbles, diplomatically. But Cavalier has blazed the trail, and she's quick to scramble after him. "Ew ew ew ew..."
As per usual, Brigade shuffles through the spacebridge last, a little to the left of the others. Squelch. A rotten piece of garbage, toppling from the overflowing dumpster as Windblade and Cavalier fights their way free, explodes under the tank's pede. He would be disgusted. Really, he would be! But the combat command so rarely gets to go on missions that he hardly even notices. His digits flex around the handle of his cane, optics drinking in the bright colors and flashing lights. His nasal sensors flare at the odd mix of scents. "If I was on leave right now..." he mutters. This place looks like a good location to knock a few drinks down. His attention turns back to the others just as the haul themselves free. "We're off to a great start, aren't we?"
The upside of landing in the trash: the sheeting rain splatters down across them all, so only the clingiest, smeariest, oiliest garbage actually clings to their chassis. That is an upside, right? Traffic noises loom in the streets beyond this particular alley. Something distinctly organic, small, and hairy scurries past the dumpster as it attempts to escape the sudden onset of Cybertronians.
"Could be worse," Cavalier tries for optimistic and winds up more at 'not understanding the sarcasm.' Which is fine, generally. "Where's the scanner pointing for that artifact?" He lifts a pede to let the tiny organic run past, unperturbed by the little creature's general squishy nature. It's a contained squish, after all. "My hope is not back in the dumpster."
Like a cat, Windblade lifts one foot and gives it a little shake to lose the worst of the ick. Mid-shake, however, she pauses. Uh oh. Those are /definitely/ uh oh eyes, and they are turned hopefully to Brigade.
Everyone knows Brigade has a cane for every occasion, and he is not about to disappointment today. He had even had this one specially outfitted for this mission (and hopefully for a few more to come). The tank leans over, lifting his hand just enough to reveal a scanner installed at the base. Brigade squints. "Frag it. Now that I think about it, maybe I should have had someone teach me how to actually read the damn thing," he mutters.
While he's trying to figure that out, though, the tank spots a flicker of movement out of the corner of his optic. Old instincts kick into gear. Clang. He suddenly twitches his cane around, shoving it into the path of... a vermin. The creature stumbles back with a squeak. "We can safely assume that's not the artifact," he adds, looking up to meet Windblade's optics. There's a gleam of challenge. No one mention what just happened.
The scanner shows that the artifact is not terribly far, but north and west of their current location. They will need to leave the alley either through the back door into the kitchen (to the immediate west) or to the busy street past the mouth of the alley (to the immediate north). The rain pours down over them all and tiny spicules of hail bounce off their heads and kibble.
Well Cavalier has had plenty of rain and rats, to the kitchen it is! The'll simply have to explain to any staff the circumstances and that they'll be on their way quickly. With that thought in mind and the directions from the scanner, Cavalier pushes open one of the doors to the kitchen and ducks inside. "Come on then, best we get out of this wet," he calls back to the others with a smile.
It's a look Windblade has been faced with before. Seeing it now, she might twitch her brow plates higher but that is impressed, not questioning-- good shot, big guy. No harsh words from this corner. "I think that little fellow is too small to be tour guide," she ventures, shielding her eyes from the downpour with one hand so she can safely scry the higher levels of the alley surrounding them. Her gaze swings on down to chase Cavalier after and if he's going that way, so too shall she. Tipped sideways, naturally, to tilt one wing and then the other through the door, with one arm stretched back to keep it open for Brigade.
Brigade grunts, glad that little mishap is not up for comment. The tank turns his attention back to squinting at the guage. He hadn't taken any lessons, but... "I think it's that wa- Hey!" he says, his helm snapping up. The others are on their way. Heading in the right direction, at least. The tank shuffles after them as fast as he can manage on the slick ground, which is not fast at all in weather like this. By the time he reaches the doorway, Windblade would have had to keep it open for a decent length of time. The tank braces himself against the door frame and tries to slide past. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We don't know what's waiting for us," he groused. Not that it's not just a tad bit exciting. Being in the field always is.
Into the kitchen!
Tall, reedy aliens with long, whippy tails and high, sweeping ears are in the midst of preparing a dinner that seems to be heavy on the bloody slaughter and also on the shouting. It's not clear what some of what their shouting would translate to -- that is, it's Galactic common and all of them are equipped to understand or translate it, but it's all restaurantese. Some of them are in the weeds. Others are very angry about something that happened to the salt. Et cetera. "Who moved the fryers?" "I need more cheesecloth!" "Where the fuck are my onions?" "Your station is a disaster!" "You donkey!" And so on.
