Enemy of My Enemy

Radiation and superstition ensure that anyone who comes to Blaster City had better have a /good reason/. So what brings Hot Rod, battered and patched and scuffed? Well, it's probably a really good reason considering how rough he looks. Seriously. His arm hasn't even been repainted.
The thing about radiation is that it fuzzes transmissions and scans. That means that if someone wants to move or transfer some maybe-possibly-illegal goods it's not a bad place to meet. The proximity to Kaon ensures a certain kind of crowd. But if such a thing has happened, or will happen -- and who says it has or will, huh? nothing you can prove, copper! -- then Hot Rod stands alone, now, at a distance and studying the devastation.
Blast Off has one reason, and only one reason, to be in Blaster City right now. Unfortunately for him, it's a very good reason, too. He has nowhere else to go. This is certainly not the fugitive shuttleformer's idea of a grand vacation spot, but right now it's the only place he appears to be safe from the police who are hunting him down. Shiftlock took him here recently to lay low for awhile and recover from his wounds. Her bolthouse isn't that far away, and the Combaticon is currently making his way from that refuge towards Kaon proper. 
He also picks his way through the mess, mindful of radiation, certainly. But it's the /dead bodies/ the finicky shuttle can't help but fixate on, and he does his best to avoid the uncouth objects as much as possible. Even to the point of going around and through things as opposed to getting too close. He may be a Combaticon warrior, but he's *civilized*, you see, and this is NOT his idea of a fun time.
When Hot Rod spots Blast Off, no surprise that he falls into a wary stance: that he splits on the defensive rather than offensive side is only a momentary fluke of very temporary caution. "What do you want now," he calls like he isn't the one standing between Blast Off and his refuge by the purest of mischance.
Blast Off spots Hot Rod almost about the same time. First he turns a corner to spot yet another dead corpse, flinching slightly at the gruesome and vulgar sight. Once that's out of the way, he takes another step forward- and spots Hot Rod, flinching at THAT gruesome and vulgar sight- wait, Ok, not THAT bad... but an unwelcome sight nonetheless. 
The Combaticon freezes, violet optics glowing in the dim light. He stares at the brightly colored mech, looking oh-so-out of place in a grimy spot like this. "/You./ And that means... *him*...." Instantly he's brought out his ionic blaster... but it's not pointed at Hot Rod, it's prepped and waiting for the other mech Blast Off is expecting to see any moment now- Drift. "Where IS he?" His voice is tense, but still sounds refined- the gentlemech he was hasn't been erased by this place. Not yet at least.
"You know, it's kind of funny--" And from Hot Rod's tone, he doesn't actually think it's funny. "--but I don't know if you mean Drift or Blurr." He shifts his stance when Blast Off pulls a gun, but does not return the favor. He drops his weight on his back leg, ready to move if need be, but steady in the face of aggression. There is nothing refined about him: not his voice, not his manners, not his attitude, and certainly not his paint. (Which is in sad shape. Bright but sad shape.)
Blast Off blinks at the mention of Blurr. "What? Why would I...?" Then he remembers, oh yes. Hot Rod believed Blurr when Blurr tried to accuse him of attacking him. Which... actually was true, but only because Blurr attacked first. The Combaticon waves a hand with an annoyed, dismissive manner. "You *still* believe him? Why would... No, wait, look at that vapid expression of yours. You probably believe anything you're told." 
The shuttle continues to look all around, his weapon in his hand but not aimed at anything."i meant *Drift*. The one who's been trying to kill /me/ and DID kill my /friend/."
Trading vapid for annoyed, Hot Rod shifts. He leans forward -- not quite to the point of advancing on Blast Off, but only a shadow from it. "You seem to make a habit of shooting my friends--" And that's enough to push him over, pacing forward a step. "--and not denying it, so explain to me exactly what I'm supposed to question."
Following Blast Off's gaze to study the ruins, Hot Rod actually laughs. He laughs! "/Drift/? You're looking for -- no, sorry. I'll let him know you're looking. Kind of looked like you were trying to kill /him/. Or is this like Blurr, and you're just an innocent victim?" His sarcasm is not subtle.
Blast Off starts leaning back as Hot Rod edges in. The shuttleformer doesn't like close-quarter combat, and has no intention of letting Hot Rod get close enough that that could become an issue. He attempts to stand his ground, though, leaning away but straightening up as much as possible. His grip on his blaster is tight but it remains at his side. "YOU seem to have a habit of choosing the wrong friends, then..." 
