Blurred Lines

It's a night like any other in Rodion, mechs and femmes of varying frame types wandering the streets a bit listlessly, looking for cheap after hours joints with half decent drinks. 
Among those who are meandering about is Deadlock. Yet, he stands out in the crowd because his demeanor is bit more purposeful. The Decepticon steps over to a corner joint and peers in through the window, optics narrowed. A moment later, another mech joins Deadlock. They exchange a nod and head for the entrance of the joint.
Blast Off sits in said joint because, let's face it, these days there isn't much for him to do except drink- and spend time with Whirl. And funny enough, that's what he's doing. He sits at a table, wine in hand, and looks over at the other mech. "Whirl, you need to be more careful on the radio. Loudly proclaiming that you won't register as an Autobot to all of Cybertron will just result in someone coming in to do it FOR you. Just... go and register, alright?”
Whirl is sitting inside that joint, enjoying a drink (or five) because why not? He's sitting at a table, opposite of his plus one, Blast Off. While the shuttleformer sips on wine, Whirl is taking 'swigs' from a bottle of enerwhiskey. "No way! I think this registration thing is total scrap!" He pulls the bottle out of his neck shunt and slams it onto the table.
"It's clearly Decepticons being aft-hurt over the Decepticon Registration Act! It's not like everyone who wears an Autobot badge is cool with the things Zeta and Sentinel did, a lot of us thought the DRA was ridiculous! Why should I have to pay for some corrupt politician's tyranny? It's not like I even wanted to be an Autobot, I was tricked into it by Starscream of all people. If anything, his involvement should absolve me of everything on it's own!"
Deadlock smirks as he enters the joint. Suddenly, before Blast Off or Whirl can protest, he slides over to where they're sitting, crimson optics gleaming. 
"Enjoying yourself?" he says, his voice deep and dangerously even. The mech tailing Deadlock sits down at the counter and peers suspiciously at the two of them. Blast Off might recognize him. He's a Decepticon Internal Cooperations corporal. Now, why would he be here, with Deadlock, at this joint, while he's sitting next to Whirl?
Blast Off raises his hand to correct Whirl.... and then hesitates. Because... Whirl's right. His hand remains in the air, finger pointed, but his optics shift a little. "Well...," He starts out, wondering if this sounds as lame to Whirl as it does to him, "...It's simply... well, what Overclock said. They want an idea of people's political leanings for... representation." He doesn't really believe that, but... he's TRYING to do what he thinks is right for Whirl's own safety. 
He'd go on but (mercifully?) Deadlock interrupts, leaving the shuttleformer to blink and look up. ".... Can I help you?" His voice sounds slightly irritated, but then again it so often does.
"I don't have any political leanings. You know what politics did for me? It cut off my face and hands." He brings the bottle up to his neck and takes another 'swig' before placing it back down. "The Primacy is dead, why are we still having problems? I thought Megatron and dead Primes was supposed to make everything better, why are we having this conversation? Autobot Registration Acts.. Why?" He rubs at the side of his head with a claw with a sigh before locking optics with Blast Off. "Let's just run away to space together, screw Cybertron."
Then suddenly there's some weirdo sliding in on his and Blast Off's conversation, much to Whirl's chagrin. He doesn't know this guy and he doesn't appreciate him barging in on his personal time with the Combaticon. "I /was/ before you showed up. How about you move along and go annoy someone else, yeah?"
Deadlock just smirks at Whirl. "I should say the same to you," he says with a dramatic sigh, leaning on the counter. His gaze slides back over to the Combaticon. “Didn’t peg you as the type to hang out with.. Autobots. Like this one, anyway." 
The other Decepticon corporal's optics narrow at Blast Off. "Not gonna lie, kid, but your little appointment with one optic here is hella suspicious. I know who this guy is. How do I know you weren't just talking about something Megatron /really/ wouldn't want erratic empurata to know?"
This is increasingly uncomfortable for Blast Off... especially because Whirl is *right*. He frowns under his faceplate at the mention of heads and hands being cut off, and can't help but glance to Whirl's claws as he feels a twinge of sympathy. "I... I know. But..." His voice trails off at the mention of running off to space. And part of the Combaticon wants to take him up on his offer. All kinds of thoughts and logistics run through his processor, but he doesn't have much time to think of them because, again, DEADLOCK. The shuttle turns his head to glare at the intruder. 
"I'll have you know that Megatron has given his *blessing* for us to spend as much time together as we want..." He blinks. "Well, barring duties, of course..." Then his optics narrow in return. "...What business is it of yours, anyway? And... I am no *KID*."
Whirl is growing increasingly annoyed by Deadlock and his buddy's presence. Both he and Blast Off have their own lives and responsibilities to attend to so they don't get to spend as much time together as he'd like, these moments where the two of them can just relax and socialize? He treasures them and having some jerk barging into it uninvited really pisses him off.
