In All the Wrong Places

Hot Rod looks a lot like a racing fanboy. He's got the alt-mode, he's got the spoiler, he's got the -- horribly battered paint job. Well, it's still red and flaming despite the lingering damage. He will fix it any day now! Just ... as soon as he gets the money.
So he looks like a /poor/ racing fanboy, anyway, as he blazes into Ibex. Asking around at the tracks gets him pointed in the direction of Knock Out, and so Hot Rod sets out to make Knock Out's day by coming to find him, wherever he may be.
Where do little Knock Outs hang out? When not at home, they're usually at the racetrack. It's not a race day, but this underground track -- much less nice than the Speedia, naturally -- is still humming with activity. It's distinctly more rough and tumble down here, away from the shine and glamor and celebrities like Blurr.
Knock Out is taking a corner with a squeal of rubber as he inches ahead of two other racers on the track, inching, inching -- until he zips past the finish line and makes a graceful leap of a transformation back to his feet. "Now, now, don't be jealous. It's pointless to pine for the unattainable," he says, dusting his arms as the other two roll their eyes expansively and possibly start plotting how to balance a bucket of mud over his door sometime.
"Wow. I didn't know people let you win," Hot Rod says like he hasn't lost races to Knock Out and isn't here to ask him a favor. Everything about him is currently an affront to Knock Out's eyes. He's spattered with dull gray patch jobs that look an awful lot like bullet holes and someone's had major work done on his arms.
"Oh, did they let you in here?" Breakdown is lurking around the corner, not quite in the shadows, but also not one of the participants in Knock Out's race, so free to loom up around corners. His arms are a weighted cross over his chassis, his glow-bright eyes narrowed as he hulks like a particularly bulky and rather unsightly piece of statuary. "I heard you got the scrap kicked out of you."
"Ex/cuse/--" Knock Out goes from victory to utter annoyance in the work of an instant; he's a fickle creature like that. "What are /you/ doing here? And looking like /that/?" He gives Hot Rod and lookdown that is immensely unflattering.
"Ugh," Hot Rod says, which is enough like 'yes, that happened' to pass. "I look like this just to annoy you," he says to Knock Out in what sure sounds like a sulk. "Luckily, it's working. Look, can we go somewhere to talk?"
"Got something to say, do you." Breakdown steps forward from his looming place in the corner, weight clanking heavily on his forward step. There's a weight of scowl writ across his optic ridges, although this is hardly unusual. He forestalls whatever Knock Out might be about to protest, under the assumption he might be about to protest, by going: "I got an 'office'." He glances up at Knock Out with a tilt of his head, jerking to the side in indication of the particular junk closet he is referring to.
Protest? Knock Out would never. He definitely doesn't have his mouth open, the word just beginning to be voiced, when Breakdown steps in to speak first. "You look like that because you don't know how to look /better/," he grumps instead as he deigns -- deigns!! -- to allow Hot Rod to join his partner and him in the -- office. "Anyways, I'm not going to tell you how to fix any of it. You're a lost cause."
"You have an /office/?" Hot Rod could not sound more surprised if -- well, never mind. Every good example has happened, lately. It's been a weird ... life. "Ugh, it's not about me. Some of us think about other people, you know," he tells Knock Out as he follows the pair to Breakdown's office.
Hot Rod may be less surprised by Breakdown's office once they find it. If Hot Rod's office is basically peopled by piles of rubble and assorted bits of detritus such as you might find on the streets of Nyon, Breakdown's office is largely characterized by being a junk closet, where stuff is stowed: maintenance supplies, cleaning fluid, track sweepers, a broken piece of portable obstacle from an obstacle course of bygone times, and the tools of a trade when one's trade, when not racing, is plied by hauling shattered or half-shattered wrecks off of a track. There's room for four or so in here, or three, when one of them is Breakdown -- so that's convenient. 
"Do you really," says Breakdown with particular dryness as he keys the light on, shoving aside a bucket full of cleaning supplies and some high-acid solvents to the side. Absently, he hands a missing portable buffer to Knock Out that he must have accidentally left in here the last time. "You seen that Autobot lately?"