The noise halts abruptly as the Cybertronians enter through the kitchen. Everything is bizarrely quiet.
One of the cooks screams and dives to hide underneath his station; fire launches in a sudden FWOOM! around his pot as some control gets jostled in the process.
"Don't shoot!" yells one, her chef's hat skewed, her apron rucking up around her hips to reveal tiger-striped fur as she scrambles to grab a weapon.
"Mechawarriors!" whines one in a high pitched voice. "Mechawarriors on my shift-- knew I should have called out--"
Cavalier's gloved hands go up in front of his chest in a placating motion as soon as the organics start to shriek in some kind of attempt at being less intimidating. "Pardon us," he says, projecting his voice without shouting to the room. "We don't mean to intrude, but with the rain outside it seemed best to venture into the building. We're merely passing through, and mean you no harm. We're terribly sorry to intterupt your work." His wings ar flicked downwards, expression open. Please don't call the authorities.
Screaming and bursts of fire? Windblade is not self-controlled enough to avoid casting a glance back at Brigade. "Civilians," says she, lest the tank missed that detail as he maneuvered himself through the door. She too ventures to raise both empty hands, and lets her eyes tick wider to echo Cavalier's earnest performance. "It's frightful out there, hail's no kinder to us than you. Just passing through," she confirms with a signature smile. Let's try... warm. Even gentle. Scootch scootch.
At the first hint of chaos, Brigade gives up on trying to delicately siddle through the door. Crack. His grip tightens on the doorframe, leaving the barest impression of his digits behind. The tank stumbles inside the kitchen, armor bristling as his optics scan for the source of the dange- It's only Windblade's voice that reels him back. His posture remains tense, almost as if he's about to spring forwards, but he's at least stopped. The others have their chance to talk.
There's a kind of dithering ripple that seems to pass through each of the cowering civilians in the kitchen. The murmur rises to coherence in a few short bursts of detectable words:
"They're not shooting at us?" "The /mechawarriors/ want to /come in/ out of the /rain/." "They're not shooting at us!"
The chef, electing herself spokesperson, says, "--if you aren't here to hurt us or our customers ... we aren't here to ... give you any trouble. Uhh, hail Cybertron?" She looks around at the others, pupils slitted, jaw dropping wide as she growls a, "Right?"
Mutter mutter, ditto ditto, mutter mutter. "Yeah, yaaay Cybertron." "Yaaaay murdering death machines." "Shhh!"
Cavalier gives a grateful look to Windblade for the assist and for warning Brigade- something that hadn't occurred to him to do but was certainly a good move juging from the property damage. She's certainly astute. "No need to hail," he says gently. "We'll be getting out of your, um. Hair?" Is that the word? He starts to carefully pick his way past the chefs and their equipment, skirting past the fire with some mild trepidation, and makes his way to the other side of the kitchen and holds open the door for Windblade and Brigade.
"It's true," Windblade chimes in after Cavalier, "all hails and other compliments make him blush." Does she mean the mech in the lead or the one in the rear? There's no telling, and it's less funny to /explain/ quips, so moving right along... Carefully hoisting her wings to avoid knocking into anything, she eases along in the wake of the elegant bot before them. Lovely, a whole restaurant to get through. And with Cavalier being so chivalrous, she's the first into it-- which is probably for the best. Hands high, smile firmly in place, and she's already announcing, "We're just passing through, we mean no harm, pay us no mind, excuse us..."
Slowly but surely Brigade pulls back from the edge. While no combat actually occurred, it's close enough. He can feel the start of that familiar buzz, the heady high of knowing he is unstoppable. Was unstoppable. His grip loosens on his cane. Things have changed since he was regularly in the field.
The others slip easily into banter, but after that scare the tank is not so easily soothed. "Murdering death machine," he mutters. "Could have at least added in a few more screams."
The restaurant beyond the door is populated largely by similar aliens to those in the kitchen, though there are a few other, smaller, organics in different places around the lounge. There's a large cluster of people sitting near the holo-screen in the bar area, drinking heavily and shouting over a sporting event that appears to involve some very complicated rules, judging by the nature of the argument several of the patrons are having. It's a cheerful, noisy, boistrous place, well lit and full of bustle with loud music playing.