As Hot Rod mentions that Blast Off hasn't actually denied shooting them, the shuttle glances away. "Would you prefer I lie? Many people seem to, after all. The world being a nice stark shade of black and white is less upsetting for their delicate dispositions. Shades of gray only /confuse/ them." His gaze returns to the flame-painted mech. "As I said before, words can be used against me. I will say this. I did not start the fight... with *either* of them. They started it with ME. I am only defending myself. You think highly of Blurr? Why? Because he's a celebrity?"
Hot Rod takes a second step, but stops there. Blast Off has plenty of space for his blaster to be a lot more effective than anything that Hot Rod could do at range. Sass? Insults? Nothing he can throw is likely to do damage.
"Oh, /listen to you/." Hot Rod gestures, taking in Blast Off and his whole ... thing. Mostly the refinement, the edge of aristocracy, the distaste for the uncouth surroundings. "And you're talking to to me about shades of gray? Come on. Why are they after you, then? You keep saying that but it's about all you say. And of course it isn't because he's a celebrity!" There's just enough outrage in Hot Rod's voice to make very clear that it certainly /started/ there. "He's got a good spark under everything they've done to him."
Blast Off starts edging back very slightly, though the possible humiliation of a full out backing-off is spared as Hot Rod ceases his advance. The gun edges up, too, though it's still not aimed at the other mech. His optics narrow as he regards Hot Rod, ventilation systems cycling a little more heavily now. 
He looks more disgruntled with every word, up until the last- which causes his optics to flicker. "You... know about that?" Now it's Blast Off leaning in- not stepping forward, but suddenly much more keen. At least for the aloof shuttle. "You *know* about that? The mind control? The IAA? Mind wipes?"
However deeply Hot Rod's much-abused ego might be soothed by Blast Off backing up, he doesn't push it. For one, he's not a bully; for two, he's still in pretty sad shape. The jury is out on which factor weighs more heavily in his good behavior. He is watching Blast Off closely, and doesn't fail to mark the flicker or the intensity. "What? Yeah, I know. I mean -- kind of curious what you know, now. But I know two different femmes who've seen them working on him. That's why we were /here/, mech. Trying to get their strings off him, only now they've got him again. What do you know about it?"
Blast Off settles down a little as Hot Rod seems to actually *listen* to him this time. The Combaticon's optics regard him with some suspicion still, and he keeps glancing away every now and then to make sure Drift isn't sneaking up on him somewhere. But he listens as well. 
Finally, the shuttleformer tilts his head. "I see." He deliberates Hot Rod's question before responding, "I know the IAA has been mind controlling him for a long time now. I know that they use Element Zero to enhance his racing performance. Why? Because one can only obtain that element in certain regions of space, so guess who he hired to go get it?" There's a small huff. 
"He gave me a cloaking device, so the orbital patrol wouldn't spot me. And it worked... for awhile. Until Blurr discovered some of us knew too much about certain politicians.. All of us were on a hit list after that. When I tried to go back up into space again- they tracked me. It turns out the cloaking device had a tracker. Everything had been monitored. *Everything.*"
Hot Rod seems to find 'for a long time now' funny, because he laughs at that. He doesn't explain why. He just laughs at it. Rude!
"What's element zero?" he asks in a 'and where can I get some' kind of tone. The brief jag of distraction doesn't last; Hot Rod refocuses on Blast Off. He seems much more alert as he leans ever-so-slightly in and asks, "What is it you know about these politicians? If that put you on a hit list, it sure sounds worth knowing."
Blast Off blinks as Hot Rod... laughs at him? What? The shuttleformer straightens up in an indignant huff. "I beg your pardon..." He grumbles, sounding cold and annoyed. 
He gives the other mech an aloof stare before deigning to respond, "It is an element found on certain asteroids that when added to racecar engines enhances performance. In simple words *you* might understand: It makes them GO faster." Despite standing in a corpse-strewn trash heap, Blast Off's arrogance remains intact- and so does his stunning lack of people skills. 
He waves a hand, then pauses to consider Hot Rod's question. "...And why should I /trust/ you enough to tell you?"
"'I beg your pardon'," Hot Rod mimics in a mutter, so let's give them /both/ failing grades for people skills. Somehow -- /somehow/ -- he manages to find courtesy objectionable. (They teach a rougher courtesy on the streets of Nyon.)
Despite winning himself no points in his mockery, Hot Rod goes on to say, "You're already on a hit list. What difference will it make if you tell me? Come on. I bet I hate them at least as much as you do."
