Once Upon a Time: EGO-CLASH

It is not today. Instead, it is years earlier, after one of the many races that have graced the Ibex Circle. The crowd is at the tail end of its dispersal, thinning out now that the race is done and people have gotten their rush of fun and excitement. It's at this point that the workers tend to finally get to clock out, and it's in /this/ grouping that Knock Out eventually makes his way into the open of Ibex. There's a certain level of irritation that actually holds a deep-set sense of jealousy as he watches one of the racers making his exit with considerably more energy. He glances down at the finish on one arm, flicking off an invisible particle of dust and reassuring himself of the superiority of his visage, whatever his caste.
There have been, are, will be many words used to describe Hot Rod's paint job over the years. For now, a good word might be ... aspirational. Fine detailing muddied by poor care, he has all of Knock Out's bright color and none of his luster. He's just one among the crowd that swirl around the Circle, although he seems to have a little more direction than most: trying to catch not the famous racers, but the promoters, the organizers, anyone who can actually get him on the track and moving and (OBVIOUSLY) winning. He's so busy trying to catch up to one such likely that he runs smack into Knock Out in a grating scrape of metal. It's awful.
Knock Out freezes with the horror of a thousand suns imploding in on themselves. He stares at Hot Rod with what can only be described as the early onset of utter panic before he slowly -- /slowly/, he doesn't even want to /see/ it -- turns his optics down to the site of contact. Where he now has a large, unsightly scrape that has born through finish and paint. When his gaze lifts slowly back up to Hot Rod, it is with murder in his optics.
Hot Rod doesn't even care. He's already dismissed Knock Out with no more than a careless, "Hey, careful," like it was Knock Out who got in his way and DEFINITELY not the other way around. He rises, trying to see over the crowd. He certainly doesn't apologize. Little streaks of paint shaded Knock Out's cooler crimson (that's just in HUE not in AWESOME) deepend the bright hot rod red; in them lies the certain knowledge that Knock Out must show the inverse.
"Ex/cuse/ me," Knock Out says through gritted teeth. When Hot Rod persists in /ignoring/ him, he makes a grab for his arm. "YOU SCRATCHED. MY FINISH."
"What?" Hot Rod loses sight of his target when Knock Out violently assaults him. He falls back on his heels and turns. He glances at Knock Out's side, and then his own. "You scratched /mine/." He barely has a finish.
"Hey -- hey!" Turning to try to find the mech he was after, Hot Rod frowns on realizing he's gone. He scowls at Knock Out. "Thanks a bunch for slowing me down. Some of us had races to win, you know." (In his dreams. In his DREEEEEEEEEEAMS.)
"You don't even /have/ a finish," Knock Out is quick to spit out. (Can bots even spit things out? TONALLY.) "That is the most pathetic excuse for a paint job I've ever seen, so you clearly don't even /care/ about /what/ scratches you. But /some of us/ actually take /pride/ in our appearances, particularly when they are /rammed into and ruined/." He sure talks a lot. "You have /no/ races to win because you are /not a racer/."
"Your optics glitched?" Hot Rod demands as he wheels around to face Knock Out. He gives a full-body wave to mark the GLORY of his bright coloring and says, "Finish." Close enough. The heating of temper loosens his tongue: "Your paint is probably the only thing you've got. Me, I've got speed. /Power/. All they need to do is let me in, I win, then I'm a racer."
"You're a nobody. If you were somebody, you'd be past the velvet rope. They don't /let/ people like you in to race." Is there a certain hint of bitterness in Knock Out's voice there? No, of course not. More like a /mountain/. "You have /paint/. Not a /finish/."
"Bet I could finish you," Hot Rod mutter-slash-threatens as he sizes up Knock Out for a race-or-maybe-fight. "I don't see /you/ in there."
"No, you couldn't," Knock Out says with a snap of irritation. "You didn't see me in there because you weren't /in/ there, because they don't /let/ people like you in there unless it's to ~service the racers.~"
There is only one of those two points that Hot Rod can even argue -- although what do you mean, PEOPLE LIKE YOU -- so he ignores the second to go, "Yes, I could." He revs a challenge as he faces Knock Out with a cockiness disproportionate to his cheap (wait, no, AMAZING) finish.
"I swear to Primus -- I don't have /time/ for this," Knock out snaps from underneath a muddle of frustrated syllables. "What, do you just hang around the Circle, pathetically tugging on people to beg them to let you race? I know what racers look like; I fix them up every day. You might have the ego and /thoughtlessness/, but you're not a racer."
The low hum of an engine is hardly a noticeable noise in amidst the winding and milling of the crowd between races. It's no surprise, either, that the heavy truck rolling out from the deeper spaces of the track is a little slower (ha) to escape from the work of the moment than was Knock Out. Breakdown is showing a few chips to his own paint from a recent accident haul, blue's gleam more dusty and dull than it will be after he gets a chance to clean up; he lifts tires from the ground as he rolls forward, stunting idly in a casual display of prowess that is pretty coincidental in its avoidance of jutting benches and other obstacles en route. His tires hit the floor again and in a second he's transforming into his full cybertronian height. "Knock Out," is his low rumbling greeting as he stands straight, measuring the other with a long glance. He can already tell it's going to be a bad night because he's already seen Knock Out's finish.