The Cybertronians draw several stares as they emerge from the kitchen out into the restaurant proper. Fear is the most prominent reaction. Some of the drunker of the crowd have a little thing or two about their bearing that suggests they might be dumb enough to try to pick a fight, but no one does so IMMEDIATELY.
Brigade's fans do not provide him with anymore screams. Not yet, anyway.
There is a short, squat, reptilian-looking alien in one corner, puffing on a pipe, who stares at them with a kind of fascinated interest rather than anything that resembles fear.
The scanner suggests that they are close! It should be ... around here somewhere. By reviewing the scanner, it looks like the artifact should be right here maybe, except that there's nothing here except a lot of tables. Perhaps one of the Knights left behind a basket of beer-battered onion rings?
Cavalier enters just after Brigade, careful to keep himself from bumping into the larger mech as he eases out the door into the restaurant proper. It's warm and friendly, or likely was before they stepped in. The curse of mechanical life these days, really. The scanner seems to be working right... "Excuse me!" Cavalier calls out, "has anyone seen something quite old? Possibly mechanical in nature?" Might as well attempt to crowd-source the information. He pauses for half a second before adding on, "other than ourselves, I mean."
"Could be something small. Or, ah." Well. Isn't this a happy little nest of potential chaos? Windblade's nerves show in the gradual whirr of rotors in her wings, picking up more speed as her gaze scans the crowd. Right. Cavalier has the artifact search well in hand, /she/ watches for the body language tells of impending attacks as best she can. Aliens. They can be so tricky. How to read? And while she's in that mindset, may as well spare the occasional glance for Brigade. Those mutters-- they /tell/ her things, man.
Brigade suddenly snaps out of his muttering, optics narrowing in on Cavalier. "Hey, hey, hey. I'm not old," he growls back, the whine in his voice proof of that. The tank is a lot of things, but old is not one of them. He should probably focus on the mission, though. The tank sets his jaw and starts to scan the crowd. The others go for diplomacy, but him? "I wouldn't hold anything back if I was you," he warns. Not that he'll actually smack around a bunch of civilians, but it helps to give a little motivation.
The furor ripples through the crowd. Mutter mutter, mutter mutter!
"Murderers!" someone calls from the bar, but she is quickly smothered by several companions going "Shhhh!!" in a variety of ways. Windblade can spy so much in their body language, really-- it doesn't look like anyone here is a true threat to anyone except possibly themselves. The lizard-looking guy pulls his pipe from his teeth and smiles a broad, toothy smile, huffing dark smoke. He gestures at them with the pipe, indicatively. His table is not large enough for Cybertronians to sit down at it effectively, yet it still seems to be an invitation.
Cavalier's wings take a notable dip at the call of murderers. It's... not untrue, but still. He forces his wings back up again, sweeping the sting under the rug for now, it'll be a long while until the universe forgets the Great War yet, best to get used to it. The pipe-bearing lizard's invitation, however, Cavalier offers a shrug to Windblade and Brigade before starting to head over. At least it's a friendly response... He picks his way past more tables and yet more organics to stand somewhat awkwardly by the lizard's table.
Windblade never fought any war but she doesn't get huffy at the charge. Maaaybe there's a hint of sigh from her vents. However. Priorities, priorities are important and they're on a mission and there's no telling how Brigade is going to respond to that call. "None of them are brave enough to try anything with you here," she murmurs to the larger mech, "all they have are words. Look, Cavalier's found something." Or someone. Curled fingers beckon Brigade after her as she picks her way through the tables-- argh why are these places always so crowded-- to reach the lizard's. "Good evening, sir. Can, ah... can you help us?"
Brigade pauses, glancing over at Windblade with a slight frown. 'Like hell they will,' he thinks, but he chokes it down. He's made his point. He is no artist with words, not like these two seem to be, but he does have a little sense. Just a little bit. "Still should keep an optic on them. Not every attack is direct," he mutters as he strides past Windblade.
He stops only as he nears the table, giving it an incredulous glance. He's not going to pretend to huddle around that. He'll stand at a respectable distance, thank you very much.
The lizard speaks in a low rasp, barely audible even at close range. "You all must have misread your invitation." He blinks at them with only his inner eyelid, obscuring the yellow glare of his eye with a thin film. His smile is all teeth. "The auction is /downstairs/. /Under/ the bar. Not /at/ the bar. Honestly, it's not like the print was even that small. Don't you have computer processors for brains? How did you miss that?" He's kind of rude, really.