Knock Out offers Breakdown a distinctly skeptical look after Hot Rod's pronouncement. "I'm sure you're the soul of generosity," he says, voice dry as he rolls his optics. He takes up the buffer just as absently as Breakdown offers it. "What /do/ you want?"
"Oh," says Hot Rod as he considers the office. Yes, this is obviously more along the lines of what he was thinking. Order in his world restored by the shabbiness of Breakdown's office, he leans up against a pair shelves with some care to make sure nothing spills on him. "You know, I hate to say it, but you're gonna have to be more specific. Which Autobot?"
Turning to face Knock Out, Hot Rod's face undergoes a few different expressions. He drags his hands down his face with a delicate scrape of metal. "I want your help." The words grind out from somewhere deep within.
Breakdown scowls at Hot Rod like he's a moron, which is a pretty familiar expression to find on Breakdown's face. He goes "/Jazz/," in the tone of the greatest obviousness. 
Of course, then Hot Rod asks for help. Breakdown looks at him, features washing blank, and then looks at Knock Out. Possibly he is concerned he is going to have to keep Knock Out from crashing into something when he falls over laughing.
"You want--" Knock Out looks confused more than anything else, as if he must have misheard. He glances at Breakdown, totally baffled, and then back to Hot Rod. It's /then/ that he laughs, loud and long and culminating with the reach of his hand, palm up, in Hot Rod's direction, as if waiting for the other bot to place something in it.
Hot Rod slaps Knock Out's hand away. "I'm serious!" He appeals to Breakdown in a glance. "This is about that thing, with Jazz. The Institute. We're going to hit it. You remember what a mess it was? We got Feint out -- barely -- but we had to leave a lot behind. I've got a real medic--" Hear that, Knock Out? A REAL medic. "--willing to help, but I'd like more, just in case. You've already got an idea about how bad it is. I don't have to convince you it isn't just urban myths and bad dreams from energon that's gone off."
Breakdown makes a noise, ground deep in the solid barrel of his chest with the slight lowering of his head. He picks up a random tool from one of the shelves nearby, its uses more apparent as a prospective blunt instrument than because it appears there is anything he can fix with it; he slaps its head loosely across his opposite palm with a deep-grooved frown written across his face. Rather than answer directly, he says, "That what happened to you?"
Zoom zoom zoom! Someone else is zipping around the track faster than the speed of sound! Well who else could it be but Blurr? He kind of makes even Knock Out look bad, so there's not much to be said of his competitors. A few fans have gathered to watch him go, marveling at how fast he is. Dust flies up behind him, creating small clouds in his wake.
"Ex/cuse/ you," Knock Out complains when Hot Rod slaps his hand away. "That was extended for the /million shanix/ you're obviously going to pay me to even /consider/ doing you a favor."
"Sort of ... tangentially related. I've got a friend getting his head fragged by the IAA, there was trouble, I got better," Hot Rod hastily summarizes. --and speak of the devil, but he glances toward the track at the noise. "...him, actually." He's lost the smug edge, the 'hey, hey, guys hey guess what Blurr knows my name', and traded it in for concern. Self-centered concern, mind you, centered all around how /he can help/, but concern!
This concern gives him a self-righteous edge as he looks back at Knock Out. "You're not doing a favor for me, you're doing it because it's the /right thing to do/."
Breakdown looks up toward the ceiling. "Getting his /head/ fragged?" he demands in sudden aggravation. "Is that what that creepy guy was about? /Seriously/ knew there was some /weird vibes/--" His hand closes in a fist and his glower deepens, motion constrained in close quarters beginning to vibrate through the solid strength of his weighted frame. He does not punch any shelves full of junk (yet), but the risk seems to have tripled in the last few seconds. His glance at Knock Out is, perversely, what put the brakes on. 
Lumbering half a step closer, he says, "You saw the data, Knock Out. You heard what ... the big guy said." Why Breakdown balks at saying Megatron in front of Hot Rod like he doesn't know he's talking to Decepticons is a mystery even to me. He scowls back at Hot Rod, then. "How much scrap are you sticking your fool head in, anyway?" he demands next.
As quickly as he'd appeared on the tracks outside, Blurr is suddenly in the room with them. What did he just teleport? No he's just -fast-. "HeyHotRodnicetoseeyouagainohBreakdownIrememberyousoyouknowBreakdownandwhoisthis?!" He peers over at Knock Out toward the end of his...sentence?