Blast Off's normally violet optics glow deep purple in outrage, but he somehow maintains *some* composure. Some. There's an outraged HUFFFF though, and shuttleformers can produce loud ones. His vents cycle a few more times as he works to keep calm and aloof, right? He's calm and aloof. Yes. So calm. 
HUFFFF. 
He regards Hot Rod with a sour expression (what can be seen of it at least), but finally elaborates, "I doubt it. Unless they've already dragged your name through the mud and killed someone you know." He shakes his head, "No. You'll have to do better than THAT." There's a haughty sniff and he waves his hand again. "Which would be asking too much of a *groundpounder* such as yourself..."
"Ha! Yeah, sneer at me for not having wings, but they've grounded you just as much as I am." It may not /actually/ be true-true, but the words contain truthiness enough. The laughter beneath his words is just added salt. Hot Rod ruuubs it in with a broad stretch of his shoulders, all 'look at me, look how much freedom I have'. "They're killing people every day. You want to act like you've got a monopoly on outrage? Okay, sure. People from your caste do that kind of thing a lot. Maybe you're even protecting some friends by not saying, huh?"
That remark *does* sting, and Blast Off suddenly looks away, leaning back as he shifts on his feet. A wing elevon twitches in agitation before he calms again. "I *can* still fly... I just... choose not to." Ok, that was lame, like... really lame, and even he knows that. But denial is the way Blast Off copes with some things. Sometimes a LOT of things. Especially self-denial.
He rolls his own shoulders, but it's more a gesture of stress release than anything else. It settles him again, though, and he appears dignified once more. He lets out another, softer huff. "Don't try to manipulate me, ..." He glances to him, what WAS his name again? "...Um?" There's a pause, in case Hot Rod wants to answer.
Even /Hot Rod/ is moved to regard Blast Off with pity for that retort. "Wow. Okay, sure you do," he says, holding his hands up in the universal gesture for 'whatever you say, buddy'.
His hands drop to his hips as Blast Off posses for him to fill in the blank. "Um? /Um/? /Hot Rod/," he provides like someone who has never learned not to give his name. With a paint job like his, it isn't like he's easily identifiable anyway. "I'm not manipulating you. I'm just trying to figure out why you'd be keeping their secrets."
Blast Off glares daggers at Hot Rod for his first reaction, shoulders sagging down and optics narrowing. The miserable shuttle finally looks away, and he has to think about Rod's second statement. His gaze cuts across the ground, where several more bodies lay- mouths frozen in a silent scream. Another wing elevon twitches. He doesn't even know what he's really doing here... he belongs somewhere much better. Much more civilized. But that's just not the way it's worked out right now. 
Finally Blast Off turns to look back at Hot Rod, a resigned air to him. "I'm not. I simply am being... cautious. It is difficult to know who to trust." He studies the other mech. "I worked for the Senate. They had... assassins go out and target Decepticons, who they felt threatened their nice and neat "world order"." He doesn't mention he WAS one. "And not just Decepticons, but anyone who got in their way, or questioned them. Do you know what happened to Senator Shockwave? Empurata and shadowplay. He's not the only one, either. Many people who get in their way simply disappear, thanks to people working behind the scenes... or suddenly reappear, mind-wiped like Blurr, saying everything is fine. "Nothing to see here folks, move along...move along." 
"But there were those who knew what was going on, and tried to stop it. Rung was one such individual. He showed me- and some others- what was really going on. A government conspiracy *sounds* outlandish... but that is exactly what is going on. And they *killed* Rung for it."
Hot Rod watches Blast Off through the pause and the silence. He studies him even as the shuttle studies the ground. He's more patient about it than someone might expect from a guy with flames painted across his chest, but that does not mean he is laid-back about it: he's intent, keen, and watchful. Rather than resignation, he embodies passion.
"Yeah. Shockwave. Learned about that when we got here." His expression twists in a bitter grimace and he shakes his head. "We thought he could help. Sounds like they emptied him of everything that made him so powerful. I've seen those places -- Blurr and I got Feint /out/ of one of those places. Do you still have what Rung showed you? If it was dangerous enough for them to kill him for it, I want it. I want it, and I want to see it used to shot down every last one of those miserable pits. I've got some information on them. Working on more," he freely admits to the once-Senate assassin. Details. "I want to end that shadowplay slag."