Oh, well. That actually makes an astonishing amount of sense. Cavalier certainly didn't see any fliers or advertisements, but that has to be where the artifact is, and if it's an auction then they may not have much time. His optics blink wide with interest. "Under? Where do we get down?"
With Cavalier asking the important questions, and Brigade falling into looming mode-- her favourite of the modes, with the grizzled soldier sorts, since it's /mostly/ peaceful-- Windblade seizes the opportunity to look around again. The tank wasn't wrong, after all, and there might be a visible stairwell.
...a stairwell. Oh, please don't be a stairwell. Trying to roll Brigade down that gives her the heebie jeebies...
Brigade's optics continue to scan the room. Unlike the others, he doesn't immediately lock on to the mention of the auction. Keep all options open. Anything is possible in the field. Always assume the worst. On the bright side, if they're being spoken to like that it makes it less pressing that he watch his tongue. Shooting over his shoulder armor, he asks, ::Forget how we get down there. Let's find out what the frag they're selling first,:: he comms to his comrades. The restaurant does not spit out an immediately visible stairwell. The lizard sighs exaggeratedly and rises. Standing, he comes up to like ... Cavalier's knee. MAYBE. Shuffling forward, he clamps his pipe back in his teeth. "It's pissing out," he says. "I expect a tip. Come on." Then he begins to shuffle across to the front door. Of course, one could ask him questions while he serves as native guide.
Outside, the city street is alive with flurries of traffic. Hover vehicles speed and zip in the air above. The lizard's tail lashes crankily as he trudges out under the pounding rain and scattering hail, but he comes to what resembles nothing so much as a manhole cover and stamps three times on the ground next to it.
There's a shiver, a shudder, and then the sidewalk next to the manhole cover slides back to reveal a heavy duty elevator platform. It's large enough to fit even Brigade, although they'll have to get cozy to all stand on it at once. The lizard glowers and holds out his clawed hand. Where is his tip?!
- I doubt we'll get any information on that unless we show we're willing to buy, and that means going down I suspect,:: Cavalier comms back to Brigade. Without consulting, and he'll apologize for it later, he holds a hand out above the lizard as they walk out of the restaurant in an attempt to keep the rain off of their new guide. "Who runs this auction?" He asks as the little organic reveals the elevator. Oh goodness, he's not looking forwards to the squishing it will require to get down, plating clamping down in anticipation.
He glances back to the lizard only to find the clawed hand. Oh, well. A few shanix are deposited gently into the organic palm. Not much, but a respectable enough tip, best to not enrage a local.
- More importantly, if others are bidding on the artifact, do we have the resources to outbid them?:: Windblade tucks her chin low as they emerge into pelting rain again, optics shifting to gleaming blue slits as she dubiously watches the sidewalk opens. Right. Gettin' cozy with the away team. She can do that.
"The money, I expect," the lizard says, bouncing the coins thoughtfully in his hand. "But the Guild's /hosting/ it. You ain't cops, right?" It's kind of belated as a question, but he answers himself, "Tchah, of course not. Cybertronians."
The elevator platform lowers them down into the depths of a dingy sewer, dark but for a few dull glowing LEDs marking the way. The ground beneath is wet, mucky in places, ripe with sewage, but it's a short passage through the sewer into what might have once been a cellar, and now seems to be ... almost a pool hall.
Smoke hangs thick and heavy in the air. Some of the life forms down here are even mechanicals, like them, although a slightly smaller, more homogenous race of mechanicals from the other end of the galactic nexus. Several Galactic Council races are represented, but one is missing an eye and another looks like she is more tattoo than skin. The Guild in question is represented by multiple heavily armed toughs hanging around near the back of the room while a glittering crystalline spider stands before a podium reading lot numbers and serving as an auctioneer. "...Lot 78, again from the secondary archaelogical dig of Rigel VI, a sealed sarcophagus, only slightly chipped, courtesy of expert excavator Undercut..."
In the far corner at the front of the room, a Cybertronian is seated on a stool with her back wedged against the cellar, her arms folded across her chassis. She is all harsh angles and fine lines, deep maroon in color with dull gold and orange biolighting. Her visor has the seeming, almost, of a triangular, whiskered mask, behind which her optics form a glare of bright magenta light. Beside her, a long buffet style table holds a number of small objects with little numbered tags in front of them.
Cavalier can't help but stare at all the items and the various races filling the hall, not at any individuals, that would be frightfully inappropriate, but at the whole collection of- well, everything. This all feels distinctly criminal, which is no surprise from how their lizard guide acted outside of the entrance, but it feels criminal. "Any idea which item it might be?" Cavalier asks to his companions, fingers clasped in front of himself with his back straight, a little more uncomfortable in the new environment.