"The right thing to do," Knock Out blands back at him, and it's only Breakdown's words that have him -- stubbornly -- pausing in telling Hot Rod off right then and there. "If the big guy wanted us to do something--" he starts to say, when he's interrupted more /forcefully/ by Blurr's sudden and uninvited appearance. "What the -- /no/. NO." He draws up to his full height, pointing dramatically at Blurr. "In Primus' name, /you/ are not allowed here! You have /every other track in Cybertron/! Get out. Out. OUT."
"What creepy guy?" Hot Rod glances from Breakdown to Knock Out and then back again, but the more immediate issue is convincing Knock Out to help. "If you /saw/ the data, how can you even hesitate!" He notably fails to address Breakdown's last demand, but then -- there's Blurr, a marvelous distraction, preventing him from answering. "Hi," he says once he parses the majority of Blurr's more-or-less-sentence. "Yeah." He sounds resigned. "Breakdown helped us get Feint back for you." He gives Knock Out a startled look for his reaction.
Breakdown doesn't look particularly surprised. His face is a bizarre combined mask of resignation and aggravation. He smears his hand across it with tinks of pointed fingers against the dull red gleam of his plating. "There was a guy hanging around him and Feint," he tells Hot Rod, or grumbles at him. Them. Everyone. Grumbly! "And I was real rude. Unlike Knock Out here, who is being super polite." 
In the close quarters of the junk closet, it is actually pretty snug with four, especially when one of them is Breakdown. He half wedges himself against shelves, carefully balancing some solvent to keep it from spilling out and doing awful damage to anyone's paint job, and tries not to step on anybody smaller than he is, which is everybody in here. He goes, "I helped get Feint back for /Feint/." He asides in a muted, soothing kind of mutter almost too quiet for the others to pick up on, since he is in such snug quarters with his partner, "You won the race already, Knock Out. He's just fragging around."
"Oh yeah? Says -you-." Blurr smirks at Knock Out's protests. "I can go to -any- track I want." he corrects, the self-satisfied look still lingering on his face. Because he is THE racer. The best there ever -was-.
He nods at Hot Rod. "Oh, right! I remember, you -and- Breakdown where both there." A shrugs is given toward Breakdown's mention of 'a guy hanging around him and Feint.' "Oh, they replaced Axle after he died, but this new guy is a lot nicer you know." Or seems to be.
"Well this isn't the /track/, it's Breakdown's office--" Closet. "--and you don't /fit/." Knock Out looks demandingly at Breakdown, like it's his job to shove out the intruder. "I can't work under these conditions!" he whines. This is getting off-topic.
"Yeah. Super polite." Hot Rod stares at Knock Out, like he can will courtesy into him, which is funny on many levels, beginning with the idea that Hot Rod has any courtesy to will and ending with the idea that he could effect a positive change on Knock Out. It's just not going to happen.
"I'm sure he's great, Blurr," says Hot Rod with an utterly transparent lack of enthusiasm for the new guy. Elbowing Knock Out -- as though that is in any way going to help -- Hot Rod demands, "So are you going to help?"
That's right. Only Breakdown is allowed in the closet. Only Breakdown, and those mechs with whom he closely associates, and allows to accompany him into the closet. It is not possible for me to not make this joke. Breakdown shifts his weight uncomfortably, and turns his level glower upon Blurr and Hot Rod in a particularly egalitarian way that accounts for the obnoxiousness of both but not their respective castes or roles in society. (It's probably because he's a decepticon.) 
"Do you /mind/?" Breakdown growls. "He's not going to do anything if you don't respect him, so back off and use your processor. You've got one of those, right? Didn't get it kicked out of you along with the rest of the scrap? Fragged out by some friendly new friend?"
Blurr nods quickly at the less-than-enthused statement from Hot Rod about Cipher. "Oh but he really is, you haven't even met him yet, Hot Rod!" He looks quiet happy, and therefore, isn't even mad at Knock Out yet. Yep, he still has that self-satisfied look on his face, and he feigns a stifled laugh at Knock Out's insistance that this is his office. "Wait, this is -office-? I thought it was a storage locker."