"No!" Hot Rod says with just enough heat that there's probably some degree of truth to Knock Out's words. Like maybe if he hangs out enough, if he just happens to be amazing enough, he could just get scouted or something and then -- man, THEN. CIRCLE CITY. Not that he'd ... think that. Uh.
He moves onto victories he's more certain of winning: "I'm not tugging anyone. You're the one who grabbed me." Hot Rod lifts his arm and wiggles it: see, see?? Grabbed, not grabbee. Knock Out factually incorrect and thus wrong in every way. When his new friend grows an actual friend, he doesn't back down. He gives Breakdown an equally measuring stare.
"Because you /scratched my finish/." Yes, let's just go right around back to that point, because it's really the salient one. "Which /I/ now have to repaint, rewax, and buff out." He looks over at Breakdown's approach as if he never doubted he would be there, right at his side, right at the correct moment. "He /scratched my finish/!"
"Well, now, that's just rude." Breakdown's smile is a sardonic thing, etching the gleam of red that is his face between the bladed prongs that frame it. He turns a bright flare of optics upon Hot Rod, their intensity now that of the guy who is probably going to actually be /doing/ a large portion of the repaint, rewax, and buff, you know, all things considered. His stance widens with a metallic thunk as his feet spread. "I hope you're planning on apologizing, there, Grabby." (Even though Hot Rod /just/ made it clear who was grabby, it's very clear by the angle of Breakdown's stare to whom he is attaching his appellation.)
"Yeah, Grabby." Hot Rod /immediately/ attempts to redirect Breakdown's stare to Knock Out by transferring his gaze from Bigs to Smalls. He holds himself very still, like he can trick them into this little bit of apolo-judo if he doesn't look away.
Hot Rod's redirection inevitably lights Knock Out's fury even further. "HE MEANS YOU," he grinds through his teeth.
What Breakdown does next makes it highly likely that /actually/ the name 'Grabby' should apply to neither of the principals hitherto referred. He clanks a couple steps forward, pointed fingers spread wide as he bears down on Hot Rod to seize him bodily and shove him back. His voice dry in its weighted depth, he says: "Rude."
What Breakdown does next makes it highly likely that /actually/ the name 'Grabby' would be more appropriate attached elsewhere. He clanks a couple steps forward, pointed fingers spread wide as he bears down on Hot Rod to plant his hands across his shoulders and shove him back. His voice dry in its weighted depth, he says: "Rude."
"I'm didn't--." Hot Rod braces, leaning into Breakdown's shove, but he's outmassed and outleveraged: he falls back a step. "Hey!" Outrage quivers along his frame, from spoiler to heel. "Back off!" He should go. He doesn't. (yet.)
Looking more satisfied than he should when his big, strong friend steps up to shove Hot Rod around, Knock Out just crosses his arms lazily over his chest and watches. "Maybe you should have been /polite/ and /apologized/."
Chuckle resounding from the depths of his throat, Breakdown looks down his nose -- so to speak -- at Hot Rod and says, "You come onto our track," that's right, it's theirs, he's peed on it and everything, "and frag up my friend's doors and you want to get cute with me about who did what to who?"
Breakdown's fingers scrape off the edges of Hot Rod's spoiler as he thrusts back and then flings his arms down, veering his head to loom up in Hot Rod's features with a pull of sneer peeking the points of white teeth in the red field of his face. He finishes the thought with only a low mutter of, "Heh." It's not another laugh. It's just a big guy getting all up in his face and saying /heh/.
WOW. W-o-w. Hot Rod lifts his hands to throw off Breakdown's arms and push back inside his guard. He makes a point of getting right up in Breakdown's face -- when there's a rather pointed sort of noise from some mech or femme or another passing by.
Hot Rod looks from Breakdown to Knock Out and then to general ... relative civility of the area compared to his home streets. Also, bouncers! He could pick a fight. HE WOULD TOTALLY WIN IT. It still wouldn't end well for him.
"Whatever," he says-not-sulks, NOT SULKS AT ALL, as he kicks back away from Breakdown to drop down into a smooth transformation. He may have a flashy paintjob, but the lines of his alt-mode suggest power and speed that maybe makes his ego somewhat ... understandable. (Although definitely not forgiveable. (And it's still a lot of ego.)) He squeals off in a puff of burnt rubber and exhaust to go try elsewhere. HOT ROD OUT.
"/Ugh/." Knock Out is left to glare at his retreat and make disgusted faces at the lines of his alt-mode. What a stupid alt-mode. STUPID. "Can you believe him? Randomly bumps into me, scrapes up my finish, then /blames it on me/ and cops this /attitude/--" Which Knock Out would never do. He never has attitude. He looks up at his partner's face with a certain expectation of support, though.
"Uh-huh." Breakdown smiles a little sourly, claps his hand against Knock Out's near tire, and says, "Like I said. Rude. Come on, let's get out of here before anything else stupid happens to your chassis." He turns to start moving off, only transforming into his alt mode to roll for it once Hot Rod is well gone.
Knock Out smiles a reluctant little smile, because even though his paint is scraped, at least his bestie is going to help fix it. He's right on Breakdown's heels, jumping into the transformation of sleek, powerful lines that are /way better than Hot Rod's/ and revving to catch up. And probably overtake. But just a little bit. Breakdown's the one bot he won't leave in the dust.