Wait, did she just hear that correctly? The dots are all connecting: hidden auction, shadowy invitations, a table /covered/ with relics. Over their shared comm, in a ton of unmistakable horror, Windblade sends, ::This is an /illegal/ auction, these are stolen. They have to be stolen.:: Which means that the diplomat's focus will linger with narrow and speculative (and horrified) attention on those members of the Council she spies. Ooh, just they wait until she sits down with some delegates... "Hmm? Oh." Right. Mission. With jaw set and wings looking rather bristly, she takes the lead and strides towards the table. Suddenly, she is all confidence, adopting the guise of someone who believes they belong there-- or are superior. ::See if any of them call to you.::
Brigade bristles, trying to untangle himself from the tight elevator the moment they're at the location. The only thing that's calling him is the urge to crack some skulls. He does not like this place. He does not like it one bit. It's not so much that he's here, but that the other two are. It's one thing to protect Cavalier and Windblade in a restuarant, but this place... He feels like if he slips up even a little, whatever happens will be his fault. ::No, but whatever it is let's find it quick.::
Of note, nobody seems especially surprised to see Cybertronians down here. No one is bothered. No one challenges them. Clearly, anyone who is bringing themselves into this underground auction, this smoke-filled room, this casual hive of maybe scum and possible villainy, is a-OK by the denizens down here. A couple of the toughs charged with security eye them up and look them over, but no more than any security guard might an entrant into a room he is supposed to prevent bad things happening in. One of them is clearly eyeing up Brigade as a possible dance partner, fingering his sidearm with cheerful malevolence, but that's just what happens at these kinds of parties.
While the glittering spider takes bids on the sarcophagus, Windblade's attitude brings her right up to the buffet with the materials on it. An ancient tablet, nonfunctional; a metal statue depicting a spread-winged creature of some kind; a heavy bronzen-looking cube; the empty hilt of a sword; a slightly broken musical instrument; a chipped and cracked vase with ancient designs etched across its surface. Undercut watches Windblade with brilliant magenta optics narrowed in her visor's mask, somehow skeptical and rude without ever uttering a word.
Cavalier sticks close to Brigade and Windblade. He's not much help here, but he can add to Windblade's demeanor, make her look as if she has an assistant or an attendant. Or, if anyone notices his swords, perhaps a bodyguard alongside Brigade.
That security guard over there, he's smarter than he looks. Because Windblade. Windblade. She is looking rather righteous at the moment. And as she cozies up to the table, yes, her gaze hesitates on a particular item, while her fingers fidget at her side. Tap tap clink against one thigh, tap tap clink. The other two, seeing that posture, have good reason to feel some dread-- she looks like a bot who's about to Start Something. Indeed, as her optics lift to lock with Undercut's, blue blazing at magenta, the Camien lifts her voice and says, "This is an illegal event, selling Cybertronian relics to non-Cybertronian citizens per the Tyrest Accords. We will be confiscating the lot for return to Rigel IV."
Brigade loves a fight. Don't get him wrong. He came out on this mission hoping for a tussle, but when he hears the words that come out of Windblade's mouth? The tanks faceplates suddenly shift into a snarl. This is not good. This is not good at all. "You, me! Talk! Later!" he snaps. He has a lot of cuss words waiting with her name on it.
He doesn't have time for that now, though. The tank lifts his cane, ready to take a swing at anyone who dares make a move. His crimson optics flare behind his visor. "No, we're not here for that. Give us one fragging item and we'll be on our way. We even promise to keep the joint a primus-damn secret. Who cares about a few rusty pieces of scrap anyways?" His gaze snaps back to Windblade, a warning.
"Aw, scrap, it's the fuzz." Undercut rolls to her feet in one fluid motion, and drops her arms. One gun drops from subspace into each of her hands with the gesture, so that when she straightens, she is pointing two pistols -- one at Windblade, one at Brigade. "You're a lot prettier than the last Enforcer I ran across," she says to Windblade. Like it's a statement of fact. "But I'll still shoot your face off."
The spider behind the podium gives an eerie shriek and people begin to move rapidly. Many are going for weapons. There are a lot of guns being cocked. It's that kind of club.
"Friend," says the security guard who was fondling his sawn off shotgun so lovingly at Brigade moments ago, "is this a confiscation or a holdup? Because nobody messes with the Thieves' Guild like this."