"Well, it's -- that, too." Knock Out crosses his arms over his chest and glares icy, icy daggers at Blurr. "Anyways, it's yet /another/ reason why you should leave." So THERE. He looks terribly smug at Breakdown's defense of his rudeness, turning his gaze to Hot Rod with a lift of his chin. "Yes, your manner of asking favors is rather /lacking/. Maybe I'll barge into your place of employment next and make a mess in /your/ partner's office."
"What! I respect him," Hot Rod says, all baffled as to why this is even a thing. "I'm asking, aren't I?" He crosses his arms aggressively right back at Knock Out. "Look, please?" There have been more sincere takes on 'please'.
Breakdown starts to make a crack, and then stops, as if he recognizes the inherent hypocrisy in making any kind of job-related crack about Hot Rod when his whole personal philosophy is anti-functionist. He stands there and looks confused for a moment. 
Then Breakdown says with the drop of one weighted pauldron in a partial shrug, "It is a storage locker, so that's more or less accurate. What /exactly/ are you asking us to do?" (It's 'us' now, obviously Hot Rod wants both of them to do stuff, right.)
Blurr chuckles. "That's what I thought. So how is that a reason I should leave, exactly? Because storage lockers are nasty, maybe?" He leans against what wall there is left open after Breakdown's bulk. Nope, he's not leaving. "So who is this 'big guy' you were talking about when I walked in?" Walked? Really.
"Because you are terrible and no one likes you," Knock Out tells Blurr seriously. It's super serious. YOUR FANS ARE JUST FAKING, BLURR. He jerks his chin back towards Hot Rod. "What he said."
"I'm still working on the details," Hot Rod admits, which can't be a surprise to anyone. That he is working on them at all is where the shock factor lies. That he is attempting to scrape together anything resembling a plan is astonishing. "But I'll let you know when it's more settled. I just need you to help out if we hit another one of those labs, patch up anyone who comes out bad enough to get to better help." The 'big guy' thing receives only a shrug. He has no idea what that was about.
"Bet you can guess, smart guy like you." Breakdown narrows his gaze at Blurr, who he totally called an idiot the last time they met, so this must be sarcasm. He glances at Knock Out, as if to gauge his reaction to the pitch first before immediately saying anything. It's fairly clear that he's pretty persuadable on the /doing the right thing/ aspect of this particular request, even if he does, at this moment in time, kind of want to take Hot Rod in both hands, pick him up, and hit Blurr with him.
Hmm....Blurr peers at Breakdown. He's being rather dodgy about answering that question. Why? He keeps suspicion out of his gaze, though. "But why should I have to guess at it if you can just tell me? I don't really like pointless guessing games, do you Hot Rod?" The racer asks, glancing over at his friend. "But yeah, it is the right thing, to put an end to all of that. It's terrible, really, everything they're doing. I mean I know -you- care, Breakdown. Dunno know about him." he jabs a finger in Knock Out's direction.
"/Ugh/." Knock Out glares at Blurr and his pointy finger for a moment before looking back at Hot Rod. "Go away and come back with some semblance of a plan." Which -- isn't a no?
"I knew you'd see reason." Hot Rod reads in Knock Out's not-no total agreement and absolute dedication to the cause. He gives him a congenial slap on the shoulder. It's a little harder than it needs to be. "This is gonna be great, Blurr." Who is obviously invited to the party. "I'll keep in touch," he adds to Breakdown, Knock Out.
"He cares," Breakdown affirms, if quietly. He continues not to answer Blurr's question; rather, he gives Hot Rod a slight nod. "Good," he says, with a deepening scowl: "Especially if that means you're getting out of here."
Blurr grins at Hot Rod. "It sure will." He doesn't prod Breakdown further with the questions, rather, makes a mental note of his suspicious behavior in response to the question. He does, however, laugh with a "Fine don't tell me then."
"I believe my partner said it's /time for you to leave/," Knock Out grinds out from between clenched teeth, particularly at Blurr, who shows less sign of leaving.
"Whatever, I was already going," Hot Rod says, then swans off like it was totally his idea to leave. WHATEVER.
Category:NC Institute