"If you know who I am then you'd be wise to back the hell off," Whirl says, his tone short and impatient. He hesitates to say more but Blast Off mentions Megatron and /his blessing/ so the cyclops decides to elaborate further. "He's my significant other and we're on a date, discussing the recent Autobot Registration Act. Is that convincing enough for you? Can you frag off already or are we going to have a problem?”
"Ha!" Deadlock scoffs at Blast Off, "do you realize how damn weak you look right now? I can't believe you're toting an Autobot around like an accessory because you can't hold your own! And oh, we both you can't." His optics blaze and he picks up an engex mug in his hand and crushes it with a smirk. "Blessing to spend as much time together as you want? Ain't that some slag. He's probably just tolerating it for the sake of not causing friction between the Autobots and Decepticons. Which, if you ask me, was never a good idea to begin with." 
The corporal narrows his optics at Whirl. "And you'd be wise to shut the hell up," he says, getting off of his barstool. "Significant other, oh really? And how do I know," he says, glancing at Blast Off, "that the lines between duty and relationship aren't blurring into one, giant mass? You've interfaced, haven't you?"
Blast Off's tone turns icy, as does the shade of violet in his optics. "...I beg your /pardon/..." The shuttleformer's hand grips his wine glass even more tightly. "Weak? I'd say sticking with the person I choose to, despite the ignorant and uncultured snipings and rabble-rousings that get muttered behind our backs- or in front of us, as the case may be..." He glares again at Deadlock, "Is a sign of *strength*, not weakness." His optics narrow even further. "...Your opinion doesn't matter anyway, nor did I ask it of you. Megatron's DOES, however, and he has chosen to bring us togther." Then he bristles at The Corporal's last comments. "....THAT is none of YOUR business..." His trigger finger starts to look twitchy. "Now go find someone *else* to annoy."
Why is it that everytime Whirl goes out and tries to have a good time, someone (or someones, in this case) has to come along and ruin it? All he wants is to sit down with Blast Off, have a few drinks, go somewhere for a nice frag, and just enjoy himself. Why is that so difficult?
Whirl just sits there, glaring at both Deadlock and the corporal Deadlock brought along with him. He's doing his best to keep from doing anything brash and reckless, anything that might make this bad situation even worse, but the question about their interfacing is too much and Whirl loses his cool.
"I'm sick of your face," the cyclops snaps, rising to his feet with a clatter. "I'm sick of BOTH your faces, but I'm especially sick of YOURS!" He grabs the bottle of enerwhiskey by the neck and holds it over his head like he's ready to start smashing faces with it. "NOW FRAG OFF BEFORE I BREAK THIS BOTTLE OFF IN YOUR EXHAUST!"
Deadlock just lets out a sinister laugh, then reaches to grab for Whirl's neck, in an attempt to string the ex convict up and press his blaster to Whirl's helm. "And what about now?" he taunts the Combaticon. "If you move, I might blast his cerebro-circuitry to bits. Really, the only thing you can do is beg and plead, like the weakling you are. Ha, point /proven/." 
The corporal stands up, glaring at Blast Off, then Whirl. "Excuse me, but actually, you're wrong, it /is/ my business. If you interfaced with him, you better damn well not have sold him any information that Megatron wouldn't have wanted him to know. Sorry, /kid/, but that's my job. I'll be keeping a sharp optic on you two.”
-Combat- You hit Whirl with your melee attack!
Blast Off can't blame Whirl for losing his temper one bit. Not a bit. Still, he's already concerned Whirl could be in hot water given his comments on the radio earlier and he doesn't want it compounded with *this*. It's funny how if it were HIM getting in trouble he wouldn't mind... but if it's Whirl then- that's different somehow. He holds up a hand, looking aloof and even a little bored. "Now, now Whirl.... don't let these unmannered jackanapes get to you. It's not worth giving them the time of day. We owe them nothing." 
Then that all goes to hell in a sparkbeat as Deadlock holds a gun to Whirl's head. Blast Off freezes, hand still hanging in mid-air. His trigger finger twitches again, but trying to bring out his weapon seems unwise at least at this moment. "....What's this? You're going to try to hold him *hostage*? Who's the coward /now/?" He keeps his optics locked on Deadlock and Whirl, but answers the Corporal with an icy tone. "You /do/ that, then. I can assure you I have not given him any Decepticon secrets- ever. Beyond that, it is none. of. your. business."
Whirl wants nothing more than to shatter that bottle all over Deadlock's head. No, wait, that's not true. He'd also like to cut his throat and let him bleed out while he does the same thing to his corporal buddy. Unfortunately, he doesn't get a chance to even try any of those things because as soon as he hefts that bottle up, he finds his throat gripped in Deadlock's hand and a blaster pressed against his head.
Whirl is silent for a bit, just GLARING at Deadlock with the nastiest, coldest glare he can possibly muster. "Is this really all you came here for? To harass us and point guns at my head like it isn't something that happens to me on a near daily basis?" He laughs. "You think I'm scared? Of /you?/ I don't even know who you are!" He laughs again. "Decepticon secrets!? Ahahahaha! Gimme a break!”