"Scramble!" calls one of the others. "We're made!" But the Windblade and the Autobots (it's like a cover band) are between most of them and the table.
<FS3> Windblade rolls Presence + Command: Amazing Success. (7 8 2 7 3 5 6 7 8 8)
<FS3> Brigade rolls Mind+mind: Great Success. (4 4 8 2 4 7 7 7)
<FS3> Opposed Roll -- Cavalier=melee Weapons Vs NPC=6 < Cavalier: Great Success (4 8 6 1 8 3 4 4 7 8 7) NPC: Good Success (5 5 2 8 5 8) < Net Result: Cavalier wins - Solid Victory
Cavalier's blades are in his hands before he can even think that it might be a good idea. "Windiana Jones, please," he hisses out under his breath as he slashes at the pistols that the femme whipped out to try and knock them out of her hands without actually causing damage, then press one of the dual blades up against Lady Magenta's neck. "Do not antagonize the criminals." Because he's not antagonizing, certainly not!
The chaos which erupts behind Windblade is ignored. As one does, when a gun is pointed at their face. The Camien is not the biggest or the tallest or the most formidable, but as she gathers herself a cloak of command falls about her. She /seems/ bigger and taller and formidable as she stares, unflinching, at Undercut. For a moment, the Camien is silent. Brigade's growling was not overlooked, nor Cavalier's objections. Imposing as she appears, her mind is spinning-- maybe this was a misstep. But. But... these things belong in a museum! Nnngh. Again her voice lifts high and firm and strong enough to cut through the crowdnoise. "No one is under arrest, and this is not a hold up. Stand down," might avoid some violence as the swordsmech makes his move on Undercut. She in her turn snatches up the empty sword hilt and levels it at the femme. "Get out. Before I stop listening to my friends and change my mind."
Brigade's armor twitches. He will fight to the end if need be, try to clear a path for those on the crew. Brigade may be grouchy, and have a foul mouth to boot, but he knows his responsibilities. That's why, when the whole crowd stops to stare at Windblade, he sees an opportunity. It's to their benefit that he's not swayed by pretty words. "That's a nice gun you've got," he snaps at the mecha who's been eyeing him this whole time.
Clang, clang, clang. Heavy plated armor starts to shift into place. He doesn't have time to think, to consider the fact this isn't supposed to work. In that moment he is the promising warrior he always was, not the has-been he had become. The tank's turret swivels around, knocking the mecha right across the faceplates. "Turns out I've got a bigger one," he snaps. The tank's loud engine revs as he starts to make his way towards the crowd, clearing a path as he goes. Hopefully the others don't need told to run.
Undercut yells in shock as she is so swiftly disarmed, struggling initially only to go very still as the dual blade's length slides against her neck. She hisses, "You Autobot slagheaps are costing me everything--"
In Windblade's hand, there's a sensation almost like a hum, filtering deep into her frame like warmth: it fits in her hand as though it was custom made for her grip, and there's a hint of an impression that somehow, it belongs there.
Several of the clientele seem to be trying to escape whole hog, so when Windblade says get out to Undercut, a heck of a lot of them seem to be trying to do that their own selves. The giant spider has managed to scuttle all the way to the other side of the room and seems to be disappearing out into the sewer, for example. Several of the toughs are swaggering forward, but then-- THEN--!
"They brought a fucking tank--" someone yells from the back of the room. "SCATTER." And so ... they do.
Cavalier only relaxes when they're out of the sewers, away from the potentiality of a fight, and when Brigade has his cane back- noted and picked up in order to not have to lug a tank through a spacebridge later. It's like cutting the strings of a puppet. "I can't believe that worked," he says as he pings for the Lost Light to bridge them back. As much of a show of force as they made, they also made one- and pardon his french- heck of a ruckus. At least they got the artifact?
"I am /so/ telling the Council about her," Windblade may or may not be muttering as they emerge. But yes The artifact! Free of the sewer, and with face intact, she turns the hilt over in her hands, growliness fading into contemplation. "Thank you," she finally says, looking up at Cavalier and Brigade. The Cityspeaker doesn't look repentant, but grateful? Yes. "Thank you both. I apologize, for getting you into danger."
The other two seem relieved, but Brigade? The moment that Windblade addresses him, the tank glances back at her with a growl. His lip components open, so many things he wants to say, but then he remembers his duty. He's a commander now. If he were anything else, he'd let loose. But... Without a word, he turns his back strut and starts to walk away.