Blast Off is a fish out of water now, and not having found his way yet he's still floundering. However, no matter what he always keeps his pride. He's lost his wealth, his job, his home... but not his pride. Never that. So he remains standing, listening, considering. "I see. I have heard Shockwave is here but have not seen him." He glances away again. "Most of what Rung had.. was destroyed." There's a tilt of his head. "By Blurr. Who was his patient... he came to Rung's office, saw what we knew, and destroyed Rung's computers before I could entirely stop him. Then he ran off- and didn't remember doing that the next time I saw him." 
The mention of the "places" gets his interest. "Yes... Rung mentioned places where experiments were conducted, minds messed with.... but I do not know where they are." He considers something. "There is... one person I know who might be able to... show you something. She had some information, but..." He glances back in the direction of Shiftlock's bolthouse. "I don't know if she'd want to share with you... or wait." 
As for the rest, Blast Off nods. "Finally.. something we do agree on. The manipulation, the shadowplay, the... imprisonment for nonsensical reasons... have to stop." He glances to the sky and drinks in the stars. "A space shuttle shouldn't go to jail... or far worse... just for returning to the place he was built for."
"By Blurr's /handlers/," Hot Rod insists. "You can't hold him responsible for that." He looks briefly -- belatedly -- cagey as the mention of places catches Blast Off's interest. "Yeah, there are at least a few. I don't know how many, but the IAA is tied up in it, and who knows what else. Look -- I'm not a big fan of the way you're shooting up my friends, but this is important. I'm willing to give you my comm info to pass on to her if she can tell me what she knows. At least we can agree on putting a stop to that."
Blast Off gives Hot Rod a small nod. "I ...didn't hold him responsible. If I had..." He pauses a moment. "Well, he wouldn't be here anymore." The shuttleformer is aloof and haughty... but he does have a quiet, thoughtful side to him as well, and it glimmers through on occasion. "I suppose you don't... but keep in mind, Drift killed /my/ friend." He nods. "Very well. I shall." He allows himself the tiniest of near-chuckles at Hot Rod's last comment. "That is true. Perhaps there's hope for you yet, then."
Rather than dismiss out of hand Blast Off's reminder about Drift, Hot Rod looks briefly troubled. So maybe there is hope! (Don't bet on it.) "Fine. Here." Giving Blast Off (but more importantly his mystery femme) the means to reach him takes only a moment. Then he's settling back on his heels, retreating the two steps that he had pressed forward toward Blast Off. "I'm glad you don't hold him responsible, anyway," he says, while managing a remarkably no-comment look about whether or not Blurr would still be here. "So you really had nothing to do with that thing that Prowl's hunting you down for, huh?"
Blast Off accepts the frequency, and stores it away. He'll give it to Shiftlock and let her decide what she wants to do. Hot Rod's last question gets a furtive glance before his gaze returns to the horizon... and lingers. Of course, he could just lie, but despite his many faults, bald-faced lying isn't customarily one of them. The shuttle is a gentlemech, after all. He's no hero or noblemech, but he does have his own particular sense of honor. 
"Like I said before, ...Hot Rod," he finally speaks his name. "The world's not black and white. Certainly not... my world. No, it's more...shades of gray." The Combaticon turns his head to look directly at Hot Rod. "However, I did *not* blow up that clinic. Nor did I start these fights. It's just that..." Now he's back to looking into the distance. "I may not start these fights, but I *will* finish them."
Staring out toward the horizon takes a certain kind of poise to pull off the pose, and that's something that Hot Rod can appreciate. He does it often enough himself. He gives Blast Off the time and space to really get in a good, dramatic linger.
Then he ruins it (and maybe the goodwill that they have built up thus far) all by going, "Ha! That has got to be the guiltiest way to say 'it wasn't me' that I've ever heard." And he's /Hot Rod/. He has raised that to an /art form/. "Yeah. Okay. Good luck staying out of their hands," he says, falling back another two steps before sliding into his alt-mode with an easy transformation.
Blast Off has his moments, yes. More often, though, he just seems to have bouts of bad luck or a struggle for dignity. Such is his life lately, alas. And Hot Rod pushes it towards the latter end as he laughs but... at least not by /too/ much. The shuttleformer raises an optic ridge but otherwise says nothing more about it. 
As the racer transforms, Blast Off steps back to give him room... carefully. He still doesn't want to actually *touch* one of these dead bodies lying all around. If he did, he'd be showering for weeks. Well... IF he still HAD a shower, that is. 
"...Thank you, I intend to." Before Hot Rod wheels away he adds, "And good luck to you as well. I hope you succeed."
"I will," Hot Rod says with a confidence that has no relationship with reality. Then he peels off at speed, leaving Blast Off to his cozy vacation cabin.
Category:NC Institute