"You're so weak for him, it's pathetic," Deadlock sneers at Blast Off. "Look who's talking, you don't even know how to take someone hostage, otherwise you would have tried to jump Clandestine here already." 
He tosses Whirl aside roughly, towards a wall decorated with cheap art. 
"You better not be lying," Clandestine says dismissively, "for the record, I don't trust you, at all, Combaticon." His optics gleam. "I've heard plenty from Deadlock, and you don't seem like the type of person who has any respect for anything, really. Except your lame aft cyclops boyfriend, don't know how you ended up together, but all I can say is that it takes one to know one." 
"Come on, Deadlock. Let's skip this joint and these losers." He gets up to leave.
"He's right," Blast Off concurs, "...He's dealt with far worse. And please, pointing a gun at his head? How passe'. Even *I've already done that." He even pulled the trigger, and nearly killed him, and oddly enough that's kind of how they got together eventually. Yes, it's strange love. It's also a moot point, apparently, for Deadlock finally releases Whirl much to the Combaticon's relief- though he tries not to show it. He doesn't want to give them the satisfaction. "That's because I don't take people hostage.... I am far too skilled a warrior to have to rely on such a crux." 
Now he turns to Clandestine and gives the mech a glare. "...My respect has to be *earned*. And I can say you have a long way to go before you ever achieve *that*." He scoffs a little at the remark on trust. "Bah. And you think *I* am not used to people being distrustful of Combaticons? Being hostile to us? Even if we've done nothing wrong?" He shakes his head a little. Like Whirl deals with the stigma of an empurata, so too does Blast Off know all about Combaticons dealing with a world that distrusts and looks down upon them. Of course, there *might* be reasons for at least part of that... "As I said before, I have nothing I have to prove to *you*. Trust me, or do not. I do not concern myself with the petty concerns of others... especially those who ought to mind their own business anyway.”
Just as Whirl thought, Deadlock fails to pull the trigger and instead throws him aside, the cyclops stumbling against the wall and knocking over some crappy eyesore of a painting. The entire bar is instantly classed up by it's removal.
"Yeah, yeah.. get the hell out of here, you frickin' weirdos. Coming up on us, putting your gross hands all over my neck, teasing me with guns to my head.." He grabs that bottle again but instead of hitting anyone with it, he tilts it to his neck shunt and drains the remainder of it. "Don't you guys have anything better to do? Perverts."
"Did nothing wrong? Give me a /break/, mech. You've got plenty of dirt, and I'm sure both of us know that. There's no way a guy like you never told empurata boy anything. I just have to find the evidence. And when I do..." Clandestine glances over at the other with a smirk, and Deadlock finishes the sentence with, "...well, I hope your helm gets mounted on a pike." 
"Tell the devil I said hey, when you get there," Clandestine sneers at Whirl and Blast Off. Then the two of them exit theatrically, leaving the doors swinging wildly as they rush out.
Blast Off glances over at the painting and... yes, no one's going to miss that black velvet painting of turbo-dogs playing poker except possibly the bar owner. I mean really, do turbo-dogs even *play* poker? Sheesh. The Combaticon tsks. "Indeed, Whirl. They had no manners at all." But Clandestine's remarks cause him to stop and give the mech an icy look. "You wouldn't be the first to desire to see that... and you won't be the last, either." His hand slips down, ready to bring his blaster out of subspace... but before he can do so, the two leave. He watches them go, staring at the doors as they swing for a long time. Finally, he turns to look at Whirl. "...I think I lost my appetite. ...Are you alright?"
"What the hell was that about?" Whirl rubs at his throat with a claw, engines rumbling as the two mechs rush out the door. "Do they really think you've been giving me Decepticon secrets? Do you even KNOW any secrets?" That was pretty ridiculous but it's to be expected, right? Their relationship is kind of.. not a good idea and not everyone is going to be cool with it.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He turns to look at Blast Off. "Want to get the hell out of here?"
"I don't know," Blast Off replies, frowning. He's well aware their relationship is going to raise questions- HAS raised questions. Unfortunately. He glances away, wing elevons twitching. "...Well... I'm a Decepticon, you're an Autobot... those questions are likely to pop up. Some will NOT see that as a good thing. Maybe... most people. I don't know." His gaze returns to Whirl. "I don't care, either." He pauses at the next question, finally answering, "Well, nothing THAT secret. Though sometimes I've had... well, tactical knowledge. But I kept that to myself, just as you kept your knowledge as an Autobot to yourself, and I never asked you to reveal any of it. We had it... difficult enough without compounding things by actually exchanging information. And... people don't trust Combaticons much more than they probably trust empurata survivors. So..." He glances away, "...So. Anyway. We kept things simple. It's just.... sometimes I think people cannot *accept* simple." 
Then, finally, he looks back at Whirl. "Yes. That sounds like a *great* idea." He tilts his head. "I WAS going to race you..."